Coda

by Keith Knapp

  Elvis crooned out of the speakers that he was all shook up. The wind blew through Jillian’s frazzled short blonde hair as she leaned over and pulled a cigarette out of her last pack. She kept telling herself that she would quit after this pack, that this was the last one, honest. She’d like to believe that it was the stress of her day-to-day life that was keeping her hooked on the butts, but there was no stress. Lounging in her seat, driving down that road, making time when she could and not worrying about it when she couldn’t. She was very Zen about the whole thing.

  Addiction had nabbed her, pure and simple. But she’d kick it this time, get the patch and wear seven of the damn things at a time if she had to, but she’d do it, sure she would.

  The first drag of smoke went in and her throat cried out in pain. It had been killing her for months now. God’s way of telling her to cool it, she guessed. Right now, though, she liked the pain. Craved it. It and Elvis were the only things keeping her awake.

  The burning pain in her throat subsided with the second drag, which she took to be both good and bad. Chances were that even if she quit now she’d still end up sounding like her raspy-voiced Grandmother. Elvis nodded his head up and down with the rhythm of the road, telling her that yes, her voice box would be shot by the time she was forty.

  Then Elvis’ little head started to bob a little more as the 101 suddenly got a lot more bumpy.

  4.

  Sophia Baker stuck her tongue out between her lips and crossed her eyes, making the sound that goes with such a look, a kind of mmuuwuuump deal. She un-crossed her eyes, hoping for a pardon from her daughter.

  There was no forgiveness on Jody’s face, just the blank stare that gets stamped on every teenager around the age of fifteen. The kid was lost in the world of her iPod, drowning out her mother and everything else with whatever music it was she was into these days, her face half covered by a tuft of dyed red hair. Sophia put her eyes back on the road.

  One week it was punk and red hair, the next it was hip-hop and a funky Justin Timberlake hat. Once she caught Jody listening to Miles Davis. She wore shades for about a year straight. Either her daughter had the most eclectic taste of music and fashion that Sophia had ever known or the kid was trying to find her place in life, bouncing from one genre of music to the next a sign of her constant search for Who She Was. Hell, Sophia had done the same thing until she discovered Janis Joplin, then the game was over: it was Joplin or nobody, baby.

  “What are you listening to?”

  Jody’s eyes stayed down, focused on the floor-mat. Her head rocked forward with the music: something snappy and quick. Sophia could hear the muffled thump of base. If she was up-to-date with her music, Jody was listening to 50 Cent.

  “Is that the new one?” Sophia asked.

  A ringed thumb hit a button three times on the iPod. The music got louder.

  She’s gonna stay mad at me the whole trip, isn’t she? Sophia asked herself. And she knew she would. And what exactly is this trip, pray-tell? It’s not a trip, you’re running away. Where are we going? And what the hell do we do when we get there?

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Sophia reached behind her seat to the Igloo cooler nestled in the rear foot-well. She popped the lid and felt the cold draft from the ice packs—cooler than what passed for the air conditioner in the car. Fingers grazed past three convenience store sandwiches (ham and cheese, salami and cheese, good ol’ PB&J) and landed on top of an Evian water bottle. She snatched it up, closed the lid on the cooler and dropped the bottle between her legs.

  Raising her voice so that she would be heard over 50 Cent, she twisted open the Evian and half-screamed, “It’s for the best.”

  Lowering her head even further (which Sophia didn’t think was possible) Jody turned off the iPod. “I know.”

  “So you can hear me.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Sophia sighed. “I know this isn’t easy. It’s not easy for you, not easy for me. But this was the best thing I could think of to do. I’m not exactly Thelma or Louise.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll show you one day. I think the point I’m trying to make is that I’m open to suggestions.”

  Jody stared at the cuff of her shirt. There was a red dot there. Jody couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophia said.

  “I know,” Jody said. “We should go back. This is wrong, and we should go back.”

  Sophia sighed again. She knew her daughter was right. Tempers had flared, the situation was heated, and it had just gone from bad to worse. Running was probably the last thing they should’ve done. But Sophia had made the decision to sweep Jody up into the car and drive. Just…drive. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was away from here and the horror that was her ex-husband.

  The car suddenly jolted up. Was that a speed-bump? On the 101? That didn’t make any sense.

  Water spilled from the bottle and into Sophia’s lap as they zoomed over another mysterious speed-bump.

  5.

  After crawling into the passenger’s seat, Rachel assisted Brett with the navigation of the freeway. She pointed out openings between cars, suggested lane changes, told him to drive fast but not too fast. After a few minutes, though, she was reminded of what a special driver Brett was and why Jimmy had wanted him behind the wheel. Before the words “change lanes here” were out of her mouth, Brett had already done it. He kept the speed between sixty-five and seventy-five—enough to keep them moving, not enough to draw attention. Much to Rachel’s amazement and surprise, there were still no cops behind them.

  Eventually she ceased with her driving suggestions and aimed her attention at Jimmy. “So what’s the plan now, mastermind?”

  Jimmy’s eyes were forward, squinting against the high noon sun, staring at the lanes of traffic ahead.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally said.

  “Well you better think of something. This is your mess.”

  “It’s yours, too.”

  “You got us into this. You get us out.”

  Jimmy’s eyes shifted toward Rachel, his squint becoming more prominent. It wasn’t the sun that was bothering his eyes now, though. “You have blood on your shirt,” he said.

  Invading the white cotton of the Hanes wife-beater she had found in a bargain bin at Target was a mist of blood that went in a zig-zag pattern, a giant “Z” as if Zorro had marked his territory there. Even more of the red stuff was slowly getting darker and drying on her arms. Wiping at her forearm with a hand, eager to get the blood off, she succeeded only in spreading it around. That helped her arms a little, but not her shirt. She’d need a change of clothes. The black sweater she’d been wearing was soaked in the stuff, so that was no good. And her wife-beater would’ve been fine if Jimmy hadn’t had the idea for her to leave the sweater open a bit, show a little skin, snag some of the clerk’s attention.

  “You do, too,” she said, not looking up.

  Jimmy didn’t attempt to wipe away any of Frank Bancroft’s blood. Instead he sat there calmly, looking between his brother and his girlfriend at the road ahead of them, nodding. Of course he had blood on him. He had been the one that pulled the trigger. The guy’s brains had gone everywhere.

  “Vegas,” he finally said. “We’re already headin’ east.”

  “You want to go to one of the most populated cities in the middle of summer?” Rachel scoffed.

  Brett looked in the rear-view mirror at Jimmy for his answer.

  “First thing is we get outta California. We’ll figure out what to do after that,” Jimmy said.

  “But Las Vegas, Jimmy?” Brett asked.

  “We don’t have to go all the way there, Bretty,” Jimmy said, his voice lowering in volume as he addressed his brother. “Just head that way.”

  “Okay,” Brett replied.

  “We should switch cars,” said Rachel.

  Jimmy nodded in silence. “Not around here, though. Brett, once we’re clear of the Valley, get off and we’ll
do a switch.”

  “You got it.”

  Then something hit the van, forcing Brett to quickly straighten the wheel which had suddenly veered to the left.

  The van jerked up and the wheel turned wildly to the right. Brett’s eyes were on the mirror, looking for the rear-ending culprit. There were no cars close enough to have hit the van, and before the view was shot all to hell he thought he saw a few of the other cars behind him begin to lose control, too.

  Jimmy said, “It’s an earth-”

  Before he could say “quake,” the road beneath them began to shake, rattle and roll.

  * * *

  A quarter of a mile away, Mike Randal fell onto his ass. Quickly he crab-crawled backwards, away from traffic, away from the Acura, as the jack holding up the car gave and it slammed to the ground with a THU-BANG where his Nikes had been a few seconds ago. The spare tire, which he had rested against the back door, rolled past him, bounced against the three-foot high concrete barrier and circled to a stop between Mike and the car.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the road bulge and lift five feet into the air. Where it once was flat, a tiny hill now formed. The new hill in the freeway shook itself, then began to roll forward. It came at him like a wave in the ocean—except instead of a cool white crest, this wave produced dark and broken concrete in its wake and knocked cars out of its way.

  And then there was the noise. Cracking, creaking, croaking, thumping, breaking: the freeway tearing itself apart.

  A baby-blue VW Bug circa 1978 (Mike had the quick thought that the car only came in that one color) was flipped onto its rear bumper. It stood there for a moment, headlights reaching for the few clouds in the sky, then toppled backwards, crashing onto its roof. The driver, a young man with a shaved head, screamed in terror as the roof above him (which was now below him) caved in. Mike caught a glimpse of the man’s head splitting open against the roof of his car before he could turn away.

  A station wagon with wood side-paneling skidded this way and that as the driver hit the brakes. The back end fishtailed as the car kept moving forward—the tires bounced up and down on the road, screech-screech-screech, rendering the brakes useless. Its trunk tapped the side-view mirror of the Acura, ripping it off and sending it flying into traffic. The mirror evaded a Saturn, hit the ground, then was run over by a Prius. Plastic and glass crunched out from under the environment-friendly car’s tires.

  Mike flattened himself against the barrier as the station wagon did a 360. It then struck the overturned VW Bug, and probably out of instinct, fright and pure confusion, the driver of the station wagon spun the wheels to the right, aiming the wagon toward the three-foot high concrete barrier where Mike now sat.

  The driver of the station wagon, an elderly women in her 70s, locked eyes with Mike. Both of them knew they were in a bad, downright terrible situation and there was nothing either of them could do about it. Mike had just enough time to notice that the old woman’s wig had become askew before the road kicked up again and gave the station wagon the momentum it needed to slam into the barrier.

  Mike barrel-rolled out of the way, cowboy-style.

  Already cracked and weakened by the earthquake, the concrete fractured even more, creating an opening big almost big enough for the station wagon. Fragments of road fell off the overpass and onto the street below, where Mike was sure there was just as much hell going on down there as there was up here.

  The front end of the station wagon tipped over the now open edge of the freeway. The metal undercarriage brought the wagon to a shrieking halt with a high-pitched scraping sound that would echo forever in Mike’s ears.

  With the station wagon no longer flying towards him, Mike was able to see the frightened face of the old woman with the crooked wig, her hands locked in the ten-and-two position. She held on for dear life as the car trembled and teetered. It just wouldn’t stop, and now her glasses fell sideways on her nose, her eyes and mouth formed three perfect little circles, and still the road shook. She stared at the lack of road ahead of her.

  Then over to Mike she looked and they locked eyes, two scared people who, up until three minutes ago, had been going about their daily business without too much trouble. A St. Bernard popped its head up from the backseat then fell down as it lost its balance.

  * * *

  The steering wheel locked in Jillian’s hands as something went crack below her feet. The semi would’ve had to have run over a piece of plumbing pipe or some kid’s skateboard to have produced that crack, and the road had been clear, hadn’t it? She looked over to Elvis, who was doing more head-banging than hip-swingin’.

  Disorientation set in. All senses went on vacation as her stomach turned when the cab was jostled viciously to the right. She could still see but couldn’t really make anything out. She could still hear but the world had a soft, muffled tone to it, like a giant pillow was being pushed down on her from above. Her teeth chattered in her head. That sound was unfortunately not muffled.

  Then something hit her truck from behind and she began to gain speed.

  The trailer. Fuckin’ trailer’s gonna smash me right into a car.

  All the windows cracked at once, letting the outside world in. Her senses returned from vacation as the smell of burning rubber filled her nose, the sound of squealing tires invaded her ears, and the sharp sting of glass peppered her face and hands.

  Something hit her truck again. This was already getting old. Looking into the rearview mirror, Jillian saw her trailer belch forward. Attachment wires and cooling pipes broke free, squirming around like snakes searching for vermin. For a brief moment Jillian wondered how she was going to keep her cargo of fresh fruits and vegetables cold. That thought ceased as the passenger side of the cab skidded against the concrete barrier with Morse-code precision.

  Behind her, the trailer followed the cab into the barrier then quickly bounced away. The ten tires of the trailer hopped and skipped across the road. The back bumper flew into the door of the Miata behind her, sending the car spiraling out of control across all four lanes.

  Jillian fought the steering wheel to try and regain at least some control over the semi. The trailer was still attached and maybe she had a chance, as slight as it may be, to tap down some of the damage. She kept the cab’s wheels aimed at the barrier, praying that the concrete would hold and be strong enough to slow her down before she hit the pickup truck in front of her, a good three-hundred yards away.

  But she was moving too fast and her brakes were still useless, so the front of her cab crumpled against the back of the pickup. The pickup slammed into the car in front of it. And right on down the line, front bumpers smashed into rear bumpers.

  The long line of cars in front of her was just the braking device she needed. Jillian lurched forward as her truck came to a sudden stop. Her seat belt locked and pushed against her chest. She’d have bruises for weeks.

  The back of the pickup ahead of her was folded like an accordion, her semi’s engine tucked away in its bed; it was a perfect fit. There was no way to tell which way traffic was supposed to go anymore. Metal banged against metal behind her—the unmistakable sound of an auto accident. Many auto accidents.

  The planet rumbled, an angry beast.

  Jillian Hadley closed her eyes, waiting for the angry beast to quiet, found God and prayed her ass off for the ground to stop shaking. She had been in only one other earthquake in her life—a five-pointer when she was ten and living in Van Nuys—and this was nothing like it.

  Nothing like it at all.

  6.

  The earbuds fell out of Jody’s ears as her body rocked and rolled with the earthquake. Gone was Metallica, swapped for a different kind of metal—one not quite as musical but just as heavy. Cars crunched against each other, performing a drum solo with no beat and no tempo. Shattering glass accented the base of the earthquake, acting as cymbal hits. And above it all, Jody heard her mother yell out in shock, pain and surprise all at once.

  The Saturn doveta
iled into a taxi on Sophia’s side. Her door crumpled inward, forcing her knees to slam together with a shtu-dud-type sound. Her right knee scraped against the gearshift, which pounded into her kneecap. Shtu-dud. The knob broke off and rolled down by Jody’s feet.

  The taxi quickly swerved in the other direction and hammered into a motorcycle. The screaming rider flew off his Harley and out of sight.

  The road swelled in front of them, but that was nothing compared to the shaking. Dear God, the shaking. Jody’s eyeballs were vibrating.

  The knapsack Jody had placed in the backseat when they had left—full of magazines, a Harry Potter novel she was halfway through and a pack of cigarettes she hoped her mother would never find—sailed past her and crashed into the windshield as they collided with the car in front of them. The hood of the Saturn folded in on itself, and that’s exactly what was happening inside Jody’s chest. Her heart bumped against her breastplate as she stopped but her organs continued to move towards Pasadena. Her secret pack of smokes fell out of the knapsack and into the driver’s side foot-well.

  The passenger’s airbag deployed, exploding in front of Jody in a brutal cloud of cloth and air. Jody yelped—she hadn’t really been expecting that. Her head flew back into the head rest and she heard something crack. Panic. Her neck had just broken, she felt it, and now she was paralyzed, her last sensation being her heart crashing against her own chest.

  As the airbag deflated itself, she tried to move her head and found that although it was sore as hell, her neck still seemed to work. Shoving the airbag out of the way, pushing it aside as though it were full of radioactive germs, she looked down at her hands and made two tight fists. Wiggled her feet. She was okay.