Who the devil was that? Someone reaching for the release forms—
Eileen! Eileen Hancock? Tim held the microphone motionless as Eileen stepped briskly to his side. He let her take the release forms.
“Okay, Chief, I’m here,” she said. “Bit of trouble back there…”
Tim almost fainted. She wasn’t going to blow his cover, thank God she had brains for that. Tim nodded, his eyes still fixed on his interview subject. “Glad you got here,” Tim said from the corner of his mouth, speaking low as if worried about ruining the interview. He did not smile.
“…and if I see another of the sons of bitches I’ll kill him too!”
“Thank you, sir,” Tim said gravely. “I don’t suppose you’d care to sign—”
“Sign? Sign what?”
“A release form.”
The gun swung up to point at Tim’s face. “You bastard!” the man screamed.
“Anonymous subject,” Eileen said. “Sir — you do know there’s a newspersons’ shield law in California, don’t you?”
“What—”
“We can’t be forced to reveal our sources,” Eileen said. “You don’t need to worry. It’s the law.”
“Oh.” The man looked around. The other rioters had gone, somewhere, and it was raining. He looked at Tim, and at Eileen, and at the gun in his hand. There were more tears. Then he turned and walked away. After a few steps he ran.
Somewhere a woman screamed, short and sharp. The background noise was screams and moans and thunder, thunder always, and very near. A brisk wind had risen. Two men were atop an intact car with a shoulder-carried television camera. No way to tell how long they’d been there, but they were all alone on an island of privacy. And so were Tim and Eileen.
“Rioters are publicity-shy,” Tim said. “Glad to see you. I’d forgotten you work around here.”
“Worked,” Eileen said. She pointed toward the ruins of Corrigan’s. “I don’t suppose anyone will be selling plumbing supplies…”
“Not from Burbank,” Tim said. “I am glad to see you. You know that, don’t you? What do we do now?”
“You’re the expert.”
Lightning crackled nearby. The hills of Griffith Park were aflame with blue flashes.
“High ground,” Tim said. “And fast.”
Eileen looked puzzled. She pointed at the lightning.
“That might hit us,” he agreed. “But we’ve a better chance out of this river valley. Feel the rain? And there may be…”
“Yes?”
“Tidal wave,” Tim said.
“Jesus. It’s real, isn’t it? This way, then. Up into the Verdugo Hills. We can hike across. How much time do we have?”
“I don’t know. Depends on where it hit. They hit, probably,” Tim was surprised at how calm his voice was.
Eileen began walking. East on Alameda. The route led toward the head of the traffic jam, where the huddled bodies of the Wardens lay. As they got near, a car roared off through the intersection, into a filling station beyond, then onto the sidewalk. It squeezed through between a wall and a telephone pole, scraping paint off the right side.
The car that had been behind it was now clear, and it was unlocked. Keys dangled in the ignition. Eileen waved Tim toward it. “How good a driver are you?” she demanded.
“Okay.”
“I’ll drive,” she said firmly. “I’m damned good at it.” She got into the driver’s seat and started the car. It was an elderly Chrysler, once a luxury car. Now the rugs were worn and it had ugly stains on the seat covers. When the motor turned over with a steady purr, Tim thought it the most beautiful car he’d ever seen.
Eileen took the route of the previous car. They drove over a white robe, bump; she didn’t slow. The space between the telephone pole and the wall was narrow, but she went through it at speed, twenty miles an hour anyway, without worrying about it. Tim held his breath until they were through.
The street curved gently ahead of them. There were cars jammed in both lanes of traffic, and Eileen kept on the sidewalk, veering off into yards when she had to to avoid more utility poles. She drove through rose beds and manicured lawns until they were past the traffic jam.
“Lord God, you are a good driver,” Tim said.
Eileen didn’t look up. She was busy avoiding obstructions. Some of the obstructions were people. “Should we warn them?” she asked.
“Would it do any good? But yes,” Tim said. He opened the window on his side. The rain was coming down hard now, and the salt stung his eyes. “Get to high ground,” he shouted. “Tidal waves. Flood! Get to high ground,” he shouted into the rising wind. People stared at him as they went by. A few looked around wildly, and once Tim saw a man grab a woman and dash for a car in sudden decision.
They turned a corner, and there were red flames. A whole block of houses was burning out of control, burning despite the rain. The wind blew flaming chips into the air.
Another time they slowed to avoid rubble in the street. A woman ran toward them carrying a bundled blanket. Before Eileen could accelerate, the woman had reached the car. She thrust the blanket in the window. “His name is John!” she shouted. “Take care of him!”
“But — don’t you want—”
Tim couldn’t finish. The woman had turned away. “Two more back there!” she screamed. “John. John Mason. Remember his name!”
Eileen speeded up again. Tim opened the bundle. There was a baby in it. It didn’t move. Tim felt for a heartbeat, and his hand came out covered with blood. It was bright red, copper blood, and the smell filled the car despite the warm salt smell of the rain.
“Dead,” Tim said.
“Throw him out,” Eileen said.
“But—”
“We aren’t going to eat him. We won’t be that hungry.”
It shocked Tim, so much that he thrust the baby out the window and let go. “I — it felt like I was letting some of my life drop onto that pavement,” he said.
“Do you think I like it?” Eileen’s voice was pinched. Tim looked at her in alarm; there were tears streaming down her cheeks. “That woman thinks she saved her child. At least she thinks that. It’s all we could have done for her.”
“Yes,” Tim said gently.
“If… When. When we’ve got to high ground, when we know what’s happening, we can start thinking civilization again,” Eileen said. “Until then, we survive.”
“If we can.”
“We will.” She drove on, grimly. The rain was coming down so hard that she couldn’t see, despite the windshield wipers speeding away, smearing grime and salt water across the windshield.
The Golden State Freeway had cracked. The underpass was blocked with wreckage. A tangle of cars and a large gasoline tank truck lay in the midst of a spreading pool of fire.
“Jesus,” Tim said. “That’s… shouldn’t we stop?”
“What for?” Eileen turned left and drove parallel to the freeway. “Anyone who’s going to survive that has got out already.”
They were driving through a residential area. The houses had mostly survived intact. They both felt relief; for a few moments there was no one hurt, broken or dying. They found another underpass, and Eileen drove toward it.
The way had been blocked by a traffic barrier. Someone had torn down the barrier. Eileen drove through it. As she did, another car came out of the rain ahead. It dashed past, horn screaming.
“Why would anyone be going into the valley?” Tim demanded.
“Wives. Sweethearts. Children,” Eileen said. They were climbing now. When the way was blocked by twisted remains of buildings and cars, Eileen turned left, bearing north and east always. They passed the ruins of a hospital. Police in blue, nurses in rain-soaked white poked at the wreckage. One of the policemen stopped and looked at them. Tim leaned out the window and screamed at him. “Get to high ground! Flood! Tidal wave! High ground!”