Slow Apocalypse (30 page)

All during that week, Dave saw others at the barricades, but no one who posed any threat. They were refugees in their own city, people with no place to go, but going anyway because they couldn’t think of anything else to do. Most often it was a single man, on a bicycle, or pushing a shopping cart, or on foot with a backpack or shopping bags. Some of them were armed, and some weren’t. Since the grocery stores had emptied out early in the crisis, they were probably breaking into unoccupied homes for the meager leavings of those who had gone elsewhere or never made it back to their homes because of the previous catastrophe of eruption and fire, or had been stranded elsewhere due to the vagaries of the earthquake, or had simply died.

No one’s backpack bulged. The shopping carts might contain a few battered cans or bottles of water or soda. One man had a shopping cart that was half-full of oranges. Dave knew that most of the citrus trees that grew in Los Angeles yielded fruit that was dry and all but tasteless, but he supposed sucking on one would be better than nothing.

Some of the people just paused and looked forlornly up the street at what they probably presumed was plenty. After all, the people up in the hills were rich, weren’t they? Probably still had servants, and gardeners coming in to trim the plants. Probably had gasoline and generators and Internet service and cable TV.

Others ventured as far as the yellow line. Dave wasn’t sure why. None of them looked as if they expected charity any longer. The resentment showed in some faces; others seemed simply resigned, all but defeated.

“Do you know anyplace where a man and his family can get something to eat?” one man asked. “My kids haven’t eaten in two days.”

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I saw a large soup kitchen at the Staples Center. You might try there.”

The man’s face brightened for a moment.

“When was this?”

“A while ago,” Dave admitted.

“Well, I was by there right after the earthquake, and there was nobody handing out food. Part of the Convention Center collapsed and a lot of people were killed. They were hauling out bodies. Everybody else was leaving.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You wouldn’t have…”

“I have my own family to provide for. No matter what you might think, we don’t have a lot of food here, either. I’m…” He realized he could only say he was sorry so many times, and it was already starting to sound hollow. The man nodded and turned away, having expected no other answer.

And what he said was true, mostly. Dave himself still had quite a bit of food stored away, and he assumed some others did, too. But it was becoming apparent that many people were running out. You could see it in the looks on people’s faces. Neighbors were beginning to eye each other with looks of speculation, or even of suspicion. You could practically read their thoughts by the way they regarded you.

He doesn’t look like he’s missing any meals. I wonder how much he has stored away, when all we have is a few miserable cans?

Karen had taken stock, done some calculations, and cut everyone’s rations down to what was needed to keep them healthy. It was never as much as they wanted. Dave was hungry most of the time and he knew everyone else was, too.

He could see it was tearing Jenna up, having brought nothing at all to the table, to be eating their food. But Karen had tried to make it clear to her that they regarded her as family, and it was share and share alike.

No one had thus far approached Dave about food. So far as he knew, no one was discussing the issue at all, but he didn’t think that would last. Sooner or later, as hunger, weakness, and malnutrition began to bite, the people of Doheny Drive would have to face what it meant that some people had food, and some didn’t. He was expecting someone to propose pooling all their food, and he expected that person would be a man or woman whose family had nothing left.

He was dreading that moment, and he felt sure many of his neighbors were, too.

Hard as it was to see the desperate men approach and look up the street, it was much harder when a whole family came by.

Dave missed that experience for a while, but everyone on guard duty who had been there and had to turn a family away could talk of little else for days afterward. A few affected a hard-nosed attitude.

“I’m looking out for my family. He should have looked out for his.”

Most of them stopped talking that way when they saw the looks on the faces of the others who had confronted families with children. These people had haunted eyes, and some of them were prone to burst into tears without warning. The strain on everyone had been immense for a long time, and emotions were raw and on the surface.

Finally, at the end of the week, Dave found out what it was like. They came an hour or so before sunset.

There were five of them. A father, a mother, and three young children, two boys around eight and ten, and a girl of five or six. They were small people, Hispanic, of Mexican heritage but speaking English without accents. They could have been illegals who had been in the U.S. for a long time, or they could have been fifth-generation American…and at this point, who cared? Nobody was going to ask for a passport or a green card. To Dave, the only important thing about them was that they were hungry.

The mother was dark and pretty, but there were circles under her eyes. The father was broad-shouldered, like so many Hispanic Angelenos, and probably had some Indian blood. The family had three grocery carts that looked as if they contained all their worldly possessions. There were sleeping bags and tarps that Dave could see, clothes, a box of laundry detergent, several plastic storage containers.

The man spoke with his wife, then came slowly up the street and stopped at the yellow line. He took off the straw hat he was wearing and held it at his side.

“I would like to speak to Mr. Alfred Charbonneau, please,” he said.

Dave was on duty with Herman Patterson and Marie O’Brien. He looked at Herman, who shrugged and shook his head.

“You know Mr. Charbonneau?” Dave called out.

“I work for him. My name is Richard Vega and I have a landscaping business. Mr. Charbonneau lives on Oriole Way. He has a wife, Gretchen, and two teenage sons, Marty and Al. Could you see if they are home?”

“I don’t know them,” Marie said. She lived on Doheny, not very far from where they were standing.

“I’ll go check at Ferguson’s,” Herman said. He was referring to the neighborhood roster that had been compiled.

“We’re sending for him,” Dave told Mr. Vega. The man nodded, then wiped his brow with a cloth that had once been white. He gestured to his family, who slowly pushed their carts up the gentle slope to the curb beyond the yellow line. They all sat down to wait. After a few minutes Vega spoke up.

“I hate to ask you for anything,” he said, “but can you spare some water? We drank the last of ours a few hours ago.”

Marie and Dave looked at each other. Their instructions had been clear: No one was to be allowed to approach the barricade unless someone on the other side vouched for them, and no one on the inside was to cross in the other direction.

“The hell with it,” Dave said. He opened a cooler that held three one-gallon milk jugs of water taken from someone’s pool that morning. There were also two cans of strawberry soda. Dave didn’t know where they had come from. He picked up one of the milk jugs and started toward the small gap in the barricade, then turned around and took one of the soft drinks, too. If the owner griped later, he would replace them.

Mr. Vega rose to accept the water, but couldn’t take his eyes off the soda can.

“I’m afraid none of it is cold,” Dave said.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen ice…Thank you, sir. We are much obliged.” He cracked the top of the can, and gestured to his children. They rose solemnly, staring at the can of pop.

“One sip at a time,” their father said. “We share, remember?”

“Yes, Father,” the oldest boy said, and handed the drink to his little sister. Dave had to turn away. He was choked up. He didn’t like himself very much at that moment, and he hated what had happened to him. What had happened to them all. What was still happening, with no end in sight.

They waited in the shade for a while, nobody saying anything. The children made the soda last, but all too soon it was gone. They drank some water.

When Herman returned he was shaking his head.

“The Charbonneaus are gone. There’s no contact information by their names, so they must have pulled out before the quake.”

Vega was on his feet, and now he looked down at his shoes. He took a deep breath, and nodded. It seemed to take an effort to lift his eyes again.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “We would have got out, too, if we had a place to go. I was just hoping…Well. I guess we’ll move on.”

“I wish we could help you,” Dave said. “You understand, we can’t take people in. Do you have a place—”

“It’s the same everywhere,” Vega said. “People are protecting themselves. In the hills here, they can block off streets. Nobody has any food they can spare. That’s why we had to leave home. We ran out of food. We’re hoping to find someplace where they’re taking care of refugees. Do you know anything about that?”

“No more than you do. There is a rumor of a soup kitchen in the Valley, maybe somewhere around Panorama City, but I can’t vouch for that.”

“It’s a long way to walk.”

“That it is. Where…where do you stay at night?”

Vega gave a wry grin.

“That’s the least of our problems. Most of these groups don’t care if you stop off in a park. They’re getting crowded, though. Good thing it’s not winter.”

Dave couldn’t think of another thing to say.

“Well, thanks for the water.” Vega held out his hand, and Dave shook it. He and his family started back down the hill.

“Well, screw this,” Marie said, from behind the barrier. “Mr. Vega! Wait a minute, don’t go yet. I’ll be back in a minute.” She took off, jogging away from them, toward her home.

It was more like five minutes, but she was back soon. She was carrying a plastic grocery bag as she slipped through the narrow barricade entrance.

“It’s not much,” she said, as she handed the bag to Vega. “There’s a can of pineapple, a can of corn, and a jar of spaghetti sauce. Also a box of spaghetti. Do you have anything you can cook this—”

Mrs. Vega moved to stand beside her husband and reached out to take Marie’s hand in both of hers.

“I am Anna. God bless you, ma’am. My children will eat tonight.”

“It’s not much, I wish I—”

“It is a feast to us. Bless you.”

Mr. Vega was looking at the ground again.

“I’ve never begged for anything in my life, I—”

Anna cuffed him with the back of her hand.

“Be quiet, Richard. If we have to crawl on our knees until they bleed, then we will do so. But this wonderful lady has spared your pride and filled our stomachs. Can’t you find anything to say?”

Chastened, Vega looked Marie in the eyes and nodded.

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“Bless you,” Marie said. “It was little enough. I think you will find food and shelter soon. I know you will.”

Dave watched as they walked down the street. One of the shopping carts had a squeaky wheel. It was almost the only sound on this quiet, deceptively peaceful day. He watched them out of sight, then followed Marie back to his post.

There was silence among the three for a while. Then Herman spoke.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But I wonder—”

“Don’t say it, Herman. I’ve got a loaded gun.” She sighed. “I know what you want to say. I was in India twenty years ago, I saw what happens when you give a street kid a few rupees. Next thing you know, you’re surrounded.”

“If those people talk about where they got the food…”

“He’s got more sense than that. But you know what? I don’t care what the committee says. I’m single, I’ve got nobody I’m responsible for, and it’s my food to do with what I want to.”

Neither Dave nor Herman was inclined to argue with her.

“And you know what else? I’m through with this shit. I can’t take it anymore. You better get someone else to take my place, because I’m out of here.”

She turned and walked back up the street to her house, with her back straight and her rifle resting on her shoulder.

A few hours later, with only a little light left in the western sky, she drove up to the barricade in a white Lexus. The backseat was full, the contents covered with blankets and clothing heaped almost to the ceiling. Dave figured her trunk was full, too. There was a man he didn’t know sitting in the passenger seat. He was glad to see that. He didn’t think venturing out alone after dark was a good idea for a woman.

Dave and Herman had been joined by Lucas Petrelli, who neither of them knew all that well. The three of them removed the blocks from under the wheels of a Cadillac and pushed it out of the way. Marie drove until the hood of her car was through.

“Where will you go?” Dave asked them.

“Toward San Diego. I have friends there. But there’s not enough gas in this overpriced heap to get me there. So if you drive south on the I-5 and see two people pushing a shopping cart, it’ll probably be us.”

With that, she waved good-bye and pulled all the way through. Before she reached Sunset she turned off her headlights.

Far in the distance he heard several gunshots.

“They should have waited until daylight,” Herman said.

“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “Sometimes it’s best to just do it before you chicken out. Sometimes you just have to go.”

Dave wondered if he’d ever see them again.

That night he lay sleepless in bed with Karen in the guesthouse.

He had brooded about the scene at the barricade for a little over a day. He felt he had a lot to talk over with his wife.

“I can always tell when you’re not sleeping,” she said. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. Maybe even early.” He no longer looked at his watch as often as he used to. The only appointments he had to keep these days were his stints at the barricades. They went to bed not long after the sun set, and got up when it rose. Another lifestyle change, another reversion to the practices of an earlier era.