by Lee Goldberg
Inside the gym bag were a pair of old Reeboks, a t-shirt, some sweats, and a bottle of water. He shoved the tire iron, a flashlight, and the Mercedes first-aid kit into the bag.
It was a start.
As he kicked off his stiff dress shoes and put on the Reeboks, he started thinking about what else he'd need for his journey. Packaged food, lots of water, duct tape, matches, dust masks, some rope. Basically, he had to make a mini-version of his home survival kit.
No problem. He could find most of those things right here, between the catering wagon, wardrobe trailer, and the grip, prop, and lighting trucks. Film crews had everything.
All he needed now was a plan of action.
Marty figured there was maybe nine hours of summer daylight left. If he started walking now, even as out of shape as he was, he could easily be in the valley and heading down Ventura Boulevard by nightfall.
That was okay.
He certainly had nothing to fear in the valley, where Tarzan and Universal Studios had entire communities named after them and the oldest historical landmark was the Casa De Cadillac dealership.
All he had to figure out now was the best way to get there.
It was possible to live your entire life in Los Angeles and never see the bad parts of town, except in a seventy-mile-per-hour blur on the freeway or channel-flipping past the evening news on the way to a Cheers rerun.
Even so, Marty knew where those dangerous neighborhoods were, and he was well aware that to get home, he'd have to walk through some of them. There was no way around it.
But he tried to make himself feel better by looking at the bright side. He'd be walking in broad daylight, in the midst of chaos, and would only be in truly bad places for a few miles. There were far worse parts of the city he could be stuck in. At least he wasn't visiting Compton, or South Central, when the quake hit.
He slammed the trunk shut and spread the yellowed, torn street map out on top of it. Calabasas was on the south-western edge of the San Fernando Valley, on the other side of the Santa Monica Mountains and the Hollywood Hills.
There were two major freeways into the valley, the 101 over the Cahuenga Pass just five or ten miles north of downtown, or the 405 through the Sepulveda Pass, a good fifteen miles or twenty miles west. Between the two passes, there were three major canyon roads that snaked over the Hollywood Hills.
The other option was to head due west to the beaches of Santa Monica and then follow the Pacific Coast Highway north to one of the canyon roads that cut through the Santa Monica Mountains. But that meant crossing the entire LA basin, which was the last thing Marty wanted to do.
He decided the quickest, safest way home was the way he'd come, taking the 101, better known as the Hollywood Freeway, northwest over the Cahuenga Pass into the valley.
That was assuming there were no major obstacles in his path. Which, of course, there would be. Toppled buildings, buckled roads, crumpled freeways.
But that wasn't what worried him.
It was the thousands of little obstacles. The people. The injured and the dead underneath it all. The earthquake's human debris.
Then there were the derelicts and gang-bangers, who he hoped would be too busy looting to pay attention to one man walking home.
He wouldn't look at anyone. He'd just hurry along. Gone before anyone noticed him.
Just keep walking. Across the city, over the hills, and along the valley, never stopping until he got to his front door, where his wife would be waiting, alive and well.
Simple. From point A to point B.
Not too complicated. No reason he couldn't do it. There were guys who walked across entire states in the frontier days. Or at least they did in the western novels his flunkies read and summarized for him.
Marty zipped up the bag and headed for the trucks and trailers to assemble his kit.
He was going home.
CHAPTER TWO
On the Yellow Brick Road
10:30 a.m. Tuesday
Marty emerged from the grip truck, ready to go, his bulging gym bag looped over his shoulders like a backpack.
He pulled a white paper dust mask over his nose and mouth, slipped on his Ray-bans, took a deep, filtered breath, and headed off.
It meant going past the rubble of the warehouse again. The surviving crewmembers were too intent on their work to notice Marty, which is what he was hoping. He diverted his gaze, afraid someone would see him watching and try to draft him into the hopeless enterprise.
The three bodies the surviving crewmembers had recovered so far were laid out on the cracked asphalt under the tent that was supposed to protect the caterer's junk food from the sun. It was amazing the tent was still standing. But the table had fallen, the donuts, candy, fruit, and drinks splattered on the street in a swath of crushed ice.
A woman Marty recognized as one of the hairdressers sobbed beside the body of Clarissa Blake, one of the twenty-something stars of the show. The hairdresser was soaking a napkin with Evian, trying to wipe the blood and dirt off Clarissa's unnaturally pale face, the only part of her celebrated body that was still identifiable. It was as if someone placed a perfect Clarissa Blake mask on a deflated inflatable girl. Thinking of it like that, it didn't seem real any more, just a grotesque rubber prop on a horror movie set.
Again, he glanced away quickly, not wanting to be drawn into the morbid scene or think too deeply about it. Clarissa Blake was dead, nothing Marty could do to change that. And bottled water was far too valuable now to be wasting on cleaning the dead. It could be days, maybe weeks, before drinking water was easy to come by.
The thought made Marty swoop down and grab a couple Evians off the ground, jamming them into his jacket pockets as he went. The little bottles were still cold.
Marty walked up the middle of Sante Fe Avenue, wanting to put as much distance between himself and anything that could collapse on him as possible. The most important thing now was to avoid tall buildings and power lines, tunnels and overpasses, staying out in the open as much as possible, even if it meant veering a mile or two off-course. It would be really stupid if he survived the quake only to get squashed by chunk of concrete two minutes later.
Marty didn't know downtown LA well; in fact, he probably hadn't been here more than half-a-dozen times in ten years, but he'd seen it from the sky, flying into LAX from New York or Hawaii. From above, the skyscrapers looked like a tangle of weeds breaking through a crack in a parking lot. It wouldn't be hard to keep away from them. He'd head north, cut across the Civic Center on 1st Street, then follow the course of the Hollywood Freeway back into the valley.
Having a solid plan, and a gym bag full of emergency supplies, made him feel in control of the situation. It was a relief to know that the shifting tectonic plates of the earth's crust could be tamed by clear thinking, bottled spring water, and a Thomas Brothers map.
There usually wasn't much traffic on Sante Fe any more, an industrial neighborhood with no more industry. So there were only a few cars on the street now, spread haphazardly along the roadway, banged-up Hot Wheels thrown on the floor by a bored child ready to play something else.
Marty approached a Crown Vic, resting on its side on a jagged slab of bulging asphalt, its wheels spinning slowly. The obese, middle-aged driver was still alive, belted into his seat and wide-eyed with shock, resting his head on the blood-speckled airbag like a pillow, listening to the radio.
"They're dead . . . they're all dead. There's fire everywhere. I can't get out. Harvey . . . he's burning. He's behind the glass and he's burning. He's all on fire. Oh, God. Oh, shit. If he doesn't stop banging against the glass, it's going to break! Stop! Can't you see it's cracking? Stop! Goddamn it, Harvey! Please!"
The driver didn't seem to hear it, or if he did, he was mistaking it for soothing music. Marty wasn't blessed with such blissful delusions. The terror was seeping out of the radio's speakers like smoke and he didn't want to breathe it.
He kept right on walking past the car, trying not to listen
to the frantic newscaster and yet unable to stop himself.
"Oh God, it's fucking breaking! Oh God. Oh fuck. I don't want to die! Somebody help me!"
Marty quickened his pace, stumbling over cracks and rocks, until he couldn't hear the voice any more, the newscaster's pleading muffled by the sobbing, moaning, and cries of pain coming from a parking lot up ahead.
Several dozen workers were behind a wrought-iron fence topped with curls of razor wire, huddled as far as they could get from the building they'd just escaped, its pre-fab concrete walls caving in under a collapsed roof. They hugged each other, covered in plaster and gore, lost in their sorrow and fear.
Don't look, Marty told himself. Keep moving.
He knew there were going to be a lot more sights like this. Dioramas on a gruesome theme park ride. He couldn't let any of them get to him. The only person he had to care about was Beth. That was his moral imperative as a good husband.
So he was absolutely doing the right thing. Letting himself get distracted from his moral imperative by the misery of others would be the real sin.
Up ahead, the 4th Street bridge arched over Sante Fe Avenue on its way across the LA River to Boyle Heights. The concrete bridge was still standing, unlike its big sister two blocks south, but as Marty got closer, he could see it was severely cracked, raining a fine powder on the street. Perhaps it was only cosmetic damage, but it wasn't worth the risk.
Marty took the first side street that came along. It wasn't much wider than an alley, bordered by gutted, decomposing factories, and blocked mid-way through by an ugly car accident. A big-rig truck had driven over one of those boxy old Volvos, then rolled over and slammed through the wall of a derelict loading dock.
His best guess was that the two vehicles were about to pass one another in the instant before the quake and veered head-on at each other.
He stopped for a moment, worried, feeling beads of sweat roll down his back.
What was bothering him?
There was no fire, and if he hugged the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, he could slip past the accident easily and continue on to Alameda Street, where he was bound to see worse pile-ups than this.
Much worse. And just think about what the Harbor Freeway is going to look like, he told himself. You're going to have to cross that soon enough. This is nothing.
He braced himself for the worst and pushed on, his own footsteps sounding unnaturally loud, crunching on bits of glass and crumbs of concrete. The air smelled of mulch, like a freshly planted garden, even through his perspiration-soaked dust mask.
As he edged past the accident, he couldn't help looking at the carnage. Every Los Angeleno had the same, undeniable urge; it was why even an overheated Chevette parked on the freeway shoulder could cause a traffic snarl going back twenty miles.
The cab of the truck was imbedded in the warehouse, sparing him the sight of the driver. The cargo trailer was cracked open, spilling bags of potting soil, which had burst open on impact, spraying dark black dirt everywhere. Now he knew where the smell came from.
The Volvo was squashed nearly flat and covered in dirt. Even the dullest, safest car made was no match for a Mack truck. The two vehicles bled gasoline, oil, and coolant, which pooled against the curb near Marty's feet.
Something crackled.
He peered over the Volvo and saw a severed electrical line jerking on the ground, spitting sparks. The truck had taken down a power-pole across the street. The live wire was far away from him and the leaking gasoline. Even so, he would be glad to put some distance between himself and the power line, which he eyed as if it were a living thing, a predator waiting to attack.
And that's when something did, grabbing him by the ankle.
He screamed and instinctively tried to jump away, tripping himself and hitting the ground hard, provoking another scream, only this one wasn't his own. It was a scream of agony from inside the car.
Marty scrambled away, looking back to see a dirt-caked arm sticking out of the Volvo, clutching desperately at the air. It was like a hand shooting out of a grave.
"Help me, please," a woman's voice pleaded from inside the crumpled Volvo.
He could run. Just keep going. No one would ever know.
"I can't breathe," she whimpered.
Marty was crawling to the car before he was even aware he'd made a decision, taking her hand and peering into the opening it came from. It was as if he were staring in the mouth of some metal monster, a great white Volvo that was chewing this poor young woman alive. The lower half of her body was completely consumed by jagged metal, her upper body nearly buried in potting soil. Her other arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, ragged splinters of bone ripping through the skin.
"Hold on," Marty said, "I'm right here."
He reached in and scooped the dirt away, clearing her head so she could breathe. She had hair almost as dark as the soil, and green eyes that blazed with terrified intensity. She took in the air with shallow, raspy breaths.
"I thought you were going to leave me." Her voice was tinged with a slight Texas twang. He guessed she was about thirty.
Marty took off his glasses and pulled his dust mask down from his face, leaving it hanging around his neck. "You startled me. That's all."
He almost asked if she was all right before he caught himself. The question was a stupid reflex. She was obviously in deep, deep trouble. Even though her blouse was covered with dirt, he could see it was drenched with blood, oozing where the car was gnashing her.
"Is there anybody else with you?" he asked.
"No, thank God," she licked the blood from her lips and looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Can you get me out of here?"
Her body and the metal were meshed tightly together. There was no way he could do anything, not with just his hands and a tiny tire-iron. It would take a team of firemen, the jaws-of-life, and some paramedics. And even then, he had his doubts.
"I don't think so," he replied. "And I'm afraid of what would happen if I tried."
She nodded slightly. "It's okay. I think I already knew the answer anyway. Can you do anything for the truck driver?"
"I don't know," Marty glanced away, surprised by the sudden stab of guilt he felt. When he glanced back, she was looking at him strangely.
"Maybe you should check."
The way she said it, without being overtly judgmental or scornful, somehow made it sound even more damning. He started to get up and she grabbed him again, gently this time.
"You'll come back, right?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, "Of course I will."
Marty got to his feet and went to the truck. Fifteen minutes into his journey and already he was breaking the rules. If he were smart, he would keep on walking. There was nothing he could do for her.
As he neared the truck, he kept his eye on the fallen live wire, undulating on the pavement, hissing and crackling. The puddle of gasoline was still far away from the sparks, but that could change.
He climbed up the side of the cab and looked down through the driver's side window. At first, he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing. The driver was slumped against the passenger door, but his head was in his lap. How could that be?
An instant later, his mind registered what he saw. A sheet of corrugated metal, ripped from the warehouse wall on impact, had chopped through the windshield like an ax, lopping off the driver's head.
Marty scrambled off the cab as if decapitation was infectious, backing away without taking his eyes off the wreckage, just waiting for some new horror to pop up.
When Marty was eight years old, he stepped on a nail and it went right through his foot. Up until now, that was the worst physical injury he'd ever witnessed, if he didn't count Irving Steinberg and Clarissa Blake.
He backed right into the Volvo, causing it to rock, the woman's cry of pain snapping him out of it. The woman, somehow he had to help the woman. Who was he kidding? There wasn't a damn thing he could do for her. This was a job for profession
als.
Marty reached inside his jacket for his cell phone and tried to dial 911. Once again, he couldn't get a signal. But even if he could, what were the chances anybody would come for her with a city in ruins? She'd be the very last priority.
There was only him. And Marty didn't have the slightest idea what to do. He fought back the urge to run, shoved the phone back into his jacket, and crouched beside the car again.
"How is he?" she asked, but interrupted him before he could speak. "Never mind, I can see it on your face."
She shuddered, grimacing in agony. He had never seen anyone go through such pain before and he didn't want to see it now. He looked away. Blood trickled from her nose and escaped from the corners of her mouth.
"My name is Molly," she whispered. "Molly Hobart."
"Marty Slack." He took a Kleenex from his pocket and wiped the blood off her face, then wondered what to do with the tissue afterward. What if she had AIDS? He dropped the tissue and hoped none of the blood got on his hands. "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"
There was a first aid kit in his gym bag, but he doubted a squirt of Bactine and an ouch-less Band-Aid were going to make her feel any better.
"Just hold my hand and talk to me," Molly said, "until help gets here."
That could be days, if it ever came at all.
Marty couldn't stay and wait. He was on his way home. If he didn't get into the valley by nightfall, he could be in real danger. She'd understand that. All he had to do was tell her and she'd let him go.
"Sure," he said.
"Could I have some water?"
He took one of the bottles out of his pocket, twisted off the cap, and poured a little Evian slowly into her mouth. She was having a hard time swallowing.
After a moment, she said softly: "I'm not supposed to be here."
"I know what you mean," he said.
"No, really. It's wrong. There's a body shop near my house I could have gone there. But the bastard insurance company said I had to get the car fixed at this place downtown, or they wouldn't pay for it. That's not right, is it?"