I slept better than I should've, waking with the sun. From what I've heard since, that wasn't too unusual. We all knew what had happened, how it happened, why it happened, but our reality hadn't changed to reflect that. Like I said, it was just too big, and the government worked hard on keeping us submissive.

Taking a drink, I could already feel the car heating up, which was the only reason I dragged my sore body out of it. My stomach churned around the last half of the energy bar and I reminded myself that a human could survive for three weeks without food. A lifetime of habit railed against that logic, demanding the dull ache be squashed ASAP. I did my best to ignore it and started to walk. Maybe the next year would've been different if I'd ever been truly hungry, at least once in a while.

Probably not.

I often reflect on the kind of luck I had back then. Makes me feel shitty sometimes, because it was more than my due share. Case in point: that morning there was something on the horizon. Mammatus clouds. Knowing the clouds was one way of predicting our wild weather swings, but even a layman would be wary of these. Their undersides were huge, dark and heavy. Seeing mammatus was a cue to find shelter for your car, and yourself as a second priority, before windscreens disappeared and the bonnet dented so badly you could grate cheese on it.

If you were sheltering in a car in a hailstorm, you were already in trouble. Besides, even if I could've found an unlocked vehicle, any 4x4s and SUVs were now too far behind me.

I'd reached the outskirts of San Fernando, and already longed for the mottled mountains behind me. You could see the wall from here; too close and too clearly. Even now, without the drone of helicopters on patrol, and a quiet that felt deep enough to drown in, I was convinced that someone was tracking my every movement.

I'd never seen San Fernando before the wall went up in `01, let alone before the big one hit a year earlier, but folk tell me the place had had its moments. I'd heard that President Johnson hated it because LA was a melting pot of different races and different cultures, but that does gloss over the frequent turf wars, with a police force and justice system jointly owned by criminals and conglomerates. Well, until the USPF shut down the courts, which really helped to streamline corruption.

Whatever remained of L.A on our side, from Pacoima to West Hills, seemed to exist in permenant monochrome. Any housing developments large enough had been re-purposed into secure compounds for the army of staff needed to run the DC, and to house the literal army of the USPF. Any neighborhoods too modest to be rolled into these grim enclaves were cut adrift. I think a determined few still lived in them, but those who could afford to had just boarded up and left for good.

The compounds were sold as gated communities to any would be employees, but in reality they were concrete and razor wire forts with few friendly barbecues. My lack of family meant that, when I said I wanted to live in Santa Clarita, a stern Housing Allocator hadn't protested. She informed me that it was single workers who were responsible for the bad reputation of the compounds, because those with families could make the best of any situation. It was single people who always wanted more. Bullshit of course, but by then I'd sat through endless hours of interviews and forms, so looked suitably contrite on behalf of all single people in the hopes of moving things the fuck along.

It had been intended that the rest of the area would comprise of government housing for the poor, at least President Johnson promised as much to those concerned at the formation of another prison island, another DC, another wall. By the time his wall went up, and the housing never appeared, few seemed to remember the promise. I think our nation's nihilism meant that few believed it had ever really mattered.

As a result, odd reminders of before still lingered. Luxury housing, already dilapidated before the quake, sealed with metal shutters but otherwise left to decay. Bars, strip clubs, and gambling dens, all of which which had continued to do good business until word reached Johnson's ears and a reluctant USPF stamped them out. These places were periodically checked, so squatting was dangerous, but I figured my government ID might mean more to a USPF officer than it would to a hailstone. So I left the express lanes and made for one of those reminders; an RV park now stood where no-one would ever pass by.

In the time it took to get there, all light had bled from the day.

I didn't have long.

Not much was left. The toilet block might've been sturdy enough, but I dreaded the state of it. There were a handful of abandoned RVs on the bald earth and shingle, their chassis' beaten so badly that the steel was punched right through in places.

I hesitated, lost, until the first chunk of hail smacked off the ground. Then I ran.

Tiny, traditional style cabins were dotted around the park, and I took them in quickly. Three were burnt out shells, another looked like it had been hit by a car. Still others had collapsed roofs, broken windows, wood dark with rot. There was one, its foundation clumsily shored up, windows boarded and roof reinforced. But too far away, and over open ground.

I changed my mind as hail began to fall.

Those first dozen hits were lazy Sunday throws, two kids lobbing a ball back and forth, before someone turned on the pitching machine. A sharp crack to the knuckles, like I'd driven them into concrete, then fire across my arms and legs. The cabin didn't seem to be getting any closer, and as fire bloomed into numbness I couldn't be certain my legs were still moving. What must've been a meteor sized piece hit my head, and for a second everything went black, but an ice-pick of pain skewered my brain and kept me conscious.

Somehow I got there, because the next thing I remember is waking up half in, half out of the cabin door, legs numb from the hail pummeling them while I was passed out.

Once my battered body was inside, I sat with my back against the door and cried.

Partly pain, but mostly it was the sudden unfairness of the world. This wasn't a place I knew how to navigate anymore, and there was no doubt in my mind that it would kill me. The hail was coming in waves now, seconds of silence then DRUMDRUMDRUMDRUM on that patchwork steel roof, exploding my headache every time.

'Let it all out. I understand.'

I froze, tensing for an attack under cover of the next downpour. Nothing came and I shifted a little to the right, fumbling for the door.

'I wouldn't do that. Maybe this'll help.'

A small flame sparked, dipping to the floor where it doubled in size and threw out a muddy orange pool of light. I made out a huddled figure; small, gimlet eyes, mess of hair and beard. We watched each other, unable to speak until the next lull came around.

'You didn't wipe your feet' the vagrant said, nodding towards the door. I stared back, too scared to speak. Our candle flickered, and as the hail swallowed his laugh all I could make out was a shaking mass of patchwork clothing.

'Sorry' I managed, and he spread his huge, filthy hands, palms up, in what I hoped was a shrug.

I took a moment to check for anyone else. A sleeping bag was spread out in the corner, two books beside it. Three plastic cans of what I hoped was water were stacked on a sink unit, along with some pans and cooking utensils. Someone had blocked off the hallway with a sheet of plywood, and I wondered at that for a moment.

The vagrant saw my interest and pointed at the roof. 'Hard enough keeping this bit up. Abandoned the back rooms a while ago.'

Still easing, the hail gave us longer periods to talk. Something I wasn't looking forward to.

'Name's Fagan,' he said. Must've been a nickname.

'Matt,' I replied.

Fagan scrutinized me, my clothes in particular.

'You're a bit off course,' he sniffed.

'Santa Clarita,' I said.

Fagan grunted at that. 'And not driving.' He became thoughtful for a moment, 'Come to think of it, haven't heard a car all morning.'

'You don't know about the pulse?'

'The what?'

I wondered if Fagan's life would be that different with the knowing. He struck me as self-sufficient, but what kind of opportunities might he see now? The thought of him using me for food or fun, safe in the knowledge that the USPF were too occupied to care, suddenly felt very real.

After a moment's hesitation, I gave him the cliff-notes.

'So that explains the crash.'

'What?' I said.

Fagan pulled a roll-up out of his pocket and lit it from the candle. His hands were shaking a little. He puffed out a spicy, bitter gust that smelt like sagebrush mixed with a few flakes of tobacco.

'Passenger jet,' he said, drawing on the roll-up before speaking again. 'Hit the park last night. Carved-..'

Fagan coughed, wiping at his eyes. 'Carved through Hobo Hills. Fire spread to whatever could burn.'

I went to speak then thought better of it. All my questions seemed pointless somehow.

He guessed at them anyway. 'I got close enough to see the fuselage. Didn't need to see any more. They got their business, I got mine.'

Seemed impossible that I hadn't heard it go down.

'Hail's stopped,' Fagan said. 'You should go.'

I numbly obeyed, realizing he'd seen more than the fuselage and was just about holding together. The air was crisp, usual after a hailstorm but it wouldn't last long, and as Fagan's cabin door closed behind me I took big lungfuls to try and clear my head. Hailstones choked the world, some of them big as tennis balls. I picked one up and rolled it between my hands, needing that painfully cold anchor to reality right then.

No more smoke rose from Hobo Hills. Just like Johnson's god to put the fire out with a million hammers.