"Professor Ravensmith's office?" she asked.
The History Department Secretary looked up, smiled with her recently capped teeth, then studied the woman's reaction for any sign of recognition that the teeth were capped. When there wasn't any, she lifted the brush from the Liquid Paper she'd been applying to the typos on Dr. Dees' application for sabbatical leave, and pointed it down the corridor. "Make a left at the end of the hall. He's three doors down, right next to the drinking fountain."
"Thanks," Tracy Ammes said, chewing nervously on the unsharpened end of a Staedtler Mars-Lumograph 3H pencil as she searched. When she spotted the drinking fountain with several wads of variously colored gum huddled around the drain, she took a deep breath and tugged on her jacket. "What the hell are you doing here, Tracy?" she asked herself for the fifth time since parking her car.
The door to his office was closed, but there was a narrow strip of glass along one side of the doorway, so she strolled casually by and glanced in. He was sitting behind his desk, talking to a young girl. Tracy ducked past the glass before he saw her. Okay, Trace, get a grip now. You're not some pimply teenager. You're a goddamn grown-up, making a living, voting the straight Democratic ticket, with your own Visa card and gynecologist and everything. Now act like it.
She hurried past the glass strip, stopping in front of his door. A lanky boy ambled by with a briefcase in one hand and a Frisbee in the other, gave her an appreciative look, took a drink out of the fountain. Then, still staring at Tracy, he picked up one of the wads of gum near the drain and popped it into his mouth. "My girlfriend's," he explained. "She leaves it here every day for me. Like a token, you know."
Tracy smiled weakly and nodded. He bounced off down the hall chewing vigorously.
She tapped the pencil against her teeth, glanced at her watch. How much longer? She leaned her head over and peeked through the glass quickly before pulling back. They were laughing. The young girl had red-and-white-striped athletic shorts on that were slit on the side so the frilly edge of her pink panties was visible. She also had a tight T-shirt on, though Tracy didn't know what she was advertising since only the back was visible from here. But her goddamn blond hair was permed, that was certain. Big billowy Farrah-Fawcett curls. Didn't the little twerp know they were out of style? Tracy bit down hard on her pencil and felt her teeth sink into the soft German wood. She plucked the pencil from her mouth, but tasted the flecks of blue paint on her tongue. "Shit!" she said, just as the office door was jerked open and Eric was standing six inches from her. She froze, her tongue still hanging out as she tried to scrape the paint chips off.
"Hello," he said.
"Ahlo," she replied, her tongue still out. Then she recovered, pulled it back in, tugged her suit jacket and skirt, and offered her hand. "Hello, Mr. Ravensmith," she said in as formal a tone as she could muster. "You probably don't remember me-"
"Of course I do, Ms. Ammes," he smiled. "Are you here to see me?"
Careful, Trace. "Well, I was in the area anyway, but I did have some business to discuss."
"Business? That's mysterious." He opened the door further and waved her in as he spoke to the young student. "See you Thursday, Serena. And I want that paper rewritten by then. No excuses."
Serena smiled, revealing a blue wad of gum clamped between her perfect teeth. "Okay, Mr. R."
Tracy watched her walk out, her long trim legs unconsciously gorgeous. Not a ripple or dent or stretch mark in sight. Tracy hated her.
He offered her the seat next to his desk as he sank into his own desk chair and swiveled toward her. He checked the big clock on the wall behind her.
"Am I keeping you from something?" she asked. "I should've phoned for an appointment, I know, but this was just a spur of the moment thing-"
"No, no. No rush. I have to drive into L.A. today to, uh, purchase some equipment. But there's still plenty of time."
''Good. I mean, as long as I'm not keeping you."
He smiled. "So what brings you down to the hinterlands of Orange County? Another trial?"
"No. They just announced this morning that it'll be another two weeks before they repair the courthouse enough to start trials again. But that's not all I do."
"Oh?"
She looked at him, those reddish-brown eyes kind of coppery this morning, like the bottoms of her Revere-ware pans. He had a little smile on his lips that made her even more nervous. Was he laughing at her? Did he know that she'd been thinking about him since their last meeting? That she'd been searching for an excuse to see him again for almost a month? Maybe he was smiling because he didn't find her attractive. She wasn't his type. Didn't like red hair, green eyes. Maybe her tweed suit was too severe, too dykish. He probably liked them soft and pliable. No, she'd done her research on him at the news station, and on his wife, Annie. She was beautiful and tough, smart as they come, but with a no-bull approach. Hell, the two of them would probably be great pals. Under different circumstances.
But why even think such thoughts? She hadn't come down here to steal a husband away, or even start an affair. She had her own boyfriend-there's that awkward high school word again-lover back in Santa Monica. And they were pretty damn happy together. All things considered. She'd just wanted to, well, see Eric Ravensmith again, if for no other reason but to get him out of her mind.
He was leaning forward now, his hand reaching out for her face. My God, Trace, my God. What to do? She hadn't expected anything to happen. Her heart swelled in her chest like an inflatable raft trapped in a cupboard.
"Hold still," he said, his fingertips touching her lips. "Got it!" He pulled his fingers back and showed her a fleck of blue paint from her gnarled pencil. "Bad habit, chewing pencils," he laughed. "I used to suck on pens in high school until I got a mouth full of ink one day." He flicked the paint chip from his finger.
Just great! Now he was comparing her to a high school kid. Terrific. Change the subject, quickly. "That's quite a nice stereo system you've got here. Aren't you afraid someone will steal it? I hear thefts on college campuses are way up. I think we did a special report on that last month at the station."
Eric shrugged. "I keep the office locked when I'm not here. But I'm not worried. Besides, I do a lot of my grading here and I need some music to help get me through their turgid prose."
She nodded at the cassettes scattered on the desk. "Mozart, I bet. Vivaldi, Beethoven, and the rest."
"I didn't know I was so transparent."
"You college professors are all alike," she said, getting her confidence back. "Classics or nothing."
"Well, you're partially right." He swiveled around and popped the top cassette into the player. The small speakers on the bookshelves came alive with music.
"Please remember how I feel about you," the Beatles sang, "I could never really live without you/So come on back to me…"
"The classics," Eric said.
Tracy reddened. "What about the other tapes?"
"More Beatles. That's all I ever play, except occasionally the Supremes. And don't ask me why. I'm purposely avoiding analyzing it in case I don't like the answer."
She laughed, her nervousness forgotten. "I don't blame you. Sounds serious."
"Latent rock 'n' roller probably." He turned the volume down a little, stealing a glance at his watch. He still had to get to L.A. and back before the rush hour traffic. And buy those guns. "So, what's this mysterious business you mentioned, Ms. Ammes?"
"Tracy. Well, I only work part time at Channel 7, but in the past six years I've covered quite a few sensational trials for them, sketching everyone from the Hillside Strangler to the Magic Mountain Maniac. Anyway, some New York publisher was in town during the Dirk Fallows trial, saw my stuff on TV, and contacted me about publishing a book of my trial sketches."
"Ah, fame and fortune."
"I wish. The money's so-so and as for fame, I don't think Andrew Wyeth need worry just yet. But it's a start."
"What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to use some drawings of you in the book so I came down to get your permission." She started rooting through her purse. "I've got a release slip here somewhere if you don't mind signing."
"Sure, no problem. But I thought that since it was a public trial you didn't need our permission."
She reddened again. Shot down your big excuse, Trace. "Yes, that's true. But the publisher just wanted to cover all the bases. You know how nervous they get about lawsuits and such." She plucked the folded paper from her purse, smoothed it on the top of his desk and slid it across to him.
She watched him read it, his finger, the one that touched her lips, sliding absently along his scar. When his head was tilted just so, it caught the fluorescent light and seemed to almost flash. He grabbed a pen from his drawer and, with a sudden flourish, signed the form. He was smiling as he handed it back to her. "Good luck."
"Thanks," she said. Then added, just so he wouldn't mistake the innocence of her motives, "My boyfriend thinks he can get me a job doing storyboards on this movie he's working on."
"Oh?"
"Yes, he builds special effects models." And smells like glue a lot. "He's worked on most of the major sci-fi films of the past three years."
"Great. Is that what you want to do?"
"When I grow up, you mean?" she said sharply. "I'm twenty-eight."
"No, I just meant is that the direction you want your career to move in? Movies?"
Tracy shrugged. 'The money's good." She saw him glance at the clock again and stood up. "Well, I guess I'd better get back on the freeway. Thanks for your time and for your permission. I didn't mean to snap at you before. It's just that I get a little sensitive about why I'm twenty-eight and still hustling for a career."
"Twenty-eight is still young. You've got plenty of time."
She laughed. "Somehow I knew you'd say that."
"I'm still so transparent, huh?"
"Oh no, I'm not falling into that trap again. Forget I said anything." She held out her hand. He took it in his and shook. It was a friendly shake, nothing more. No extra squeeze or lingering touch. But somehow she wasn't disappointed anymore. She liked him, and under the right circumstances might even fall out-of-her-mind in love with him. But for now, she was pleased with herself for having the guts to come down and see him just because she'd felt the urge. Now she could go back to Barry and his glue and settle in for another few months. Maybe she'd even make Barry his favorite dinner tonight. Stir-fried eggplant.
"I'll look for your book," Eric said as he held the door open for her.
"I'll send you a copy."
"Autographed?"
"You bet."
"Bye."
He watched her walk down the hall, her athletic body twitching under the tight skirt. What his dad would have called a looker. Almost as beautiful as Annie. But not quite. No one ever was. He thought of Annie now, her long, thick hair always in their way when they kissed, getting in their mouths. He smiled, felt a longing ignite in his thighs, spread up along his groin. Shook it off.
First things first.
He snatched up his briefcase, turned off the cassette player, flicked the light switch, and locked his office door. If he hurried, he'd still make his meeting in L.A. on time. It had taken a few calls to set up, but finally an old army buddy he'd known before his Night Shift duty came through with a dealer. A couple cops who were responsible for transporting guns were pilfering a few and selling them on the side. The price was outrageous, the morality dubious, but none of that mattered to Eric. All he cared about now was protecting his family.
He half-jogged down the hall, nodding to familiar students that drifted through. Three graduate students were grouped around the bulletin board looking at the meager teaching job announcements. None of them were smiling.
He passed the open office door of George Donato, one of the best teachers Eric had ever seen. George always left his door open so he could flag down the pretty girls. His reputation as a scholar was almost equal to his reputation as a womanizer. He was a good friend to both Eric and Annie, despite Annie's attempts to fix him up with her friends.
"Hey, Eric," George called as Eric zipped by.
"Gotta run, George. Talk to you later."
"What about poker next week? You and Annie available? I need the money."
"Sure, where's the game?"
"Your place."
"Of course. See you later." Eric stopped at Betty's desk in time to get flashed a mouthful of capped teeth. "Betty, I'll be out for the rest of the day. If any of my young scholars come looking for me, set them up with an appointment for tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure thing, Dr. Ravensmith."
He'd given up trying to get her to call him Eric. She seemed to like the titles, as if she were the head nurse in a hospital full of doctors.
"Thanks. See you tomorrow."
"Fine. See you to-"
And it began.
The building trembled slightly, as if shivering against a great wind. Betty hunched over the papers on her desk, trying to keep them from being shaken to the floor. A stapler tipped over the edge, bounced onto the carpet. "My, my," she said. "Oh, my."
The students who'd been walking the halls or reading the bulletin boards looked around at each other, up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. One young girl flung her books down in panic and screamed.
"Under a table!" Eric shouted at them. "In a doorway! Move!"
"Oh, my," Betty repeated as the tape dispenser scooted across the desk and plunged to the floor.
The trembling became shaking now, as if the building were a salt shaker clutched in the first of an angry giant. Eric was tossed off his feet, his briefcase flying across the room as he fell. There was a loud rumbling sound, a groaning really, and suddenly the building began to lean.
George Donate came charging out of his office shouting, "What the hell is happening?" But before anyone could answer, the ceiling above him collapsed, dropping Dr. Luskin's antique rolltop desk and oak filing cabinet onto George's head. There was an agonizing scream of pain, then silence.
Eric looked over at Betty, who was huddled under her desk. Back down the hall, two boys and a girl were hugging the wall, their faces contorted with terror.
"Get in the doorway!" Eric yelled at them, motioning with his hand. But they were paralyzed with fear and horror as they stared at George Donato's mashed body, the lifeless arms sticking out from under the desk. Eric scrambled to his feet and bolted down the hall, scooping them all by their waists and shoving them in to the nearby supply room. Against the wall was a long wooden table that held the ditto machine. He drove them under the table, throwing himself after them. There was another loud crash out in the hall as more of the ceiling caved in. The building leaned even more as the ground vibrated under it.
"We're going to die," the girl cried, tears splashing out of her eyes, mucus dripping from her nose. "Please, God, not now. Please God."
Eric spoke slowly and calmly. "What's your name?"
"My name?" she said, confused.
"Her name's Melinda," the skinny boy said. "Melinda Oulette."
"What about you guys?"
"Jim Tolan," the skinny kid said.
The other boy, short but brawny, a thick weightlifter's neck, mumbled, "Robin Thomas."
"Fine. I'm Eric Ravensmith. And I'm going to get us all out of here alive. But you're going to do everything I tell you to do as soon as I tell you, or I'm going to leave you here to die. Understand?" He waited. "Answer me!"
"Yes," they chorused.
Eric looked around the room. There were cracks up the side of the concrete wall, some of them from the last quake, but several new ones. Big deep ones. The building was listing to the left, not enough to tip over, but enough to cause structural damage that would probably result in a collapse. Besides, they had to worry about fire. More people were killed by fire in earthquakes than for any other reason.
Yeah, they'd have to get out of this building. And to do that they'd have to be calm enough to think straight. Under the circumstances, the only way to calm them down was to make them more afraid of him than they were of the quake.
"Okay. We're going to dash down the hallway and out the south fire exit. Then we run down the stairs-and you'd better hold onto the handrails considering the building's shaking-and out the side door." He pointed at her high-heel pumps. "Take those off. You'll have to run barefoot. Let's go."
"Shouldn't we just wait here?" the girl sniffed. "I mean, I read where you're supposed to stay put."
Eric nodded. "So stay." He climbed out from under the table, stood up, and started for the door. The three of them immediately followed.
The hallway was a mess. Debris cluttered every step. Papers, supplies, books, shattered furniture. Several sections of the ceiling had collapsed, so most of the debris came from the Sociology Department upstairs. Eric noticed George's body and the puddle of blood seeping around the shattered legs where sharp splinters of bone poked through torn pants. He turned away, waved the kids to follow him. Running down the hall was like running on the back of a rickety old flatcar as it rattles down the railroad tracks at a hundred miles an hour. They bounced off walls as they ran, trying to keep their balance. The weightlifter tripped, diving face first into the mushy corpse of Tina Porte, the Sociology secretary, who'd apparently dropped through the floor with her desk.
"Help. God help!" he cried, the blood from Tina's crushed chest smeared all over his face and hands.
Eric ran back, tugged him to his feet and shoved him after the others. "Move it, damn you, or it'll be your blood next."
The kid stumbled ahead leaping smashed furniture as he followed the others out the fire exit. The dust had become thick in the room, and Eric could smell faint traces of smoke.
"Betty?" he shouted. "Betty?"
"Professor Ravensmith?" a faint voice whispered.
"Yeah. Let's get out of here. It must be time for your break."
She coughed out a laugh as she crawled out from under her desk, the fallen stapler in one hand and the tape dispenser in the other. She looked around at the mess on her desk, tears slicing through the dust on her face. "What will we do? What will we do?"
"Survive," Eric said, grabbing her hand and pulling her after him.
Outside was even worse.
People were screaming and running and trampling each other in their rush to get anywhere but here. Cars. were overturned on the lawn, the heavy equipment used to shore up the buildings had toppled, and severed electrical lines sparked and hissed along the ground near the parking lot. One dead co-ed still clung to her car door, which she'd been trying to open when the snaking wire had whipped around and touched her Pinto's roof, sending twenty thousand volts burning through her body. The air was thick with black, sour smoke puffing out of the shattered windows of the Biochemistry Building. Fires were licking the ivy-covered walls of half a dozen buildings.
The ground itself seemed to sway and buckle, like an elaborate Disneyland ride. People had trouble keeping their balance as they stumbled, clawed back to their feet, and kept running. Some had exhausted themselves already, and lay in panting heaps here and there.
The rumbling sound continued like a stampede of horses, and for a moment Eric had an image of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping across the earth on wild, snorting steeds.
And then it was gone.
The rumbling faded like a disappearing train. People stopped for a moment, looked around, shook their heads as if suddenly waking from a terrible nightmare.
But the nightmare continued.
Fires raged. The wounded lay moaning and bleeding amid the rubble of the ancient Administration Building. Sirens whined everywhere as fire trucks, ambulances and police cars rushed in all directions. From where he stood, Eric could see at least three car wrecks from the quake. Two were minor, but in the third the driver, an elderly woman who served food in the school cafeteria, had rammed her old Fury into a telephone pole. The impact had hurled her half through the windshield, where she now lay, her eyes wide and confused in death.
Eric looked around, saw the three students he'd led out of the building as they ran across the quad. Betty wandered off toward the parking lot mumbling, the tape dispenser and stapler still clutched stubbornly in each hand.
"Eric!"
He turned around. Tracy Ammes was running toward him, her shoes gone, her stockings shredded. A couple buttons were missing from her dirty blouse, and her sheer pink bra peeked through the opening. There was blood on her knees. "Jesus. Jesus." She bent over and gasped for air next to him. She started to say something else, shrugged, and just said, "Horrible."
"Yeah."
She raised her voice to be heard over the constant din of sirens and alarms. "I'd decided to get an iced tea over at your snack stand for the long drive home. Then everything went crazy. Like The Poseidon Adventure or something." She took a deep breath. "What now?"
"Now I look for my mother. Then I get home and take care of my family."
Tracy's voice was quiet. "Of course."
Eric looked down at her. "If you're free this evening, perhaps you'd care to join my family for dinner?"
She nodded, too relieved to speak.
Although it was early afternoon, the sky was almost black; the smoke from fires all over the city and the nearby hills.
Eric checked his watch but the crystal was shattered. "What time do you have?"
"Twelve-forty."
"Okay. Mom has Archaeology 101 from noon to one over in Sprockett Hall. Let's swing by there first."
"Check."
He took off at a quick jog, always half a dozen steps ahead of her. They passed various hysterical or wounded people, but Eric didn't stop, so neither did she. As she struggled not to drop any further behind him, Tracy was astounded at how quickly she was able to adapt to an emergency situation. There would be no getting back to Santa Monica today, maybe even for a couple days while highways were cleared for traffic. Surely by then the authorities would have restored order.
"Over there," Eric shouted over his shoulder and dashed off toward an old brick building. It was four stories high, with clouds of smoke haloing the building like the rings of Saturn. The air was much more acrid here and Tracy tried to take shallow breaths to avoid the stinging in her throat.
Eric saw her immediately. The short, compact woman with steel-gray hair. She was dragging an unconscious boy out the smoky doorway and across the sidewalk to safety. The boy must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, but Maggie Ravensmith handled him as easily as she had the wheelbarrow loads of rock she had helped her husband haul away every night.
Eric's feet slapped concrete as he sprinted down the walkway toward Sprockett Hall.
Maggie glanced up, saw her son approaching, and pointed him toward the unconscious boy at her feet. She was panting for air. "Smoke inhalation. Not breathing."
Eric dropped to his knees, tilted the boy's head back slightly, and put his ear near his mouth, listening for the sound of breathing. At the same time he watched the chest for any movement. There was neither. Quickly he reached over and ripped open the top of the boy's black polo shirt. Then, hunching over the boy's face, he placed his hand on the forehead, holding it back while he used his fingers to pinch the nose shut. He slid his other hand under the kid's neck, lifting slightly to create an open airway.
"How is he?" Tracy asked as she came running up.
"Don't know yet," Maggie answered.
"Will he make it?"
Maggie shrugged.
Eric sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the burning smoke-tinged air. Bending further over, he placed his mouth over the boy's and exhaled until he saw the chest swell. He pulled back a moment, watched the chest for falling movement, listening for escaping air. He heard it.
"One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five." He bent over and repeated the process, breathing air into the boy, counting, breathing, counting. Finally he sat back. The boy's breathing resumed. "Okay, Mom, looks like you saved another student to bore with your lectures. Mom?" He turned around and looked for her.
"She went back in," Tracy said, pointing at the smoking building, the flames flickering in windows like Halloween jack-o'-lanterns.
"Jesus." He sprang to his feet, grabbed Tracy by the shoulders. "Keep an eye on this kid. Try to flag one of the ambulances down when they get here. If his breathing stops or lessens significantly, just do what I did. Can you do it?"
"I think so."
He didn't say anything else, just took off for the doorway of Sprockett Hall. He felt the great waves of heat wash over him at least ten feet before he reached the door, but he just squinted his eyes and plunged through.
He walked around the wide-eyed body of one co-ed, stepped over the mangled body of Dr. Bernie Concord from the Comparative Literature department. The smoke was so thick it was impossible to see more than five feet in front of you.
"Mom?" he shouted. "Where the hell are you?"
His mother's voice shot back, slicing through the dense air. "In my classroom. Where else?"
"Come on. The sprinklers aren't working, the water lines must be ruptured. This place is going down without a fight." He picked his way past the rubble, thankful that it was a Friday, when most of the students and faculty weren't around campus anyway. "Let's go, Mom!"
He saw her emerging from her classroom at the end of the hall. The white haze outlined her small body as she dragged one semi-conscious girl under one arm and her stack of lecture notes under the other.
"Forget the fucking notes, Mom," Eric yelled as he charged toward her, hopping piles of furniture and collapsed walls. "Nobody can understand them anyway."
"Like hell," Maggie snapped, struggling with her double load for a moment, then sighing. "You're probably right." She let the stack of notes fall to the floor, wrapped both arms around the staggering girl, and hauled her down the hall toward Eric. "I'm putting this one on a diet tomorrow."
Eric was less than eight feet away when the ceiling over his mother collapsed, dropping pink insulation and a couple of metal bookcases filled with Spanish textbooks and back issues of the Publication of the Modern Language Association. Eric even saw Tony Garrison's coffee mug with the kissing hippos sitting on one of the shelves as they plowed into his mother and her helpless student. There was a sudden cry of surprise, then a sharp cracking sound as all the bones in her chest were crushed under the weight. The student never made a sound; her head was split open from the forehead to the chin.
"Mom!" Eric hollered, pulling the heavy bookcases off, tossing them aside like foam toys. When he finally uncovered her, he stooped down, grabbed her shattered wrist for a pulse, already knowing what he'd find. He put his head near her mouth, but all he could hear was the gurgling of blood bubbling out of her cracked chest.
Farther down the hall, another section of ceiling collapsed, dropping flaming pieces of furniture onto the floor. The ratty old couch from Bob Lender's office, on which Bob had first seduced teaching assistant Linda Dekke, who was now Mrs. Lender. An old Royal typewriter missing the letter H. Bob Lender, neck broken, tweed jacket flaming like a cape as he thudded onto the floor, bouncing once. The fire continued down his jacket onto his pants, casually burning like a campfire.
Eric stood up, tried to swallow, couldn't, turned and retraced his steps out of the building.
Tracy was kneeling by the husky boy, whose eyes were now half open, grateful. "Look, Eric," she said excitedly, "I did it. Just as you showed me. And he's awake, conscious!"
He nodded at her. "Good job."
She saw the look on his face, felt a cold stab in her stomach. "Where's your mother?"
He didn't answer her, just started walking away. "Let's go."
"What about him?" Tracy asked.
Eric didn't look back. "He'll be okay."
Tracy was confused. She didn't think it was right to just leave the kid lying there, even if he was conscious. On the other hand, she didn't want to be separated from the only person she knew. She trotted angrily after Eric.
"I'm sorry about your mother. I truly am. But we can't just leave people lying helpless."
He didn't answer, just picked up his pace.
"I mean, don't we have a certain responsibility to others in a time like this?" She was half-running now.
Eric didn't slow down, didn't look at her. His voice was eerily calm as he spoke. "We saved that kid's life. That's all we owe him. In the meantime, I have a wife and kids to take care of. I'm willing to take you with me as long as you don't get in the way of my helping them. Once you do, you're on your own."
Tracy started to say something, thought better of it. She needed him, he didn't need her. As she looked around at the extent of the damage, she had a sickening feeling that things might never again be the way they were. She thought of Los Angeles, imagined some sci-fi movie version of what it might look like destroyed. Even Barry, smelling of glue, helped build one once. What had destroyed L.A. in that film? A volcano? Tidal wave? Meteorite? She couldn't remember. And what about Barry? Was he okay? He'd be at the studio now. She tried to picture him. Two images crowded into her mind. In the first, he was standing outside the burning studio building, chatting with his co-workers about how to recreate these effects for a movie. In the second, he was pinned to the floor under a heavy model of a Rasdan space cruiser, coughing and struggling as the smoke and fire filled the room.
Suddenly she was totally exhausted, as if someone had punctured her energy bag and all her strength came whooshing out. She wanted to sit down, take a nap. But she knew if she complained to Eric he'd probably leave her there. She didn't blame him. In fact, what wouldn't she give for someone to love her as much as he loved his family.
They were back where they started now. Eric was handing her a toppled bicycle. "Can you ride?"
"Sure, but not in this skirt."
"Then take it off."
"I'd rather not."
He bent over in front of her, grabbed the bottom of her skirt where the fashionable eight-inch slit was, and yanked. The skirt ripped up to her crotch, revealing the sheer pantyhose underneath and the fact that she wore no panties with them. Eric didn't seem to notice. He grabbed another bike from the pile that had been tossed and shaken into a heap, and flipped it over. He looked around, found a large rock, and with two expertly placed blows, sprang the cheap bicycle lock.
"Just follow me," he said, climbing onto the bike and speeding away.
Tracy wobbled after him, at first conscious that each movement of her leg was exposing her. But when she saw Eric pulling way ahead, she forgot about her modesty and pumped as hard as she could
It was like a trip through hell, she thought. They passed a small shopping center in flames, bodies scattered about, people running, crying, screaming the names of loved ones as they ran from corpse to corpse. Even in the residential neighborhoods, many of the houses had collapsed, the sidewalks and streets had buckled as if some terrible underground monster had tried to break through. The streets were clogged with honking cars loaded with goods and people trying to escape, anxious to drive… anywhere. But there were too many cars, too many people, not enough travelable streets. In the distance, she could see the flashing lights of half a dozen ambulances on the San Diego Freeway. Then she noticed why. An overhead ramp choked with cars had collapsed. Huge chunks of concrete and twisted metal bars were being shoved to the side of the road by pickup trucks.
If Eric saw any of this, he gave no indication. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, and when the road was too torn up to travel, he cut across lawns and driveways. She followed, almost ramming a group of mailboxes once.
Finally they turned onto another cozy middle-class street filled with milling people staring at their sunken homes. She could tell by the way Eric suddenly lurched ahead with new strength that this was his street.
"It's no earthquake," she heard one man say to his wife as they pedaled by. "It's those fucking Russians. First Strike."
Eric was leaping off his bike before it had even stopped, running up to a beautiful woman with long, thick hair down past her waist. Next to her were two kids, a boy and a girl. Tracy braked her bike and watched Eric gather them all up in his arms and crush them together in an enormous hug of relief. She felt tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared.
After a minute, he turned and waved her toward them. She walked with the bike next to her, uncertain what else to do with it. "Hi," she said.
"This is Tracy Ammes," Eric said. "And this is Annie, Jennifer and Timmy."
"Don't worry about a thing," Annie said, shaking Tracy's hand. "You can stay with us until things settle down."
"Thanks," Tracy said, liking Annie immediately and feeling a little ashamed as she remembered why she came down here in the first place.
"You play chess?" Timmy asked.
"Huh?"
"Never mind, Timmy," Eric said, looking at the remains of their home. Half of it had crumbled as if a giant fist had punched it in the side. "Gas off?"
"Right," Annie said, slipping her arm through his. "But it might not matter in a while. None of the houses on this block are burning, but I heard that all of the homes on Windsong are."
"What about the fire department?"
"We hear the sirens but haven't seen any engines."
"There just aren't enough to go around. We'll have to do what we can."
"Do what, Daddy?" Jennifer asked, choking back the tears.
He looked at her, hugged her next to him. "Whatever it takes, honey. Whatever it takes."
Then the ground moved again. Only worse this time. Much worse.
"Daddy!" Jennifer cried as she was flung face forward, her knees and elbows scraping against the rough sidewalk. Timmy tumbled backwards flat onto his back, the air knocked out of him, a sharp pain in his side. Tracy and Annie were thrown together into a heap of legs and arms. Eric managed to maintain balance for an extra few seconds before being tossed onto his knees like a reluctant worshipper.
The loud rumbling sounded unlike anything they'd ever heard before, half machinelike, half roar. It almost drowned out the screams of their terrified neighbors watching what was left of their homes crumble, their children catapulted through the air.
Eric tried to climb back to his feet, but the sidewalk suddenly split in half, slamming him back to his knees.
They all lay together and watched helplessly as the world changed forever.