The Great Eviction Event Unfolds Chapter 5
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Jesse-2: Friday, December 12, 2014, 7:21 pm, PST
Jesse roused, shaking his head. According to his watch, it was 7:21 pm. Looking about, he recognized the back yard and crashed Orange Line bus. The damaged shed had collapsed completely onto the objects inside while he slept. No--he’d passed out. Digging out his iPhone, he checked for phone calls or text. Nothing but annoying automatic notifications. He called Carolyn again.
“Sweetie, it’s me again,” he said to her voice mail. “Call me as soon as you get this, please, just as soon as you can. I need to know you’re okay.”
Frustrated and afraid, he hung up and glared at the wrecked bus. The damned thing still ran; the thrumming engine was the only sound in the eerie silence. Only, that wasn’t true. 200’ distant from I-405, he could still discern the sound of engines running in the massive pileup in the southbound lanes. Which was just crazy, he thought. Crazier still, he’d spotted no instance of fire post-event. (He’d decidedly labeled the anomalous wall an event, though not yet with a capital E, uncertain of the extent. Certainty would come quickly enough.) A patrol officer, Jesse experienced fiery collisions as a matter of course; often horrendous in nature. He’d extinguished an engine fire just this past weekend, in fact, on Fulton Avenue, across from the college. The department routinely equipped cruisers with chemical extinguishers for that very reason. Active enlistment in the Navy had subjected him to numerous aircraft accidents, on-ship, and off, most accompanied by fire, sometimes with fiery explosions that endangered everyone in close proximity to the blast. It was unthinkable that multiple aircraft striking the ground all over Los Angeles would do so without a single resulting fireball. Yet he’d witnessed half a dozen or more tonight hit ground. Impossible.
Carolyn worked in Sherman Oaks. Jesse’s original plan was to exit onto Ventura Highway a mile and a half farther down 405, travel it east a mile to Exit 17, and then head south on Van Nuys Blvd. to Ventura. Carolyn worked in the US Bank Building at the northeast corner of the intersection. They had agreed to meet across the street at the Crave Café for dinner, before heading to San Diego for the weekend. Jesse tried the law office on the 3rd floor where Carolyn worked. The call went to voice mail, but he had mostly expected that at 7:25 pm, on a Friday night. He Googled the café and tried their number next. No one answered the line. He tried 911 again to no avail.
“Fuck!” he shouted, kicking the chair he had sat in onto its back. “What the fuck happened! Where is everybody? What is this fucking madness?” Grabbing a second chair, he hurled it halfway across to the bus, furious, teeth bared in a snarl. Then he whirled and stomped away from the patio and around the side of the house, heading for the street. No fence stood in his way. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street.
His phone located him on Blucher Avenue, at the curved transition to Erwin Street. He headed east, phone clutched in his right hand, a four-story parking structure on his right, houses on the north side of the street, Sepulveda Blvd. 3 blocks straight ahead. Glancing mistrustfully at the open garage, and the huge parking lot laying just beyond, stretching nearly to Sepulveda Blvd., he patted the Glock on his right hip through the lightweight coat. The temperature stood in the low 70’s, which might suppress the natural instinct of gang members to go marauding tonight. A situation like this invited looting, robbery, rape and murder. Depending on the extent of the happening, how widespread it was; LAPD would have its hands full tonight. Yet, Jesse had not heard the wail of a single siren since the pileup on I-405, nor spotted a police cruiser, ambulance, or fire engine. Other than the thrum of electricity through the overhead lines, the dull hum of step-down transformers on the poles, and engines idling in the distance, the night remained eerily, utterly quiet. He halted, considering.
Los Angeles had the 2nd largest population of any city in the US. The number of registered vehicles was reportedly 6,433,000, rendering a figure of .54 cars per resident. How many of those vehicles could be expected to be on the road at 6:24 pm on a Friday evening, he wondered? Half? Three-quarters? If the wall extracted every driver as it apparently had on his stretch of I-405 and the surrounding area, then you could expect a minimum count of 3-million suddenly driverless vehicles careening headlong into stationery, and other moving objects. Damage throughout the Los Angeles basin must be staggering. One such vehicle, a dark blue Toyota RAV4, lay directly ahead. Run up over the curb, the SUV had crossed the wide sidewalk and flattened 3 smaller bushes, before half-flattening a compact strawberry tree. Jesse detected the sound of the engine from a block away. The SUV was still in gear, he suspected.
Approaching, he unconsciously released the strap on the holster and rested the heel of his hand on the grip. “Hello?” he called loudly. “Is anyone in the vehicle injured? LAPD! Please put the vehicle in park, and switch off the ignition, driver!” Since it had continued to run after implanting the front end in the thick shrub, Jesse reasoned the SUV’s transmission was an automatic. A glance inside prove the assumption correct; and the blue RAV4 stood empty.
Jesse looked carefully about. Spotting no one, and nothing unduly suspicious in the area, he checked the driver’s door and discovered it unlocked. The shift lever rested in Drive, and both seat belts were engaged and snugged against the seat-backs. On the passenger’s floorboard rested a large brown leather purse. The driver had attached a Samsung Galaxy phone to the dashboard vent via a phone caddy; the screen was blank; a plugged in charger cord led to a power outlet below. Nested in the console were a 20-ounce Diet Coke, and a 12-once can of Pepsi. Neither was cold to the touch.
Jessie looked carefully about, and then called out loudly: “I’m Officer Duran of the Los Angeles Police Department! I’m looking for the occupants of this car, or anyone that might know what happened in the vicinity, or anyone suffering injury or distress. Please answer if you hear my voice! I can render assistance!”
His words echoed back at him from the houses across the street, but no one answered his call. He flinched as an exterior AC unit switched on somewhere close by. He detected numerous exterior AC units running, now that he listened. In addition to the power lines overheard, and the step-down transformers on poles before each residence on the street, the units formed a subdued background noise. “Last chance!” he thought to holler; instead, he released the seat belt, slipped into the driver’s seat, and closed the door.
A pileup at Sepulveda and Erwin rendered the intersection impassable. Out of control vehicles had struck each of the four corner buildings, taking out the entrance and an extended portion of the adjacent window front at the CVS Pharmacy on the northwest corner. A Dodge Ram pick-up and a Toyota sedan had formed a battering ram that punched through the side of Chef’s Toys, a commercial kitchen & design company. A white Ford Econoline van lay on its side before him in the middle of the road, struck by a second white Econoline van. Bemused at the shear volume of mayhem in the intersection, he eyed the still-functioning traffic light for a moment—it transitioned uselessly green to yellow to red--and then cut through the Wendy’s parking lot to Sepulveda Blvd. and headed south.
Progress was slow. Driverless vehicles had continued on at gradually reducing speed until abruptly stopped by parked cars, telephone poles, trees, buildings, and other wrecked vehicles. Those traveling in the northbound lanes met southbound cars in head-on collisions, resulting in varying degrees of destruction. Mid-block, Jesse pulled alongside a pair of Toyota Prius’s, one a red and white taxi, the other sporting a lime green paint job and the motif of a well-known maid service—stopped nose to nose with virtually no damage to either front end. The vehicles had evidently collided at walking speed. “Cripes,” he muttered. “How about that?”
Reaching Oxnard Street, he skirted a wrecked trio of vehicles in the intersection, slowed, and stopped before a furniture outlet to try Carolyn again. “Please answer,” he pleaded as the line rang 7 times and frustratingly went to voicemail again.
“Honey, it’s me. I’m on Sepulveda heading for Ventura Blvd. There’s no traffic, but lot’s of wrecked vehicles, so I don’t know when I might get forced off onto a side road, or have to turn back entirely. I hope I don’t. It’s 8:20 pm, so I should be there by 8:30, or so.
“Please call me back as soon as you can. To be honest, I’m surprised the cell phone networks even still function after the event—whatever the event was—and the electricity too. I’ve traveled a couple of miles, and haven’t found anyone at all, just lots of wrecked vehicles. I don’t understand the absence of fires, but I’m not complaining about that, believe me.” Shut up, he told himself angrily. You need to reassure Carolyn, not send her into a panic. “Anyway,” he said, chastened. “Sit tight and I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”
On the move again, he pried the driver’s Galaxy cell phone loose from the caddy and tossed it onto the passenger’s seat. He replaced it with his iPhone, opening Google Maps. He’d forgotten the iPhone charger in his truck, and the Galaxy’s USB connector was incompatible with his iPhone. However, it carried an 82% charge, negating any immediate concern over battery life. So long as the power didn’t fail, taking down the cellular networks, he was good. He tried to recall if Verizon and ATT operated with a back-up protocol in case of catastrophic power outage. Most cellular traffic in the continental US traveled across those two networks.
Another logjam waited at Hatteras Street and Sepulveda, and Jesse was forced to back half a block and cut through the FedEx parking lot. Exiting on Halbrent Avenue, he again headed south, transitioning onto Martha Street after two blocks to continue east. When Martha T-boned Kester Avenue, he headed south again.
At Clark Street, the blocked intersection forced him east. He turned south after 2 blocks onto Willis Avenue, where he encountered no further blockades before reaching Morrison Street; there, he headed back to Kester Street. Willis Avenue ended two blocks ahead at Valleyheart Drive. Ventura Freeway lay just beyond.
Reaching Ventura Blvd. without further incident, Jesse turned left and continued 5 blocks east before reaching Van Nuys Blvd. Breathless, he jammed the shift lever into Park, banged open the driver’s side door and jumped out. On the corner, Crave Café patiently awaited with lights on and rock music softly wafting from the outdoor speakers, apparently bereft of customers. A low-rider had crashed through the railing partitioning the patio from sidewalk traffic and plowed most of the tables against the adjacent railing. Rap music boomed quietly inside the low-slung white Impala. The mag wheels shown.
“Carolyn! Carolyn, are you here!” Rounding the rear of the RAV4, he approached the Impala, noting the deep-throated rumble of the idling engine. He reached through the open driver’s window and yanked the shift lever into Park. Resting in the console was an open bottle of Heineken; liquid had sloshed out the top. Another open bottle lay in the passenger footwell, contents soaked into the thick floor mat, giving the interior a strong reek of beer. Jesse switched off the engine, muttering about gang members. He tossed the keys on the seat and made his way to the café’s entrance.
“Anybody in here? Carolyn?” he shouted. Every table was set with two or more placings. Entrée’s sat untouched on some tables, half-eaten on others; the table closest bore stacked plates and glasses, obviously in the process of being bussed. Mugs of beer and mixed drink glasses sat abandoned on the bar.
“Carolyn!” he shouted. “Anyone!”
He had gone insane. Absolutely bonkers nuts. That, or he’d disastrously rear ended a vehicle on the 405, and now lay strapped to a gurney on the way to the hospital with catastrophic head injuries. How much blood had he lost? How badly had his brain swelled inside his fractured skull?
He’d worked an accident two months ago where a motorist struck his nose against the steering wheel hard enough to drive bone fragments into his brain. He’d died en route to the ER, babbling about the ongoing alien invasion, and how his family was transformed into toads by blasts from invader’s plasma rifles. Jesse got that from the paramedic who rode in back with the raving accident victim. “You need to get hold of yourself,” he muttered.
He’d left his iPhone in the SUV. Returning, he snatched it from the caddy and dialed Carolyn’s line again. “Come on, come on,” he muttered as it rang. “It’s me. I’m at the café across from your work.” He looked up and stared at the US Bank building. “Are you there? Did you go home?”
Jesse and Carolyn lived in Valley Glen, north of Sherman Oaks and East of Van Nuys. Carolyn normally drove to work in the mornings; today, do to the planned getaway to San Diego, this weekend, Jesse had dropped her off on his way in. She’d have had to catch a ride home with a friend, use Uber, or resort to calling a taxi. Head home, or check her office across the street, he wondered?
“Listen, I’m not about to leave without checking your office, first. I’ll call back once I clear the building.” Resorting to cop-talk, he thought glumly. “Call me if anything breaks on your end, hon. And Carolyn...” A rush of fear, confusion, anxiety and frustration overwhelmed him. “I love you,” he choked out. “More than anything in the world. You know that. I’ll find you, I promise, I will. We’ll make this all better, I promise that. I promise. Wait for me wherever you are. I’ll find you.”
Sobbing, he opened the door, climbed in the RAV4, and drove across the intersection to the US Bank building.
Rebecca-3 Friday, December 12, 2014, 11:07 pm
Reaching her front stoop, Rebecca stood shivering in her Converse All-Stars, hands jammed in her pockets, shoulders hunched, afraid to climb the steps. The house looked so thoroughly right, the windows brightly lit downstairs, obscured upstairs by blinds and curtains, both cars in the driveway. Maude’s car was with her in Morgantown, at school.
She debated pulling out her iPhone for another round of calls, and then forced herself up the three steps. Here goes, she thought, opening the screen door. Unlocking the front door, she yelled, “Mom? Dad? Are you here?” The alarm wasn’t set.
In blind hope, she added her sister’s name, shivering in place, doorknob clutched in her hand. She was ready to whirl and flee at the slightest provocation. Cocking her head, she made out the tinny sound of a television upstairs, and the heat pump kicking on around side of the house. She heard a number of heat pumps in the eerie silence. It was 11:10 pm.
Trembling, she closed the door and leaned against it. With numb fingertips, she unzipped her coat and let it hang open over her Huntington Pathfinders sweatshirt. She wasn’t taking it off. Not until she felt secure in the house. Correction: Not until she WAS secure in the house.
Clear every level, she thought, like they did on stupid cop shows. Search every room and closet, check under every bed, and behind all 3 shower curtains. Right now, though, she only leaned against the door, trembling.
How far did this craziness go? The walk home spanned 2.4 miles, during which she’d spotted all those wrecks, but not a single human being--male, female, or child. Despite the cold--her iPhone claimed it was 29 degrees Fahrenheit in Huntington--what possibility existed that not a single wreck would garner an emergency response, clusters of do-gooders or gawkers, and at least one resultant fire? (She had finally noted that anomaly.) The answer was none. Not slim or marginal: none.
Pulling out her phone, she tried Maudie’s cell number. Morgantown was 3-1/2 hours away, about 200 miles, a good distance, she thought. Tapping the speaker icon, she listened anxiously as Maudie’s cell phone rang, finally going to voicemail.
“Hi,” she started in a tremulous voice. “It’s me. I’m alone here at home. I can’t find Mom and Dad or anyone else I know. Are you okay? Have you heard what’s going on? Please call me the instant you get this voicemail, okay? I’ll text you right now.” Fumbling, she managed to tap the red button terminating the call. She texted a terse message, short-handing a written version of her verbal plea. She couldn’t stop shaking.
Dead-bolting the front door, but leaving the chain unsecured pending a search of the house, Rebecca cautiously explored the main level, slipping room to room, checking the foyer closet, and behind the living room and den furniture. She inspected beneath the dining room table, checked to insure the door to the basement was locked and slide-bolted. Check the basement later, she thought, maybe with a baseball bat, or better yet, Dad’s Remington 12-gauge.
The kitchen was empty; ditto the mudroom, and the family room out back. Deadbolts remained set on both back doors. Trembling not quite so badly now, she returned to the living room and gazed up the stairs.
“Mom? Dad?” she hollered. “I’m home! I had to walk from Honeysuckle Lane over in Whitaker Terrace, so that’s why I’m late! Amy and everyone just sorta--”
What the fuck was she doing? Trembling more forcefully, again, she gripped the rail with one hand, the banister with the other, and ascended the stairs, planting each foot solidly before taking the next. Drawing closer to the upstairs hallway, she made out the television more clearly, recognizing the “Bad Boys” theme from Cops. It was 11:30 pm. A new show had begun.
“Mom? Dad?” They must hear her, shouting at the top of her lungs.
She checked her bedroom first, turning on the light, and then Maudie’s, doing the same. At her parent’s bedroom, she hesitated, fingertips lightly touching the door. It was open the usual crack, bedside lights softly illuminating the room, TV adding a flickering glow to the ambiance. Peeking through the crack, she observed that her mom’s side of the bed was empty. She couldn’t tell for sure about her dad, but he often watched TV from his recliner, half embroiled in a book. She couldn’t see the chair through the 1/4” wide crack. She tapped lightly on the door.
“Can I come in?” She pushed open the door, dreadfully certain of what she would find. The bedroom was empty.
She repeated her earlier search, this time accompanied by Dad’s Remington shotgun. She had never fired it before, in fact, had to figure out how to load the Model 1100, resorting finally to the Internet for guidance. A YouTube video featuring a stocky blonde with a deep southern accent explained it all. Under the woman’s confident tutelage, Rebecca loaded the magazine with four shells, and then pocketed a dozen more. Thank God, Dad stored his guns in a cabinet, and not a gun safe. She knew exactly where he kept the keys.
“Anyone down there,” she hollered at the top of the basement steps, “I will kill you, you know that!” It was just after midnight, and Rebecca stood back, gun clenched in her white-knuckled fists, teeth chattering. She had Dad’s ear protectors around her neck, but didn’t expect to need them. Still, their weight was comforting. She wondered that she hadn’t suffered a heart attack from the unbelievable stress tonight.
“I’m passed out in that stupid bedroom,” she muttered. “Trippin’ on whatever Gunther put in those fucking cigarettes.” It didn’t matter, nor did she catch the inaccuracy of her words. She had never tried a cigarette in her life, and never would, she thought incorrectly. “I’m coming down, and I have a fucking shotgun, you morons!”
The basement was finished and the steps carpeted; no one could trip her going down. Midway, she halted and yelled out her warning again, clutching the stock so tightly it made her hands cramp. She forced them to loosen, demanded her index finger remain safely outside the trigger guard. Damned if she’d shoot Mom or Dad by accident.
“Mom? Dad? Maudie?” she tried hopefully. Reaching the bottom step, a thought occurred which froze her foot mid-way down. Losing balance, she tottered a moment at the razor’s edge of toppling. Grabbing the railing with her left hand to right herself, she cursed her clumsiness, stupidity, and the bang of the shotgun against the drywall. The consideration was this: Why do you trust the electricity to stay on, you dumb bitch?
Heart nearly seizing at the thought of being plunged into total darkness, Rebecca whirled and ran blindly up the stairs and to the kitchen cabinet containing the emergency supply of flashlights and candles. Keening, she flung open the door and snatched one of the two black-barreled, D-Cell flashlights off the shelf. It was empty, light as a feather. Cursing, she grabbed a 4-pack of batteries and struggled shortly to get it open. Making her hands slow and do it correctly, she turned the package over, pried open the outlined flap, and withdrew all four batteries. Her hands shook so badly, they nearly shook her apart.
“What. Is. Going. On.” Breathing deeply, holding the breath a moment, she loaded Flashlight 1 and then Flashlight 2, testing both, daring either to malfunction. She slapped each smartly against her palm for safety. Flashlights and batteries were both Duracell’s, she noted, inspiring confidence.
Jamming one flashlight into her back packet, gripping the other against the shotgun’s barrel, she returned to the basement stairs and descended, this time in silence. Like everywhere else she’d been the last three hours, the basement was empty. The time was 12:24 pm.
Rachael-3 Saturday, December 13, 2014, 12:40 am
Squealing, Rachael opened her eyes and exhilaration-danced in place. “No way!” she cried, laughing as she whirled; the square of carpet 6’ distant was empty of its former occupant. “No way!” she crowed again. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”
Bug-eyed, making another 360 degree spin, she gulped loudly, and tried to slow her racing heart. “Jesus Effing You Know Who!” she whispered hoarsely. “Did that really just happen? Did I just teleport myself?”
She thought dizzily of the mall parking lot and the crashing airliner. (Was it an American Airlines jet, she wondered? Had she noted markings, or a color scheme in her panic?) Laughing, she yanked out Molly’s phone to check the time.
Uh-oh, she thought, eyeing the dark screen. Do I see a pattern here? The phone was fully charged before the jump, yet nothing she did now brought it to life. Had the jumps killed both it and her iPad? “Crap,” she muttered. “Sorry, Molly ... I had no idea.”
Needing proof, she examined her bedroom for disposable electronics. Her backup iPhone 5S came to mind, but discounting that idea as her stupidest ever, she circled the bed to reach the desk. Atop it sat a pen with a built in digital clock. Distributed last fall by her trig teacher, Mr. Flanders, she’d had it over a year now, though she’d not taken it with her to college. It amazed her that she had kept it at all, considering—or that it still worked.
“I apologize in advance if this kills you,” she told the pen. “But it’ll be painless, at least. I hope so, anyway.”
Turning, experiencing a disconnect as any rational person would, she eyed the appropriate spot of carpet. “This is just crazy, you know. Crazy, crazy, crazy.” Then, purposely gluing her eyes to the spot, she ordered her newly activated jump-mechanism to function, to displace her 6’ laterally across her bedroom floor. It refused.
“Okay, so closed eyes is a factor, then. How weird.” Curious, she glanced at the pen; without specifying whether a.m. or p.m., the readout advised it was 12:49. Peeking a last time at the intended target, she closed her eyes tightly, clenched her stomach muscles and told herself: Go, Rachael!
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