Chapter 4
The End Of Radio
Summary: Traveling through L.A.
I woke up on the sofa, totally lost. Why was I on the couch? Why didn't anyone make me go to bed? I tried to put my thoughts together even as I knew I was starving.
Then the reality of my situation hit me like a ton of bricks. It was Friday morning and I had fallen asleep almost twelve hours before...
And...
Mom was dead. My mother was dead!
Before I allowed my guilt to add to the grief, I got up and went into the kitchen to splash some water on my face.
Still, while the pain isn't as sharp after all this time, it hurts so much. I'd never see her again or have her try some crackpot depilatory or odd-ball cure on me for whatever.
Or support me totally like only a mother can…
The TV was still on but the screen only showed static no matter what channel I turned to. I turned on the stereo but found stations with either the EAS recordings, on the AM band, or static-filled carrier signals on FM - basically white noise.
I had never felt so alone.
To fill the oppressive silence, I put on an old Ginger Fox CD while I decided to cook breakfast. Even though I had no appetite. I knew that wouldn't last long and breakfast might become a rarity in the future.
First coffee, which made me wonder about Jade.
Once I had a mug near me, I found there were only three eggs left so I decided to use them for an omelet. I cut up some onion and green pepper and started grilling those in butter. In another skillet, I cooked the last of the bacon too. I cut up some deli-sliced ham and added that to the vegetables to grill. After the veggies and ham were done to my taste, I turned the fire down under that skillet. The bacon was laid on a double layer of paper towels to drain the excess grease. Then I stirred up the eggs in a bowl before I threw them in the skillet where I cooked the bacon, letting the grease cook the eggs but let me flip it when I had to. I set the bacon on my plate and folded the grilled goodies into the firming eggs with some grated sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese then turned half the solidifying eggs over the mix and the rest of the eggs. Flipping the omelet once to ensure it was thoroughly cooked, I turned to toasting my English muffins. The last of those I'd ever have.
I don't know why I spelled out that long-ago morning's breakfast except that something so domestic helped take my mind off what was happening all around me. At least for twenty or thirty minutes. That and I still have to live down a giant blob of pizza dough... Another story for another time.
My home-made Denver omelet, with buttered English muffins, actually wasn't too bad but I had scorched the ends of the bacon, not badly but more well-done than I preferred. Whenever I eat charred food, I remember, when I was younger, my grandmother jokingly scolding me when I complained about burned toast. Her refrain was invariably, "Everyone needs some carbon in their diet."
With my late Nana in mind, I ate it all and downed it with some orange juice and more coffee. That memory of my Nana always brought a smile, regardless of that horrible day, and the worse day before with the hated personal loss I still suffer from.
Thoughts of Nana also reminded me of Jade and her runny mascara… Short story but, again, not relevant now.
Only later, I realized what a stupid thing scorched bacon was to complain about, given the world around me. As things stood, people would be fighting over raw, past-due, even rotting bacon soon enough - cooked or raw.
As I ate, I tried to decide what to do. I still wasn't ready to leave L.A. just yet - I was still hoping Dad would be home soon. And I was worried about Trina. I hadn't heard anything from her, or Aunt Sonya, since I got home the day before. But I couldn't just sit around the house.
I looked out the back window and saw L.A. looking like it usually did on a bright, sunny spring day, all the way south towards the port at Long Beach. And except for several thin, widely scattered plumes of grey or dark smoke. At least they were smaller than the night before.
I finally decided to drive down to Rancho Palos Verde where Aunt Sonya lived. She had a beautiful house up on the west side of the Heights with a marvelous view of the Pacific from her front windows. I expected to find Trina there.
As I prepared to leave, I remembered wonderful times there watching the sun go down over the Pacific. She had an unparalleled view down from her home since there was a large gap in homes on the two lower blocks thanks to a small natural chasm eroded into the bedrock.
Even when I was bored with the adult goings-on, I'd just go into my aunt's front yard – often with Trina – to watch the sun disappear into the ocean. Clear evenings were nice but scattered clouds were prettier. Even the occasional off-shore storm was beautiful to watch before the stormfront came ashore.
Back to the disaster. Dad had left his Celica – one of the last made before Toyota retired the car's design - at home as he had been picked up by a squad car last Saturday when the growing, if still undeclared, emergency brought him in on his weekend off. As I related before. While I liked that car, I didn't want to use it to go to school a few days before in case something happened. If something did happen, I would've rather had to deal with Trina's wrath than Dad's, especially since I still only had a learner's permit.
At least, Trina couldn't ground me.
I decided to use the Celica this time rather than Mom's SUV – Trina's missing car was hopefully at Sonya's. Like my naming Mom's SUV Mariska, I named Dad's Celica the Batmobile since it was sleek, shiny and navy blue, almost black, in color. Definitely looked black in the sun.
From Dad's comics, I knew Batman didn't always drive a car like the old TV show. For a while he had a black and navy blue Corvette with a black bat cowl painted on the hood and gadgets out the wazoo - as Dad would say. I loved the TV series Batmobile and the old Golden Age Packard with the bat-shield where the grill would be in the '40s and '50s comics as well as the cars in the later movies but the less obvious Corvette made sense - if it was the real world...
Batman was a superhero from comics, TV and movies, like Superman. Sadly a lot of the old superheroes seem to be lost to us now. Them, Spider-Man, the Fantastic Four, Wonder Woman, The Justice League of America, the Avengers and so many others…
Anyway, driving Dad's car carefully, I was coming out of the Hills then took Fairfax south past Hollywood Boulevard, the famous street of dreams. Well…before all this... South of the boulevard, north of La Brea and the famous Tar Pits, I passed the Grove.
The Grove was our nearest and favorite shopping mecca. When I was a girl, I loved American Girl Place, basically a doll store. Then, as I got older, there were all the cool stores like Coach, Barneys New York, Tommy Bahamas, Nordstrom, Macy's, Sephora…
When I needed to feed my brain and not my closet, there was a two-level Barnes and Noble Bookstore, and a Pear store for my electronic needs. Pacific Theaters multiplex was awesome for first run and 3D movies. There was even a pretty decent food court. Not to mention the real restaurants outside the mall itself like BF Wang's, Maggiano's, the Cheesecake Warehouse and places that specialized in desserts like Haagen-Daas or Polar Hearth Creamery.
As I was driving past, it looked a normal for a mid-morning weekday. There were a couple of dozen cars in the parking lot near one of the entrances and people going in and out of the mall. As I passed it, I remembered the closing of the malls and realized they couldn't be shoppers. They were looters. The cars and vans were theirs or ones they were using that had been boosted – stolen - or possibly had been left by others who succumbed to the Fever and were hot-wired and commandeered.
Still stolen as far as the courts and I were concerned.
Being a cop's daughter, I hesitated then decided that rather than worry about crimes that wouldn't stand trial, even if they were busted red-handed, I'd go on my way. Not to mention, when my conscious got the better of me, and I did try 911, the emergency hot line to the cops, firefighters and EMTs, I got stuck on 'hold for the next available operator'.
So, hanging up, I stayed on Fairfax, passing under the Santa Monica Freeway. Hearing occasional car horns and seeing the wisps of smoke up above, I suddenly felt sorrow for the poor people trapped in traffic…most of them undoubtedly for eternity. I was amazed how that nearness conveyed their desperation far more than any verbal report on the news.
Soon after, the road was impassible when I came up on a UPS delivery van that had been t-boned by a sedan. Actually, I almost added to the accident site at the speed I didn't realize I was doing. Thank God, Dad had the brakes repaired in March.
At the accident, doors were open on both vehicles and no bodies were in evidence. Neither were any packages from the UPS van, which had been stripped clean. To get around the mess, I backtracked to the cross-street and drove around the block.
But, after that, I was careful to drive sedately so I wouldn't be surprised by another accident scene.
Past the freeway overpass, I turned onto Venice Boulevard, heading southwest towards the ocean. Again, here traffic was fairly light. I was making good time. And I didn't question my good luck.
Earlier, after giving up on 911, I had to have something to fill the silence in the car. The Bat's cd player hadn't worked since Trina literally shoved her own demo disk in over an old Supertramp disk of Dad's, jamming the player. But any music would help mask the sporadic sounds of the city dying around me. Or the growing silence of a dead city…
After listening to the repeated recorded message on EAS again – again with nothing new of any real help, I started to scroll through the frequencies. I was hoping for better reception than when I was home since I was away from the Hills - which can block some radio signals. After scanning the AM dial, I could only find KAXI, an AM religious station from Greenacres, a neighborhood near Bakersfield. It was going strong. The preacher was still asking for believers to send in their money to ensure their place in heaven after the Rapture. Sadly, I knew there were envelopes sitting in mailboxes with cash or checks that would never be delivered. And poorer corpses waiting for this con man's version of heaven.
Shaking my head, I switched to the FM band and kept scanning. For a while I did hear a Spanish language station from…wherever. Could've been a powerful transmitter from Tijuana…or a weak one from East L.A. for all I knew. Sounded like someone found the station and decided to play DJ but the guy was possibly drunk as his Spanish was either slurred and hard to understand or badly learned.
Further down the dial, I found a fairly decent signal at 101.5. After songs by Yes, the Eagles and Styx, I realized it was a classic rock station. The DJ came on and announced I was listening to KGB-FM from San Diego. Then he said, "I normally don't do this but who the hell cares? In the prehistoric, pre-compact disk. pre-mpeg, pre-wave file days, we'd play the entire side of an actual album. I'm doing the same with what was the B side of the classic 1977 album from the… Well, no pun intended but I love this band. Here's the Grateful Dead's Terrapin Station."
As I headed further southwest towards Palos Verde, the signal became a little stronger and the full version of Terrapin Station filled the car. After Jerry Garcia and friends – I know classic rock thanks to Dad's penchant for it and his enviable collection of old albums and cds – the DJ, who called himself Doctor Johnny Fever (undoubtedly a fan of the old TV series WKRP in Cincinnati especially since he didn't sound anything like the actor Howard Hesseman) announced Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, the entire album. 'Shine On You Crazy Diamond' always had a surreal, almost eerie feel and, even as it was really creepy in the moment, I liked it better than silence. And the guy took the time to play the entire cd – or maybe both sides of the album. I guessed the latter as the slight, scratchy static during the music sounded like some of Dad's old LPs which was kind of soothing sound. And there was a break between Welcome To The Machine and Have A Cigar like he had to flip the record on the turntable.
Meanwhile, I turned off Venice onto Culver Boulevard before passing under the San Diego Freeway. I knew Culver provided a route past LAX along the west side of the airport, without getting tied up with the usual traffic nightmare on the east side where the roads all fed into the terminals and parking garages. Even with the airport closures, I knew that nightmare was far worse now than the night before on the news.
Passing under the San Diego Freeway, I realized the 405 must've been an even worse nightmare then the 10 earlier. I saw more streamers of black smoke from several of spots on the freeway then I had on the Santa Monica. Then I heard the sporadic pops from a pistol, even over the car stereo. Like a response to those shots, I heard the rattle of automatic fire. The Batmobile couldn't take me out of there fast enough.
And I realized I left any of the guns at home! Stupid! Stupid, stupid mistake! I knew how bad things were but I let remorse over Mom, mixed up with thoughts that Trina was at Aunt Sophie's, the sunny day and creating my breakfast lull me into forgetting how bad everything was becoming.
Again and again, I had to detour around some break-downs, which took more time than I anticipated when I left home. I wasn't familiar with the area. It obviously wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last. But these did make my trip far slower than I had planned or experienced in the past.
I knew, once I was south of the airport, I could get onto PCH, the Pacific Coast Highway, the classic Route 1. Maybe the third most famous route in that world, after the classic cross-country road – Route 66 – and A1A that ran from Maine down to Key West in Florida that Jimmy Buffet sang about.
Route 66 itself was a famous road from Chicago to Los Angeles for decades until it was replaced or bypassed by interstates. It inspired a hit song and a successful 1960s TV series.
Before that useless trivia came to mind, as I drove through the area southeast of Venice, I was reminded of some of the wacky times I had with Cat at the apartment she shared with Sam Puckett, a true tomboy, only missing the pigtails - she left her blond hair long and loose. There was also that crazy, automated restaurant on the water. And the time Robbie was out for a few days but came back to school covered in bites when Sam planned to 'Fonzie' a tank of fresh-water piranha. Both Robbie and Freddie Benson, an old flame of Sam's from Seattle, fell into the tank.
Jade was there too. She never mentioned it but her video of the boys falling into the tank was on the Slap. It garnered tens of thousands of likes and shares, like the one of Trina being hurt during my horrible, first attempt as a playwright. Or that time I sang the National Anthem at the Northridge College game… Crap! Never mind.
I couldn't help but wonder about Jade. Was she okay? Was she trapped in traffic? Was she sick and unable to do anything? Was she one of the growing numbers of the dead? The last bothered me more than I expected.
I was confused about why I was so concerned. She and I were never real friends even though she was far less abusive and caustic to me the past few months, actually since a stupid 'yes' dare by Sikowitz near the end of our junior year - we couldn't say 'no' for a full twenty-four hours. A stupid dare but we all managed it. Anyway, I told myself that it was just the fact I didn't know if Jade was alive. I never considered if it was anything more.
The DJ came on and announced he was "…playing a salute for all the lost souls out there. Here's Emerson, Lake and Palmer's version of Aaron Copland's Fanfare For The Common Man. Keith Emerson played it for Copland himself who was ambivalent until he heard the full version with the awesome improvisation in the middle."
Several minutes later, this was followed by the Allman Brothers. "Here is a good, long version of Mountain Jam. The band performed it live many times while Duane Allman was still with us but they never did again after his fatal bike accident in 1972. The song was primarily inspired by an old Donovan hit, There Is a Mountain as well as Third Stone from The Sun by the Rock god, Jimi Hendrix. This version, from Live At Ludlow Garage, which was their 1970 concert at Cincinnati's Ludlow Garage - strangely enough," Dr. Fever chuckled. "And it clocks in at almost forty-five minutes. Personally, I love jams like this and I hope you will too. Ladies and Germs, here are the Allmans and Mountain Jam."
Obviously, that's not verbatim but, I hope, a recreation from my memory abetted by Dad's knowledge and appreciation of classic rock that he passed on to me. I remember Dad telling me he saw the piece (too long for just the term 'song' – anywhere from 30 minutes to nearly an hour depending on the performance) as a musical description of crossing a mountain range. The initial music is the first stages of climbing a mountain from grasslands to the trees. When the drum solo starts, you're above the tree line and approaching then passing over the crest. When the bass and guitar, then the keyboards, kick in, you're back in trees and heading down the mountain to the grassy plain.
One of my favorite visuals from Dad describing music or movies or… Most people wouldn't know it, but my father had the heart of a poet. At least to me. He always will. Even now, I wish he was here.
And more stupid trivia that will undoubtedly mean nothing to whoever reads this.
Also I realize I went a little overboard on my descriptions, but I've always loved music and music history. Even before I joined Hollywood Arts. I'm so afraid of losing it – not just the music but the trivia that makes up so much of our history, even beyond music and theater. So, if music, or other subjects, comes into my story with any boring background, forgive me, whoever is reading this.
To this day, I've spent time saving cds and old LPs in every genre for their historic musical value. Hell, I really do it just for the music. Tapes too for the time being until I can get them onto a disk before the tape disintegrates, if the burgeoning tech revival allows. Even so, our descendants will need to find a way to preserve the music before the cd plastic and the LP vinyl eventually rots away. I've saved books too, tens of thousands of them in all genres, but music was my life.
As I drove through Venice and Marina Del Rey, I managed to avoid traffic tangles near the actual marinas. Fortunately, Culver curved south before passing over Lincoln Boulevard. Still, when I saw a woman with a rifle on Lincoln heading towards the marina, I sped up a little to cross over Ballona Creek as the boulevard curved.
Other than her and the scattered traffic blockages, there was little sign of any real problem along Venice Boulevard or Culver. The worst traffic snarls were closer to downtown. Outside of the stray Walgreen's or CVS Pharmacy back in Culver City – all showed obvious signs of looting if they weren't burned out shells – the stores, fast food joints and restaurants almost all looked like they were just waiting to open or were open with lit 'Open' signs - more likely, just left open. Strange but the Fever could be just that fast. Still... Strange.
And scary as hell!
Culver as it neared the ocean, turned into Vista Del Mar. I ended up driving along the shore immediately west of the airport. As I drove south, there was Playa Del Rey Beach on my right. I was stunned to see some surfers trying for a wave and some people moving around on the beach. Those I saw laying out for the sun…well, I didn't know how many were still alive and how many were...
On my left, inland, towards the airport, was an area known as Surfridge. It was an entire community that was eminent-domained out of existence since it was directly under the over-the-ocean flight paths for the runways at LAX. All that's left are cracked, weedy streets, some broken foundations, front steps leading nowhere and working streetlights. Never could figure out why the streetlights still worked.
Eminent domain was a way for the government - state or federal - to take property if they can provide a legitimate, legal reason. Sometimes it was slum land being rehabilitated, sometimes it was just some place that was a danger and sometimes, like Surfridge, it was a way to stop people from complaining about low-flying jet planes passing overhead. Sometimes, it was just convenient to some government project, like the superhighway initiative during the Eisenhower administration over six decades before. So now Surfridge was deserted and the homes were gone. And yet, the streetlights still shone.
At night, it was cool but very creepy. Especially when the mists floated in from the Pacific.
So, naturally, Jade got us to go there one evening last October, Halloween night actually. She swore we'd hear the ghosts of the displaced residents. Never explained to us why there'd be ghosts when all the people actually moved out. Still, it was a fun, eerie excursion, complete with ocean mists, interrupted regularly by incoming and departing flights that seemed so low you could practically touch the fuselages of the planes. Being Jade, she even threw a rock at a passing plane. She didn't have enough power in her throw to do anything - which really made her mad.
What a great night!
But this time, I felt an intense chill, far different from the fun fear I recalled, as I was wondering if this was a preview of the future of Los Angeles. And any other cities and towns in the world.
Finally, several miles south of LAX, in Manhattan Beach, I turned on to the Pacific Coast Highway by way of Rosecrans Avenue. PCH runs from Capistrano Beach in Orange County up past San Francisco to Mendocino County near Leggett. Most of the route, over six hundred and fifty miles, is officially California State Route 1, for what historic value that has. It joins Interstate 5 near San Clemente and proceeds down to San Diego.
But, important in this case, after I turned onto the highway in Manhattan Beach, I was able to take it almost to the Palos Verde Highlands, while avoiding any interstates. And I avoided any possible problems around the Redondo Beach marina.
While listening to the old upbeat album rock - Fever was playing Electric Light Orchestra's entire album A New World Record by this point - I followed the surprisingly clear Coast Highway until I needed to turn off the highway at Palos Verde Boulevard so I could reach the west side of the peninsula. The surface streets were also eerily empty, even for a weekday, only an occasional car or two. I guessed either the non-comatose people were huddling at home or crammed into some of the bumper-to-bumper traffic jams that were choking the interstates and highways heading out of L.A.
I wondered when I'd finally stop thinking of the streets as 'eerily empty'. When would the emptiness of the city seem to be normal? And did I want to know?
Hopefully, I hoped I wouldn't still be there.
Driving up the slope of the peninsula, I went back and forth on switchbacks. As I drove, I noted the terraced lawns and the quiet houses. There would be an abandoned Big Wheel, bicycle, skate board, frisbees, baseballs and mitts, bats and…all the assorted outdoor kids' toys. Bikes were especially plentiful.
The children who played with those, who rode those…
My outlook, relatively cold and emotionless on the way down from Hollywood, turned more emotional as I saw these traces of what was becoming a new, world-wide ghost town. My new world.
Even now, that still gets to me. I had to stop to collect myself before I continued this journal even as I had to stop the car on the way to Aunt Sophia's.
Occasionally, I'd see a house that was still occupied by the living – a moving drape behind a closed window or even a face at a window. Once, I even saw a long pipe, which I presumed was a rifle barrel, poking out of a window that followed me as I drove along the street. I sped up to get away from the possible danger.
Finally turning onto Aunt Sonya's street, I thought I was in luck when I saw Trina's car in the driveway. Then my heart leapt into my throat and my stomach shrank to a tiny ball when I saw the front double doors were wide open.
Inside I found what I hoped I'd never see. In the sunny living room, with the panoramic view of the Pacific, Trina was cold and lifeless on the sofa. After holding my sister and crying over her for I don't know how long, in shock, I went further into the house to find Aunt Sophia was the same in her bed upstairs. I came back down and knelt next to Trina.
Like I had with Mom, I held my sister's hand - already cold, already stiff - and broke down again. I sobbed out all the renewed hurt and loss that I'd tried to hold in from the moment I finished burying our mother.
Trina was a self-centered girl who had an extremely exaggerated opinion of herself. This opinion was not backed up by much talent – unless she was a member of a chorus. But, as irritating as she could be, she could be helpful, and caring to me and even my friends. Not to belabor the fact that she was my sister and I loved her.
The pain of losing her was as painful as losing Mom. In some ways it was worse. I love Mom. She would always be that special person. But Trina was a life-long friend, enemy, confidant and adversary. I still love them both equally but for different reasons.
And I still miss them both every day. And Aunt Sonya.
Back to that horrible day, even as I cried from the pain of that loss, I knew I hadn't washed all the grief away. I'll always miss Mom, Trina, Aunt Sophia. my friends, the world...
And, of course, Dad. Who I have never given up hope of seeing again.
Very small consolation but Onkeemoe, Aunt Sonya's cute little mixed breed dog, wasn't in the house. That meant he was probably alive. I hoped he'd be alright. Fortunately, he wasn't one of those overly in-bred lap dogs but an adorable mutt – a mostly Corgi-mix mutt. I remember seeing something on TV, Earth Without Humans or something like that. It showed a segment about Corgis being among the breeds having the best chance for survival on their own, especially for small domesticated dogs.
This brought to mind all the pets trapped in their homes, the animals penned up in the zoos and any other animals that were locked up in cages or corrals and dependent on the soon-to-be or now-dead humans. I've always been an animal lover and even considered joining PETA at one time before their more extremist beliefs and activities turned me off. Still, I love animals. In some cases, more than people. I hated that so many of them had to suffer because we were dying.
I forced myself to get rid of that idea as I searched for tools to take care of the job at hand.
I tried to dig graves for my family but the ground on the Heights was even shallower than at home. It wasn't long before I hit bedrock, less than a foot. Real bedrock, not hardpan. I made a single cairn for both of them - the cairn would, hopefully, keep scavengers, like the coyotes and soon-to-be-wild dogs in the Heights, from getting to them. Like I had with Mom's grave.
I used available loose but weighty flagstone rocks from Aunt Sonya's uphill rock wall that surrounded the patio as well as using some of the same blocks I managed to uproot from her patio once I tore down her low wall. Like the day before, it was hot, sweaty work but I had to take care of my family.
The final mound of slim, fat flagstones was nearly three feet tall. I remember thinking, Take that, Wiley E Coyote!
Wiley was a 'villain' in old Warner Bros. Roadrunner cartoons and always lost in his outlandish ploys to catch the roadrunner. They always failed spectacularly and always catching the coyote. Great animated slapstick. Hopefully Warner Bros. cartoons and others survive this.
Once I finished and needing to rest, I sat in Aunt Sonya's living room, looking out the window at the Pacific as I tried to deal with…everything. Finally, I came to a conclusion. I realized what I had to do…
It was time to leave Los Angeles.
As I left Aunt Sonya's, I realized I had lost the radio transmission from San Diego. I tried scanning but gave up as I was heading down from the highlands.
Some morbid part of me wanted to see what I could of the sea burials from Los Angeles-Long Beach Harbor, so I drove along the south edge of the Palos Verde peninsula towards San Pedro. Driving past Portuguese Point and seemingly endless subdivisions, I passed a golf course that stretched between the road and the cliffside overlooking the ocean. There were actually people out there with their clubs.
I soon turned off West 25th Street to head south on Gaffey to, eventually, reach Paseo Del Mar which led me past Point Fermin.
Point Fermin, the southernmost point of the peninsula, and the surrounding State Park, looked much as it always did except for the lack of people. How long would the old landmark lighthouse stand? Eventually, that tower and the land it stood on would collapse to the rocky beach far below.
On the horizon, I could make out the hazy outline of Catalina Island. There was a faint plume of dark smoke near Avalon, the island's population center and main port.
Turning north past that vista, I ended up on San Pedro's Pacific Avenue which followed a highland above the harbor. I did get some glimpses of the harbor looking down from cross streets, but I held off turning east and getting any closer for fear of Army MPs or National Guard patrols. Or would it be Navy SPs and Coast Guard? Or all four?
Oh yeah, MP is/was military police and SP meant shore police - uniform military police for the Army or the Navy. The Air Force also had APs, air police. They were different from civilian police with almost no jurisdiction outside of military zones – like the Harbor had become with the outbreak.
Anyway, at a wider cross street, I pulled over, got out and stood in the middle of the intersection, looking down the slope to the water. With a pair of strong Zeiss binoculars Dad had in the trunk, I watched a harbor tug slowly pushing four large, tarp-covered barges past the Fishing Pier breakwater, that jutted out from Cabrillo Beach, and on into the Santa Catalina Channel. Just beyond, a harbor tug was returning to port alone – it's barges undoubtedly already scuttled.
Even knowing what the cargo was, I was strangely unmoved. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn't really see any details. Or maybe it was short-term shock. More likely, it was just the scale of the disaster, coupled with the anonymity of the corpses on the barge. Unlike Mom, Trina and Sonya, I likely didn't know anyone on those barges.
I did take a minute to consider all of them. They were family members - at least at some point - and deserved some... Prayers? While I'm not a believer in organized religion and the...mythology created. I do believe, even now, in a supreme force that controls Everything. So I whispered prayers for them, for Mom, for Trina and Aunt Sophie. And for me...
After watching for several minutes, I saw another tug pushing a foursome of barges that followed the same course past the Fishing Pier then slowly out into the Catalina Channel. And another was moving past Terminal Island (what a fitting name now!) into the harbor making way towards the opening in the breakwater.
That was enough. I drove north on Pacific, crossed back over to Gaffey and then used the approach lane for the Harbor Freeway, remembering the news people specifically stating the interstates and freeways leaving the city were packed but the 'internal' freeways were mostly clear. And, if the Harbor's lack of traffic was any indication, these freeways really were relatively free of traffic as they weren't major arteries in and out of the L.A. Basin but cross-routes through L.A. and the central suburbs. The Harbor ran from downtown L.A. to the harbor. Another north-south artery was the San Gabriel River Freeway, from the Pasadena/Eagle Rock area towards eastern Long Beach and the southern beach communities.
I had forgotten the reports of traffic jams at the interchanges though.
Watching for stalled or abandoned cars, I missed the north-bound route and ended up heading east into Long Beach. I saw the west tower of the Vincent Thomas Bridge ahead of me where the span crossed the Los Angeles River as the river fed into the harbor. Downtown Long Beach itself was beyond the bridge. Slamming on the brakes, I looked around for a way to get back to where I needed to go. I didn't want to waste the time it would take to go on to downtown Long Beach and backtrack. I actually considered driving on surface streets but, from Long Beach, it was still several miles east to the San Gabriel River Freeway and...what? And taking surface streets north out of Long Beach could add even more hours to my trip through some potentially dangerous neighborhoods.
Not going to happen.
No traffic so I U-turned across two of the three lanes and headed west on the east-bound lanes. Finally, I got to the point where I should've turned onto the Harbor and did a loopy U-turn to get re-oriented and back on the freeway.
Fortunately, CHiPs (California Highway Patrol) were too tied up elsewhere to bother with a traffic scofflaw like me.
Actually, it was unfortunate. I'd rather get a ticket or several than what was happening to the world around me…
Once I was on the Harbor Freeway, I drove north with virtually no other vehicles on the four-lane highway. I passed one car and was rocked by another's wake - it looked like a Ferrari - that practically blew my doors off as he shot past me at nearly 90 miles an hour. Fortunately, that was it. Southbound lanes were only slightly busier, mainly sporadic Army trucks and loaded semis and flatbeds headed south to the harbor with civilian trucks presumably 'volunteered'. The flatbeds were covered with large tarps concealing their loads like the barges, and I'm sure, the other trucks were carrying similar cargo.
Far to the east, near Anaheim – which was far beyond my view - I saw a large black cloud of smoke rising up near the horizon and drifting inland through Orange County and on to the desert.
Several interchanges with surface streets were mostly clear but I kept my eyes open for any problems.
As I was coming up on the San Diego Freeway interchange north of Carson, I ran into my first real traffic problem.
There were stalled vehicles – cars, trucks, and SUVs – blocking the lanes leading to those southbound ramps. Some had living people inside, trapped by cars butting up against them (like a horrible beach trip we took two years ago). Some of the figures in the cars were motionless and I made a point not to look at any of them, or especially the moving people. Cold, I know, but I somehow knew I had to survive so instead I tried to see how I could get around this mess.
Anyway, most of them died within hours from the Fever, I rationalized.
But, to this day, I still have nightmares about leaving those people behind.
Anyway, envisioning walking home – fifteen to twenty miles through some really bad neighborhoods – I quietly was praying, begging...pleading for a chance. Then I saw it. Strangely, thankfully, a recent collision between a cargo van and a sports car (not the Ferrari - from the remains, I think it was a Porsche) partly blocked the other traffic but created a gap on the far left along the inner shoulder between the wrecks and the short concrete dividing wall.
It would be tight.
If it went through.
Moving as far left as I could, I managed to get by on the inside breakdown lane, but it was a tight squeeze. I really, really didn't want to get stuck on foot that far from home. Fortunately, with a scraping sound on both the passenger and the driver's side – and losing both side-view mirrors - I managed to get past that mass of cars.
At one point, the car seemed to be stuck between the lane wall and the abandoned cars. I panicked and hit the accelerator. With a loud, metallic screech, the car forced itself through the small gap. That's where I lost the mirrors, by the way. Of course, the Batmobile's body was seriously damaged. Fortunately, it was all cosmetic damage.
Like that would matter in the long run.
Still, I was afraid of what Dad would say, but if I could see him again, I would gladly take any punishment he deemed fitting.
But God, I was so glad I left Mariska at home! She never would've made it through.
Of course, then I realized I could've turned around and driven south to the last interchange then headed north on the southbound lanes. The harbor-bound trucks left plenty of road...
Stupid!
As I finally got past the interchange, I heard a burst of automatic fire, and I again, realized I had left any of the guns at home.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
If I died that day, there would be no one to blame but me. Me and my stupidity.
But, in my defense, I hadn't thought of the actual state of the world beyond the narrow view I'd had of Hollywood and the near Valley areas – days before. Even after the aborted trip to the hospital the other day. Or driving to Jade's or… Even when I heard the earlier gunfire as I drove south, the stupidity of my actions didn't occur to me. But the realization shocked me to my core.
God, I am so stupid! So fucking stupid! Dad… What would he think?! Mom, Treen, please keep an eye on me…
Those thoughts played through my head so much, I knew I would never make that mistake again even as I sped up to get out of the area.
The Gardena Freeway interchange was clear. But that wasn't surprising since it terminated in the west on surface streets just past the San Diego Freeway. I presume the east bound lanes got crowded before Cerritos and Buena Vista and on towards the High Desert. Even so, I heard a couple of motorcycles roaring by overhead as I drove under the overpass. Sounded like they were west-bound.
Soon after, I came up on the I-105, the Century Freeway, but it was one of the shortest and only ran from the San Diego Freeway on the west to the San Gabriel River Freeway to the east between Downey and Bellflower so the interchanges was relatively clear. From there, I had an open run up towards Downtown L.A. and the Hills beyond.
Ultimately, I had to get off the freeway well before Downtown but sooner than I expected. There was another, larger pileup a couple of miles before the interchange with the Santa Monica Freeway that was partly caused by even more lane blockages from the I-10. There was also a large cloud of dense, black smoke ahead of me. While I 'knew' the source, with the other, smaller fires from the pile-ups, I wasn't absolutely sure of the source. There was another to the right, further away beyond the downtown towers.
Fortunately, local ramps had been clear since everyone wanted out of L.A., not into the neighborhoods.
So getting off at Slauson Avenue, I started to head north on Figueroa until, far ahead, I saw that massive smoke cloud came from the Coliseum. That was what Dad - and the newscaster - referred to the other day when he warned me away from USC. At that point, I appreciated him not telling me but another part of me – the one that screamed at me about not having a gun – wanted that information. Regardless of how bad it could be.
Even with the prevailing east wind, I was catching a whiff of the odor of burning bodies. Quickly closing the windows of the car, I turned west onto Vernon Avenue to clear the area around the huge pyre and the neighboring USC campus. It was then I realized what the black cloud over Anaheim represented. Undoubtedly, Angels Stadium was a massive funeral pyre like the Coliseum.
I quickly turned north again on Western just as a loud explosion erupted further west along Vernon.
I was able to steer well clear of the campus and the sports complex but, even being upwind with the windows closed, the smell of the human bonfire still reached me – all I could think was that it smelled like bad barbecue. I didn't want to imagine how bad it was nearer the Coliseum or, far worse, downwind of the USC campus.
I later learned the teams stationed there took only four-hour shifts, in full biohazard suites. One of the sole survivors of the troops stationed at Dodger Stadium managed to escape L.A. when things went drastically bad.
But the University of Southern California...
One of the world-class universities in California. That was the school I was going to attend in the fall, after I graduated from Hollywood Arts. The USC School of the Arts was one of the best in the world and I had planned to study music as well as television and film.
Another dead dream to add to the dying world.
Oddly, I wasn't as upset about that as you would think. I think I was still overwhelmed with losing so many people close to me. Especially Mom and Trina. Later, I was sure I'd mourn my lost future.
And I did.
More gunfire in the Crenshaw area but, from what Dad had told me, even before the Fever, that wasn't unusual. While it was never as bad as parts of Chicago, Detroit or Cleveland, it was still a neighborhood to steer clear of. I also doubted it had ever been this bad before tough. I guessed the last gang bangers were still fighting over turf.
Idiots.
After I passed under the Santa Monica Freeway and past the odor of the Coliseum pyre, I continued on until I got to Olympic and followed that northwest into the Hollywood Hills. As I climbed the lower slope into my neighborhood, I glanced right towards downtown and could see the towers glinting in the late afternoon sun, looking more like some establishing shot from a TV show like the '80s L.A. Law than a dying city. Then, I saw another large pillar of black smoke beyond - toward Chavez Ravine. That had to be Dodger Stadium with its own mass crematorium pyre.
By this point, I was becoming numb to all the chaos. Still. I couldn't forget those days when Dad took us all to see the Dodgers. Before I went to Hollywood Arts and I knew I wanted to be a singer, I dreamed of being the first female pro baseball player - wearing Dodger blue.
One more lost dream, but not necessarily due to the Fever in this case.
Finally, I reached my neighborhood. Luckily, I was back just as the sun approached the horizon. Sunset would occur soon. Again, I remembered watching sunsets over the Pacific from Aunt Sonya's front yard. A fresh, new wave of grief threatened to overwhelm me.
The sight of home, as empty and lonely as it was, felt incredibly welcoming after the morning and afternoon I had.
And then I saw the black 1968 Dodge Challenger in the driveway...
Note: Again, I need to thank Loganx5 for help in this story.