Authors: Richard Laymon

Quake (4 page)

***

'These'll come right down, right down,' Stanley muttered as he sidestepped between two of his mother's rose bushes. He hated them. He hated all of her rose bushes. They stood at the cinderblock wall like sentinels posted to keep him away. Though they couldn't keep him away, they never failed to draw his blood. No matter how often he trimmed back their thorny branches, no matter how much care he took to suck in his stomach and lift his arms above their reach as he eased through, their thorns always found him.

He'd paid with stinging wounds for his many trips to the wall. Now, a nettle pricked the back of his shoulder. As he tried to escape it, another nicked his thigh. Both barbs snagged his pajamas and wouldn't let go. Stanley almost wished he'd left his bathrobe on; its thick nap would've given him some protection from the thorns. But he'd left his robe in the house. After all, why should he wear it? The morning was warm and luscious. Mother was hardly in any position to complain about his attire. Nobody was likely to complain, considering the circumstances. Hell, the house had fallen down. What could they expect Stanley to wear, a tux? He was glad he'd left the robe behind, he enjoyed being outside dressed in nothing except his moccasins and pajamas. He liked how the pajamas drifted lightly against his skin, caressing him. And he liked it that they were so thin; any woman he might meet would be able to see quite a lot of him through the lightweight fabric. The heavy robe might have saved him from a few scratches, but it would've smothered him, hidden him. After plucking his pajamas free of the thorns, he made it to the wall. He braced his hands against the cinderblocks, leaned forward and lifted himself on tiptoes to see Sheila's house. He moaned. Beyond the lawn, beyond the concrete patio, the house was down. It looked as if it had been kicked apart and stomped by a giant. All that remained was a mess of junk corralled by broken walls - a litter heap of splintered wood, tattered patches of roofing asphalt, red tiles, crumbled stucco and plaster and sheetrock, tendrils of pipe jutting up here and there, a few wires leading to nowhere.

Maybe Sheila wasn't inside when it went down, Stanley told himself. Anything could've happened. Maybe She'd decided to run an extra mile or two. Maybe she'd gone on an errand. Maybe she was inside, but she's still alive, and if save her, she'll be so grateful to me that… If she was inside the house when it fell, she has to be dead. Stanley squeezed his eyes shut.

'She's not dead,' he whispered. 'She's not. She's just fine, and I'm gonna help her.'

Opening his eyes, he clapped his hands down on top wall and jumped. He shoved himself higher, belly and thighs scraping against the rough blocks. He flung a leg up sideways and hooked the top with his foot. Seconds later, he was standing upright on the wall. Nothing to it! Should've done it months ago! Should've climbed over the wall and enjoyed some close-up views. But he'd never dared. Afraid of being caught. By Mother. Or by Sheila's husband. So he had never done more than peer over its top. At night after Mother had gone to bed. During the day, those occasional times when Mother was away from the house without him. He'd seen a lot, but never enough. Never near enough.

From now on, there would be no Mother in his way. He could do whatever he pleased. But now it was too late. The quake had seen to that. It just isn't fair, Stanley thought. From his height above the wall, he could see that the houses on both sides of Sheila's place still stood. They had broken windows, some cracks in the walls, and they might've sustained some serious damage beyond Stanley's view. But they hadn't collapsed. Why her place? Nobody even lived in the house to the left. It had been vacant for two months, a FOR SALE sign in the front yard. And the young couple who lived in the house to the right both held full-time jobs. So they probably weren't even home when the quake struck. Nobody home at two out of three. The quake had dropped the only house with a person in it. Not just any person. Sheila. My Sheila.

Stanley leaped. In midair, he realized he should've lowered himself down from the wall instead of jumping. But it was a bit late for that. His feet pounded the ground. Pain shot up both his legs. He stumbled forward, leaving one moccasin behind, and fell. He landed on his knees, dived from there, and skidded headfirst over the grass. The grass felt thick and soft and very wet. Stanley lay motionless on it for a few seconds, then got slowly to his feet. The front of his pajamas clung to him. Where the pale blue fabric adhered to his skin, it looked nearly transparent. He went back for his moccasin, slipped his foot into it, then headed for the ruin of Sheila's house.

The sunlight on the concrete patio made him squint. The patio looked fine. Normal. Just the same as always. There was the Weber grill that often sent such wonderful aromas into the evening. There was the picnic table, a flower pot in its center, a long bench on either side. There was the lounger with its faded, green cushion. Four times during the past few weeks, he had gazed over the wall and found Sheila stretched out on this very lounger. She had worn a skimpy white bikini. She'd rubbed her skin with oil, but hadn't been able to reach the middle of her back. Only twice had he seen the daughter come out to sunbathe. Her bikini was orange. Compared to Sheila, she looked scrawny. Skin and bones. Cute, but not in the same league as her mother. As if anybody could be. Last Wednesday, Louise Thayer had gone to a bridge party and Stanley had visited the wall. Peering over the top, he'd spied Sheila sprawled belly down on the lounger. She wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. She read a book. bikini top was untied, leaving her bare and glossy all the way down her back. A small white triangle draped the middle of her rump. A white cord crossed her hip. Except for that cord her side was nothing but sleek skin all the way down from her shoulder to her foot. Stanley had gazed at her, aching. She's got to move sooner or later, he'd thought. She'll get up. And maybe she'll be careless about her top. Maybe she'll lift herself up, and it'll stay down there on the cushion. Maybe she'll even turn over onto her back without it! Yes! She might! She just might! And Stanley had suddenly remembered the binoculars in his bedroom closet. He couldn't take a picture of her, thanks to the Bitch, but he could damn sure get a good close-up look with his glasses.

So he'd hurried away to get them. Hurried so fast that he'd ended up with three nicks from the rose bush thorns. No more than four minutes later, he'd returned to the wall, binoculars in hand, ready and eager. No Sheila. She was gone. Her book was gone. Her plastic bottle suntan oil was gone. She had gotten up, and he would never know whether or not she'd been careless about her top. He'd missed it. Gone for the binoculars and missed it! In a rage, he had slammed the binoculars against the wall. Pounded them, smashed them.

Now, he realized that he had missed more than a chance to see Sheila rise from the lounger, possibly revealing her breasts. He had missed his last chance. Because now she was somewhere under all that rubble. Crushed, ruined, dead. Stanley walked over to the lounger. Its green cushion, faded in places so it was almost white, showed yellow and brown stains in the rough shape of a body. Run-off from Sheila, he thought. Some from Barbara, too, he supposed. Crouching, he sniffed the cushion. Its dry, sweet aroma whispered to him of long summer days and sweltering beaches, the squeal of gulls, the rush of combers washing over the sand. It's her suntan oil, he realized. Suntan oil and sweat. He pressed his face into the cushion. Eyes shut, he felt the warm fabric against his lids and against his lips as he sucked, filling himself with the air from the cushion. Sheila was right here. He licked the cloth. And sucked.

And thought he heard a voice. The voice didn't startle him, didn't worry him. It hadn't come from someone near enough to observe what he was doing. He hadn't been caught. And he didn't intend to get caught, so he raised his head. A dark patch of wetness on the cloth showed where his mouth had been. Glancing all around, he saw no one. He heard no voice. Maybe he hadn't heard a voice at all. It might've something different. No telling what he had really heard through the awful clutter of noises: the wailing, hooting alarms from cars or houses; the sirens nearby and far away; the car horns beeping over on Robertson Boulevard; the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter that was out of sight but not very far away; the bangs and pops and blasts, some alarmingly loud that might be backfires or slams, but were probably gunshots; a scream of car brakes; the sound of a crash; various other clamors and roars. A regular chaos of noises.

Stanley heard such noises every day, but not so many of them, not all at once. One of the neighborhood's normal sounds was missing, though. Probably the worst of all. The leaf-blowers. This morning, they were silent. All the little crews of lawn workers must've decided to take the day off on account of the Big One. Just three days ago, Mother had demanded that Stanley 'do something' about the Mexican gardeners who'd shown up across the street at seven-thirty and demolished the morning peace. First, they'd slammed the tailgate of their antique pickup truck. Then they'd gone into action with the power mower and the leaf-blower. The din of the blower had destroyed the last of Mother's restraint.

'You go out there right this minute and do something, Stanley!'

'What am supposed to do?'

'Have a word with them. They've no right, no right in the world, to be raising such a Godawful racket at an hour like this.'

'They'll be done in a while.'

'Stanley!'

'It won't do any good, anyway. They won't understand a word say.'

Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed. 'I suppose you're right. Damn wetbacks. They've got no business coming to this country if they can't learn to speak…'

'I know, know.'

'Call the police.'

'The police? I'm not gonna call the police about a leafblower.'

'I will.' Scowling, she had wheeled herself toward the telephone. After passing Stanley, she'd looked back at him. 'You're totally worthless, do you know that? You've got no balls at all. Your father was a complete pervert and a moron, but at least he had balls. But not you. I've never seen such a worthless excuse for a man.'

Remembering, Stanley smiled. Had the balls to bust your head in, Bitch. As he thought that, he heard a voice again. This time, it seemed to find its way through a gap in the tumult of noise. A woman's voice. It called out, 'Hey!' From somewhere in front of Stanley. From somewhere in the rubble. He felt an explosion of wild hope. He shouted, 'Hello!’

'Help!' the voice called back.

'Helllllp!'

He stepped to the very border of the debris. Off to the side a portion of the chimney rose out of the mess. The mantel itself was buried, but a seascape still hung on a wall above the mantel. The painting looked only a crooked. No other artwork was visible. Nor could Stanley spot any piece of furniture, any book or garment, utensil or knick-knack. Except for the lone painting, the only signs that the house had been inhabited were the refrigerator and oven that still stood upright in what must have been the kitchen - near the right front corner. Every other possession of Sheila and her family was apparently entombed beneath the fallen walls and ceiling and roof. The scatter of mounds and slopes, he supposed, showed where there might be hidden sofas, beds, dressers, counters. Under one of the piles might be Sheila herself.

'Where are you?' Stanley yelled.

'Down here!'

The sound seemed to come from an area somewhere ahead and to his right - near the oven? At the time of the quake, he had pictured her taking a bath or shower, but maybe she had been in the kitchen.

'I'm on my way,' Stanley called. He reached out and planted his foot atop of a tilted slab of stucco, wondered for moment if it would hold him, then stepped aboard. The stucco wobbled, but he kept his footing. From there, he surveyed the area ahead. The tumbled remains of the house bristled with shards window glass, with rows of nails. The thin leather soles of moccasins might save his feet from cuts, but… Just don't step on a nail, he warned himself as he risk another stride. And for God's sake don't fall. He spread his arms for balance. He picked his route carefully and moved slowly, trying to avoid slabs or chunks or boards that didn't look stable. Some broke apart anyway. Many teetered. A few flipped and dropped him ankle-deep into laths or plaster.

'Are you there?' the voice called.

It had to be Sheila's voice. Though it sounded louder, more distinct than before, it was still battered by conflicting noises. Besides, he'd only heard her speak a few times. He couldn't be sure this was Sheila.

Must be, he thought, it's her house. Who else could it be? 'I'm coming,' he answered. 'Are you hurt?'

'I think I'm okay. But I'm trapped. can't move.'

Her voice didn't actually seem to be coming from the kitchen area - from that general direction, but not from that distance. Sheila was not so far away. Maybe ten or fifteen feet this side of the oven. He couldn't see her, though. Between Stanley and the place where Sheila seemed to be, there stood hills of rubble and the low remains of a few interior walls. Heading that way, he called, 'Was anybody else in the house?'

'No. Just me.'

'What's your name?'

'Sheila. Sheila Banner?'

'Yes!'

'I'm Stanley Banks. live in the house behind you.'

'Sure am glad you showed up, Stanley.'

'I was checking around the neighborhood and saw the condition of your house.'

'You mean they didn't all go down?'

'Nope. From what I've seen so far, maybe one out of three or four got leveled.'

'My God!'

'Could've been a lot worse.'

'I just hope to God the school's okay.'