The Long Summer

by Rod Rayborne

  A wide smile spread across her face, Sofia picked the gun back up, wiped it on her thigh and slipped it back into its holster. Then she pulled the door open, looked over her shoulder one more time and stepped triumphantly into the stairwell.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  G ordon looked closely at the street sign on the corner. La Brea and Wilshire. He turned left, still being driven along by the wind, remembering a place he had seen once many years hence, when he had been packed along with his father for a day 'sciencing' as he had called it. An occasion his older brother, Ed, had no interest experiencing. As usual.

  Not two blocks away stood the La Brea Tar Pits, a natural history museum focused on the Pleistocene epoch. A time of relative peace on earth, as opposed to the Cenozoic, when man had arisen. Some disgruntled scientists decided to rechristen the Cenozoic the Anthropocene in 'honor' of the Earth shaping influence humans had made on the planet. An influence that culminated at last in the wasteland through which Gordon now wandered. He doubted there would be a future museum to celebrate his own age.

  As Gordon approached the fence, he could see, just ahead, something that caused him to jump. In the gloom he made out the massive shapes of creatures rearing up above the fence, facing each other. He stood as still and silent as he could manage and then slowly squatted to shorten his profile. What creatures of the night were these, he wondered. But the monsters didn't move, standing as still and quiet as he did. Perhaps he had startled them as well. He continued to squat for several more minutes. But still the creatures, whatever they were, didn't move. Finally Gordon stood and approached the fence.

  "Mammoths?" he questioned to no one in particular. "That's right." Sculptures, he remembered, feeling foolish. Who could blame him for being jumpy, he thought, after what he had been through these last two days. He walked around the fence and approached the elephants. There was a fence around them, but it had fallen, laying askew. Stepping around it, his left foot pressed down into something mushy. He stopped and looked down. What water had been in the small pool the mammoth sculptures had been placed in was gone, boiled away, leaving only tar. He withdrew his foot but the shoe remained stuck fast.

  "Damn!" he muttered. He bent down reaching out to the shoe. He pulled it out with some effort and replaced it on his foot. Then he dragged his foot along the ground until he had removed most of the tar. Yep, he thought as he turned to walk towards the main building.

  Of course, bodies were strewn about the entrance with more inside. Apparently these people had had a little more of a heads up than most of the others he had passed on the street and made a mad dash out of the building at the last minute. Unsuccessfully, of course.

  A couple of them had died where they had fallen, propping the door open. These he stepped over. Inside, the smell of death was overpowering and Gordon immediately moved back outside and coughed heavily, cleared his throat and spitting. Then, holding the rag he had tucked into his pocket over his nose, he stepped back inside.

  Why he had decided to investigate this building out of all that he had passed, he had no idea. Perhaps it was the vague memory he had of the place when his father had brought him here long ago. A memory at once both poignant and startling as he imagined his father as he was then, holding his hand and pointing to the various displays, giant skeletons and of course the wall of dire wolf skulls extracted by dedicated paleontologists from the tar just outside.

  Cleaned and hung in neat rows, each represented an unfortunate animal that had fallen in the heavy black goo many thousands of years ago. Saber tooth tigers, bears, mammoths, wolves, sloths, bison, as well as smaller mammals like skunks, rabbits and squirrels had all been fooled by the seemingly quiet pools of water and succumbed to the sticky tar waiting just beneath the surface.

  A mammoth wandering through, thinking to get a drink, perhaps a bath, walking in and getting stuck. Circling dire wolves unable to believe their luck, waiting patiently under some nearby trees for the rest of the mammoth herd to finally wander off. The stuck animal to stop his trumpeting, tire and lie down. Then the wolves going in after him, getting stuck themselves. It couldn't have been a pleasant way to die.

  His father had explained it all to him, but he was uninterested at the time and paid little attention. What he had really wanted was the latest toy, action figure, thingamajig, same as the other kids had. He found the museum boring, begged his father to take him to the Toys 'R Us instead. A request his father reluctantly agreed to, rather disappointingly he remembered.

  The odor of death had lessened when Gordon found another entrance to the building and opened it to allow for cross ventilation to the wind outside.

  As he had feared, the skeleton displays had been reduced to jumbles of bones scattered across the floor, broken away from their metal lashings. Too, the wall of dire wolf skulls had been blown out, prehistoric craniums spread wide. Still many of the skulls continued to hang from their hooks much as before, albeit no longer protected by a heavy glass shield.

  Gordon walked around the counter and picked up one of the skulls. It was heavier than he had imagined it would be. Cradling the skull in his left hand, he moved around the rooms making use of the light from outside to examine the remains of the display cases as best he could.

  How many hours passed he couldn't guess and tired, Gordon considered finding a hotel nearby where he could hole up for the night. Sleep got the better of him however and against his better judgment, he found a quiet corner of the lobby away from the wind and the bodies and kicking his pack aside, made his bed with the dead.

  A loud crash awakened Gordon. He turned slowly looking towards the noise. At the entrance to the lobby, he could make out a form trying to push the door open against the body lying behind it. He had a working flashlight, the beam playing about the room.

  "Goddamn stink in here, Sir!" a man's voice said.

  "Shut your trap, soldier," another voice, older and rougher, responded. "Get inside. We need to secure the building."

  "Yes, Sir," the obviously unhappy first voice answered. "Funny place to put a base of operations though, if you ask me, Sir."

  "I didn't ask. Get in there!"

  Gordon, still on his stomach, slowly turned parallel to the floor, trying to conceal his obviously undecayed body as best he could. He didn't know what he could expect at the hands of this bunch, but if they were connected with the other group of soldiers he had seen in the store parking lot, it could be a short introduction.

  The man pushed harder, putting his right shoulder against the glass, sliding the body lying against the door backwards across the floor. Gordon realized the soldier would see him the moment the soldier turned the flashlight in his direction. If he moved, they would be startled and likely open up on him from the doorway in a heartbeat. With the number of bodies scattered around the lobby, he hoped they would mistake him for just another.

  "Oof," the soldier gasped, stepping inside. "It's ripe in here. There must be a dozen stiffs in this place. Fuck me..."

  The soldier stood inside the doorway pointing the light directly at Gordon. A puzzled look slowly crossed his face, Gordon saw through slitted eyes and he felt his heart rate increase. Then the other man entered the building behind the first and Gordon heard the sounds of gagging.

  "I told you, Sir," the first man said turning towards his superior. "Maybe we can wait for cleanup to get here first. Set up outside until then, hey?"

  "Not a bad idea. All right everyone, set up on the square outside. Over there, by the elephants. Let's go!"

  The first soldier turned again to Gordon, rolling the light over his hunched form. Then he slowly walked towards him, holding his nose closed with a thumb and forefinger. Approaching, he nudged him with a boot then pushed the toe beneath his shoulder to turn him over. Gordon's heart raced. Suddenly a voice called from outside.

  "That means you soldier! On the double!"

  "Yes, Sir!" the man said, hastily withdrawing his boot. "Coming, Sir!"

  The man let
the door shut behind him and Gordon felt his fear slowly seep away. He chanced a slow glance towards the entrance. No one was there. Forgetting the skull, he got to his knees and ran half crouched towards the exit in the opposite wall where he had left his pack. Pulling it on, he paused near the door long enough to assure himself that there was no one standing near the other side. Then with one last glance over his shoulder, he ran from the building and fled into the night.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  E ven before he reached the intersection of Burnett and Delmo where the Costco stood, Corporal Luke Eastman could hear the commotion. At first it sounded like a strong wind or waves crashing on a shore but as he crept closer, it resolved into the sounds of riot. Raucous shouting mixed with the noise of things crashing and gunshots warned him to be extra careful to not be seen. He slid forward, running crouched as though he had crossed into enemy territory in a foreign land, approaching a gas station on the opposite side of the wide street from the blocks long chain stores. There he kneeled behind a few empty barrels, peering over and around them for a better view when he thought it safe.

  He spit chaw onto the ground at his feet, staring slack jawed at the thousands strong crowds running through the parking lot, setting fires to cars, others making their way out of the Superstores arms full of unpaid for merchandise, some overweighted, tripping, sprawling, expensive items broken, left behind as the looters ran back into the stores to look for something else.

  As he stared, he witnessed three separate murders including one execution style shooting of a young bald man on his knees before a gang of three other skinheads. They were screaming something incoherent to him at his distance from them and then one of them stepped forward, placing the muzzle of a handgun against his forehead. The sound, like a cap gun, popped and he watched the man fall backwards, his scalp flying off. Around the scene, the crowds surged back and forth, paying no more heed to the slaughter than if the killers were merely shooting hoops at the neighborhood park.

  On the roof of the Costco, Luke saw the beginnings of flames licking upward and two men tearing from it carrying a gas can. They ran to a wrap around ladder and descended to the ground. There they mounted bicycles, standing on their pedals until lost to view. The store was to become a funeral pyre for the hundreds inside who were stripping the shelves bare. Luke rose to go and warn them when another group ran past him towards the store, randomly shooting into the crowd as they went. They hadn't seen him and he quickly ducked for cover once again.

  He knelt there, peering through a gap between barrels, sounds of anger slipping from between his clenched teeth. From every direction, more people came, a kind of crazed hysteria gripping them, wanting to add their own contribution to the bonfire the business district was fast becoming.

  Eastman waited behind the oil barrels for what seemed like hours, watching the flames slowly engulf the huge building, leaping across roofs to spark other stores to join in the conflagration. Then a scream could be heard and people began to run out of the Costco they were looting, black smoke billowing from the wide bay door and over the stucco awning to roll skyward.

  Some of those who ran were covered in flames, staggering out into the parking lot to fall unmoving to the asphalt. One woman tried to help one of the fallen, rolling a man back and forth where he had dropped to extinguish the flames Then she staggered up screaming, hands over her ears and turned to run. Someone on the other side of the parking lot lifted a scoped rifle in her direction, a pop and the woman stumbled forward, pitching onto her face, still. Then the man swung the rifle away from her, took aim at another man and the pop could be heard again.

  Eastman lifted his own rifle, laying it across an empty barrel for stability and pulled the trigger. The sniper immediately tripped backwards, then turned the gun in Eastman's direction to release a volley of shots. Ducking low again, Eastman heard the chink, chink as the bullets pocked the barrels, rocking them to and fro, threatening to tip them over altogether. Eastman dropped his weapon to steady them, feeling the violent vibration as they slammed into the steel, the shooter still too far away for bullets to pierce them, then he grabbed his rifle again, looking between the barrels to find the man. He was reloading from an ammunition container sitting at his feet. Around him people continued to run, ignoring him.

  Eastman began to shoot again, his shaking hands ensuring that every shot went wide. Then the sniper took aim at the gasoline pumps near Eastman. The pumps failed to explode, the fuel safely ensconced underground. Again he peppered the barrels and the wall of the gas station between which Eastman was hiding. The barrels began to bounce more violently. Eastman chanced a glance between them and saw the man was walking toward him, taking careful aim as he came. Now the bullets pierced the outside wall of the barrels, denting the side next to him. Only a few more feet would be enough for the bullets to reach him.

  Eastman considered making a run for it but the diagonal set of the gas station on the street corner would leave him exposed to the other man for at least thirty feet. He decided instead to risk staying where he was, pushing his rifle between the oil barrels he was crouched behind, widening them slightly. When he did, he saw the man had reached the sidewalk and was crossing the street, walking confidently towards him. Eastman took aim then, carefully pulling the trigger when the man stepped onto the nearer sidewalk. Grabbing his shoulder, the man swung around violently, his gun clattering to the ground. Blood gushed from a hole in his chest.

  Then he bent and lifted his rifle again, plying bullet after bullet in Eastman's direction from the hip. Two of the shots pummeled Eastman, one shattering his right collarbone. The other tore through his left ventricle. He fell back against the wall behind him dropping his own rifle as he did. He tried to lift the gun from the ground, but his shattered clavicle pulled upward and tried to pierce through his skin. He screamed in agony and fell back, pain distorting his features, waiting for the man to finish the job.

  The man approached the barrels and pushed them aside with a boot. Eastman could see his eyes as he stood over him. Drugged, bloodshot, crazed. Blood was flowing freely down his body spattering the ground at his feet from the bullet Eastman had pumped into him.

  It was a mortal wound, the man had only seconds to live, but the drugs he had taken interfered with his autonomic nervous system long enough to keep him from knowing it until the end. He looked hard at Eastman then lifted his rifle, taking careful, deliberate aim. Then reaching across his body with his left hand, Eastman ripped his sidearm from its holster and put a shot into the man's forehead. The man staggered back, recovered momentarily and then fell to his knees. He looked at Eastman in a bleary narcotic haze and then tipped over dead.

  Eastern, slipped lower, a ball scrunched in torment on the hot asphalt. His explosive breathing slowed then, heart skipping, hesitating. Then he looked towards the sky, his mouth forming his last words. "Sorry dad." He died with his eyes open.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  B ennett sat at a small round wrought iron table he had set upright on the sidewalk outside a destroyed deli on Delfino Street. On the chipped enamel top, he had spread a meal of sardines, a lightly sweetened loaf of Cuernitos bread, canned peaches, cheese crackers and a 16oz can of Coors, all found inside. His pack he had filled with what unspoiled goods he could find on the shelves. Leaning against the wall near the table stood his rifle.

  He had hoped the meal might rescue his drifting satisfaction at his escape from Owen. Instead of feeling elated by his narrow escape, he felt lower than he could remember ever feeling before in his life.

  Utterly alone, no idea where the road ahead might take him, his family and his country lost forever, he hung his head as a great wash of sadness flowed from his eyes to melt with the remnants of the storm glistening on the sidewalk below. A crushing melancholy like he had never experienced before. He sighed a moment later and wiping his eyes, sat up and looked at the remainder of his meal.

  The food mostly consumed, he pulled the napkin out of the col
lar of his tux and dropped it to the ground at his feet. In his back pocket were the maps he had found at the gas station, one for Los Angeles and the other for the state. He pulled them out and laid them on the table. He opened the map for LA, the corners drooping below the round table top. Leaning forward, he found his position, using his finger to trace a route towards the 405 freeway. According to the map, he needed to walk about two miles to reach it. Then he could simply follow it down another one hundred thirty something miles to the NSA/Mexico border. From there, he had no need to fear capture, at least not from the NSA military.

  Likely Mexico, in a startling twist to its former policy of encouraging or at least not preventing the immigration of economy draining masses to the northern side of the border, had now sealed it to prevent reverse emigration from the NSA. The question was no longer whether or not Americans could leave the US, but whether or not they could get into Mexico. Nevertheless, with the same urgency Latinos had felt trying to escape to a better life in the US pre-war, he was determined to try as well.

  If he could put thirty miles behind him each day, he figured he could reach the border in a little over a week on foot if he hoofed it, depending on road conditions. Shorter if he could use an alternative method of transportation. He wasn't sure just what he should do after that.

  Bennett folded the maps and pushed them back into his rear pocket. Then he sat back on the hard chair and looked around. He listened to the sound of the remains of the storm falling from the surrounding buildings into the street, the creak of shifting metal and the lonely whoosh of the wind echoing hollowly through an open window somewhere close by. The sound of paper rustling from a taxi across the street drifted in his direction with a shift in the breeze. All that was painfully missing for Bennett was the sounds of life. The roar of traffic, the sounds of radio and TV, the bustle of people.