Quake (9 page)

The voice was faint but Lauren Dykstra was sure she wasn't imagining things. It was Ray's voice, the last voice she'd heard before the world came tumbling down on top of her. Ray's voice. And he was calling her name.

“I'm
here
,” Lauren called back. But her voice was weak and thin and she doubted he could hear her. “I'm
here!
Please
help me!
”

She listened for a reply but none came.

Maybe Ray went to get help
, she thought. The bookcase was too large and heavy for any one man to move by himself, and Ray Knowles wasn't exactly bursting through his shirt with rippling muscles. He was soft, bookish, and she liked that about him. His greatest strength was probably his mind; he'd figure out what to do to rescue her.

Lauren loved smart men. Smart men like her father. But her father wasn't just smart, he was tough, too. He used to tell her about his days on California's beaches, surfing, playing football with friends, even boxing. To this day he kept his body in tremendous shape, even though no one special got to see it.

“Why do you bother?” she asked him one day when she found him on the floor of his bedroom strenuously doing push-ups.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you bother keeping your body in such great shape?”

“Well,” he said, “I'd like to live a long, healthy life, if that's what you mean.”

“You
know
that's not what I'm talking about. You don't have to build muscle to stay healthy. You can do cardio and—”

“Lauren, honey, what's this all about?”

She knew her tone had become angry. “I just don't understand why you want to be ripped, yet you refuse to go out on dates.”

“I do this for myself, Lauren, not for anyone else.”

She took a step back from the doorway, debating whether she should shut her mouth or come right out and say it: “
Are you planning on never having sex again for as long as you live?
”

She'd decided to shut her mouth.

And days later what her father said started to make sense to her. Who should he have been trying to impress? What a burden it was, keeping away from sweets, burning as many calories as possible every day so that she could fit into her size zero jeans. She began to wish she didn't care so much about what guys thought of the way she looked. But it was impossible in today's society, right? Just look around Times Square with its billboards covered with super-skinny supermodels. Everything in New York City seemed to scream sex, sex, sex.

Of course, she didn't expect California to be any different. If anything, from what she knew of the Golden State, especially LA, it would be worse.

Lauren found herself drifting off again. She bit down hard on her tongue to wake herself up. If she fell asleep (lost consciousness), it could be permanent. Or she could miss Ray calling out to her again.

Ray.

Ray of sunshine.

What she wouldn't give to see either right now.

 

 

In the intensive care unit at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Medical Center, Jana Mendoza hurried from patient to patient, watching monitors, checking and rechecking vitals, while trying to comfort and reassure not only her staff but the few frightened family members who had been visiting their loved ones when the first tremor struck. The hospital was hot and sticky. The generator was functioning as it was supposed to, but it only provided power to essential, lifesaving systems. There was no air-conditioning. Most of the lights were off to help conserve generator power and now that it was full dark, it was near impossible for Jana to read her watch when manually calculating her patients' heart rates. Worst of all, there seemed to be no end in sight, and not a single doctor, not a single nurse or administrator, could tell her definitively how long the generator's power would last.

Jana stood in the doorframe of Mr. Radcliffe's room and watched orderlies running up and down the halls, delivering meds and IV bags, as fast as their legs could carry them. She was impressed with how her unit was performing under such grueling conditions, but she feared that in the end, it would all be for nothing. If help didn't arrive before the generator gave out, every patient in the intensive care unit would expire. Machines, after all, were the only things keeping her patients alive.

By now, Jana was mostly used to the stench but every so often she'd be subjected to a fresh blast—a foul wave of excrement, urine, and rotting flesh. Her eyes watered and she wiped away the tears, along with the pouring sweat, and tried to clear her mind, if only for a moment.

Once she did, her husband, Francisco, took front and center stage in her head. He'd been downtown when the first tremors struck, and though she'd received no conclusive news about the damage to lower Manhattan, she'd heard plenty of rumors that the courthouses had been reduced to rubble.

“
Please
, Jana, you've got to let me
leave
. I
need
to get home to my
son
.”

Jana turned, trying futilely to keep the angry expression off of her face. It had been like this for hours, Camille running up to her in a fresh state of panic, begging, pleading, threatening that she be allowed to leave the hospital for her home in Jamaica, Queens.

Jana must have said it a dozen times, but she said it once more. “Camille, you
need
to understand. I can't
allow
you to leave and even if I could, I wouldn't because we're short-staffed and the needs of the patients of this hospital have to come before our own needs. And you've heard it from every person who's walked into this hospital—there's
nowhere
to go. The devastation in this area is complete. You're safer in here than you would be anywhere else.”

And it was true. St. Luke's-Roosevelt was still standing. Other hospitals, she'd heard over and over, had collapsed.

“But you don't
understand
,” Camille cried. “My son is
alone.
I don't
know
where his father is, and his grandparents live all the way up in Yonkers. I've got to get to him before something happens to—”

Jana pointed a finger at her, something she couldn't remember ever doing before to a member of her staff. “Camille, don't you
dare
tell me what I do and don't understand. Every doctor, nurse, and orderly on this floor is in the same exact predicament as us. Your son is sixteen years old and he's probably safer in Queens than he would be in any other borough, especially Manhattan. You need to settle yourself down—”

“You don't fucking
understand
, Jana. You don't
have
kids. You don't
care
about anyone the way parents care for their children.”

At that, Jana slapped her in the face. Not hard, but enough to freeze everyone in the hallway. Enough to shut Camille up, maybe even calm her some.

“I'm sorry,” Jana said, “but you need to
stop
. Do
not
presume to know
who
I love or
how much
I love them. I have a husband out there who means the world to me. And if he's dead . . .”

Jana couldn't continue. Something had caught in her throat and for a moment she thought she might choke on it.

“If he's dead . . .” she finally started again, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the puddles of sweat. “If he's dead . . .”

Dr. Kelly Lambert stepped between her and Camille and laid a gentle hand on each of their chests. “It's okay, ladies,” Dr. Lambert said. “Everything's going to be all right.”

Dr. Lambert's tone, usually strong and confident, was this time anything but, and it made Jana sink into a despair she was completely unfamiliar with. She looked into the doctor's face and saw nothing to reassure her. Suddenly she felt sure that Francisco was dead. And that help wouldn't arrive before the generator gave out.

Before long, she thought, every patient on this floor would be dead. And for the rest of them, there may never be a way out.

 

 

Despite all her efforts, Lauren did finally doze off. And while she was unconscious, she dreamed of her mother. Except for her image, Lauren's mother felt like a stranger. A stranger who still somehow seemed filled with love and kindness and understanding. In the dream, her mom sang, but Lauren didn't know the song. She spoke, but Lauren couldn't make out the words.

Once in a while, over the next couple hours, Lauren would breach the surface of consciousness and find herself still enveloped in blackness. She'd then fall immediately back to sleep as though dragged under by a stone.

Each time after that first, Lauren knew she was dreaming. But she couldn't control what she said or what she did. It was like watching a movie starring herself, but a movie she knew she'd never acted in.

When she opened her eyes again, she couldn't move. Not just her legs; now she couldn't wriggle her toes. Couldn't move her arms or control her hands. Couldn't so much as turn her neck. She was paralyzed and her fear took on new meaning.

I'm still dreaming
, she thought.

And she was. Yet it was of little comfort. Because when she did finally wake she knew she'd still be pinned under the bookcase. She'd be able to wriggle her toes, move her arms, and control her neck, but a hell of a lot of good it would do her, so long as she was buried alive.

Her father wasn't coming.

Ray had no doubt given up, thinking she was dead.

Caroline, the admissions director, had been killed. By one of the blasts or shots from a terrorist's gun. It didn't matter which. Lauren was simply sure she was gone.

Life had come down to these final dark hours of paralysis and fever dreams. Lauren would never again see the sky. She'd never again be held in her father's arms. She'd never know romantic love, never experience sex in an actual bed. All those hours she spent studying, all those nights she'd been consumed in her schoolwork, they'd all be for nothing. Because nothing came after this; of that she was sure.

When she breached the surface of consciousness again, the most awful pain was her thirst. Her head was dizzy with hunger, her stomach now rumbling louder than the slowing beat of her heart.

“Don't be frightened,”
her father's voice said.
“I'm on my way. Just hang in there as long as you possibly can. You're going to be fine. You're going to live a long and happy life. Years from now this will be nothing but a bad memory.”

“Dad,” Lauren whispered aloud.

Then she fell quiet.

Marshal Darren Shaw had remained with his friend and colleague Randy Trocano until Randy's final breath. After covering Randy's face with a handkerchief he'd found in Randy's pocket, Shaw had pushed himself off the floor, ready to proceed, ready to locate his prisoner, Feroz Saeed Alivi. But before Shaw could manage two steps, another tremor had struck, this one more ferocious than any of its brothers.

The ceiling had come down in large, concrete chunks, and Shaw had had no choice but to cover himself using Randy's body. He knew now, as he dug through the fresh rubble, that the late Randy Trocano had saved his life. If Shaw made it out of this courthouse alive, he'd have to write a report. And he'd already decided to alter a few facts, one of which being that Randy Trocano was alive when that last tremor struck. Randy had thrown Shaw to the ground, Shaw would write, and then covered his body with his own. As far as the world was concerned, Randy Trocano had died saving Shaw's life.

Shaw reached inside the tunnel he was slowly creating and dug out another large piece of rubble. He crawled deeper into the hole and paused, suddenly sure he'd heard voices.

He was about to call out but then caught himself. What if he called out and the rest of the rubble was removed by someone on the other side, and then Shaw crawled forward, directly into Alivi's knife?

He had to be careful.

Quietly, Shaw continued digging and moving forward. The voices became louder, clearer, but he still couldn't make out what was being said. Both voices were male, of that he was fairly certain. But not knowing
who
was on the other side kept Shaw silent.

Within a few minutes, Shaw thought a final push would get him through. He took a deep breath, mouthed a silent prayer, and went for it.

When he finally emerged Shaw saw only a small man with a miniature Maglite sitting in a corner, sweating, trembling, clearly in terrible pain. Shaw recognized the man immediately; it was Alivi's defense lawyer, Kermit Jansing.

Jansing eyed Shaw as Shaw stood, dusting himself off.

“Counselor?” Shaw said. “Who were you just speaking to?”

“No one,” Jansing said. “I was speaking to no one.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes. “I
heard
you. Just a few moments ago.”

“To m-myself,” Jansing said. “I was talking to myself. Trying to keep myself sane in all this madness.”

Shaw scanned the area with his eyes and finally pointed to a spot on the far side of the room. “The light,” Shaw said, “shine it there.”

Slowly, Jansing turned the Maglite in the direction Shaw was pointing. There, slumped against the far wall, was the body of a court officer Shaw knew only as Chuck.

“What happened to him?” Shaw said.

“I don't know,” Jansing said rapidly. “How should I know, he was like that when I found him.”

Shaw didn't need to approach the body to see that the blood on Chuck's body was fresh. As fresh as the blood had been on Randy Trocano's.

Shaw's fingers instinctively clenched into fists, his eyes darting from one corner of the room to the next, searching for a spot where Alivi could be hiding.

Behind him, Shaw heard movement and spun just in time to see a pile of rubble open like the maw of a giant beast.

Before Shaw could react, Feroz Saeed Alivi was on him, stabbing him in the gut with what looked to Shaw like a jagged shard of glass.

 

 

Kermit Jansing watched in horror as his client attacked one of the U.S. marshals who had escorted him into the courtroom some twelve hours earlier. He'd wanted to warn the marshal, wanted to scream the moment the marshal materialized from the hole. But he was scared, so goddamned scared. Alivi, who had killed the court officer who'd helped Jansing out of the rubble, had moments before threatened his life.

“Make a sound,” Alivi had whispered in his ear as they listened to digging from the other side, “and I will stick you like a pig.”

Now Jansing looked on as Feroz Saeed Alivi shed his religious robe and began undressing the dead marshal, first removing his jacket, then pulling off his slacks.

Jansing eyed the shard of glass still stuck in the marshal's stomach.

Could I snatch it while Alivi's dressing?
he wondered.

No, Jansing was hurt; he could barely move at all, let alone win a footrace. Jansing knew then that he would be entirely at his client's mercy in a few moments.

“We are on the same side, you realize,” Jansing tried as the terrorist zipped up his fly. “I stood up for you. I've been working long days and nights this past year in order to save your life.”

Alivi looked at him and smiled; Jansing thought it was one of the ugliest things he'd ever seen.

“You are an American,” Alivi said.

“
No!
” Jansing cried.

“No?”

“No, I mean . . . I was born here, yes. But I reject America's policy abroad. I reject our interference in the Middle East. I reject our foreign—”

Alivi shook his head. “This, none of you seem to understand. That it is not only your foreign policy that makes your nation so despised. And it is not just Muslims, not just Arabs, who hold you in such contempt. People all around the world are
sick
and
tired
of living under an American economic occupation. Your politicians, they talk of globalization. But what they
mean
is Americanization. Your country will not rest until the entire globe reflects your values.”

“I agree c-completely. One hundred percent. Everything you say is true. But I'm not
part
of all that. I've nothing to do with any of it. I represent criminals, for Christ's sake. People who shun the U.S. government. Not the sheep who—”

“
Silence!
” Alivi, now dressed in the U.S. marshal's suit save for the bloodied shirt, took a step toward Jansing. “You are not part of this America, you say? Look at you, Kermit. Look in the mirror and tell me you are not American. How much money did you pay for that suit? How much for those shoes? For those cufflinks? How much, Kermit, did you pay for that house in Morris Plains, New Jersey? Or for the Jaguar you drive to and from the city each day?”

How the hell does he know what I drive? Where I live?

“Oh, yes,” Alivi said as though reading the lawyer's mind. “I know everything about you, Kermit Jansing. And I know everything about the attorney who is prosecuting me as well. I know everything about the judge.”

Jansing nodded.

“I will let you in on some news, Kermit Jansing. We do not hate America only for what it does. We hate America for what it
is
.”

Alivi bent over and retrieved the shard of glass from the marshal's belly. He raised the shard to his neck and for a moment, Jansing's hope soared; he thought Alivi was going to cut his own throat. Instead, the terrorist put the shard to his beard and began hacking away at it.

When he was done, he looked down at Jansing again, wearing that same insidious smile. “Where was I?” he said.

“You said you don't hate America only for what it does, but for what it
is
.”

“Precisely, counselor.” He pointed to Jansing's right hand. “Tell me, how much did you pay for that ring on your pinky finger?”

For the first time Jansing wondered whether he could possibly buy his own life from his client. He started to name the price, but was cut off.

“We hate America for what it is,” Alivi hissed. “And you, Kermit Jansing, you are the living embodiment of this country.”

Alivi took several steps forward, leaned over, and planted the shard of glass in the center of Jansing's chest.