“How do you do?” Mrs. Debney kept kneading as Don and Owen introduced themselves.
“We understand you need food and medical supplies,” Owen said, raising his voice over the commotion.
“We’re down to twenty pounds of flour, Mr. Ussery.” Her voice was deep and powerful. “I sent some of my boys off to find more, but they haven’t come back yet. Yes, and medical supplies. We got lots of people hurt, lots of burns, broken bones.”
“What about the government — the Red Cross, the National Guard? Civil Defence? The Navy?” Owen gestured in the direction of the shipyards.
Mrs. Debney put the dough into a buttered steel bowl, and began mixing a fresh batch. “Nobody’s helping. Navy moved their people out in helicopters yesterday. We haven’t heard a peep from City Hall, or the state government, or anybody else.”
“That’s incredible,” Owen muttered. “They must be stretched damn thin.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Mrs. Debney. “All I know is, I got over two thousand people lost their homes, and hundreds hurt, and more coming in every minute. The whole Bayview neighbourhood is burning down. I need help, Mr. Ussery.”
“But — we’ve only got maybe twenty days’ food for thirty-two people, and some medical supplies, just a little—”
“We’ll take it all, and thank you. That’s six hundred and forty servings, more if we stretch it. And the medical things — bandages, drugs, whatever you got. Anybody a doctor?”
“Yes, and four or five first-aid people. Uh, Mrs. Debney, look — we have to eat too. I don’t know how long we’ll have to stay aboard our ship.”
“You’re all welcome to come here. Take potluck, and give us a hand. Especially that doctor and those first-aid people.”
“I can’t order my people to do that,” Owen said. “They want to get home and see their families.”
“I understand. Just so long as we get some food and medical help, your people can come and go as they please.”
Owen’s mouth compressed into a tight line. Don said, “Excuse us, Mrs. Debney,” and led him a few steps away.
“Let her have the food. They obviously need it. We’ll use the Zodiacs to get our people ashore. Mrs. Debney’s people can give us some local support in exchange.”
Owen looked around the dim, noisy kitchen, and nodded reluctantly.
“Okay,” he told Mrs. Debney. “We’ll supply our food and medicine, and our doctor. In exchange we’d like some help with shelter for crew members who can’t get home yet.”
Mrs. Debney turned the bread dough out onto the counter and started kneading again. “All right. Thank you, Mr. Ussery. Mitchell, you see to it.”
“Yes, ma’am. Get right on it.”
She smiled. “Well, I won’t keep you.”
Mitchell, Owen and Don headed back to the stairs.
“I see why you call her ma’am,” Don said.
“She’s a pretty smart ole lady,” Mitchell nodded. “It don’t pay to mess with her.”
Don rode in one of the Zodiacs north along the shattered waterfront. The wind was still blowing from the west, but blue sky showed through gaps in the clouds; the passengers squatted in the middle of the big inflatable boat, trying to shield themselves from the UV. A black from Hunter’s Point sat easily in the stern, guiding the Zodiac with no more protection than a pair of sunglasses and a poncho.
“This is like old times,” the man remarked to Don. “I used to run one of these when I was in the navy.” He put out a calloused hand. “I’m Chief.”
“Don Kennard. Good to meet you.”
“Where you headed for?”
“Berkeley.”
“Woo. Good luck. Think you can get across the Bay Bridge all right?”
“I hope so.”
Don was looking east, trying to judge what the far end of the bridge was like, when a sudden concussion made him turn to the west.
They were less than a kilometre offshore, just east of Potrero Hill. The blocks of houses at the foot of the hill were in flames, and the freeway that sealed the hill off from the waterfront was blackened by smoke. Up on the hill, two clouds of debris were gently settling; as he watched, Don saw another cloud shoot up suddenly. Moments later, the crash of the explosion reached them.
“They’re dynamiting the houses,” Don said. “Just blowing ‘em up, all along the line of that street.”
“What for?” asked Chief. “Trying to stop the fires?”
“I think so. Just like the earthquake and fire in nineteen-oh-six. At least it shows that someone’s trying to do something. The government hasn’t just disappeared, the way it has in Hunter’s Point.”
“If that’s their idea of doin’ something,” said Chief, “I’d just as soon they forget about us.”
The smoke thickened as the Zodiac travelled north across the muddy bay where PIO had stood. Chief manoeuvred cautiously, almost daintily, through a maze of logs, boards, capsized boats, even furniture. The bodies in the water were past counting. Don saw the other passengers’ face grow drawn and impassive and knew that his own must look the same. He coughed in the bitter smoke.
In most places it was hard to tell where the water left off and the land began: a seemingly solid mass of rubble would bob up and down as a wave passed through the water beneath it, and many buildings on the old waterfront survived as brick islets. Chief finally found a place where he could bring the Zodiac to shore at a gap in the irregular wall of wreckage. The western approaches to the Bay Bridge loomed through to the smoke nearby.
“Good luck to you all,” he said as they scrambled ashore. Don shook his hand again.
“Thanks, Chief. Give my respects to Mrs. Debney.”
The streets behind the waterfront had always been grimy and decayed; now they were deserted and flooded. The ten passengers from the Zodiac waded ankle-deep through black water. No one else could be seen, and it was very quiet.
After three or four blocks, they came to a freeway access ramp and walked up it. The freeway itself held a few abandoned cars and trucks — most already stripped — as well as hundreds of people on toot or bicycles, travelling in both directions.
“Never saw traffic move so fast,” someone said, and everyone laughed nervously.
The others all had homes in San Francisco; they turned to the southwest. Don said good-bye and turned northeast, towards the Bay Bridge. He walked quickly, head down, but already felt the tingle of sunburn on his face and hands.
By the time he reached the shelter of the bridge’s lower deck, his feet hurt and he was feeling unexpected awe at the sheer size of the city’s highway system. The bridge extended into a smoky distance; the grade was a steady, seemingly endless uphill climb.
It was easier for him, he saw, than for many others. Old people and children straggled among the deserted cars. Many people carried heavy bundles, or pushed wheelbarrows loaded with possessions.
A tall, stocky Chinese man in his twenties fell into step with Don. He looked at the PIO badge on Don’s duffle bag.
“You a sailor?”
“Oceanographer.” He put out a hand. “Don Kennard.”
“Dennis Chang. Hi, good to meet you. I’m a biologist.”
“Where you headed, Dennis?”
“Gotta check on my mom and dad. They live in Berkeley.” He looked off to the north and northeast, where a long arm of the burning oil slick extended across the bay from Richmond almost to Tiburon. “Look at that sucker burn. Man, that’s one of the worst parts of this whole mess — we’re losing the energy we need to rebuild.” “They’ll just tighten up the rationing,” Don said with a shrug.
“Boy, I sure wish I could believe it’d be that easy. I work for an outfit called Neogene. Ever hear of it?”
“Sure. Down in Palo Alto.” He paused. “Dennis Chang. You don’t work for Neogene, you own it.”
“It owns me. Anyway, last year we got a contract with the Energy Department to see if we could design a high-quantity methanogen out of E. coli. Put enough of ‘em in a vat and they’ll grow until their tiny little farts add up to lots and lots of natural gas.”
“Did it work?”
“Not yet. Another eight, ten months maybe. The point is, the people in Washington were really hot to get it developed, because as far as they could tell we were going to be strapped for oil by this summer. Really strapped.” He waved at the burning slick. “Now look what we have to contend with.”
“Well, if the fuel shortage is going to be that bad, your outfit ought to have top priority.”
“Sure, in theory. But it’ll take weeks to reorganize. My people will be applying for disaster loans and pumping out their basements, instead of working in the lab. The government’s going to be scrambling around with a million other things on its mind.”
They plodded on over the bridge, trading disaster stories and gossiping about mutual acquaintances. Don was glad to have company; as he neared home he was beginning to be afraid of what he might find.
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the eastern shore of the bay. The bridge slanted gently down to where the toll plaza had been, between the mud flats and the Army Terminal; now the shoreline was a broad tangle of wreckage. The seiches had jumbled trees, logs, cars and shattered concrete blocks into a low barrier almost a kilometre wide, from the water to the far side of the freeway.
Many of the people who had walked across the bridge seemed to give up at the sight of the obstacle before them. Some turned back towards San Francisco; others erected crude shelters and even started campfires on the pavement. A few abandoned whatever they had been carrying and began to clamber through the wreckage zone. Don and Dennis watched them working their way through the zone and followed what looked like the easiest path.
Over an hour later, the two men reached what was left of the East Shore Freeway. Its eight lanes were choked with overturned cars, uprooted trees, mud, stones, and even houses wrenched from their foundations. Corpses lay half-buried in the mud, and rats skittered among them.
Speaking very little, they went on north to the University Avenue off-ramp. It was hard going for the first kilometre inland, over mud banks and across big, water-filled holes gouged in the pavement.
At the intersection of University and San Pablo stood two black policemen in orange ponchos. They motioned to Don and Dennis.
“Where you fellas headed?” the older policeman asked. They told him. “Better hustle. Curfew is at seven. Lasts until seven tomorrow morning.”
“Curfew?” Dennis echoed. “Who ordered it? The governor?”
“The mayor. Haven’t heard from the governor all day, far as I know.”
“What if you stay out past seven?” asked Don.
“If you’re lucky, you get thrown in the can and you stay there till we remember to get around to you. If you’re not so lucky, you get shot.”
The two men went on up University; at Sacramento, Dennis shook Don’s hand and turned north. Alone, Don broke into a slow jog. He wanted to get home quickly.
The streets going up into the hills were deserted, though he saw many faces peering out into the twilight from darkened windows. Two blocks from home, he heard a gunshot and saw a tiny patch of sidewalk in front of him suddenly explode as the bullet ricocheted into the gloom.
Don sprang to his left, into the street, and ran for the cover of a parked car. Bent over, he scuttled on to the next car, and then dashed for the corner. The shot was not repeated.
He ran the last two blocks, and bounded up the steps from the sidewalk to the steep front yard of his house. The living-room curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light showed through. The door was locked; he fumbled for his keys and unlocked it, hoping the chain wasn’t latched.
The door swung open. He heard a gasp, and saw Kirstie lying fully clothed on the couch; two candles burned on the coffee table in front of her.
“Don? Oh Christ, but you frightened me!”
“You scared me too.” He shut and locked the door, and went to her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I must have fallen asleep the moment I got home.”
They talked while they improvised a dinner of sausage and stale bagels. She was horrified when he told her about the turbidity current; he shook his head and groaned when she described the fight in the drug room.
For a long time they sat in the kitchen, with a single candle, drinking room-temperature beer and talking quietly. Then they went upstairs and looked out the bedroom window.
“What do we do now?” he wondered.
She turned and looked at him, surprised. “Are you asking me? After all these years of telling me?”
“Kirstie — I’m damned if I know what to do next. After all we’ve gone through in the last six months with UV and flares, and then this. Did you know the cops are shooting people for breaking curfew? And I didn’t even get around to telling you — someone shot at me just down the street as I was coming home.”
“The silly bastard shot at me too.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! You should have told me.”
“So should you.” She gave him a gentle hug. “I think I like you when you’re a little less confident than usual. Makes you almost human.”
“Belt up. The point is that it’s getting too dangerous here. I think we ought to go back to Vancouver.”
“What? After swearing you’d never darken your grandfather’s door again? And all the moaning about how there’s not enough work for us there?”
“At least you don’t get shot at. Well, what do you think?”
“We can’t, not yet. I’ve got Sam’s case to see through, and we can’t just walk away from all those thousands of casualties and homeless people. I’d feel terrible if we did. Let’s tough it out a little longer. All right?”
Reluctantly, he nodded. They went to bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Two hours later, light glared in their eyes. Don sat up and saw Kirstie squinting and blinking. Her face and throat were sunburned.
“What—?”
“Power just came back on,” he said. “I’ll go turn things off.”
The refrigerator hummed reassuringly. Don shuffled about, turning out lights and checking the locks. A drunken voice down the street called out: “Happy New Year!” Five or six shots rattled suddenly, and a dog barked frantically.
When he returned upstairs, the bedroom was dark again.
“I turned out the light when they started shooting,” Kirstie whispered. “Christ almighty, we can’t let all this stuff just go on.”
“No.” Standing back from the window, he looked out at the bay again. San Francisco was still dark; street lights burned blue or orange all over Berkeley, and many windows glowed yellow. The air was sour with smoke, and the sky still pulsed orange from the fires.
The street lights brightened suddenly, then dimmed and went out.