Quake Read online

  'It's outside the house.'

  'Okay.'

  'It's near the chimney, on the outside wall. There ought to be a special wrench attached. All you've gotta do is turn the wrench. '

  'I'll find it.' He stepped close to the edge of the floor, leaned forward and looked down at Sheila. 'I'll turn off the gas, then go and find a saw…, and something for your decency.'

  'That'll be great, Stan. Thank God you found me.'

  'I'll second that.'

  'Hurry back, okay?'

  'I'll get back as fast as can. You can bet on it.'

  ***

  No matter what Barbara did - motion with her thumb, call out, jump up and down waving both arms - female drivers simply wouldn't stop their cars. Some scowled at her. Others pretended not to notice her. It had taken Barbara a while to figure out why, but now she thought she knew the answer. It had little to do with how she was dressed. Nor was it because the drivers didn't like teenagers or were afraid she might be a criminal. They weren't stopping, she decided, for the simple reason that women take an immediate dislike for any female they consider more attractive than themselves. As Mom had put it, 'If you make them feel plain or ugly, they hate you for it.'

  Mom knew from first-hand experience. She'd been a target for spite and envy all her life. Nearly everyone really liked her once they got to know her, but she seemed to be despised from a distance. By women. Barbara had seen it happen many times. Just as men gaped at Mom with wide eyes and sagging mouths, women glared, narrow-eyed, tight-lipped. Barbara had been the object of such attention, herself. Not nearly as much as Mom, but often. This has to be part of the same deal, she thought as one woman after another drove past her without stopping. Men, of course, stopped even though she gave them no encouragement. Not all of them, but several. The sixth was in a black Pontiac. The passenger window slid down even before the car had come to a full halt. The driver leaned across the seat. He appeared to be about forty. He looked fairly prosperous and serious in his gray suit and necktie. His glasses had silver rims. 'Climb on in,' he said.

  'Thanks for the offer, but I'm just waiting here for somebody.' She had used the line successfully with the other men who'd stopped.

  But this one smirked. 'Hey, come on, don't give me that. It's no secret you're looking for a ride. saw how you tried to flag down that Rabbit.' He nodded toward the white VW that had already gone some distance up 15th Street. 'Now all of a sudden you've lost interest? Come on, climb in here.' The passenger door swung open. Fast. Straight at Barbara's thighs. She backstepped. The edge of the door made a whissing sound against the front of her shorts. It just missed her legs.

  'Thanks for stopping,' she said. 'I appreciate it. But I'm waiting for…'

  'Come on, where are you going? Do you need a ride home? I'll take you wherever you want to go. Traffic permitting. The streets are a mess, in case you haven't noticed. I'll be lucky if can get home myself.'

  'Don't you think that's where you ought to go instead of trying to pick me up?'

  'Pick you up? You're hitchhiking. Christ!'

  'I've got a policy not to ride with guys. Just women.'

  'Just women,' he muttered. His thin upper lip lifted and stretched across his gums. 'Wonderful. Figures. Boy, how it figures. A gal looks like you, it just goes to figure she's a…' The man's door flew open. On his side of the car.

  He'd been leaning sideways, braced up with a hand on the passenger seat, bright red face raised toward Barbara. At the sound of his door unlatching, he shoved himself uptight and snapped his head to the left.

  Earl sprang into the V of the open door.

  'Hey!' the man yelled.

  Earl grabbed him, tugged, brought the face close to his own and snarled, 'Hey yourself.'

  'Earl!' Barbara yelled. 'What're you…?'

  Her voice stopped as if her own breath had been smashed out. But it was the driver of the Pontiac who lost his air, lost it when Earl hauled him from the car and kneed him in the belly.

  'Leave him alone' she shouted, breaking into a run. Pete and Heather both popped up in front of the old pickup where they'd been crouching along with Earl to wait for a ride. Pete looked confused, Heather excited. 'He's pounding the guy!' Barbara yelled.

  By the time she reached the other side of the Pontiac, the driver was curled on the pavement, arms hugging his head, knees up close to his stomach. In a high, squealy voice, he cried out, 'Stop!' and 'Quit it!' and 'Please' as Earl pranced around him, kicking him.

  Barbara had already shouted for Earl to leave the man alone. Earl hadn't listened then. He wasn't likely to listen now. So Barbara didn't waste her breath. As Earl kicked his victim in the back, she threw herself over the squirming man. She went at Earl sideways, hunched low, head down. Her right shoulder bashed him in the chest. He let out a grunt. And another grunt when his back hit the street. Barbara smashed down on top of him. The instant his body stopped skidding, she rolled off. Earl lay sprawled on his back, eyes and mouth wide open. He made sucking noises. On hands and knees, Barbara watched him struggle to catch a breath. His face was awfully red. He seemed to be having a very hard time. She frowned. She hadn't meant to hurt him, just stop him.

  'You okay?' she asked.

  He glanced at her, said nothing, and kept on wheezing. At the sound of quick footsteps, Barbara looked over her shoulder. Pete and Heather were rushing around the car. The man scurried for his open door. They gave him a wide berth, glancing from him to Barbara to Earl. He clambered into his car and slammed the door. Through the open window, he shouted, 'Bastards! Fucks! I'm getting the cops!'

  His car lunged forward, squealing and laying rubber, smoke rising behind its rear tires. Barbara returned her attention to Earl just in time to see his arm shoot out.

  'Watch it!' Pete yelled.

  Before she could make a move to get away, Earl clutched the front of her blouse and yanked her toward him. Her arms went out from under her. She flopped on top of Earl. Twisting and bucking, he threw her sideways. He scrambled onto her, straddled her. Pinning her arms to the pavement, he bounced his rump on her belly.

  'Get off her!' Pete snapped.

  'You see what she did to me?'

  'You were beating the hell out of that guy!' Barbara gasped. 'Yeah! Damn straight!'

  'Get off her!' Pete said again.

  Earl ignored him. 'We needed that car.'

  'You aren't gonna steal a car,' Barbara gasped. 'Just 'cause we had a quake…, doesn't mean all the rules are gone.'

  'Oh yeah?' He bounced on her belly again, driving her wind out.

  'Okay,' Pete muttered. 'Okay.' He rushed in from the side, ducked low, grabbed Earl's fight forearm and jerked it toward him.

  Earl lost his grip on Barbara's wrist. The instant her left arm was free, she punched him in the face. The blow jolted his head. Spit flew from his lips. He yelled and released her right wrist and grabbed her throat - and his right arm was loose, somehow. Barbara had time to think, What did Pete do, let go of it? before the fist struck he face. The blow rocked her. But she still had enough strength to tear Earl's arm away from her throat. As she shoved it aside, he punched her again. This time, he went for her jaw instead of her cheek bone. Just as the punch landed, Pete kicked him in the head. The toe of the gray Reebok caught him in front of the right eye. His head snapped sideways. He tumbled off Barbara. Propping herself up with one arm, she looked at him. He was sprawled out, motionless. 'Geez,' she murmured.

  They all stared at Earl. He lay on his back, arms and legs out, eyes shut, mouth open. His fight cheek wore the of Barbara's fist. Otherwise, he looked okay. He wasn't moving. She worked her jaw from side to side. It hurt on the side down below her ear. And a clicking sound came. What did he do, break it? hope not, she decided. It doesn't hurt that bad. The noise made her nervous, it only came when she slid her jaw sideways. Then quit doing it, she told herself. As Barbara worried about her jaw and experimented with it, she watched the front of Earl's shirt. Trying to see. Is he breathing? she wondered.
Heather suddenly let out a tiny, odd laugh.

  'Lookit, lookit!' and Barbara noticed a dark stain on the faded denim at the crotch of Earl's jeans. She leaned forward, her face aglow with delight. 'Mr Tough Guy! He peed in his pants!'

  'Did kill him?'

  'I don't know,' Barbara said. Keeping her eyes on Earl, she felt dizzy for a moment.

  Pete muttered. 'I bet it means he's dead.'

  'cause he's unconscious,' Barbara said. 'I don't think he necessarily has to be dead to… you know… lose it.'

  'I hope he is dead,' Heather said.

  Barbara looked at her. 'I thought you wanted us all to friends.'

  'Yeah, but that was before.'

  'Don't wish him dead, for Godsake,' Pete said. 'I'm the guy who kicked him.’

  'He's such a creep.'

  'Yeah,' Barbara said. 'He's a creep, all right, but that isn't a capital crime.'

  Heather's lip curled up. 'Huh?'

  'Nothing.'

  Pete crouched over Earl. Bending low, he pressed his ear against the boy's chest.

  'Is he okay?' Barbara asked.

  Pete didn't respond. Barbara waited.

  'He had it coming,' Heather muttered.

  'Shhhh.'

  Then the energy seemed to drain out of Pete. His eyes drifted shut, and he looked as if he might stretch out and fall asleep using Earl's chest for a pillow. Suddenly, he flinched. His eyes jumped open. He sprang to his feet. He pranced away from Earl and darted his glance from Heather to Barbara.

  'Come on, quick. We've gotta get out of here.'

  'He's really dead?.' Barbara asked.

  'All right!' Heather clapped her hands.

  'Hell no, he isn't dead,' Pete blurted. 'Let's get outa here quick!'

  Oh, Barbara thought. get it.

  Jeez!

  At least he's not dead, she told herself. That's a good thing. Right?

  Yeah, sure.

  'Come on,' Pete said.

  'Wait. We can't just leave him in the street. What if a car hits him?'

  'You're right,' Pete said.

  Heather rolled her eyes upward, shook her head, and said, 'Boy.'

  Barbara and Pete each crouched over Earl and took one of his arms. They pulled until his back came up off the pavement. Then, side by side, they towed him toward the curb. He skidded on the seat of his jeans. He left a broad, wet trail like a mop being dragged across a floor. His head, hanging limp between his stretched arms, wobbled and swayed. Barbara watched it, hoping it wouldn't suddenly jerk upright, eyes open. They pulled Earl over the curb. He still seemed to be unconscious when they eased him down onto the sidewalk. 'Good enough?' Pete asked.

  'Good enough,' Barbara said. 'Let's beat it.'

  'Should we tie him up, or something?' Heather asked.

  'Are you kidding?' Barbara asked.

  'What if he comes after us?'

  'We took care of him this time, didn't we?'

  'Yeah, but…'

  'Besides,' Pete said, 'he'll have to find us first. Let's go! Let's haul it!'

  Pete in the lead, Barbara taking the rear so that she wouldn't need to worry about Heather falling behind, they raced up 15th Street.

  ***

  After making so many detours to get away from block streets, Clint hardly knew which way to turn. He couldn't think straight; the road dead-ended just ahead. We're lost, he thought. Really lost. Payback for running away from that woman back at the fire. We're getting the lousy luck we deserve. 'Which way do we go?' Mary asked. Clint shook his head. 'We can't just sit here.'

  From the angles of the shadows, he knew the sun was behind him. He'd been driving from east to west, so a turn to the left would head them south.

  He turned left. 'At least we'll be going in the fight general direction,' he said.

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yep. Left is right.'

  He glanced at her. She twitched her lips to let him see that she wasn't much amused.

  His choice had been good, though. It took them to bank Boulevard. He'd been doing all he could to avoid major thoroughfares, figuring they'd be jammed, but Burbank the traffic was moving along in a slow, steady flow. A car eased back to let him in. Clint waved a thank you to the driver and turned right. Ahead was Lankershim Boulevard. A police officer in the middle of the intersection, directing traffic.

  Clint blurted. 'A cop!' A motorcycle cop, he saw the Harley parked at the corner. 'Wish one of those,' he said, nodding toward the bike.

  'Do you know where we are now?' Mary asked.

  'I'm not positive,' he admitted. 'But doesn't Burbank go to Ventura Boulevard?'

  She frowned and shrugged.

  'I think it does,' Clint said. 'And that'd mean it should run into Laurel Canyon.'

  'Does Laurel Canyon go this far north?'

  'I think so.'

  Clint saw, up ahead, the Hollywood Freeway. And by the freeway, an underpass. 'Have we lucked out!' He entered the shadows of the underpass. They came out on the other side into the sunlight. And brake lights.

  Every westbound lane appeared to be jammed with cars.

  Clint cut hard to the left. Just as he made it to the center lines, a break appeared in the stream of cars going east. He swung into the gap, jamming the gas pedal to the floor. Mary gasped and grabbed the dashboard. They shot through, untouched. She let her breath out, let her hands drop to her lap. 'You're something else,' she said, and almost smiled. 'Just wanta get us where we're…'

  He saw the girl. She was striding down the sidewalk, head forward, her short hair shiny in the sunlight. She wore a big pink T-shirt that drooped down crooked over the seat of her white shorts. One pink sock hung lower than the other. She reminded Clint of his daughter. She was not as tall as Barbara, but just as slim. Though her hair was cut very short, it was Barbara's pale shade of blonde. Like this girl, Barbara often wore T-shirts and shorts to school. And they both lugged huge, bulky book bags in just the same manner, slung over their right shoulder by one strap, the weight swinging against their backs. This girl's resemblance to Barbara was enough to make Clint slow the BMW and stare at her. He wouldn't have considered stopping because of it. But she was also walking alone through an area that had been slammed by a devastating earthquake. And she was injured. At least, Clint thought she must be injured. Behind her left shoulder, her T-shirt bore a brown-red stain that looked a lot like blood.

  'She's hurt,' he said, and aimed for the curb a few yards in front of her.

  'A lot of people are probably hurt,' Mary said. 'What're you doing?'

  'I want to make sure she's okay.'

  'Oh, for Godsake. No! Don't!'

  'It won't…'

  'Keep going! You don't even know her.'

  'She's a kid.' He stopped at the curb and twisted around to look out the rear window. The girl, walking just as briskly as before, looked in at him and frowned a little. 'Damn it, Clint! This is my car.'

  He said, 'Yup,' and plucked its key from the ignition.

  'Clint!'

  'Take it easy. I'll be right back.' Taking the key with him, he climbed out of the car.

  The girl looked wary, but not frightened. Instead of trying to intercept her, Clint stopped in front of the BMW. The girl stopped on the sidewalk adjacent to the passenger door. She cocked her head a bit to the left, narrowed her left eye, and gnawed the left side of her lower lip. At least she didn't have Barbara's face. For one thing, she was younger. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. Though she had sharp blue eyes like Barbara, her face was longer, more boyish, cute but not with Barbara's obvious beauty. She had the looks of a real tomboy - short hair mussed and hanging across her forehead, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks, no lipstick or any other makeup. She might' have been mistaken for a boy except for the small, pointed breasts pushing out the front of her T-shirt. A girl, all right. Girls like this used to break Clint's heart when he was their age. Even now, something about her made his throat tight.

  'What's up?' she asked.

 
'I know you've probably been warned about strangers,' Clint said, 'but you look like you might be able to use some help. I'd be glad to give you a ride somewhere.'

  'Clint!' Mary snapped from the car.

  'Hi,' the girl said to her - the way she might speak to a growling dog, trying to soothe it. 'How are you? The treatment didn't warm up Mary. 'I've been better,' she muttered, and turned to Clint. 'We're wasting time, you know.'

  'You're welcome to climb in,' Clint told the girl. 'We'll take you where you're going.'

  With a nod, she hurried to the back door. She opened it and swung in her book bag while Clint returned to the driver's side. Their doors bumped shut at almost the same moment.

  Plugging in the ignition key, Clint said, 'I'm Clint Banner. This is Mary Davis.'

  Mary looked around at her. 'Where are you going?’

  'Home?' she asked.

  'That's where was heading.’

  'And where is that?'

  Before she could answer, Clint said, 'Just point me in right direction,' and started the car moving.

  'Go straight for a while. My name's Em, by the way, case you're wondering.'

  'M?' Clint asked. 'Like 007's boss?'

  'Cute,' Mary said.

  'It's E-m. Short for Emerald. Emerald O'Hara. Could you just call me Em, though?'

  'How old are you?' Clint asked.

  'Thirteen.'

  'I've got a daughter who'll be sixteen next month.'

  'Do you live around here?'

  'Nope. West L.A.'

  'Guess wouldn't know her, then. What about you, Mary?

  Do you have any kids?'

  'I'm not married.'

  'Do you have any kids, though?'

  'Is that supposed to be a crack?'

  'A crack? No. My mom isn't married. Never was. I've got a father, of course, but only in the strictly biological sense if you know what mean. don't have the vaguest notion who he might be. Mom won't tell me, either. He doesn't even know he's my father, can you beat that? All know is that he was in her Chaucer seminar at UCLA umpteen years ago, and that isn't a whole lot to know about your own father. Mom doesn't believe in men, see. She only went with this one guy until he got her pregnant, and then she dumped him.'