To the Vanishing Point

16

It was midday when he left Sepulveda for the Peninsula road. How reassuring to see the Pacific once more, an endless expanse of steel-gray water stretching toward Asia. They cruised past the neighborhood shopping center, its tile roofs sweating in the sun. Malaga Cove was crowded with surfers. Then up into the Palos Verdes hills.

The openers for the electric gate that guarded the driveway were in the family cars. Frank had to exit the motor home and activate the iron barrier with a key.

"Quite a place you got here," Burnfingers observed approvingly as they drove toward the house.

"Couple acres." Frank was unduly modest. "I do pretty good. Work for it."

Flucca stood by a window. "This is what it looks like on my reality line. The architecture’s different. I wonder what other realities are like? Maybe there are gardens full of unicorns and griffins."

"Or like the old days when antelope and deer roamed the hills, unrestrained by fences, uncounted by game wardens." Burnfingers bent to survey the well-tended grounds that formed a green California necklace around the single-story house. "Where men counted coup with clubs instead of H-bombs. Do you know, little singer, where you are now?"

Mouse shook her head. "I’ve never been here before. It lies on a path I must take for the first time."

It was a rambling ranch-style structure. Lawn, bushes, and flowerbeds had all been recently trimmed. That meant the gardeners had been here within the past couple of days. They had only cutworms and beetles to battle, he mused. Hibiscus and geranium bloomed profusely. Iceplant turned one steep hillside facing the ocean a bright pink. It was all soothing and relaxing. He discovered he was looking forward to getting back to work with messianic intensity.

Sara wasn’t inside. The maid usually left after lunch. Alicia insisted on taking care of her home to the full extent of her abilities, hence they engaged only part-time help. It was just as well. Sara would have been surprised to see them back home so far ahead of schedule.

Frank set the brake, then joined the others in front of the main entrance. Burnfingers was eyeing the still-open gate.

"I expect I will be on my way now."

"Nonsense! You come right inside and rest." Alicia took his arm. "You too, Mr. Flucca. I promised I’d call some people on your behalf and I’m going to do exactly that, just as soon as we’ve all settled down a little."

"Just show me the kitchen." Flucca was rubbing his hands together in expectation. "It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to cook with proper utensils I’m afraid I may have forgotten how. Leave dinner to me."

Mouse was gathering her dress around her, tightening the silken folds. "And I must be on my way. My time is no less precious here than elsewhere."

"You’ll make better time if you have a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the morning." Frank knew that tone. His wife would not be denied. "We’ll pay your plane fare if necessary."

"You forget. I cannot travel by plane."

"Oh? Do planes upset you?"

"No." She smiled. "Something about me tends to upset planes. I must continue on the ground. Still, you are right. A meal and a shower would be refreshing and speed me on my way. I am more confident now. The Vanishing Point cannot be far. I have managed to turn time and place back upon themselves. I am near enough to sense the Spinner’s presence now. Its agitation increases, but if I am not challenged or delayed further I believe I’ll be in time to do the necessary work."

"Then it’s settled." Alicia was pleased. "We have guests."

Recently scrubbed and polished by Sara, the house smelled faintly of lemon oil and disinfectant. Wendy vanished into her room while Alicia and Flucca headed for the kitchen. Frank was giving Mouse and Burnfingers Begay a tour of the house when the tall man spotted the big swimming pool out back.

"A swim and a bath." He sighed appreciatively. "Those are two things I badly need. You will have to excuse me from the rest of your tour."

Frank had a moment of uncertainty over the "bath" part, then was deriding himself for his hesitation. If Burnfingers wanted to take a bath in the pool, or go swimming in the tub, or set fire to the furniture, he’d more than earned the right to do so.

He did not expect, when he returned from changing into clean clothes, to see the Indian and Mouse floating side by side in the shallow end of the pool, completely naked. Wendy was still in her room while Alicia was helping Flucca make dinner. So there was no one to prevent Frank from standing in the hall and staring as Mouse emerged from the water. He half expected to see tiny wings attached to her shoulders, but her body was perfect. Not a blemish or wrinkle marred her sleek torso. In pretty good shape for someone thousands of years old, he told himself. He was unaware of the grin that had spread across his face.

He watched motionless for a long time, drinking in the sight of her as she dried herself. Once he found himself wishing he was ten years younger. It took a moment to remember who and where he was, and what he was not. Then he headed for his office, a converted bedroom at the back of the house.

It required him to pass his son’s room. The door was shut. Frank found himself slowing, forced himself to hurry past. Concentrating on making it back to Los Angeles had helped him to forget a little. Now that he was safely home, emotions forcibly shunted aside returned in a rush.

Alicia had kept her composure by making constant small talk and by avoiding this part of the house. As for himself, despite a strong constitution, he knew that if he opened that door and saw the model spaceships dangling from the ceiling, the nature posters and charts on the walls, and the small but carefully labeled rock collection that filled its own bookcase, he’d lose control. So he didn’t slow down until he’d reached his office.

His desk was spotless, surrounded by work. Piles of paper and magazine articles were neatly arrayed on the carpet. Frank had a perverse fondness for using his desk as a place to rest his feet and the floor as a desk.

Slumping gratefully into the high-backed leather executive chair, he hit the first button on the telephone, waited impatiently for the autodialer to connect him to his company vice president’s private receiver. There was a click. The familiar, lightly accented voice that spoke sounded bored.

"Yes."

"'Morning, Carlos."

The voice turned instantly attentive. "Frank? Where the hell are you, man?"

"Home." He sighed deeply, aware that the speakerphone would pick it up as clearly as any word.

"What do you mean, home? I thought you’d be spread out by the pool by now, with a cool drink in one hand and some dark shades so you could watch the muchachas parading by without Alicia noticing."

"It just didn’t work out. Comprende? Anyway, I’m home."

"Not much of a vacation, boss."

No, it wasn’t, Frank thought to himself. You’ll never know the half of it, my friend. Aloud he said, "How’s business?"

"You haven’t been gone long enough for any crises to develop. Everything’s under control."

"I know that. You run the outfit better than I do, anyway."

Carlos voiced a polite protest while Frank continued to praise him. It was an old game the two men played, and a comforting one. They’d been friends for nearly two decades. Carlos was one of the first men Frank had ever hired. Together they’d filled the back of a rented truck and gone door-to-door peddling aluminum baseball bats and used mitts and uniforms to city parks, Lions Clubs, and Little Leagues.

"Gimme a quick rundown anyway."

Carlos proceeded to do so, efficiently and without hesitation. As Frank suspected, there was nothing requiring his attention. He thought a moment, then straightened in the chair.

"I’m comin' in for an hour or two anyway."

"Bien. Should I warn people?"

"Naw. Surprise inspections ain’t my style. I’m not looking to catch anybody out."

"I know. Hey, I may not be around when you arrive. I’ve got an appointment with a Voit rep downtown. Some problems with restocking. You remember? They want to double a few prices."

"Yeah, I remember. Go ahead."

"We’re doing lunch." Carlos sounded uncertain. "I can cancel out if you need me."

"No sweat. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, sure. Hey, Frank, you sure everything’s okay?"

"You bet. We just decided to skip Vegas this year."

"Your choice, not mine."

The phone clicked and the speakerphone whined over the loss of signal. Frank silenced it, then leaned back in the chair. The surroundings didn’t prevent him from thinking of his son. Maybe Mouse would come across him in her journeying and send him home, or maybe he’d return on his own. From wherever it was he’d got to.

Feeling almost human again he returned to the kitchen. Burnfingers and Mouse still drifted in the pool. The insistent chirp of an electronic keyboard emanated from behind the door to his daughter’s room.

Alicia and Flucca were filling the kitchen counter with dishes, utensils, and spice bottles. Flucca stood on a step, mincing vegetables. Oil simmered in a pan on the stove. His wife was hacking at a huge block of frozen hamburger.

"Just called the office."

"That’s good, dear. Everything okay?" There was just the slightest edge in her voice.

"A-okay. I’m gonna drive in for a bit."

That made her turn, putting the meat aside. "Oh, Frank, we just got back."

"It’s something I want to do. Maybe I’m not sure we’re back yet. I just want to check in, look around." He smiled. "Won’t be gone long. You’ll be all right." His arms went around her waist. "Burnfingers Begay is still here, and Mouse."

She finally managed a nod. "Niccolo, too. I guess I’ll be okay. Why shouldn’t I be? We’re home."

He made a show of inhaling deeply. "Mmmmm. Guarantee you I’ll be back in time for supper."

"You better be, Mr. Sonderberg, or I’ll be damnably disappointed." Flucca waved a butcher knife at him.

As he left the kitchen for the garage, Frank was humming to himself. The Jaguar started cleanly and he didn’t give it much time to warm up, pulling straight out onto the driveway past the motor home. Habit made sure he shut the electric gate behind him.

There was little traffic on the Peninsula drive. At the base of the palisades he could see surfers and tanners intersecting at the waterline. Not much surf today but plenty of sun. Like everyone else in Southern California he’d dreamed of riding the waves. Never tried it, though. As a kid he’d considered roller skates an invention of the devil. He was not now nor had he ever been built for any kind of athletics. Maybe that was what had driven him to enter the sporting goods business. Ironic, like so much of his life.

He cut away from the beach, taking a main surface street and avoiding the freeway. Today the parade of fast food restaurants, discount stores, gas stations, and shopping centers was anything but boring. His company leased the top third of a twelve-story glass-sided office building in downtown Long Beach. More impressive offices were to be had in West Los Angeles or along Wilshire, but the tax situation was better in Long Beach, it was closer to where he wanted to live, and this way he could personally inspect every shipment that arrived from overseas. Besides, he liked the smell of the sea. From his top-floor office he could just see the big container ships entering and leaving the harbor.

A card raised the gate that barred entrance to the underground parking garage. He found his space and backed in. The elevator lifted him to twelve and he exited onto thick carpet. The receptionist greeted him in surprise. Everyone knew the big boss was off on vacation. All she could manage was a startled, "Welcome back, Mr. Sonderberg."

"Thanks, Ellen." He prided himself on knowing the first names of as many of his employees as possible, from executive on down to the boys in the mailroom.

He strode past her into the administrative offices, drawing a few startled glances from behind computers and desks. No one said anything. If the president of the company wanted conversation he’d let them know.

His own office was situated in the back of the building, with a fine view of city and harbor. His long-time secretary wasn’t at her desk, though it showed signs of recent occupation. In the ladies' room or on afternoon break, he told himself. No matter.

His office was as he’d left it a few days earlier. Once seated behind the big desk, he flicked his own terminal on, calling up facts and figures and spreadsheets to review what had taken place in his absence. There was very little, just as Carlos had told him. He was relieved to see that nothing untoward had occurred in this reality while he’d been racing wildly through several others. Figures were constants everywhere. They never panicked the way people did.

The refrigerator beneath the bar yielded a cold seltzer. As he sipped straight from the bottle the intercom buzzed for attention.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Sonderberg? What are you doing back?"

"It’s okay, Nina. We cut it a little short."

"I’m sorry, sir." His secretary’s voice sounded slightly hollow over the intercom’s speakerphone. "You were so looking forward to it."

"We just decided we’d be better off taking it easy at home. Is there anything I should look at while I’m here? I’m going back home in a few minutes."

"Well — there are some papers…" She rattled off a string of comfortingly familiar names.

"Bring 'em in." As long as he was in the office he might as well do some work. Alicia often told him it was impossible for him to relax anymore, that he’d forgotten how to take it easy. Her scolding troubled him because he knew she was right, but when you’re running a business with thousands of employees and millions in daily transactions you just can’t write it out of your thoughts.

Another ten years and he’d retire, quit with more money that he’d ever be able to spend. Then maybe they’d take that round-the-world cruise Alicia was always talking about. He’d show her how to relax!

Nina entered, a sheaf of paper in one hand. She was every inch the model executive secretary, confident enough in her ability to let her hair turn gray where the auburn was beginning to age. She wore a brown business suit, a white ruffled blouse, and another of those antique brooches she collected.

"I can’t say that I’m sorry to see you back, sir."

"Don’t give it another thought, Nina. We just cut everything short."

"I’m sure I don’t know why, but that’s your business, of course." She laid the papers on the table before him.

He was still studying the readout on the amber screen. Not wanting her to think he was ignoring her, he looked up to give her a parting smile.

And froze.

Every drop of blood in his body went as cold as the ice piled inside the executive bar. His secretary of nine years smiled back at him. Nina, Mrs. Defly, his efficient intermediary between this office and the cacophony of the outside world, smiled back at him.

Her eyes were lizardlike slits set against light red pupils.

"I have to go downstairs for a minute, Mr. Sonderberg. I’ll be back soon if you need me." She hissed distinctly and a long, thin tongue emerged briefly from between her lips. It was at least eight inches long and forked at the tip.

Frank stared at the door after she’d exited, unable to move, cold sweat gluing his shirt to his back. He’d seen it, no doubt about it. By now he was an expert on the difference between what was real and what imaginary. He told himself it was a freak moment, a tiny final nick in the fabric of existence and nothing more.

Slowly, very slowly, he swiveled his chair and stared out the tall glass windows. Had it grown darker outside since last he’d looked? Difficult to say since the tinted glass deliberately muted the sometimes harsh Southern California sun. Was it muting reality, as well?

It still looked abnormally dark outside. The sky was cloudless. He turned resolutely back to the computer screen.

Gone were the neat rows of words and figures, the reports from cities with difficult diphthongs in their names, the charts and graphs. The amber screen was filled with crawling things. They looked like little green bugs and they were cannibalizing themselves.

He did not think of madness. He did not think of insects. Chaos, he thought.

With both hands on the edge of the desk he shoved his chair away. Tiny yellow squirmy shapes were emerging from the screen, which flowed like amber gelatin. They humped and twisted around the edges of the plastic. Handfuls of them spilled onto his desk, began gnawing at the wood and plastic. Bright yellow worms burrowed rapidly into the structure.

The bottom of the computer cracked open and the machine fell on its side. Smoke began to rise from the jump cables in back. Frank threw up his hands to shield his face as the electronic innards blew.

When he looked back there was only a plastic box with a gaping hole where the screen had been. Black smoke and yellow worms poured out of the opening. Keeping a wary eye on the ravenous burrowers, he abandoned the chair and moved to the far wall where the auxiliary phone was mounted. It was definitely too dark outside now. He punched in the number for building security.

Laughter instead of the musical acknowledgment of Touch-Tone dialing filled his ear. It was inhuman and insane. Then a click followed by a recording of a female voice:

"When you hear the tone, the world will have come to an end."

More laughter. He dropped the receiver, letting it bounce against the wall. Red worms began oozing from the handset and smoke from the housing.

"It’s here," he mumbled dazedly to himself. "In Los Angeles. The Anarchis."

Maybe not. Maybe it was just the turn of this reality to come apart as the threads of its existence started to unravel. His reality was twisting, snapping all around him. He fancied he could hear it groan. Screams and shouts and other less pleasant, less human voices were coming from the outer offices. He ran to the door and flung it wide.

Madness had advanced further and faster here. High-pitched yowls and inhuman gruntings rose above the noise of broken terminals and whining phones. Overwhelmed ceiling sprinklers deluged the whole floor with tepid water.

The inhabitants of the building were no longer recognizable. Some had grown enormous chests or bellies and had split their clothing. Others sported horns or long curving fangs protruding from prognathous jaws. Very few looked passably human.

They were doing battle with one another and with the machines. Guts and intestines exploded from computer terminals. Wires and conduits flailed wildly, searching for something soft to grasp, suckers pimpling their formerly smooth surfaces. Blood and black slime covered the floor, making footing uncertain as he stumbled blankly toward the hallway.

Two abominations that had once been human crashed past him, locked in each other’s grasp, tearing and ripping. They snapped at each other with sharp teeth an inch long.

Frank had to duck behind a still-intact desk as they tumbled by, torn by their own frantic, demonic energy. He didn’t see the ugly yellow eye staring at him. Once it had been the innocuous faceplate of a calculator readout. Now it turned with a malevolent sentience. Black, rubbery conduits rose and reached for him. He sensed movement and threw himself aside as they smashed the desk to splinters in a violent, spasmodic attempt to clutch and rend.

He crawled the rest of the way, trying to hug the wall, barely thinking but knowing that he had to get out, get away. There was no sign of Nina Defly, or anyone else he might recognize. They were taken, transformed, damned.

He rose to his feet and staggered out into the hallway. It was a little quieter beyond the offices. The nightmarish conflagration had not yet spilled this far. The receptionist’s desk was a shambles. Gasping for air he leaned on the wood for support.

"Ellen? Ellen, you back there?" He looked toward the overturned chair.

A blue-green snake as big around as a man’s thigh looked out from its coils and prepared to strike. He screamed and stumbled backward. The head rose on its muscular neck to stare back at him. It was of undeniably feminine cast. One hiss, a single flick of the long tongue, and it struck.

He threw himself toward the elevator and the gaping jaws missed. A hand slapped wildly at the call button set in the wall. Again the monster struck. Frank rolled and the fangs bounced off the steel doors. He could hear the cables rattling in the elevator shaft and prayed the cab was only a floor or two away.

He nearly threw himself inside when the doors parted and just barely caught himself in time. If it hadn’t been for the soft, chuckling growl he wouldn’t have hesitated.

In place of the empty elevator cab was a huge, rectangular mouth, all soft and pulsing wet. Scimitarlike teeth lined a dark narrow throat leading to unimaginable death. The elevator roared and reached for him. As he turned, a tooth the size of a gallon bucket caught his sleeve. He felt himself being dragged downward. Fear lent strength to his legs as he fought for purchase on the slick hall carpet. As his shirt tore free, the sliding jaws of the elevator slammed shut like a couple of compact cars meeting head on.

At the same time, the snake-thing was striking anew. It shot past Frank’s head and turned, only to shriek once as the elevator jaws caught it behind the skull and bit through. Headless coils lashed the walls with frightening energy.

Frank flung aside the door that led to the emergency stairwell and paused at the top of the steps. Below lay only concrete stairs and an iron railing painted bright yellow. He plunged down, taking two steps at a stride. Once he stumbled badly, feared he might have broken an ankle. It was only a cramp. Struggling erect, he braced himself against the railing as he continued his mad descent, checking each new level carefully before hurrying on.

When he reached the fire door that opened onto the second floor, he stopped. Horrible noises came from the other side and blood began to ooze beneath the barrier. It poured across the landing and down the stairs in a crimson flood. Taking a deep breath, he cleared the landing in a single bound. Nothing burst in upon him.

He reached the bottom, ripped open the door that led to the main lobby. Blood flew from the soles of his shoes as he stumbled out into the well-lit atrium. The security guard wasn’t at his circular station. In his place was a writhing silicon hydra. Each head consisted of a dislodged security video terminal. They wove hypnotically at the ends of heavy-duty cables like parts of some berserk alien anemone.

Every one of the decorative plants, which had adorned the lobby, had sprouted teeth and claws. Roots erupted from constraining pots and planters as palms and ferns dragged themselves across the floor to rip and rend their neighbors. Two of the security-terminal hydra’s cable-tentacles clutched pistols, which had belonged to building security. Frank winced as he heard one go off, saw the bullet score the marble pavement off to his right. He expected more shots, but none were forthcoming. Evidently the monstrosity had emptied the magazines of both guns prior to his arrival.

Frustrated, it threw the empty guns at him. One struck him in the ribs, making him ache in pain. The movement carried him close to a palm with bladelike leaves. It swiped at his neck, just missing the jugular.

He ran the feral floral gauntlet all the way to the main exit and reached for the gleaming brass handle. Tendrils clutched at his legs. They lined a glistening green-black maw that made sucking movements in his direction like some perverted flesh-eating gourami. Before they could reach him, he yanked the door open and stumbled out into the dim, unwholesome daylight.

It was worse outside the building. Smoke and flame billowed unrestrained from several structures across the street. Living things leaped or were thrown from shattered windows. A confusing metallic pileup jammed the center of Beach Boulevard. Some of the broken, crumpled vehicles had undergone the same hellish change as his employees. Steel and aluminum hulks crawled about on flexible tires or rubbery, uncertain legs, chewing and tearing at anything within reach. Gasoline and diesel mixed with blood in the gutters.

As he looked on dazedly, half a dozen newly sentient automobiles pawed the remains of what had been a big tractor-trailer rig. Now it more closely resembled a beached humpback whale being torn to shreds by a pack of killer whales. The rig moaned in agony — a chilling, grating, mechanical cry. Frank turned away, his stomach churning.

The street was full of mangled, broken bodies, some of which were still recognizable as human. Others were bloated or distorted like the raging occupants of his own building. While he stood staring, a man and woman tried to cross the street, angling for the safety of an alley. They were instantly run down by a car whose wheels were still round, but whose headlights and grille had been transformed into a cold inanimate face. Both hapless pedestrians went flying. They bounced off the pavement and lay motionless. As Frank looked on in horror, the car-creature ran over them repeatedly, until little remained save darker stains on an already mottled street.

An iron juggernaut came clanking around a far corner. It was green with black stripes and spots. Originally it had been a skiploader. Now it was crunching the sidewalk across from him, sucking up people and smaller mobile machines with a forty-foot-long tongue, drawing them into a mouth the size of a sports car. A broken fire hydrant spewed blood skyward. Drops of it coated Frank’s face and shoulders. The horrid downpour did not stir him because he was already in shock.

Blood ran in a steady stream down the gutter, to vanish into the nearest storm drain. Not all of it was red. Green and orange fluids completed the viscous torrent. The stench of death and burning flesh was worse than any of the sights, overwhelming his senses and threatening to make him faint.

This is it, then, he thought numbly. The End. What happens to reality when the fabric of it finally unravels. Reason was giving way to madness.

Bodies and structures continued to metastasize as he stood there, machines and people changing into ever more grotesque forms. Long Beach Boulevard was now a painting by Bosch, a Claymation film gone insane, with smells and sounds to match.

Halfway up the street a car that was still a car stood parked at the curb. He made for it like a drowning man for a life preserver. It was unlocked, but the ignition was empty. Could he jump the wires? He’d seen it done dozens of times on TV, but he’d never tried it himself. He plunged inside. As he slammed the door behind him, something landed on the hood.

Its pupilless eyes glowed bright orange. Once it might have been a big, friendly dog: a Dane or a Saint Bernard. Now it was a fanged skull fronting a horribly emaciated body. It tried to howl but managed only a feeble choking sound as it dug at the window with stubby, broken claws. Teeth broke and bled as it tried to bite through the safety glass.

Frank tried to ignore the thing as he bent beneath the steering column. A tangle of wires swam into view. They were all color-coded, but which ran to the ignition? Using the tiny pocketknife attached to his key chain, he cut through the whole bundle, praying he wouldn’t get shocked. Above and outside the car something moaned.

So far he’d been too busy and too stunned to wonder what might be happening up on the Peninsula, what Alicia and Wendy might be going through. Maybe, he told himself desperately, the unraveling was localized. Maybe up in the hills overlooking the ocean everything was still normal and undisturbed. Could he drive out of this maelstrom of madness even as they’d driven out of other distorted realities in the motor home?

He couldn’t go anywhere unless he managed to start this car.

The dog-thing had vanished with a yelp as something larger and more vicious had carried it off. It was better without the moaning. Frank started crossing wires. Once a spark stung his cheek, but the engine remained silent.

Then the front door was torn from its hinges.

He scrabbled against the floor and seat, kicking away from the steering column as something like an immense black slug peered in at him. It had arms like licorice cables. Ropy fingers grabbed his left foot and started pulling him out of the car. He heard himself screaming. As his hips slid over the doorway he threw both arms around the steering column and tried to pretend they were made of the same Detroit steel.

He could feel his arms being slowly pulled from their sockets. Then the awesome grip on his ankle relaxed. Sobbing from the pain, he loosened his convulsive lock on the steering column and turned onto his back.

The shuddering, sluglike mass was quivering in pain. Steam rose from the curve of its bulk. Frank managed to sit up and look out. The boulevard was full of running water. It mixed with the blood and gore briefly before sweeping it away. The rising torrent was rushing up the street from the south. Frank didn’t have to taste it to know it was saltwater. Sea water. It ran two inches deep and rose as he watched. That’s when he sensed the subtle but steady trembling in the earth.

The land was subsiding, the sea invading a sinking reality. Practically every building still standing was smoking or on fire. The bank across the street shuddered and collapsed, dumping tons of concrete, steel, and glass into the ravaged boulevard. At first he thought the subsidence was the cause, but it might as easily have been a change in the reality of the structure itself.

He bent to work on the wires again and this time was rewarded with a rumble as well as a flash. As he rose, he hit the accelerator with his right hand. The motor raced encouragingly. Settling himself behind the wheel he put the car in gear, pulled out into the street. The undercarriage cleared the rising water, but not by much.

Up to Anaheim Boulevard where he turned left, not trusting the lower lying Pacific Coast Highway, which might by now be completely inundated. Water invaded storefronts and homes all around him. He peered grimly over the wheel. If the car held together, in ten minutes he’d be climbing the Peninsula. His home stood several hundred feet above sea level.

So intent was he on watching the rising water and the flooding of the city that he didn’t see the truck until it slammed into him. They struck at an angle, which sent him spinning two full circles before he came to a halt. Blood trickled from his lip where he’d bit himself. Worse, the front of his vehicle was smashed in. Smoke rose from the engine compartment. When he tried to restart, all his desperate efforts generated was a feeble squeal from the alternator.

The truck had come to a stop nearby. A delivery vehicle of medium size, it had been only slightly damaged by the collision. The Ford emblem on its hood hung askew and there was a long gash on its flank, but otherwise it looked functional.

He stumbled outside and straightened — only to find himself confronted by the truck’s occupants. They all wore fancifully decorated uniforms, probably scavenged from some deserted surplus store. Braid and medals and ribbons hung from sleeves and pants legs as well as chests. Some of them were remotely human, but most had metamorphosed completely. Angry animal and mutant faces glared at him. Every one of them carried a club or worse.

A couple grunted to each other as they stood regarding him, grinning nastily. Looking left and right he saw he was almost surrounded. So he jumped on the hood of the broken car and made a break for the only gap in their ranks. As he cleared the roof something struck him painfully in the ribs.

He landed hard in the water-filled street, tried to rise but got no farther than his knees. Inhuman chuckling and laughter came close. With a sob he sat up and clutched his throbbing side, knowing it was all over, finished, done for. No mistake about it this time. He tried to cushion himself with warm memories of his family, especially of Steven. Around him, only the ocean was unchanged. He inhaled the salt air, thankful his last sensation would be a sane one.

They closed in around him, laughing no longer, seriously discussing his demise. He saw each weapon as an individual instrument of death. Cold gray blurs rose over him. Maybe he’d be lucky after all, he thought. Maybe the first blow would be a killing one. The idea of a prolonged beating or dismemberment discomfited him. Closing his eyes tight, he waited for the pain.

Thunder rolled down the street, making him open his eyes and jerk in its direction. He didn’t recall seeing a gun in the hands of any of his assailants.

It was such a friendly, natural sound, pure and clean in the smoky air, unaffected by madness and death. As he sat dumbly with the saltwater burning his skin, it echoed a second time. The creature preparing to smash his brains out, which looked like a cross between an ape and a Chinese warlord, spread its arms wide as it was knocked backward. The right side of its skull vanished, blown to bits like a Christmas pinyata. The sight did not sicken Frank. He’d seen much worse in the previous half hour.

A third boom was chased by a couple of sharp pops from a smaller caliber weapon. The cordite conversation continued until the last of his tormentors had fled or been flattened. Still clutching his injured rib, Frank gazed in disbelief at the inhuman corpses surrounding him.

The survivors piled frantically into their truck. A ratcheting noise came from the half-stripped transmission as it spun its wheels in the water before rumbling off in the direction of burning downtown Long Beach. Frank followed it with his eyes until he was sure it wasn’t coming back. He tried to stand, failed, sitting down hard in the bloody water.

Take it easy, he told himself. Whoever it is, if they want you, they’ll get you.

Saltwater, blood, and tears blurred Frank’s vision, but he was able to isolate two figures hurrying toward him. Two beasts lucky enough to have found working weapons had slaughtered his attackers. Now they were coming to claim their kill. Doubtless they’d kill him as well, when it suited them. They were only two. Maybe he could get away. With so many bodies to gather maybe they wouldn’t waste a precious bullet on one more.

He struggled erect, turned, and tried to limp in the direction the fleeing truck had taken. He thought he heard a final shot but couldn’t be sure as his legs gave way beneath him, sending him tumbling again into the shallow water. It was a good six inches deep now, he mused. The whole of Los Angeles/Long Beach Harbor would be submerged.

It was a good final thought to cling to: the unaltered sea rising to reclaim the land. The water would drown the abominations that now inhabited it, put out the fires that tormented the ruined buildings. Too bad he wasn’t up on the Peninsula. From the palisades he would be able to watch it all with his family.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him. He expected to see the muzzle of a gun and wasn’t disappointed. But the tunnellike barrel of the big pistol wasn’t aimed at him.

"Man, I was afraid we would never find you. You have got balls, and they are not all on the shelves of your stores."

Somehow Frank managed to grin through the pain. "Hi, Burnfingers. Looking for a job already?"