A Catch in Time Read online

  Lucas screamed. John Thomas jerked upward, his head banged the ceiling, and he fell back into his seat. His screaming brother’s furious eyes were fixed on him.

  “John Thomas, get me out NOW.”

  John Thomas leaned over Lucas and pushed the belt release button. Nothing happened. He pulled at the belt by force. Still nothing. Within moments, he’d worked himself into a frenzy of pulling, pushing, and yanking.

  “OW! John Thomas, that hurts! Dad, John Thomas is hurting me!”

  “Shut up,” John Thomas’s voice cracked as he pushed words past the pain swelling his throat. “Dad’s dead. He’s dead, he’s dead!”

  His father’s last words had been to take care of his brother, to watch out for him, and instead, he found himself wishing his brother dead.

  Abruptly, the seat belt released.

  “Finally,” Lucas crowed.

  John Thomas blinked at Lucas. Didn’t Lucas get it? Dad was dead.

  Dad’s dead.

  John Thomas tried to stop crying, and wiped his face with his shirt. He pictured his familiar room, shutting the door, going to bed. He felt sicker than he’d ever imagined.

  “Get this open, John Thomas. It’s stuck.” Lucas pressed his small frame against the door.

  John Thomas obeyed, pushing the door with short, hard thrusts. The door groaned open just enough for them to squeeze out. Lucas went first and John Thomas, thinking of traffic, grabbed Lucas’s hand as he slid out behind him.

  The two small boys stood by the car, hands clasped. John Thomas looked at the chaotic scene spread about them. On both the freeway and the Golden Gate Bridge, cars and trucks were smashed, overturned, some burning. Broken, bloody bodies sprawled within the twisted metal.

  Horror overwhelmed him. He stared, breathing shallowly, until his head swam from lack of oxygen. Stumbling back, he slumped against the car.

  “John Thomas.” Lucas yanked his brother’s hand.

  “Shhh. Just a minute, Lucas, wait.”

  Lucas shrugged and returned his attention to the gruesome scene. He wished John Thomas would stop holding his hand so tightly. He wanted to go see that arm lying under the tire of the big truck across from them.

  Lucas hadn’t lost consciousness. For him, there’d been no fallen barrier, no infusion of knowledge, no understanding, no euphoria. He knew only that something had rocked the world and left chaos in its wake.

  And it was thrilling.

  Impatiently, he tugged again at his brother’s hand.

  John Thomas had no idea what they should do. Death seemed everywhere. Was everyone in the world dead?

  A scream came to his throat but before it escaped, sudden elation spun his mind. The feeling of that dream he couldn’t remember flooded over him again. Gratefully, he plunged into it, grasping at fragments of hope within it. The world of pain and loss receded and John Thomas was able to travel far beyond the reality through which he moved.

  Holding tightly to Lucas’s hand, he began their long trek home over the bridge, walking, crawling, and climbing through the wreckage-strewn roadway suspended high over the waters of the Golden Gate.

  CHAPTER 4

  TWENTY-THREE YEAR-OLD ELI MALCOLM WAS TERRI fied of death.

  Death. Dark emptiness.

  The inevitability of his own death, the maddening paradox of being, then not being, often filled him with an unbearable ache. He would be there, then just … gone, the world spinning on without him.

  He no longer remembered the explosion of insight. He no longer even felt he’d forgotten something.

  He just knew he’d seen too much death in the past twelve hours.

  It was late. He was exhausted. For hours, he’d been driving around the Presidio, trying to find a way out of it and into S.F. proper. The decommissioned army base had only three or four exits and he hadn’t been able to get near any of them, there were so many accidents. The few cars he’d approached on foot had been either empty of people or full of horrible death. As darkness approached, the thought that more chaos waited outside the Presidio repelled him.

  He stopped and switched off the engine. Enough was enough.

  He sat in the darkness and listened to the light rainfall that had begun minutes before.

  The sound increased the eerie feeling of isolation. If he weren’t so tired, he thought, maybe he could figure out what had happened. He’d regained consciousness at the tollbooth of the bridge. He remembered seeing the unbelievable destruction all around him. He vaguely remembered holding his miniature tape recorder to his mouth and babbling into it. Since then, driving in circles, everything had become more confusing.

  He felt lonely and scared now, but he’d felt something else, earlier: an unusual aloofness, as though he hadn’t cared about all the dead people. Remnants of that bizarre detachment added confusion to his fear.

  Maybe, he thought, as exhaustion drew him toward sleep, all his grief had just gotten used up in the two months since his grandmother had died. On a wave of familiar sadness, he drifted to sleep.

  He woke to a face at his window.

  “Hey,” the man said. A perfect smile accompanied the greeting.

  Disoriented, Eli smiled back at the handsome face;

  green eyes with a slight upward tilt, a nose drawn with an artist’s pencil, a fine mouth, a strong chin, and smooth bronze skin. The man was obviously of mixed race, with tight curls of an oaky mocha color.

  Eli opened his door, stepped out into the morning, and offered his hand, which was taken in a firm clasp.

  “Eli.”

  “Josiah.”

  The intersection before them held four empty cars and a truck, hopelessly entangled. The face of the truck driver was visible, its gray-white color unearthly. Eli averted his eyes. “What the hell happened everywhere?”

  Josiah shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me. Last thing I remember, I hit a tree.” He rubbed the side of his head, where a headache was slowly blossoming. “I woke up maybe ten minutes ago and you’re the first person I’ve seen. The first live one, anyway.” He looked past the collision, at another wreck down the street.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Eli said, suddenly aware of the eerie silence. It was so quiet they might well have been standing in a mountain meadow.

  The steady rain of the night had ceased. The street onto which he’d been unable to turn was bordered by a guardrail, beyond which was a view to the northeast. Josiah walked to the guardrail.

  “It couldn’t have been an earthquake,” Eli said, following him. “I drove around for hours yesterday and didn’t see any damage to streets or houses.”

  At the rail, they gazed down the grassy slope it bordered, then out at the winding streets. In the distance, edging the bay, lay the main thoroughfare of the Marina District. The long strip of crushed and piled automobiles glittered under the brightening sun.

  Eli frowned. “I was at the bridge tollbooth, about to pay. I must have blacked out or something, I don’t really know. Jesus, maybe everyone blacked out at the same time; that would explain some of this. But how? Why?”

  Josiah shrugged. “Maybe terrorists hit us with some kind of nerve drug. Maybe a government experiment went wrong.”

  Eli glanced quickly at Josiah. He hated conspiracy theories and, by extension, conspiracy theorists, but he instinctively liked Josiah.

  He stared at the boulevard of smashed vehicles in the distance.

  “Think we can find a clear street out of here?”

  “There’s only three or four ways out of this place and my guess is they’re all jammed. Walking will be quicker. Once we get to the city streets, we’ll get a car.”

  “You mean, steal a car?”

  “Not if the owner’s alive. Something tells me there’s a lot of free used cars out there.”

  Eli squatted, rested his arms on the guardrail, and gazed out over the bay to the Golden Gate Bridge, that graceful structure that served such a useful purpose. He stared at it as if its familiarity could som
ehow erase the jarring strangeness of the day.

  He saw something drop from midspan of the bridge. He blinked, then tracked the form as it plunged to the ocean.

  With a wordless sound, he pointed at the bridge.

  Josiah turned and they watched as two more forms dropped, flailing for what seemed a long time, until they smashed into the cold water below.

  “Fuck me,” Josiah exclaimed.

  “What the—” Eli said.

  “Come on,” Josiah nudged him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I don’t get this. I don’t get it.” Hearing the tremor in his own voice, Eli clamped his lips shut, hard.

  “I know, man,” Josiah said. “Let’s go.”

  Eli nodded. He and a stranger had just inexorably linked their futures.

  Josiah stepped over the guardrail, but Eli asked him to wait. Darting back to his car, he reached in and grabbed the small tape recorder off the passenger seat. It was his last link to his grandmother.

  He didn’t know how many tapes he’d made for his grandmother during the last months of her life, filling microcassettes with banal chatter and amusing anecdotes. As soon as one tape was full, he’d mail it to the nursing home and begin another. The tapes filled the gaps between his weekly visits and gave continuity to the time they had together. After she’d died, he’d found himself unable to break the habit of speaking to her. He began thinking of the recordings as keeping an oral journal and was unaware of how much it had helped him through his period of mourning.

  Grabbing a packet of miniature blank tapes and a new pack of triple-A batteries from the glove box, he jogged back to Josiah.

  They half walked, half slid down the wet, grassy slope, then crossed the street at the bottom. Josiah, a pace or two ahead of Eli, moved effortlessly.

  “Hey, Josiah.”

  “Yo.”

  Eli hesitated, then admitted, “I’m scared shitless.”

  “Me, too.”

  Oddly, knowing that Josiah was also frightened comforted Eli. “I felt this really weird detachment, yesterday,” he ventured. “Did you feel that way?”

  “Maybe it’s a kind of shock,” said Josiah, evading admission. “All this is just too much to take in.” The truth was, detachment from emotion was part of Josiah’s life, a lesson learned in his early years on the streets. A gang member from the age of nine, he’d quickly learned to hide emotions, to ignore pain, and to understand that his survival depended upon appearing fearless. He relied only on himself. There had been no one else.

  They crossed a patch of soft, loamy soil between pine trees. Another street lay ahead of them and, beyond that, more urban forest. Eli wished the pain behind his forehead would go away, but said nothing as he tried to match the rhythm of Josiah’s boots.

  He bumped into Josiah, who’d abruptly stopped.

  Josiah, one eyebrow raised, said, “I’ve been thinking we ought to find some kind of tow truck. What we can’t ram out of our way, we can tow aside.”

  “Sounds good.” Eli looked curiously at his new friend.

  “What’s your mix, Josiah?”

  Josiah grinned. “Black, white, and yellow. I figure that makes me peachy. You?”

  “Vanilla and white. Very bland.”

  “Works for you,” Josiah’s grin widened.

  Eli waved a dismissive hand. “What do you do?” he asked. “I mean—before today?”

  Josiah hesitated, then said, “This and that.” He bit gently on his lower lip as he squinted at Eli.

  As the silence lengthened, Eli realized he’d have to give a little, first.

  “My grandmother raised me from a baby after my parents died.” He told Josiah about how close he’d been to his grandmother and how hard her recent death had been on him. “What about you?”

  Josiah stared at a patch of blue sky speared by treetops. “CeeCee—my mother—was a junkie,” he finally said.

  And then he told his story.

  Eli listened, concealing his wonder, biting back his questions, and began to understand what had led to Josiah’s obvious air of self-reliance.

  Later that night, Josiah walked calmly into a Clement Street Bank of America branch and robbed the abandoned place of four hundred thousand dollars, while Eli watched.

  CHAPTER 5

  DAY 2

  HURRYING TO HIS SEAT BEHIND THE ANCHOR DESK, James Walsh scanned the sheet of paper Phil had thrust at him. As he read, he thought, numbly, It’s all a bad joke, but knew it wasn’t. Boston was in shambles. Death, fires, chaos. No joke. Dropping the paper onto the news desk, he cracked his knuckles. Amy hated that sound. But Amy was dead.

  “Ready?” asked Phil over the sound system.

  James Walsh took a deep breath, nodded.

  There were three of them in the studio today; yesterday, there had been twenty. Phil was in the production booth and Carol was checking Camera One, in front of him. She held up three fingers, two, one, then pointed.

  He began reading, and for the first time in twenty years, did not look at the camera.

  “At 12:01 a.m., President Clayton Caldwell issued a declaration of martial law. All thoroughfares and transportation depots are now under federal jurisdiction. Every highway, freeway, street, and back road, all railway systems—tracks and stations—including subways, and all airports, harbors, and ports are now under martial law.

  “Anyone obstructing or damaging any of these facilities will face federal arrest.

  “Separately, President Caldwell has declared all power plants—nuclear, hydroelectric, wind, and solar—to be under federal jurisdiction. Secretary of Defense Joseph Dwight has stated, ‘Anyone found tampering with such will be shot.’

  “I’m James Walsh and this is WNN in Boston. Stay tuned for updates.”

  “We’re clear,” came Phil’s monotone.

  James Walsh’s shoulders slumped. He dropped the news sheet onto the desk, folded his arms atop it, and lay his head down on his arms. He closed his eyes.

  Laura woke suddenly, yesterday’s experience hurtling into her mind.

  She smiled. Blinking at the sunlight filtering through the gauze curtains of her bedroom window, she shifted her legs within the pocket of warmth beneath her comforter. She felt so good. Snuggling into the warmth, she smiled wider.

  Everyone had experienced it. She knew this with certainty. How different the world would be today. Joy bubbled through her and she laughed. Then laughed again at the sound of her laughter.

  Energized, she tossed aside her blanket and swung her feet to the floor. Still dressed in yesterday’s jeans and sweater, she congratulated herself on having at least removed her shoes before tumbling into bed.

  A muffled shout sounded outside her window. And another.

  Marveling that anyone could be doing anything on this glorious morning, other than basking in the afterglow of life-knowledge, she padded over to the window, pulled aside the gauzy curtains, and peered up the sloped street from her second-story window. Sudden alarm squeezed her muscles and replaced the joy.

  Three-quarters of the way up the block, a small Ford, driverless, was inching down the hill. In front of it, hands pressed on the grill, a slight woman braced against its motion, her body angled and feet slowly back-stepping. For an instant, Laura watched the woman lose ground. Her feet back pedaled faster, and Laura heard another muffled shout.

  Spinning around, Laura jammed her feet into her loafers and ran out of her apartment. Hurrying down the carpeted steps, she dashed through the lower lobby, flung open the heavy front door, and ran uphill toward the rolling car. The woman was losing ground quickly now, and it seemed any second she’d trip and be run over.

  “Let go,” Laura shouted as she ran. “Get out of the way!”

  Just as she reached the woman’s side, slapped her own hands against the car and leaned her body weight against it, she saw why the woman fought the losing battle. The car was not empty. Through the glare on the windshield, Laura saw a small child behind the wheel.


  Adrenaline surged. She bent her knees and pushed as hard as she could. Her loafers slipped, then regained traction. The hill was too steep. The old Ford rolled inexorably forward. Frantically, she considered kicking off her shoes, but there was no time between each backward step. She heard the woman’s breath rasping next to her.

  Faster, faster. Now almost running backward. The car angled to her left. Laura glanced over her shoulder. They were headed straight for a parked car.

  “Watch out!” she shouted. She let go, dove to the right, and broke her fall with her hands. Her palms skidded on the blacktop and she landed on her hip and forearm. Jerking to one side, she curled over in an instinctive cringe away from the crashing vehicle.

  She heard crunching metal and glass, a yell of pain, and a string of foul language. Twisting around, she saw the woman on the hood of the Ford, one leg trapped between it and the parked car.

  “My God.” Laura scrambled to her feet. The passenger door opened and the young child tumbled out. A blurred impression of brown hair, dark jacket, and jeans was all she got as the child fled up the hill.

  “Get back here, you little shit!” the woman yelled.

  Laura ran to her, expecting to see her badly hurt, and was relieved to see not pain but anger in the woman’s face. The Ford had hit the parked car at an angle and her booted foot was wedged between the bumpers.

  “If I ever catch that little—” The woman broke off and looked at Laura. “He’s not your kid, is he?”

  Laura shook her head. “Are you all right?” she asked. The woman was petite, about thirty years old, with short, dark-red curls and pale skin.

  “Except for the foot, yeah, I’m all right.” She tried to pull it free, and flinched. “Shit! I think my ankle’s broken. You happen to be a doctor?”

  “No, sorry,” Laura said. “Should I try to pull it out?”

  “Yes! I can’t even sit.”

  Laura tried to gently wiggle the boot free. The woman grunted but told her to keep trying. Laura grasped the top of the boot with one hand and the toe with the other.

  “Hold on,” she said, and yanked, ignoring the yell, then yanked again, successfully.