The classroom teacher appeared at the door, peering through the wire-reinforced window. She looked tired, and perhaps a bit tense. The sound of several sirens in the near distance didn’t seem to ease her mood. She was an attractive younger woman, and while Wallace didn’t know her well, he did feel she was a vivacious sort, still young enough to approach her job with an earnest zeal. She stood at the door for a long moment, as if uncertain of what to do, her pale blue eyes full of an awkward hesitation.
“Mister Wallace…?”
“I’m here to collect Matthew, if you don’t mind,” Wallace said. “I’d like to take him now, please.”
“Did you sign him out? Usually, I’d get a call from the office…”
“Miss—” Wallace blanked on her name for a moment. “Miss Nettleton, I don’t really have time for that right now. The lady in the office is sick. I want to get Matthew out of here. Please open the door and let him out.” He leaned to his left, looking around the teacher and caught Matthew’s eye. “Matty, get your stuff. We’re out of here.”
There was a bit of commotion in the classroom as Matthew practically leaped to his feet and snatched up his backpack. He wore only a short-sleeved polo and khakis—Faye didn’t approve of him wearing anything less formal to school. Miss Nettleton turned back to the class and hushed the remaining students, then looked back at Wallace. After a long moment, she opened the door as Matthew approached.
“Is everything all right out there?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“I don’t think so,” Wallace said. “I see a lot of kids are out already. I’m thinking this isn’t the place for them to be any longer. Not until things get straightened out.”
“Hey, Dad! What’s going on?” Matthew asked. He was all smiles now.
“Going to keep you home for a while, kid,” Wallace said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He wanted to hug him, but Matthew had been becoming a little less huggable lately. He was at the age where displays of affection from his father were becoming awkward as he wrestled with the bloom of adolescence.
“You really need to sign him out,” the teacher said.
“Yeah, another time,” Wallace said. “I owe you one. Like I said, the lady up front seems sick. You should keep that in mind, and keep the rest of the kids away from her.”
“You mean Sally Thurston? She wasn’t sick earlier—”
“She is now, Miss Nettleton. Gotta roll.” With that, Wallace turned and walked away from the classroom, still holding onto Matthew’s shoulder. The boy twisted a little bit in his grasp.
“A little hard there, Dad,” he said.
Wallace released him. “Sorry, pal. My bad. Just keep walking,” he said as the teacher closed the door behind him. The school was eerily quiet, not full of the usual noises Wallace had come to expect. It unnerved him almost as much as the sick woman who’d admitted him had.
“Dad, do you have your gun?” Matthew reached out and touched the Springfield beneath Wallace’s shirt before he could stop him.
“Hush. Don’t talk about that here.” Even though he was former law enforcement, the elementary school expressly forbid the possession of firearms on school property. And if the lady from the office had made good on her threat to call the police, then that contact would likely become unpleasant rather quickly. That thought in mind, Wallace hurried Matthew out of the building. As he pushed through the front door, he heard a wet coughing noise. Through the windows of the main office behind him, he saw the office lady doubled over, hacking up a lung.
“Matty, don’t touch your face until I can get some hand sanitizer,” Wallace said.
“Huh? Why’s that?”
“Just don’t.” Wallace led him to the truck, unlocked it, and installed his son in the back seat. Matthew grumbled about that; he’d been clamoring to ride up front, but he was small for his age and neither Wallace nor Faye would allow it. At least he didn’t have to endure the indignity of a booster seat, something that Wallace had never experienced as a kid.
“Can’t I sit up front?” Matthew sighed. “Sitting in the back is for babies!”
“When you gain a few more pounds,” Wallace said as he always did. “Sit right there for a second.” He pulled open the front passenger door and reached into the center console. A plastic bottle of hand sanitizer was there, and he removed it and poured a liberal amount of the clear liquid gel onto Matthew’s hands and his own. They rubbed the gel over their hands, and Matthew looked up at him from the truck’s back seat.
“When did you become a germophobe?” he asked.
“Once I figured out something was going down and a lot of people started getting sick,” Wallace said.
“Yeah, what’s going on? Is it like a plague, or something?”
“Don’t know. Okay, put on your seat belt. We’re out of here.”
“You’re not going to work today?”
“Nope.” Wallace pointed at the seat belt. “Belt. Now.”
Matthew rolled his eyes and pulled the seat belt across his narrow chest and clicked the metal tongue into the lock. Wallace smiled despite his nervousness and slammed the doors closed. A moment later, he slid behind the wheel and started the truck. As he backed out of the parking space, he noticed the traffic was starting to pick up on the local streets. Overflow from Montemalaga. A police helicopter clattered by overhead, its blunt nose directed toward the Pacific a mile or so away. As Wallace pulled the truck out of the parking lot, he saw a plume of smoke rising into the sky from the same general direction the helicopter was heading. That was where Palos Verdes Estates lay, a wealthy seaside enclave situated on the western hills that overlooked the ocean.
For a moment, Wallace was torn. He had initially intended to take Matthew with him when he did his shopping, but the increase in activity around the school gave him second thoughts. He still didn’t know the true breadth of whatever emergency was descending upon the area, but it didn’t seem at all wise to expose his son to it any more than he had to.
“Where are we going, Dad?” Matthew asked. Wallace glanced at him in the rearview mirror and saw the boy was leaning forward, hands on the front passenger seat, looking out the windshield with an eager expression on his face.
“Home.”
Matthew frowned. “Aw, come on! I want to see what’s going on!”
“Yeah, but no. You’re going home.”
“I’m going home? What about you? You said you’re not going into work today!”
“Got to pick up some things, junior,” Wallace said as he turned onto the street, leaving the school behind. “I need you to keep your mom company while I’m gone.”
“Dad! She doesn’t need me, she has The Guiding Light and about a million cooking shows to watch!” Matthew flopped back against the seat dramatically. “Do you know how boring it is to watch Pioneer Woman three times in a row?”
Wallace sighed. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then let me go with you?”
“Ha-ha. No.”
“At least turn on the radio!”
Wallace had thought about that, but didn’t want Matthew to hear anything that might wind up disturbing him. It wasn’t so very long ago that just watching part of a horror movie kept him up all night; he didn’t know what real life stories of suffering would do to the boy. So he left the radio off.
“Listen to the rumble of the Hemi,” he said. “It’s a joyful sound.”
Matthew groaned in discontent. “So if nothing’s going on, why did you take me out of school?”
“I never said there was nothing going on,” Wallace said as he drove. “I said I don’t know what’s going on. There’s a difference. And you’re coming home for a few days, until things calm down a bit. Consider it a staycation.” He turned away from the traffic-clogged Montemalaga, opting to drive a few blocks out of his way to try his luck against an intersection that was controlled by a traffic light. It turned out to be just as frustrating; traffic blocked the intersection, and it took almost fifteen minutes
to get across.
“So if you don’t know what’s going on,” Matthew asked from the back seat, “then why are you wearing your gun?”
“Preparation, my boy. Preparation,” Wallace answered.
“Are you ‘preparing’ to shoot someone?”
Wallace snorted. “Not exactly, but you never know. Right?”
“So why don’t you carry it all the time, then?”
“Matty? Stop asking so many damn questions, okay?”
Finally, he managed to make it home. He’d had to take a more circuitous route, as every city and incorporated area in Los Angeles was surrounded by busy major streets that supported commerce and mass transportation. Along the way, Wallace saw more continuing signs of the unrest he’d missed previously. Full garbage and recycling cans at the curb. Stuffed mailboxes. Unkempt lawns. People loading up cars and trucks, as if for a long vacation, even though it was only October. He realized that if he hadn’t been so focused on making some bucks he would likely have bundled up Faye and Matthew, tossed them in the truck, and taken off days ago himself.
“Where are those people going?” Matthew asked.
“Don’t know. Matty, you remember what we talked about, right? About what to do in an emergency?” he asked as he turned the truck onto their street.
“Yeah. Stay in the house and wait. Lock all the doors, close all the windows, close all the curtains.”
“Very good. What else?”
“If I have to leave the house, go to either the police station or the fire station. If I can’t get there, then I should go to Greg’s and wait there for you to come and get me.” Matthew perked up in the back seat. “Dad, can I go to Greg’s when he comes home from school?”
“You may not,” Wallace said. “If Greg’s parents will let him, he can come over to our place. Matt, I want to add another destination to the list. Only if things really”—he almost said “shit the bed”, then remembered who he was talking to—“get bad. And I mean, bad in the way that you think your mom and me won’t be able to get to you for a long while.”
“Okay. What?”
“Your grandmother’s house,” Wallace said.
Matthew laughed. “Sure, I’ll just hitchhike right up there,” he said playfully.
“Actually, if you take your bike, you can get there in a few hours,” Wallace said. “Only if things go totally sideways, and the other safe places don’t work out. Get me?”
“Okay,” Matthew said.
“Cool. Let’s get you inside,” Wallace said, as he turned the truck into the driveway.
“Dad, you think things will be like that?” The jocularity had left Matthew’s voice, and Wallace knew why. He was a smart, observant boy, and he had been paying attention as the truck drove through the neighborhood.
Wallace put the Dodge in park and shut down the engine. “No, I don’t,” he said. Even though deep down, he knew no such thing.
Smart & Final was Wallace’s destination for the day, and the place was a mad house. It had taken him over an hour to get there, and when he arrived, he found the parking lot was fully involved. He grabbed a space in the fire lane as an old pickup full of day laborers pulled away in a cloud of exhaust. The bed of their truck was full of water, beer, meat and vegetables, and even several industrial sized boxes of flour tortillas.
Hey, take whatever you can get, fellas.
Armed with Faye’s list, Smart & Final wasn’t Wallace’s ideal shopping location, but they had everything he needed and usually in gigantic proportions. He ensured his shirt was pulled down and concealing the pistol, then he grabbed a cart and hurried to the front door. Big cardboard boxes of pumpkins were on either side of the entrance, sitting mostly ignored. Apparently, no one was interested in crafting and jack o’ lanterns for the coming Halloween.
Inside, the shoppers hustled about in a quiet desperation. The lines at the checkout were long, and as he pushed his cart into the warehouse-like store, Wallace got the impression that the entire place was full of activity. The deeper into the store he went, the more zoo-like atmosphere became. Wallace’s nerves were on edge. Even with the pistol at his side, he didn’t feel secure. The undercurrent of tension in the store was palpable, and he knew it wouldn’t take much for it to boil over and transform into outright panic. He’d felt it before, when apprehending illegals in his previous life. Sometimes they were frightened people in a desperate search for a better life. Other times, they were hardened criminals looking for an easy target. Wallace knew what to look out for, and he knew as time dragged on, confrontations over diminishing resources would emerge. His plan was to get in and out, as quickly as possible.
The plan was a bit hard to put into action, if just from the mass of people in the aisles. The first item on Wallace’s list was water. He had two cases at home in the garage already, but he grabbed two more. Then canned goods—soups, fruits and vegetables, even some canned meats. Dry goods after that, especially a couple boxes of maple and brown sugar cinnamon oatmeal, which both he and Matthew favored. Toilet paper, paper towels, batteries for flashlights and other appliances, over-the-counter medications for a wide range of ailments, sanitary napkins for Faye. By the time he was halfway done, the shopping cart was already near to overflowing. He skipped refrigerated and frozen goods, as he knew the fridge at home was already well-stocked. But as he maneuvered around the throngs of people in the store, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to gather much more in the way of provisions. People were starting to storm the shelves, grabbing every item available. They were no longer saying “excuse me!” to get around each other. Now, they were starting to just push their way to whatever they wanted. Wallace watched a fat woman in a housecoat slam her overstuffed cart against an amazed child, who went sprawling into a shelf and fell to the floor. The woman didn’t even pause. Wallace was too far away to be of any help, but the girl’s mother pulled the child to her feet without a word. Strain and fear were clearly evident on her face.
Yeah... time to saddle up, cowboy.
Wallace made his way toward the registers. Every line was backed up. People were agitated, jockeying about from line to line even though there was no advantage. This started pissing others off, and Wallace heard many an angry word hurled back and forth. He began to sweat, and he felt the trickles of perspiration worming their way down his back. It took thirty minutes to ring up his purchases, and by then, he heard a scuffle break out in one of the aisles. Two young clerks who had been trying to control the crowd abandoned their attempts and fled the store, charging out into the parking lot. Wallace’s unease increased as he swiped his American Express card through the card reader at the register. About the same time, he noticed people were leaving the store with full carts... without having paid. An older employee tried to stop them, but two men in business suits pushed him away. Wallace felt a flicker of emotion; as a former law enforcement officer, he knew he should get involved.
But he didn’t. He paid and left the store at a fast clip, walking as fast through the swirling tide of humanity as he could. As soon as he pushed through the sliding glass door, he immediately encountered a crowd of people standing around watching as two middle aged men slugged it out in the parking lot. Their shirts were torn and bloodied as they punched and kicked each other... apparently over a case of Coke. Wallace wasn’t interested in the same thing happening to him, so he hiked up his shirt, revealing his pistol. No one seemed to notice, which suited him just fine. The display wasn’t for the general public, only to assure anyone who might fancy the contents of his cart that he wasn’t going down without a fatal fight.
He hurriedly loaded up his truck. There was a line of automobiles waiting on South Western Avenue for an opportunity to turn into the parking lot, and the drivers of nearby idling cars and truck watched him with emotionless faces. All wanting his spot in the fire lane. Wallace tossed everything across the back seat of the truck, then hopped behind the wheel. Pausing long enough to lock the doors, he started the Dodge’s big Hemi and eased a
way from the fire lane, moving slowly so as to avoid running down any pedestrians. He trundled to the far end of the parking lot, rolling past a small strip mall. As he waited to turn onto South Western, he began to sneeze.
During the evening, after arriving home and unpacking the truck, Wallace watched the news while servicing his shotgun. The reports were becoming more and more fragmented, as violence and panic began to slice greater Los Angeles apart. While Faye kept Matthew occupied, Wallace watched as the reports of overfull hospitals, a paralyzed emergency response system, and what seemed to be actual dead bodies coming back to life parade across the television screen. New York and other cities in the east had it much worse, though things were even more chaotic in Europe and the Middle East. Just the same, Los Angeles was unraveling. That there were armed National Guard troops deploying into the area told Wallace all he needed to know. There was a weird plague erupting around the city, and those who died from it came back as flesh-eating zombies.
That alone was nightmarish enough. The kicker was that Wallace was getting sick himself.
He could already feel the fever heating up his blood, and his lungs felt heavy and full. He took both antihistamines and fever reducers, but neither helped. The fact that all the hospitals were so full they were turning away all but the most critical cases told him there wasn’t going to be much help found in leaving the house. The symptoms came upon him quickly, and they worsened with just as much rapidity. After he cleaned and lubricated the shotgun and reloaded it, he felt ten times worse than when he had started. His vision was starting to blur, and his hands were shaking. There was a temporal thermometer in the master bathroom, and he swiped it across his head. His fever clocked in at just under one hundred and five degrees.
Dead in L.A. (A Gathering Dead Novel) Page 3
