Chris Davis laughed, leaning back in the overstuffed chair. He turned on the radio. "That isn't the way it is. All nukes are addressed 'To Whom It May Concern.' You, me, all of us."
"Tell me about it, college boy," Jack muttered lazily.
Chris spun the radio dial, passed several mainland stations. He found the frequency he wanted, but there was only static. "Hey, there's nothing on KCAT."
"There's never anything on KCAT."
"It's just noise. Listen. What's going on, I wonder?" Christ tuned in one of the Los Angeles news stations. The announcer droned on with the standard bad news. "Nothing special on the mainland stations..."
Another young man, Roger Davis, went to the window of the garage apartment that he shared with Chris. They were cousins, and Roger had the same wide surfer-shoulders as Chris, and almost the same features and long-limbed build. But he had a tan that Chris would never equal. Roger was a mulatto teenager the color of coffee with cream. His tightly curling hair was an almost orange blond.
Hanging his head out the window, he could look down the driveway, past his aunt and uncle's house, to the street. He saw groups of people milling about, talking.
"All the old folks are out there," he told Chris and Jack. He took the joint from Jack, pulled down a hit. Then he picked up the telephone. "I'll call the other guys. Hey, the phone's dead."
"What is going on?" Chris went to the window.
With startling clarity, a voice sounded over the Civil Defense public address system, silencing everybody. "This is an emergency. Repeat, emergency. All residents assemble on the beach. All residents assemble on the beach as quickly as possible. Do not stop for anything. Your lives depend on moving quickly. Repeat, this is an emergency."
"Who's that?" Roger asked.
"It isn't the sheriff. That's not his voice," said Chris. "Let's get moving, maybe mom and dad will need help."
"Let Sheriff Fletcher help them," Jack blurted. "We help ourselves. With everyone down on the beach, we can take whatever we want. We could get a whole mountain of loot. We could be set for years!"
"What are you talking about?" said Roger.
"You can forget that," Chris glared at Jack. "The law says looters get shot."
"He goes to college and he thinks he's a lawyer," Jack sneered. "Who's going to see us? It's dark out there. It'll be like Watts. Everybody gets a color TV."
Glen Shepard riffled through his wife's closet in search of a maternity dress. Ann waited, sitting on the edge of the bed, eight months pregnant. She picked up the bedside phone, dialed, listened. She clicked the receiver several times.
"Come on, stand up, let's get some clothes on the sleepwalker."
"The phone isn't working."
"Lines are probably jammed. Everyone calling at once."
"No, there's no tone at all."
"Arms up." He dropped the dress over her head, guiding it over her shoulders. "I'll go find out what's going on, but you've got to be ready to move."
"Why? If it's war, we're in the best place we can be. And if it isn't, there's nothing anyone..."
"Just turn on the radio," Glen cajoled his wife, his voice soothing. Anemic because of her pregnancy, she had not worked in weeks. She had stayed in the house, slept, and if awake had alternated between boredom and bad-temper. "I'll be back from the beach in a few minutes. I saw everyone on the block go down that way ten minutes ago."
They heard heavy boots on the porch. Their dog, a year-old rotweiller, ran from the back of the house and barked a challenge.
"I'll see who it is," Glen told her. He walked quickly through the house. He pushed aside the front curtains.
"Who's there?"
"Get to the beach! This is an emergency."
Glen switched off the living room lights, simultaneously flicking on the porch light. He saw a bearded, leather-jacketed man in a chromed Nazi helmet. He saw the longhair swinging a short-barreled shotgun toward him.
Even as he stumbled back, the door exploded in front of Glen, the lock and knob and door jam disintegrating. Glen fell backward, and tumbled to the floor.
The man kicked the door open, saw the dog, fired again. The blast took away the dog's foreleg at the shoulder. The yelping animal rebounded from the wall and, in crazed rage, leaped at the man. The gun blasted again, and the dog's head disappeared in a red splash. The gunman stepped over the twitching remains and pointed the sawed-off barrel at Glen's face.
"Up, motherfucker! Out on the street! Who else is in here?" The biker stepped past Glen, started toward the bedroom.
"NO!" Glen screamed, lunging up from the floor. He grabbed the weapon with both hands, trying to twist it away. The biker kneed him in the stomach. Then he whipped the shotgun's stock into Glen's face.
Blood and broken teeth sprayed from the householder's mouth. Glen attacked again. The bearded man grinned and kicked Glen in the stomach with vicious force, slamming him back against the wall.
"Okay, hero. Die."
Glen twisted away as the biker fired once more.
Pellets slashed his back. He scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees. There was another blast behind him, then another and another. It was the biker who fell hard, groaning.
Ann stood in the doorway, their Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum in her hands, the Model 13's four-inch barrel still smoking.
A voice called from the street. "What's going on in there? Bull!"
Blood foamed from the mouth of the longhair on the floor.
Glen saw him try to grasp a pistol in a shoulder holster, trying to get a hold on it inside his jacket. Glen grabbed the shotgun from the floor. He pointed it at the man's head and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pumped the slide, heard the hammer click. Empty.
As the biker finally pulled the pistol from the holster, Glen swung the shotgun like a club and smashed the man's head. He brought down the shotgun three times.
A gun blast outside sent slugs ripping through the house. "Down, Ann!" screamed Glen. The words felt strange coming from his numb, shattered mouth. Then he crawled again, kicked the front door closed, dragged the couch across the doorway. Glass and plaster fell around him as more bullets punched through the house.
"Glen, where are you?" Ann screamed.
"I'm okay, I'm okay. Lie down on the floor. Go back to the bedroom."
He crawled back to the dying biker. The man still breathed. Glen found his revolver, a snub-nosed stainless steel Colt Lawman. He put the pistol in his pants pocket. He searched through the man's jacket pockets, finding speed-loaders and a box of cartridges. He unbuckled the nylon bandolier of shotgun cartridges from the man's waist, then he took the bloody shotgun and crawled out of the living room.
Ann lay on the bedroom floor. The Smith and Wesson was still firmly in her grip. Her swollen breasts rose and fell with deep, slow breathing. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is the baby..."
"What's wrong? Someone's shooting at us! I'm trying to stay calm. Did I kill him?"
"Not quite..."
She was pissed. Pregnant and pouting, she cursed the biker. "I can't stand this Oh, God! Your face, you're..."
"I can get new teeth. Now we have to get out."
"What's happening out there? Where can we go?"
Glen threw open the back window. "Away from here. Let's go."
"Mom! Dad! You here?" Chris Davis walked through his parents' home, calling out. No one answered. He glanced into the bedroom. A commercial jingle prattled from the bedside clock-radio. He went to the living room and saw the front door standing open. He looked outside. The street was empty.
"They here?" his cousin Roger called from the kitchen.
"No."
Gunshots boomed through the night. Jack Webster raced in through the kitchen door. "Someone's shooting on the other side of the block!"
"Christ. A shotgun." Chris locked and chained the front door. He hurried through the house, turning off all the lights, checking the windows and patio doors.