Mammoth

by Douglas Perry

  Other than her predawn runs, she hadn’t been alone since arriving at camp. It’d been almost two weeks of communal living, of bumping around inside a hive of busy, super-competitive bees. She wasn’t used to it. She’d never been away from home before. She’d never even done a sleepover with school friends. Shyness had gripped her forever. She could recall backing up a lot as a child, turning away from people to inspect the corner of a wall or the arm of a chair. Her father had always indulged her shyness—Tori suspected he blamed himself for it, because she didn’t have a mother in her life. Tori waggled her limbs in the murk and closed her eyes. The buzzing in her head rose up, resisting the quiet, hurtling her toward a black tunnel in her mind. She sloshed around some, until she felt once again like she really was there, even if no one else was.

  A long, low, whine brought her out of her daydream. She opened her eyes and watched the water swirling around her in small concentric waves. Another sound hit, this one like a long, distant thunderclap. A car horn. Probably a truck. Tori sat up, but the sound was already dissipating. The water settled into its brackish languor again. Tori felt overheated. Forcing her limbs to respond, she climbed out of the hot spring, looked up. The sun hovered directly overhead. The morning was gone.

  Tori shook off as much of the water as she could, then used her hands to squeegee her stomach and legs. That done, the day’s warmth began to work its way into her muscles. She thought she could feel her goosebumps slip into satisfied nothingness. She set off toward the camp. Coming down onto a hiking trail, she noticed a strangeness in the air: the crackle of rocks and twigs under her feet, the huck-huck of her breath, and . . . nothing else. The complete absence of sound beyond whatever she made herself. Tori let out a little warrior yelp and listened to it stretch out into the world and fade away. She felt powerful—as if she controlled sound itself. It was how she wanted to feel when she went running in the morning. She luxuriated in it until the trees pulled back and she stepped down into the camp courtyard.

  The rows of cabins gaped. The door of each one stood open. Perplexed, Tori watched the scene for a minute. She walked to the first cabin and peered inside. It was Robin’s cabin, Robin and Adrienne. Clothes were strewn across the floor. One of the mattresses had tipped off the bedframe. Nothing unusual, Tori thought. Tori moved on to the next cabin, where she found a similar scatter of belongings. She pushed out of the cabin and stood in the middle of the courtyard. She noticed blood on the paving stones, big splotches of it. She tried to remember where the dog had fallen; she squeezed her eyes shut to picture it. A worm of bile worked its way into her throat.

  She ran to the dining hall. After that, she went over to the coaches’ lounge, and on to the coaches’ lodgings. Empty. Everybody was gone.

  Chapter Six

  The reality finally settled on King about fifteen minutes after he left the station. He was a goner.

  He drove in silence, not daring to turn on the radio. The earthquake that morning had knocked him out of bed at about six. In retrospect, it seemed like an appropriate way to be woken up, a perfect introduction to his new life. He’d padded into the kitchen, ready to tell Janice to be sure and listen to the show today, but she had already left, out the door without a word.

  How did it come to this? He deserved the silent treatment for passing out in the middle of it last night? Like that had never happened to her while they were in the sack—though of course she’d chalk that up to his performance rather than her drinking. There’d been a “heart to heart” a few days before when she got home from work and found him whacked out on the floor of the bedroom. He’d waved her off. It’s not the grass, he’d told her as she shrugged off her suit jacket and stepped out of her skirt. He was just working hard on this project, and as soon as he was done with it, he’d be focused on her like a laser. As he said this, a look of disgust crossed Janice’s face as if she suspected he had silently cut one. That look had stayed with him, burrowed into his brain.

  King wasn’t exceptional. That was the nub of it. That was what she couldn’t abide. Janice had fallen for the King of the Afternoon, a title he’d given himself in San Diego when he reached the top of the ratings in his time slot. He’d made sure the name stuck even though he only stayed on top for one ratings period. Janice had been a high school girl in La Mesa listening to him on KLRD. She’d sprawled on her bed after school every day, driven to a hot, squirming state by his cooing baritone. But that was years ago, and it was clear now that he’d simply caught the zeitgeist in San Day-Glo. Now every station had someone talking about sex in between the songs, and a lot of them were more entertaining—and certainly more knowledgeable—than Oscar “King” Desario. And King couldn’t disagree. He never wanted to be a DJ. He wanted to be an actor. A stage actor. An actor/director/all-around theater impresario. A modern-day George Abbott, but one with a social conscience.

  King stopped his Dodge Dart at the intersection of Chester Avenue and 4th Street. The traffic signal pulsed yellow in all four directions. King could feel the pulsing inside him. Big, he thought. That imperative had been the impetus for his radio project, even with the ulterior motives involved. Thinking big again. He stared out the windshield at the brown sky. He was going to get his New York money. He just needed a little bit of luck today. His stomach did a flip, and he gripped the steering wheel. You had to do what you had to do, he reminded himself. You had to think big—you had to take chances—if you were going to change your life. He thumped the wheel like a drum. Ba-dum-dum! Shouldn’t the weed be more help with the big thoughts? The pot had helped him with his voices, the sounds, the pauses. But would it pay off? Maybe he should try something with a bit more kick. Acid or coke or even heroin. Think what his inspiration would be like then? He looked both ways and saw nothing, then pressed down on the accelerator. The Dart jolted forward.

  He wasn’t going to achieve his goals in Mammoth View, he understood that much. San Diego to Bakersfield to Stockton to this little pokey town. Clearly, he’d run out his string in radio. He had to get back to acting, to real performing. He’d almost made it his first time around. He needed to keep reminding himself of that. In ’68 he’d landed a spot in the Los Angeles production of Hair. It didn’t matter that it was the chorus. No small parts. He was right there, backstage at the Aquarius Theatre, on stage at the Aquarius. With Ben Vereen! With Jimmy Rado! With it all hanging out! He had life, mother. He had laughs, sister. He had freedom, brother. He had good times, man.

  He had to go to New York. That was the goal. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. He should have gone in ’69, when it was there for the taking. When he was young and—well, not beautiful, but at least interesting-looking. It wasn’t too late now. He wasn’t too old. For Hollywood, sure. Hollywood only wanted the next Shaun Cassidy, the next John Travolta. But Broadway was different. Even from the front row, no one could see the crow’s feet around your eyes. Broadway was open to different kinds of looks: on Broadway, Gwen Verdon was a sex symbol. In Hollywood she was nothing.

  King blinked hard to make himself focus on the road. He should have expected to lose his job, he thought. He knew about history repeating itself. When he had realized what was going on out there in Mammoth View, that it really was happening, he had panicked. Just walked out of the booth and out of the station. He got in his car, fired up a joint, inhaled deeply, and left—in the middle of his show. “2X2L calling CQ. Isn’t there anyone on the air? Isn’t there anyone?” the recorded voice heaved behind him as he slammed the door shut and ran into the parking lot. He sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for the police to show up.

  As he cruised along Chester, his brain pulled up Kristi Sasaki. She was the only one still at the station when he bolted. Sitting there in the sales room, reading People, oblivious to his show. It was a one-man operation there for every on-air personality. What would she tell the authorities if they came calling? He had no idea. He pictured her talking to Chief Hicks, words spilling out into
the atmosphere like factory exhaust. Though he didn’t actually see her mouth: just the little belly pooch that always peeked out from the bottom of the tops she wore. She sold a lot of air space with that slip of flesh. He felt himself swell, and, annoyed, he squirmed in his seat. Middle-aged men buy air space, and so sexy young things like Kristi Sasaki sell it. He was quite sure she enjoyed playing on those old pervs until they pulled out the checkbook. Mr. Franklin at the fertilizer company, Johansson the contractor, the jokers who ran the resorts. Yet the first time he met Kristi, he had been certain she was a dyke. The short hair, the cheap turquoise-bead necklace she wore, the love of jogging—it just seemed so obvious.

  But then, after he’d been at the station for a few months, something changed. She started to recognize him. Whenever she saw him coming, she’d smile and say, “Hey, man.” Sometimes she’d flash him the peace sign. There was just something . . . inviting . . . about the way she looked at him. He hadn’t known how to follow up, though. Did she really like him or was she just being “on,” keeping in practice for her next sales call? Should he ask her out? Take her to the Orpheum in Bakersfield when Janice was away? Invite her to the next United Farm Workers rally, which he knew Janice had no interest in? He’d queried Kristi on her musical tastes, joked with her about Nixon’s exile in San Clemente down the coast, asked about her jogging rituals, but he never did anything . . . not really. His lack of courage haunted him.

  He punched down harder on the accelerator. If he was going to make a run for it, he might as well get going. He swung onto Brundage Lane; he was going to go around downtown and take County Line Road all the way out of the county. Straightening the car out, he blitzed down to Lake Road and jerked into another turn. Slowing, he turned the wipers on, then, unsatisfied, he flipped on the defroster. He pulled over when he couldn’t see anymore.

  King stubbed out the joint in the ashtray and stepped from the car. He put his hands on his head.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Jeeesus Christ!”

  Up ahead, orange flames jumped into the sky. The long, low building at the corner—the town’s storage facility—was engulfed. Spectral embers zipped through the air like bees. This had to be part of it, he thought. King started to walk toward the flames—until he realized something had emerged from the conflagration and was headed his way. The thing was shaking and twisting, throwing off bursts of color. King bit down on his lip, but he didn’t even feel it. He was transfixed, like he was watching a laser light show. Then he realized what he was looking at. It was a person. A person on fire.

  King backed up. The flaming figure kept coming toward him—faster now—and King swung back to the car. He climbed in and slammed the door just in time. The man crashed into the side panel, causing the car to rock like an inflatable raft in a pool. King jammed his key into the ignition . . . his house key. The car jolted again, and he felt his stomach float for a moment before bouncing down on his bladder. Was the guy trying to pound out the flames against the car? A quiver of nausea tickled his throat. He feared he might pass out. He identified the right key and thrust it forward. It clicked and scratched, finding every unintended crevice along the steering column. At last the key dropped into place and turned. A shudder rolled through him, an incredible, enervating release—did he piss himself?—and he threw the Dart into reverse. He jerked backward, switched to Drive, torqued the car around, and pushed his foot down. In his rear-view mirror, he could see the Fire Man rolling on the ground. Was that Alton, the town’s maintenance man?

  King felt tears fill his eyes. I couldn’t do anything, he told himself. There was no way to save him. He wiped at his eyes with a sleeve. Getting his breathing under control, he turned back onto Main and sped up. Now, finally, he began to notice the world around him. For starters, there were no other vehicles on the road. He blasted past parked cars on the shoulder here and there, but he saw none moving up ahead of him, none moving behind him. Coming up on the intersection of Chester and 4th, he accelerated past a group of men in a parking lot who seemed to be kicking something on the ground. A moment later, a police car appeared in the oncoming lane. The siren’s lights were flashing but the car was moving slowly, as if the driver was looking for someone. For him! King swung onto 4th before the copper could get a look at his license plate, and as soon as he straightened the Dart out he saw it and braked.

  A roadblock. A big black car right in the middle of the road. A man standing there watching him pull on the steering wheel as if it were a ripcord.

  The car came to a halt. King looked at the man about thirty yards in the distance. The man waved for him to pull the car to the side of the road. He imitated an airline ground crewman, indicating with robotic arms where he wanted the vehicle.

  What would Stokely do? King wondered. He turned the Dart off, pocketed his keys, and stepped out. Would Stokely Carmichael—would Huey Newton or Eldridge Cleaver or any serious radical—just get out of the car and do as he was told? King noticed that the roadblock man wasn’t wearing a uniform. This wasn’t the police. Could it be the FBI? The CIA?

  “Hey,” the man called to him. “Thank God . . .”

  King moved around to the front of the car.

  “Listen, ah—” the man said, but now King started to run, breaking for the open field that stretched out next to the road. It was a G-man—King had never been so sure of anything in his life.

  “Hey!” the man called after him. “Hold up!”

  King didn’t hold up. He had wanted to be a part of the underground for years. All the foxiest chicks were radicals: Bernardine Dohrn, Kathleen Cleaver. Even Squeaky Fromme had a certain waif-like appeal. King bounded down the embankment, humped it across the field. His breath scraped at his throat, the keys in his pocket banged against his thigh. He hadn’t sprinted like this in almost twenty years, since he anchored his high school track team, but he still had it in him. He stayed fit, ate well. He ducked into the sickly woods behind the Union 76 station, dodged some brush, and kept going.

  When King realized there was no one coming up behind him—that he had gotten away—he started to laugh. He was on the lam! He coughed, losing his balance for a moment. He slowed, and finally stopped, hands on knees, hacking and gurgling. He spat a long, thin tube of saliva at the ground. He trotted for another hundred yards or so and then walked the rest of the way, but still he made it to the house in little more than half an hour. He fell into a squat against the inside of the front door. He laughed again, hard and loud. He’d outsmarted the FBI. He’d never felt so alive. He reached up and locked the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Hicks and Lloyd returned to a ghost town. The Bronco rolled along Main Street, the men peering through the windshield at desolate sidewalks and buildings. A bag of trash lurched down the street in front of them, the breeze carrying it this way and that, frustrating Lloyd’s attempts to avoid it. The door to Billie’s Travel Shoppe creaked open on its own. Hicks forced himself not to gape or say anything. The chief, stunned by what he was seeing, had nothing useful to say. He figured his lieutenant wouldn’t express surprise or anxiety if the boss didn’t, and that was the best he could hope for until they got some information.

  Hicks rolled down his window to let in the late summer smells: charcoal smoke and ripe garbage and pine needles. Nobody liked this time of year. With all its quaintness—the brick facades and curlicue store signs—Mammoth View didn’t feel like a real place when there wasn’t snow on the ground. It felt like a mistake, a town removed from its proper time. No one knew what to do with themselves. Lloyd turned onto 3rd Avenue, toward the office, and as the vehicle swung around Hicks spotted Frank Lundstrum running toward them, a shotgun cradled in his arms. Hicks put a hand on Lloyd’s shoulder, nodded at the rearview. The chief leaned out the window as Lloyd pulled to the curb. Lundstrum grabbed onto the passenger-side door.

  “Thank God, Chief. Thank God you came back.”

  “Frank, what’s goi
ng on here?”

  “I should have gone with everyone else. I wanted to protect my business, but my gun’s not working. Toby’s got a goddamn Gatling gun, and all I have is this damn thing.”

  “Frank, slow down,” Hicks said. “Where has everyone gone?”

  “What do you mean? You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About the evacuation.”

  Hicks looked at Lloyd, who shrugged, then back at Lundstrum. “There was an evacuation order?”

  Lundstrum sputtered, confused. “Well . . . ain’t that right?”

  “You seen Marco?”

  “What?”

  “Officer Barea.”

  “No—no, haven’t seen him. Doesn’t he do night patrol?”

  “Frank, just tell us what’s happening. What you’ve heard. Exactly.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t hear the announcement. It was on the radio. John Cranston told me. Billie Travers. I don’t know.”

  “What did the radio say?”

  Lundstrum banged the side of the Bronco in disbelief. “The invasion, Chief!”

  Invasion? Invasion of what—locusts? He had guessed the thing on the radio this morning was some kind of hunting-party mishap that was being misreported, but now . . . he just couldn’t guess. Did Lundstrum mean the Russians? Could that really be possible? Hicks looked out the windshield for something to indicate they were in the middle of a national emergency. He smelled the air for something . . . different. Anything. What would an invasion smell like? Police work was all about gut feelings, and ever since the heart attack, his gut had been on the fritz.

  “Is the military in charge, Chief?” Lundstrum asked. “NASA?”