Confused, the Lexus driver turned, staring from one officer to the next. “But he… he smashed my car.” He waved the gun around, as if to point it, but Sasquatch had conveniently disappeared.
“Drop the fucking gun! Now, goddammit!” Not exactly standard LAPD procedure, but the pressures of the situation were getting out of hand.
“I just want to get out of here!” the Lexus driver wailed.
“Drop the gun and move your car!”
“No, no, no!” The man insisted. “I didn’t do anything! He hit me! He has to move!” Sensing that he was blocked in, he turned around and around, pointing the gun from one driver to the next. “Everybody get out of my way! Let me out of here—” He looked desperate, he was shredding into incoherency—
“Last warning! Drop the gun. Drop it. Now.”
“Please! Just let me out of here—”
“Oh fuck,” said James, quietly. “They’re gonna shoot him.”
Hu put his hand on James’ shoulder and pushed. The two of them flattened to the sidewalk together, their bikes falling beside them.
Three quick gunshots, followed by a beat of silence—and then the screaming started. “Oh my god, my god!” And: “You didn’t have to do that—!” Followed by orders from the cops. “You, move that Lexus. Move it now! You, back up! You, follow him!”
But there was no organization. There were too many voices. There was too much screaming, and too many people pulling in too many directions at once—
And a couple more gunshots, coming from another direction—
James half rose up to look, then quickly lowered himself back to the sidewalk. Once, a long time ago, he’d seen a riot start. It was ugly.
This was worse.
James looked to Hu. “Let’s go back.”
Tentatively, they levered themselves back to their feet, both a little shaken. Hu touched James’ arm and pointed. The building behind them had a fresh hole in one of its windows.
James smiled weakly, nodded, pointed west.
Hu hesitated. “Shouldn’t we see if anyone needs help?”
“Pearl needs us more. Let’s get out of here.”
Hu hesitated, uncertain.
James touched his elbow and said quietly, “Triage.”
Hu didn’t like the thought. But James was right. He followed.
Somehow, despite the narrow sidewalk, despite the people around them, they got their bikes turned around and headed a half block west to Sawtelle.
They weren’t the only ones. Drivers who had gotten out of their cars to see what the blockage was at the underpass were now climbing back into their vehicles and turning north onto Sawtelle. James and Hu threaded their way across the intersection and remounted. There was just enough room on the sidewalk to pedal north.
It wasn’t far to Ohio Avenue, a block and a half. But when they reached the intersection and looked right, they came to a stop, both at the same time.
This underpass was blocked even worse. It was narrower and too many cars were trying to get through it. The avenue was backed up with cars arriving from the west, but adding to the gridlock, traffic from Sawtelle was also trying to merge into the sluggish flow.
“Can we get through there?” asked Hu.
James considered it. There was a cluster of motorcyclists blocking the sidewalk that went through the underpass. It didn’t look like they were getting by. Something blocking them on the other side, maybe—?
“No,” said James. “Too narrow.” That was the most convenient excuse, but he was still thinking about the violence they’d just escaped. This was another potential disaster—another riot looking for a place to happen. He pointed north instead. “Let’s see if we can get across. We’ll take Wilshire.” There weren’t any other options.
They pushed their bikes forward. Most of the going was single-file, but there was still room to make it through. Despite their urgency, most of the drivers here were leaving almost enough space for the two cyclists to navigate carefully across the intersection. Their bike trailers bumped a few fenders where they had to push between the lanes, but aside from one red-faced future stroke victim who shouted at them for blocking his nonexistent way forward, most drivers pretended to ignore them.
And then they were on Sawtelle again, pedaling into the Veterans Administration Healthcare Center. Where Sawtelle dead-ended inside the campus, before a cluster of shining white buildings, there was a concrete path cutting directly north, and it was wide enough for them to pedal. They weren’t the only cyclists with this idea; a few others raced past them. But James and Hu stopped to walk their bikes because of the foot traffic—the old men in bathrobes and pajamas and shapeless sagging trousers.
In the rising heat of the July day, these ancient men trudged steadily north. They were clusters of fragile age, old but determined. Most of them were using canes or struggling with walkers, a few pushed others in wheelchairs, a few were coming with their IV stands, but all of them were heading slowly and deliberately toward Wilshire. They smelled of old age and soap.
These were the leftovers, the forgotten warriors, the heroes of yesterday—the abandoned ones, abandoned one more time. No one had remembered they were here. There was no evacuation plan for them. The buses had never arrived, they’d been commandeered for the schoolchildren and for anyone else who could scramble aboard.
Maybe, when they reached the boulevard, someone would give them a ride. Or maybe they would just end up as a few more bodies in the long line of hopeful old men gathering along the side of the road, more zombies for the frightened drivers to ignore.
James and Hu passed them as quickly as they could—they tried hard not to meet their eyes, tried hard not to see their frail bodies and watery expressions. But one of the men stopped James with an outstretched hand. “You go. You go on, get out of here. Go and live. Find someone to love and live a glorious life.” Another added, “But tell them about us. Tell them to remember. Please—” And a third, “Tell them how we were forgotten, betrayed, abandoned—” And a fourth, “And tell them to go fuck themselves too—”
Both James and Hu nodded and promised. “We will, we will.”
They nodded and said yes to everything, they shook the trembling hands of those who reached out to them—and then they pushed on, a hard lump in their throats. They wanted to do more, but what could they do?
And then one of the old men called, “Jimmy, is that you?” Hearing his name, James stopped. Force of habit. He turned and looked.
A frail specter, dragging an IV stand, came wobbling, hobbling across the grass. “Jimmy, it’s Grampa.”
No, it wasn’t. All of James’ grandparents had passed a decade earlier. But still, he was startled enough to stop and stare.
Another old soldier came shuffling up. “It’s all right, pay him no mind. He’s—he doesn’t know who anyone is anymore.”
But Grampa had grabbed Jimmy’s arm. “I knew you’d come,” he said. “I told them, I told them you would come to see me—”
The other man shook his head. “Jimmy died. A long time ago. But he doesn’t believe it. Or he forgets.”
James said, “Hu, hold my bike.” He dismounted, put his arms around the self-appointed Grampa. “I love you, Grampa. I’m sorry I waited so long to come and see you. I missed you so much. I have to go now. Your friends will take care of you. But I have to go. They need me at the… at the station, okay?”
The old man didn’t want to let go. His frail hands trembled as he tried to hang onto his long-lost grandson, but Jimmy pulled away anyway, and finally Grampa said, “Okay, Jimmy. Okay. You be a good boy now. You tell your ma you saw me, okay?”
“Okay, Grampa.” Jimmy gave the old man a quick hug, then pulled away just as quickly. He took hold of his bike again—