Quake (40 page)

    He looked back at Sheila. She was still panting for air, her head was upright between her raised arms. She was watching him, her eyes narrow. He faced Judy again. 'She won't be in the line of fire if I move over there. What's to stop you from shooting me?'

    'I could shoot you where you stand.'

    'And kill Sheila.'

    Hand on Judy's arm, Weed leaned closer to her and spoke softly. Stanley heard the murmur of her voice, but couldn't make out any of the words. Judy nodded. Keeping the revolver aimed at Stanley, she sidestepped to the corner of the pool and started walking toward him. Oh, no, he thought. Then he gasped, 'Shit!' as Weed, straight in front of him, leaped off the edge. She dropped toward the water, the bottom of her tank top gliding up. Her breasts were tanned as dark as her belly. They had wonderful nipples that stuck out, and Stanley wanted to feel them in his mouth. She vanished for a moment in the middle of a splash. When Stanley could see her again, she was soaking wet, her tanned skin gleaming, her tank top clinging to her breasts. She waded toward him. The water was high enough, on Weed, to cover the ring in her belly button. The blade of the knife in her left hand was at least twelve inches long. Should've kept after her, Stanley thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Could've taken her down and had her. And taken her out of the picture. Now she's gonna kill me. If she doesn't, Judy will.

    As Weed sloshed closer, he looked over his shoulder. Judy stood at his corner of the pool, not far from the shiny chrome arches of the ladder's rails. From there, she had a clear line of fire at him; her bullet would pass high over Sheila's head.

    'I could've killed you!' he shouted at Judy. 'I spared your life! You owe me!'

    Her upper lip twitched. 'I owe you dick,' she said.

    'I saved your life!'

    'You raped the shit out of me!' she yelled. With the thumb of her right hand, she hooked back the revolver's hammer.

    SNICK-CLACK

    The black tunnel of the muzzle pointed at Stanley's head. Oh, God, I'm dead. He didn't want to see the gun go off, so he turned his face. And found himself looking at Weed. A stride away, she swung the butcher knife at his neck with a hard sideways slam as if she planned to lop his head off.

    The earth shook.

***

    The afternoon roared, and the alley shuddered under Barbara's back. Startled out of a dream, she thought, Christ, a quake!

    She thought she was at home, so she tried to hold on to the mattress of her bed. Her groping hands met pavement. She jerked open her eyes. Sky above her. A lurching, shimmying garage to the left, nothing nearby on the right. Nothing to fall on me. I'll be okay. It's the stuff that falls on you… Suddenly, the roar faded. The earth stopped jolting and pounding her, but seemed to continue swaying slightly. An aftershock, she told herself. That's all it was. All? Had to be better than a six-point. But not like the big one, not even close. Now that it was over, Barbara realized that she was hurt. From the feel of things, something had clobbered the back of her head. The alley, maybe. Had the quake knocked her down? She couldn't remember, but it seemed likely. Her head felt as if it had been smacked a good one. Grimacing, she raised her arms to clutch her head. And let out a cry as the movement stoked a fire in her left side. The starkness of the pain frightened her. What happened to me? She suddenly remembered the gunfight. Pete! She'd seen Pete go down, shot by Earl. She'd been hit, herself, but she'd stayed on her feet long enough to shoot Earl while he'd been spinning around to fire at Pete. He'd gotten off his shot at about the same moment that Pete had fired at him - an instant before the blast from Barbara's shotgun had slammed into his back. While Earl was going down, so was Pete.

    Then me, Barbara thought. I stayed up long enough to watch them both get shot. Probably bashed my head when fell. The pains tore a cry out of her as she shoved herself up on her elbows. Below her left breast, her blouse clung to her side like a sodden, red rag. That's where he shot me, she thought. Jesus H. Christ. Shot. I'm actually shot. Forget it. It didn't kill me. Worry about it some other time. She quickly checked for other wounds. Her blouse was open a few inches, and the bare skin between its edges looked okay. The right side of her blouse wasn't too bloody. She looked okay from the waist down. So she raised her eyes and tried to spot Pete. Maybe he's alive. Maybe he was only wounded, like me. Beyond her outstretched body, she saw motorcycles and bodies. A couple of the bikes had fallen over, but most of them still stood upright. Something didn't look…The Lincoln. The huge, white car was gone. Explains how the bikes got knocked over. Who drove off? she wondered. The woman? Some scavenger? Not Earl, that's for sure. That's him, there. The guy on his back. How'd he get on his back? Doesn't matter, she told herself. Where's Pete? She couldn't see him. But a lot of dead bikers were sprawled and piled in the alley. Pete had been standing beyond most of them at the time of the shootout. I just can't see him 'cause of all the bodies in the way. 'Pete!' she yelled. No answer came. She decided not to call out again. The wrong sort of person might hear her. As gingerly as possible, she sat up. The effort made her tremble, and the pain filled her eyes with tears. Blinking to clear them, she looked about for the shotgun. Gone.

    'Hell with it,' she muttered.

    Then she struggled to stand, whimpering, flinching at times with sudden stabs of pain. When she was up, she swayed and almost fell. Spreading her feet, she kept her balance. Her side felt as if it had been scorched with a white-hot rod. She wiped tears from her eyes. She began staggering toward the bodies. They hadn't been stripped. What's with the vultures? Barbara wondered. They don't like biker duds? Just haven't gotten here yet, more than likely. She changed her mind, however, when she halted above Earl's body. Maybe he'd still been alive after she'd blown him off his feet and he'd made a face-first dive at the pavement. She supposed it was possible that he'd turned over by himself. More likely, though, he'd been rolled onto his back by someone else. Someone wanting to get at his mouth. His mouth, wide open, brimmed with blood. Using her foot, Barbara pushed against his cheekbone. His head turned sideways, the blood dumping out. With her sneaker against his ear, she managed to tilt his face upright again. She peered into his mouth. Gory in there, but she couldn't see well enough to tell whether or not his gold crowns had been removed. To see that, she would need to hunker down over him and take a long, hard look. The way her head ached and the way her wounded side throbbed with pain, she didn't want to do that. Doesn't matter anyway, she told herself. I promised him I wouldn't let any damn scavenger take his teeth. So what. He shot me. He shot Pete. We killed him. Somebody took his teeth, tough tacos. She glanced around, searching for his pistol. It wasn't near his body, nowhere to be seen. Gone, just like Barbara's shotgun. Looks like somebody took the guns, she thought. She moved on, walking in among the bodies. Looking at the bloody mouths. Someone had been at them with pliers, she was sure. Didn't take their clothes, scalps, tattoos or motorcycles. Maybe stole their wallets; she had no intention of checking. Scavenger specialists.

    Not my field, honey. I deal only in guns and crowns. How about knives and bridges? Never touch 'em, sweets. I'm losing my mind, Barbara thought. She tongued her own teeth. And wondered if some filthy, jibbering vulture had searched her mouth while she was out cold. Stuck his fingers in. Poked around with pliers. She began to feel as if she might throw up.

    But she forgot her nausea when she saw that the woman who'd been dragged out of her car was gone, for sure. Here was the biker who'd fallen across her rump. And here was the sleeve of her cream-colored blouse. Pete apparently hadn't shot her, after all. A possum player, same as me. After all the gunplay, she'd simply gotten to her feet, climbed back into her car, and driven away. Maybe. Or maybe someone took her. Threw her in the car and raced off with her. None of the bikers could've done that; all of them had been dead before the final gunfight. Maybe a scavenger snatched her. Guns and crowns and ladies.

    Then how come he didn't take me? Thought was dead? Quit stalling, she told herself. You've gotta find Pete. She moved her gaze to the bodies that she hadn't yet studied - that she'd been avoiding, knowing Pete would be among them and not wanting to see him dead. So long as she didn't see him, she could keep her hope that he'd survived the gunshot. Just turn around and walk away, she thought. Don't look. You don't want to see him dead. If you don't see him, you can remember him the way he looked when he was alive. How he looked in the pickup truck. How he felt. Sobbing, she wiped her tears away. If you don't see him, you can pretend he's still alive and you'll meet again someday, and he isn't gone forever, and you'll kiss him again, and you can go off somewhere secret in the moonlight and make love all night long.

    Clint heard the approaching roar. Before he could say anything, the road began to jump and shake under his feet. 'Holy Samolie!' Em yelled. Mary cried out, 'Oh, God!' Tugged from both sides, Clint stumbled and capered about like a blind man at a square dance, torn between two partners.

    'Aftershock!' Em shouted. Was there triumph in her voice? She'd been predicting a big aftershock, and here it was. Clint hated that he couldn't see. He knew that they were somewhere on Crescent Heights, and they'd crossed Wilshire a while ago. But he couldn't see what buildings might be near enough to collapse on them, couldn't see what might be overhead about to fall and crush them, couldn't see anything at all except for the blackness. As he pranced sideways, Mary cried 'Wah!' and his right arm was suddenly dragged downward. He stumbled and fell, not knowing whether he would land on hard pavement or soft Mary. He landed on Mary. Em, still gripping his left arm, was pulled down on top of him. The quake stopped. From the feel of things, Clint supposed that his fall had been cushioned by Mary's chest. She was gasping for air as if she'd just finished a sprint. Em seemed to be pressing down against Clint's left side, straddling his hip as if it were a saddle. He felt her chest working like a bellows against his upper arm, her breath brushing the side of his neck.

    After a few moments, she said, 'That was a good one.'

    'Are we okay?' Clint asked.

    'Bet it was a six-point-five. Maybe better.'

    'Can everybody climb off me, now?' Mary asked.

    'Nothing's going to fall on us?' Clint asked.

    'Nope,' Em said. She squirmed and pushed. Her weight went away from him. 'We're in the middle of the street.'

    'Is anything coming?'

    'Nope. No cars. No nothing. Give you a pull?'

    'Maybe you'd better let go.'

    Em let go, and Clint suddenly felt as if she had vanished. 'Don't go anywhere,' he said. 'Right here.'

    As he tried to climb off Mary, she helped by pushing at him and rolling. He seemed to skid across her body. When she was out from under him, the hard flatness of the pavement pressed against his back. He started to rise, but was held down by a hand on his chest.

    'Don't.' It was Mary's voice. 'Don't move. We gotta rest. I'm dying.'

    'You're long overdue,' Em said. 'You were supposed bite it at Sunset.'

    'So much for predictions,' Mary said. She sounded tired.

    'God almighty,' Em muttered.

    Clint wondered if she was thinking about Loreen. The fortune-teller had sure predicted death at Sunset, but missed by a mile on who would die. The single advantage of losing his eyesight: he hadn't been able to see the remains of Loreen and Caspar. By the time the big battle was over and Clint had gotten around to the rear door of the van, the guy inside had apparently stripped off their clothes, scalped them both and gotten some sort of vile, intimate surgery that Em and Mary had refused to give details about. The guy had greeted Clint with a can of spray paint- a blast of black paint full in the face. Full in the eyes. Clint remembered hearing giggles through his own outcry. But the giggles had stopped very fast. Must have been a nasty surprise for the guy: taking out the big tough man who had the Bowie knife, only to be killed within seconds by two women.

    A real 'team effort,' according to Em. While Clint had stumbled backward away from the door, Em had hurled her hunting knife. 'Got him right in the throat,' she'd bragged.

    'Sure,' Mary'd said. 'With the hilt.'

    'But it knocked him down, didn't it? I had it planned that way, so you could get all the glory.'

    'So I could get the dirty work, you mean.'

    They'd sounded mighty cheerful for two gals talking about how they'd subdued a man and slashed his throat. But Clint supposed they had every right to feel proud of themselves. They'd done a hell of a job.

    If they hadn't found the bodies of Loreen and Caspar, they probably would've started a party right there in the rear of the van. With water she'd found inside the van, Mary had washed out Clint's eyes. The water had taken away some of the burning sting, but hadn't restored his vision. Em had tied a cloth around his head - a blindfold to protect his eyes from the sunlight. Then they'd each taken one of his arms and guided him across lane after lane, weaving through a tangle of stopped vehicles until they reached the other side.

    'Guess what,' Em had said, shaking his arm. 'We made it. We got all the way across Sunset. And Mary's still alive.'

    'Maybe that was the only bunch of killers,' Clint had suggested.

    'Maybe,' Em had said. 'But maybe what happened, the other gangs, they saw how we totally demolished that bunch of weirdos and so they figured us for bad news and hid when they saw us coming.'

    Mary had made a quiet chuckle. 'That's us, bad news. Two babes and a blind guy.'

    'You know what, Mary?'

    'You're gonna tell me, Em.'

    'Looks to me like adversity agrees with you. You were a major sort of pain in the old rumpazoid a few hours ago, and now you're almost human. Why do you think that is?'

    'Better not look a gift horse in the mouth.'

    'Yeah. Good point. Maybe you just like killing people.'

    'I think it might be the other way around,' Clint had said.

    'She likes saving people. And she's been doing a damn fine job of it, too.'

    After that, they'd continued on their way. Em on one of his arms, Mary on the other. Guiding him around describing what they saw: the collapsed buildings, the crack in the pavement, the abandoned vehicles, an occasional group of people digging through rubble in search of buried treasure or people trapped beneath fallen walls. There seemed to be few people wandering about. Mary and Em reported seeing no roving gangs, though they saw plenty of dead bodies. Most of the bodies had been robbed and maimed. Clint wasn't able to see them, which was fine with him. He was glad that he couldn't look at the bad stuff, hated not being able to keep watch for trouble. He felt as if he'd betrayed Em and Mary. He was supposed to be the guardian. How could he protect them when he couldn't the dangers? What if don't get better? he wondered. How can I take care of Sheila and Barbara…? Maybe they're dead. No! It occurred to him, lying there on the street with Em and Mary beside him, that he might already have found himself a replacement family. Don't want replacements. I want Sheila and Barbara. He elbowed the pavement and sat up. 'We've gotta going. I have to get home.'

    He raised his arms. He reached out to each side. Mary clutched his right hand and said, 'I'm ready.' His left hand, searching for Em, found her face. She didn't say anything, or move. He felt her forehead and eyebrows under his fingers, her nose pressing against his palm, her lips soft near the heel of his hand. They kissed him. Wouldn't mind keeping you around, he thought. If your mother didn't make it…Stop it. He gave Em's nose a gentle twist. Then she took hold of his hand.

    'We better hit the trail,' she said. 'Time's a-wastin'

    When Weed swung the knife into the side of Stanley's neck, the butcher knife only nicked his throat as the quake shoved Weed away. She staggered away from him through the pitching, raging water. Mixed in with the hurricane roar of the quake was the crash of gunshot. Stanley, thrown off his feet and falling, didn't feel a hit. He twisted around. For a moment before the water blurred his sight, he glimpsed Judy above the corner of the pool. She looked like a terrified sailor dancing the Hornpipe, her revolver jabbing at the sky. Water closed down over Stanley's head. He was tossed, shoved, rolled over. Gonna drown. Shit. It rushed through his mind that the aftershock had come like a miracle, just in time to save him from Weed's knife and Judy's.357 magnum or whatever it was - but it had been a big joke, a false save, a dirty trick. It had saved him from them just to drown him. Gonna drown in three feet of water. Should've fucked Sheila in her safe, dry tub. But the vicious currents of the pool suddenly lost their grip on Stanley. He splashed and thrust his face into the air. His feet found the bottom. He stood up. Judy was no longer standing at the corner of the pool. Had she fallen in? If she's in, I'll take her. Get that gun. But he could've spotted her easily if she had fallen into the pool; the water was only waist-deep and almost clear. She wasn't in it. She must've fallen backward. He glanced at Sheila. She still hung from the bottom of the ladder. She looked freshly splashed, glossy. I'll nail you again after get rid of these two…