by André Caroff
“He’s right,” the policeman said. “I’d rather quit than be attacked by that woman. Sooner or later she’ll destroy the United States, but she remembers that it was a White who dropped the atomic bomb on her city…”
“That’s true!” the civilian yelled out angrily. “We have nothing to do with all this! Our women and children are healthy, so let the Whites deal with it by themselves!”
Akamatsu thought he might still be able to convince them. “Think about it,” he said calmly. “If you do nothing, there will be thousands of deaths in San Francisco.”
“Not our fault.”
“Not helping someone in danger—you’ll be considered criminals.”
The group quickly closed in and Akamatsu was surrounded and disarmed before he could make a move.
You’re Japanese,” a voice said. “You should hate white Americans and understand our point of view. But instead you want to drag us up Mount Hamilton and get us all killed. You should be punished!”
Akamatsu knew that the confrontation was going to end up in violence. He gave the black policeman an atemi and ran between two men, but he tripped over a foot treacherously positioned to block him and he fell. The pack jumped on him. Someone hit him behind his ear, another below the belt. He saw a cloud of stars dancing before his eyes and passed out.
He came to slowly, painfully. His brain rolled around in a thick fog to the sound of jackhammers. His body was heavy and clumsy, but he got on his knees and crossed the street toward the Lindamar. The sidewalk looked like an insurmountable obstacle. He managed it, however, crawled into the dark hall and veered off, groping toward the bar. He got on his feet there and dunked his head into the sink filled with water. The quiet snoring of the barman slumped in the corner broke the silence like a purring generator.
Akamatsu sniffed the bottles, found some whiskey and took a long drink. The alcohol shot down like fire and burned the cuts on his lips. He dropped to the floor, put the bottle next to him and got ready to wait.
He knew that it would take some time to recuperate.
Chapter V
All things considered, it was only a handful of people—not counting Akamatsu—who knew what was going on. For hours they had tried to escape the evil rays of Madame Atomos. At first the small group headed out on the road to San Francisco. At a certain moment, when they thought they had reached the suburb of Santa Clara with no more difficulties, Dr. Soblen noticed an obvious increase in the troubles that he and his companions were experiencing since they had left the clearing.
After a heated discussion a majority of them decided to walk east and the group set off through the woods. On foot the distances took on their full force. The photographers buckled under the weight of their equipment, which they abandoned in a rocky pit when night fell and they marked the place with a cross on the map of the area.
“When are we going to get better?” Dick Slatt mumbled.
“It doesn’t matter,” Soblen replied. “We’re slowly leaving the ray’s zone of influence. That’s the main thing.”
There was enough moonlight to guide their steps and they passed by Mount Oso to the north a little after midnight. Of course they did not know the exact time they went by because their watches had stopped at 4:22 p.m. and just started working again. Nevertheless, they were finally sure that they were out of the danger zone.
At three in the morning, exhausted by the long hike, they reached Modesto and were plunged into a wild, stormy environment. The people were on the streets. The radio was broadcasting regular updates and the newspapers were circulating their fourth special edition. Beffort bought one and its implausible headline petrified him: San Francisco doesn’t respond!
Lower on the page, in fact, they explained that the whole region had become a dead zone and all the Whites were hit by the terrible affliction. Atomos had made a statement in which she announced that California would become a state reserved for people of color. The diabolical woman had neutralized the paralyzing rays for six hours to give the Whites time to come out of their lethargy and evacuate the forbidden zone. At the end of ten hours, the ray emitter would start working again and with such magnitude that every White who decided to stay would be struck with madness. The other races were invited to come and populate the state, which would become independent and where a new republic would be established.
“It’s insane!” Max Ritter lost his temper. “We absolutely have to do something!”
“Do it.” Beffort agreed calmly.
Ritter hesitated and then gestured to his two men. “We’re going to try to contact the army.”
Beffort nodded. Ritter and his men went away just when a frenzied speaker announced: “From a reliable source we have learned that the black rebels just took control of strategic points in San Francisco. The naval base as well as the civil and military airports are under their control. We still don’t know if the rebels are working with Madame Atomos, but it is obvious that their acts have been inspired by the crazy announcements of public enemy number one. Nevertheless it is important to point out that entire families of blacks are crossing the border of the territory forbidden to Whites, thus proving that most of the black population does not approve of the actions of their brothers. A last minute cable says that armored air and sea units are en route to San Francisco.
Cheers broke out. Some listeners threw their hats in the air and yelled so loudly that they drowned out the voice of the announcer. When it became silent again the loud speaker was mute. The disappointed inhabitants of Modesto had to make do with their radios and TV sets.
Dick Slatt swore rudely and said, “Sensationalism, actually. We only had to warm it up!”
“I don’t agree with you at all,” a journalist wearing a jacket torn by brambles retorted. “We’re the only ones who know that the Madame Atomos’ ray effects watches, cuts off car lights and causes an appreciable rise in temperature. Every time this happens we will know now, thanks to us, that the danger is coming! I’ve got to run and phone my paper…” He hurried off and his colleagues scattered every which way.
Dick Slatt calmly lit a cigarette and said, “You’re not going to stay here, are you Smith?”
Beffort smirked. “You’re an old fox, Dick. Your friends are racing to the phones to announce the news that should already be on the press.”
Slatt winked. “Let’s get out of here before they realize that a black journalist from San Francisco has probably got his ink drying already… We need an all-terrain vehicle, don’t we?”
Smith Beffort nodded. “A Jeep would do the job.”
Dr. Soblen blinked. “I must be a little tired,” he said regretfully, “because I’m not following. What are you planning, Smith?”
Beffort took his arm kindly and said, “Don’t worry, Doc. If you’re tired, you’ll have plenty of time to nap in the car we’re going to get.”
“That’s a plan that suits me fine,” Soblen said. “With a big sandwich and a bottle of beer I would be completely satisfied. Now, are you going to tell me what’s cooking?”
“Madame Atomos is going to lose six hours,” Beffort answered. “In this short period of time, we have to discover her lair and blow up her paralyzing ray emitters. While the white population is getting out of the area, we’ll be busting in.”
Soblen’s eyes sparkled. “We’re going back to the clearing, of course?”
“Of course, Doc.”
“And we’re going to search the area,” Dick Slatt said.
Smith Beffort turned toward him. “Listen, Dick. I’ll be glad to bring you along if you promise to hold your tongue until it’s all over. Our expedition has to stay secret. Past events have shown that Madame Atomos has antennae everywhere. To have a chance to succeed our team has to act like commandos!”
“Okay, okay, Beffort. I may be 20 pounds overweight, but I’m not senile yet. So let’s say a Jeep, explosives and what else?”
“Luck. Lots of luck! And that’s something we can’t buy…”
&n
bsp; Akamatsu could not, afterwards, say whether he passed out again. The time he spent behind the bar of the Lindamar was one of the blurriest of his life. Except for the soft snoring of the barman, he only remembered the smell of whiskey. His olfactive memory was very rich. So rich that the Japanese could not swallow one drop of the whiskey without experiencing pain everywhere he had been hit.
He was sure that his bones were not broken, but his entire body hurt. When he felt up to moving, he did so very carefully. He crawled along the raised floor of the bar and got on his knees feeling the cold tile under his palms. He crouched in the hall. Farther down he managed to stand up halfway, but his back felt like a hinge that was rusted for a long time and refused to turn. Without knowing how, he found a bathroom. He ran the hot water, got undressed feeling horrible pain and collapsed into the bath. The heat sank in, got his blood moving and sparked his brain. The thin strips of light that streaked the darkness disappeared and he saw nothing but the dense night.
Later, Akamatsu stood up. The pain was still bad, but he was able to move his muscles. He put back on his clothes, which were stiff from the dried blood, and staggered into the hall. When he got out into the street, the cool air did him good and he was exhilarated to see the gray line along the horizon. The sun was rising. Akamatsu noticed then that his attackers had stolen his weapon. Under other circumstances this would not have been very important, but for what he was planning it was catastrophic.
He turned around, went back into the hotel and painfully climbed up to the third floor. Once there he told himself that without light he would never find the room where May Maxwell was staying. He waited until there was enough daylight and opened the door of 316. When he slipped into the room the curtains were drawn. May was in a cataleptic sleep; in exactly the same position he had left her. Akamatsu searched her bag and took the regulation .38 from his colleague. After that he tore out a sheet from his address book and wrote a brief message:
I’m on the slopes of Mount Hamilton. I think that’s where Madame Atomos is holed up. Inform New York.
He signed the paper, put it on May’s chest and left the room. He did not know if his colleague would ever have the chance to read the note, but he hoped that someone might.
On the street the new day shone its sad, pale light. Akamatsu started looking for the second object that he needed to get his job done. He searched patiently street after street, wondering whether he had not imagined the voice that still echoed in his head: You’re Japanese. You should hate white Americans and understand our point of view. But instead you want to drag us up Mount Hamilton and get us all killed…
No! Those really were the words that one of his attackers had used. Afterward everything melted into pain, but the words stayed etched in his mind. To mention Mount Hamilton with so much certainty the guy had to know for sure that the place was the epicenter of the evil rays.
Akamatsu found what he was looking for behind the gate of an old mansion. Its seat was dented, one of the wheels buckled and the chain squeaked, but Yosho never got on a bicycle with so much pleasure.
Mount Hamilton could be seen in the distance. Akamatsu did not need a map to pedal in the right direction. He crossed the dead city and got on Bayshore Boulevard down to Brisbane. The silence was stupendous. The chain kept squeaking and the bent tire rubbed against the brake pad. Yosho was making noise with his effort, but in this apocalyptic setting he felt tiny and wondered whether the ordeal he was undertaking was useless.
A little before San Mateo a group of blacks showed up. The barrels of their guns sparkled in the sun. Akamatsu turned off on the first road. The wooden houses hid him for a moment from the armed men, but there was a break and he saw them again. They were not far away, barely 200 yards.
A gunshot rang out. The bullet whizzed by over his head. So far over that it had to be a warning shot. Akamatsu slowed down. The road veered off and must have rejoined Highway 101 beyond the menacing men…
“Come over here or we’ll shoot!”
The metallic voice, in all likelihood, came from a megaphone, but even so its tone was not friendly. Yosho swore under his breath, bent over the handlebars and sped up. He figured that from afar they must have taken him for a White.
A stream of bullets whistled by him at the same time as the gunshots ripped through the silence. Then a string of houses got between him and the guns. The fugitive stepped on it and sprinted onto Highway 101. A few shots rang out behind his back but this time he did not hear the deadly whirr of bullets.
At Santa Clara Akamatsu broke the window of a store. For 20 minutes he stuffed himself full. He calmly drank two bottles of beer without thinking for a minute that he was nothing but a looter who could be shot on sight. When he got back on his bike, the sun was already high in the sky. The weather was beautiful. A fragrant breeze blew in from the sea. It was hard to remember that behind the façade human beings were lying in wait for death.
On leaving the city a weird hum stopped the Japanese. It came out of everywhere, both disturbing and reassuring at the same time. Akamatsu got off the bike and looked around unable to avoid a feeling of apprehension. He heard coughing and then the shutters of a nearby building opened and slammed against the wall. The hairy head of a young girl popped out. She was on the second floor and saw Akamatsu right away, but her empty eye showed no emotion. She was white and Akamatsu was stupefied.
“You’re not sleeping?” he asked stupidly.
“It doesn’t look like it, does it,” the young girl answered. “But you’d better get some sleep! Did you get run over by a truck?”
A door banged somewhere and a man’s voice sounded. “Who’re you talking to, Helen?”
The girl looked inside the room. “It’s nothing, dad! There’s a guy outside who doesn’t look so good.”
Other shutters opened and curious heads appeared, but no one paid any attention to Akamatsu. They thought it was weird that there was no electricity and the clocks… Akamatsu looked at his watch. It had just started working again and showed 12:03.
At the Lindamar May Maxwell woke up with a start. She felt like she was waking up from a nightmare and yet her sleep had been dreamless. She put her feet on the ground and the message from the Japanese floated slowly under the dresser. May picked it up, read it and furrowed her brow. She could not understand why her colleague had abandoned her when he got information about Madame Atomos’ hideout. Why didn’t he wake her up?
When May stood up she felt a little dizzy. Then she remembered the total exhaustion of the night before and was surprised that she had gone to bed without bothering to undress. Her brain went round in circles, flooded with memories: the watches stopped at midnight, the hotel personnel asleep on their feet, the long absence of Smith Beffort and Dr. Soblen, the deserted streets…
Inform New York, Akamatsu advised.
May splashed water on her face, combed her hair and grabbed her bag, which was too light and she immediately noticed that her gun was gone. More than anything else, this alarmed her. She went into the hallway and was right away mixed up in a crowd of guests who had just woken up like her and who could not understand how they had slept so much. May made her way to the stairs and tumbled down to the telephone booth where she ran into an older gentleman, looking sad, who had just hung up.
“Don’t be in a rush,” he said. “The telephone isn’t working.”
“I have to find another one.”
The old man shook his head. “It’s no use. There’s no electricity.” He looked so desperate that May could not stand it. She ran to the door and dashed out into the sunlight. If she could not warn the Boss, the only thing left to do was to find Akamatsu.
Chapter VI
On Thursday, September 17, at noon sharp, Madame Atomos turned off her paralyzing ray emitters as well as the ray that stopped the watches and clocks from working. It was carried out so precisely that every dial automatically showed the right time, just 12 hours behind. At 12:30 the electricity was back on in every sect
or. The authorities used the radio, TV and printed flyers in anticipation of this moment and for fifteen minutes it was repeated to the people that they had to evacuate the area by sea, air, road or railway between 4 and 6 p.m.
After that Madame Atomos cut the current. She made it known that she would turn it back on only during the period reserved for the evacuation and that if any action whatsoever was taken against her in these two hours of truce, she would unleash deadly rays that would kill the evacuees and the rescuers in the blink of an eye.
The armed forces held their positions to avoid a massacre and the threatened civilians prepared to flee. Bloody battles broke out between black rebels and the soldiers at the military bases. They fought ruthlessly at Fort Cronkhite, Fort Barry and Fort Baker. A destroyer opened fire on the old federal prison of Alcatraz, which was occupied by the rebels. A horrible battle pitted whites against blacks on the loading docks at Hunter’s Point and in every place designated as a gathering point.
By 2 p.m. there were already hundreds of fatalities left where they had fallen. The wounded dragged themselves pitifully down the streets and sidewalks, but the fleeing crowd did not look twice at them. Everyone knew that the two hours granted for the evacuation by Madame Atomos would not be enough and whoever was left behind would have no chance of survival.
The least panicked left on foot. Thus they had good time to leave the cursed sector carrying only a light suitcase. May Maxwell was among them. She was carrying only her handbag, but her raincoat hid a submachine gun that she had wrenched out of the clenched hands of a dead fighter.
The Jeep carrying Smith Beffort, Dr. Soblen and Dick Slatt, not to mention a crate of dynamite and various light arms, sped along at full speed during the fifteen minutes when Madame Atomos turned on the electricity. Then the car had a sudden electrical breakdown and refused to start.
