“Ho-ho,” Einar said.
Backed up to the loading dock was a big truck; on its aluminium sides were the words NORCAL WHOLESALERS — THE BEST FOR LESS! Einar ran up some cement steps to the dock, stepping lightly over the dead men, and shone his light into the rear of the truck. “Ho-ho,” he said again.
“What is it?” Sam called in an urgent whisper.
“This truck is almost full. Mostly canned food.”
Kirstie wanted to howl in triumph; instead she gasped and wiped her watering eyes.
“Can you drive it?” she wheezed. The alleyway lit up as a burning apartment building collapsed suddenly in a whirl of sparks. Einar leaped down, ran to the cab, and pulled out the body of the driver.
“Yes. Let us go.”
“Let us go then,” Sam echoed hoarsely, “when the city is spread out like a patient chloroformed upon a table.” He and Kirstie climbed into the cab.
“That is not an accurate quote,” Einar said, starting the engine.
“Shut up and drive.”
The headlights glared. Einar swung the truck up the alley, turned left, and left again onto Sacramento. Jason was standing before the market’s plate-glass windows, illuminated by Fred’s lights. Einar honked the horn and braked beside them.
“We have got some food now,” he called down to them. Fred had already started taping the truck; he followed Jason around to Kirstie’s side of the cab and grinned excitedly at her.
“Far out,” he coughed. “Listen, give us a fifteen-second clip and then we’ll follow you back to your people.”
“Well—” Fred’s light was an added injury to her streaming eyes. Jason asked her a few questions, and she coughed her answers. “Now we’ve got to go. The school is at Francisco and San Pablo in Berkeley. Thanks.”
“Thank you. See you there.”
The truck raced north on Sacramento, but had to detour west, just inside Berkeley, to avoid a fire in the middle of the street: an office building had exploded nearby, scattering burning fragments across several parked cars which had then caught fire. Sam fiddled with the truck’s radio, picking up bits of news bulletins through heavy static.
“The President has declared the states of California, Oregon and Washington disaster areas, and vowed tonight to visit personally the worst-hit areas such as San Diego and San Francisco…” “…says there is no cause for panic and the National Guard is on duty in the stricken areas. General Ernest Miles, commander of Fort Ord, has declared martial law in the Salinas-Monterey area. No word as yet on whether Sixth Army Headquarters at the Presidio of San Francisco plans a similar declaration for the Bay Area…” “…reports of looting in the Los Angeles area are exaggerated, the city’s mayor says. The power is still out in most of the Southland as far east as Palm Springs, and hospitals using backup generators are reported running short of fuel.”
“Jesus, what a day,” Sam said. “I feel like I accomplished something. I stole a bunch of drugs, kidnapped a couple guys, and hijacked a truck. And got on TV. Maybe we ought to make a career out of this, Kirstie.”
She laughed, and then couldn’t stop. Bent over, she gasped and howled. Sam started laughing too; even Einar chuckled.
They got back onto Sacramento and rolled north into thickening smoke. Einar slowed at Sacramento and University, and they looked west towards the Co-op. It was on fire. A few people moved back and forth before the flames, but they didn’t seem to be guardsmen. Farther west, the fires had coalesced into an orange blur.
They turned at the south side of the BART station, and were stopped by a pair of Berkeley policemen, one white, one black.
“Where you people headed?” the black one asked.
“The school at Francisco and San Pablo,” Kirstie answered. “We have a lot of people to feed.”
The policemen, who looked exhausted, smiled faintly. “Well, we ain’t supposed to let anyone go west of here unless they’re on official business. But I guess that means you — sure haven’t seen many officials.”
“Neither have we, except for the National Guard over on University.”
The policemen shook their heads. “Those turkeys,” the black one said. “I understand they actually opened fire on folks. Shit. The folks had more armament than the soldiers did.”
“Dear God. When?”
“About an hour ago.”
The TV van caught up with them. “They’re with us,” Kirstie said.
“Okay. Good luck.”
“You too.”
They drove slowly west, then jogged south to Francisco. Einar parked where the ambulance had been. The two black women who had been on stretcher duty that afternoon came out of the school building.
“My gosh, it’s you!” one of them exclaimed. “Where you been so long, honey?”
“Out shopping.”
“And look at what you got. Hate to think what the bill must have been. What’s this TV truck?”
“They gave us a ride down into Oakland.” Kirstie and the men got out. “They want to tape some interviews.”
“Gonna talk to some angry people, then. There was a gunfight, a real battle, over at the Co-op.”
“We heard.”
“They brought back twenty-two bodies, and sixteen wounded.”
The news crew began taping while people unloaded the truck. Kirstie leaned against the door of the cab as people jostled around her: black faces, brown faces, white faces. Hands reached out for hers.
“Thank you, ma’am,” someone said. “You done real good.”
She smiled unsurely, pleased and embarrassed. She thought about the corpses in the silent streets of Oakland and Susan Smith dying long ago in the rain. She wished Don were with her. She wished they were in Vancouver. She wished she could stop shaking.