“Are you fucking brain dead or just an asshole?” Buck let his eyes bore into him.
Obviously, Buck had no place to go to, and no one waiting for him, and was too proud a man to admit he was lonely or afraid. Marty knew that, but his compassion couldn’t seem to get past his innate dislike of the man. Why couldn’t Marty admit to himself that he was overjoyed that Buck was alive That he was thankful he wouldn’t have to make the journey alone
“An asshole,” Marty conceded.
Buck just grunted, not the least bit mollified by Marty’s admission.
“Here’s my plan,” Marty said. “We’ll head south until we’re away from the worst of the flood damage, then work our way back northwest and take the Sepulveda Pass into the valley.”
Buck was still glaring at him. “What if you need some help lifting your house off your wife, did you think of that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Which means you’re brain dead and an asshole.” Buck walked off towards the stairwell.
Marty figured he deserved that. He put on the leather work gloves he stole from the grip truck, adjusted a dust mask over his nose and mouth, slipped his bulging gym bag on his back, and followed Buck into the stairwell.
8:04 a.m. Wednesday
The repulsive stench of decay in the stairwell was unbearable, but it was a rose garden compared to the street, which they could smell even as they wriggled down the fire hose from the first floor.
Bodies, and pieces of bodies, were strewn everywhere. Not just men, women and children either, but dogs, cats, horses, even birds. The corpses were all enmeshed in mountainous, decomposing tangles of rotting food, electric wires, slabs of concrete, clothing, motorcycles, and bus benches, among all the other things, large and small, that make up a city.
Marty and Buck had to wade, and climb, and crawl over it all, while trying not to see, breathe, or touch any of it out of the natural fear that death was contagious.
The two men weren’t alone on the streets. There were survivors rooting through the wreckage, desperately searching for lost loved ones, and the rescue workers helping them pick through the rubble, sharing their senseless hope for a miracle.
But Marty didn’t look at those people. He concentrated on just moving forward, distracting himself from the overpowering smell and the grotesque mosaic of violent death by thinking of Beth, of the life he was returning to, the life they had before their world changed.
I know it doesn’t make any sense. We’re both married, and we both love our spouses. But you can’t deny there’s something powerful between us.” Beth stood in front of him and took a step closer, moving into those few inches of space between two people reserved for lovers.
“I can,” Marty read the words in the script, he didn’t try acting them. He didn’t know how. It was one of the many reasons he felt awkward helping Beth rehearse.
“Bullshit,” Beth said. “Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t want to kiss me.”
“I don’t want to kiss you.”
She took another step closer. “Tell me you don’t want to hold me.”
“I don’t want to hold you.”
She came even closer, their bodies nearly touching. “Then what do you want?”
Marty looked down at the pages in his hand, embarrassed that it was shaking, and read aloud: “Logan suddenly grabs her shirt and rips it open, buttons flying, and buries his face hungrily between her breasts in a lust- driven frenzy.”
“Do it,” she said huskily, staying in character.
“What?”
“Do it.”
He dropped the script on the floor, grabbed the front of her shirt, and tried to rip it open, but the damn buttons wouldn’t tear off. He yanked again. And again. Beth began to laugh, and so did Marty.
“What did you do,” Marty asked, grinning, “weld these buttons on”
“Weakling,” she teased.
“Okay, Wonder Woman, you try it.”
Beth pushed his hands away and tried to rip open her shirt herself. The buttons wouldn’t tear for her either, which only made it funnier. Neither one of them could stop laughing.
“Maybe if I undid a couple buttons,” she untucked her blouse and opened a few buttons at the top, revealing a hint of cleavage. “Try again.”
Marty slipped his fingers between the buttons, made sure he was holding tight, and pulled as hard as he could. One, lousy button came off, the others held fast. The two of them erupted into laughter again, leaning against one another in a clumsy embrace.
“I bet Lorenzo Lamas isn’t going to have a problem doing it,” she said.
“Fuck him.” Marty replied.
“I will,” Beth smiled mischievously.
“Oh yeah?” Marty grabbed her by the front of her blouse and yanked, ripping it wide open. She drew his face to her breasts and kissed the top of his head, running her fingers through his hair.
“You’re just like an actor, Marty. All you need is the right motivation.”
CHAPTER TEN
10:20 a.m. Wednesday
Marty’s feet were killing him. He’d been walking on blisters all morning, and it was only getting worse. It was hard enough working his way through rubble, but now slogging through the muck, each step was like pulling his feet out of a bucket of moist chewing gum.
Marty and Buck had worked their way south down Vine to Melrose Avenue, where the flood seemed to have lost most of its destructive force, and were taking the street west towards Beverly Hills. Melrose Avenue was a literal dividing line between poverty and wealth, the grime of Hollywood and the grace of Hancock Park. The north side of Melrose was lined with run-down apartments, car repair garages, pawn shops, and a Ralph’s Supermarket that was surrounded by a white, wrought-iron fence and guarded by armed security personnel. Across the street, estate homes and elegant condominiums abutted the tip of the exclusive Wilshire Country Club Golf Course, hiding the perfect green grass from passing cars.
Those class differences were irrelevant now. Both sides of the street here were in ruins, the rich and the poor, identically swathed in blood and despair, huddled miserably together on the streets, the front lawns, and the parking lots, tending their wounds and waiting for the ground to stop shaking.
Over the last hour, several small aftershocks rippled through the ground, reminding Marty and everyone else the earth wasn’t finished with them yet, widening cracks, toppling lopsided homes and slanted buildings, breaking what little glass hadn’t broken yet.
It had been over twenty-four hours since the Big One, and in that time, Marty didn’t feel he’d gone very far in distance and yet, at the same time, knew he’d traveled a long way from where he’d been before. It wasn’t only his reflection in the shattered mirror that made him think that.
For one thing, Marty realized he was a stronger, more capable man than he ever thought he was. He’d rescued a child, survived a flood, and waded through an unspeakable landscape of death. He never would have imagined he could do one of those things, let alone all three. And, at the same time, Marty was ashamed to find depths of weakness and cowardice within himself he never suspected were there. He did nothing for Molly, leaving her to die, and would have done the same for Franklin, if Buck hadn’t forced him into pulling off a rescue. Somehow, the cowardice wasn’t nearly as unexpected as the heroism and endurance.
As much as Marty disliked Buck, he couldn’t deny that somehow this one-dimensional TV character, this
