“Oldest, hell,” Zahra said, laughing. “You’re both babies out here.”
And that wasn’t offensive, somehow. Perhaps because it was true. “I’m inexperienced,” I admitted.
“But I can learn. You’re going to be one of my teachers.”
“One?” she said. “Who have you got but me?”
“Everyone.”
She looked scornful. “No one.”
“Everyone who’s surviving out here knows things that I need to know,” I said. “I’ll watch them, I’ll listen to them, I’ll learn from them. If I don’t, I’ll be killed.
And like I said, I intend to survive.”
“They’ll sell you a bowl of shit,” she said.
I nodded. “I know. But I’ll buy as few of those as possible.”
She looked at me for a long time, then sighed. “I wish I’d known you better before all this happened,”
she said. “You’re a weird preacher’s kid. If you still want to play man, I’ll cut your hair for you.”
I took my many purchases out to what was once the ground floor of a parking structure, and was now a kind of semi-enclosed flea market. Many of the things dug out of ash heaps and landfills wind up for sale here. The rule is that if you buy something in the store, you can sell something of similar value in the structure. Your receipt, coded and dated, is your peddler’s license.
The structure was patrolled, though more to check these licenses than to keep anyone safe. Still, the structure was safer than the street.
I found Harry and Zahra sitting on our bundles, Harry
waiting to go into the store, and Zahra waiting for her license. They had put their backs against a wall of the store at a spot away from the street and away from the biggest crowd of buyers and sellers. I gave Zahra the receipt and began to separate and pack our new supplies. We would leave as soon as Zahra and Harry finished their buying and selling.
We walked down to the freeway— the 118— and turned west. We would take the 118 to the 23 and the 23 to U.S. 101. The 101 would take us up the coast toward Oregon. We became part of a broad river of people walking west on the freeway. Only a few straggled east against the current— east toward the mountains and the desert. Where were the westward walkers going? To something, or just away from here?
We saw a few trucks— most of them run at night-swarms of bikes or electric cycles, and two cars. All these had plenty of room to speed along the outer lanes past us. We’re safer if we keep to the left lanes away from the on and off ramps. It’s against the law in California to walk on the freeways, but the law is archaic. Everyone who walks walks on the freeways sooner or later. Freeways provide the most direct routes between cities and parts of cities. Dad walked or bicycled on them often. Some prostitutes and peddlers of food, water, and other necessities live along the freeways in sheds or shacks or in the open air. Beggars, thieves, and murderers live here, too.
But I’ve never walked a freeway before today. I found the experience both fascinating and frightening. In some ways, the scene reminded me of an old film I saw once of a street in mid-twentieth-century China— walkers, bicyclers, people carrying, pulling, pushing loads of all kinds.
But the freeway crowd is a heterogeneous mass-black and white, Asian and Latin, whole families are on the move with babies on backs or perched atop loads in carts, wagons or bicycle baskets, sometimes along with an old or handicapped person.
Other old, ill, or handicapped people hobbled along as best they could with the help of sticks or fitter companions. Many were armed with sheathed knives, rifles, and, of course, visible, holstered handguns. The occasional passing cop paid no attention.
Children cried, played, squatted, did everything except eat. Almost no one ate while walking. I saw a couple of people drink from canteens. They took quick, furtive gulps, as though they were doing something shameful— or something dangerous.
A woman alongside us collapsed. I got no impression of pain from her, except at the sudden impact of her body weight on her knees. That made me stumble, but not fall. The woman sat where she had fallen for a few seconds, then lurched to her feet and began walking again, leaning forward under her huge pack.
Almost everyone was filthy. Their bags and bundles and packs were filthy. They stank. And we, who have slept on concrete in ashes and dirt, and who have not bathed for three days— we fitted in pretty well. Only our new sleepsack packs gave us away as either new to the road or at least in possession of new stealables. We should have dirtied the packs a little before we got started. We will dirty them tonight.
I’ll see to it.
There were a few young guys around, lean and quick, some filthy, some not dirty at all. Keiths.
Today’s Keiths. The ones who bothered me most weren’t carrying much. Some weren’t carrying anything except weapons.
Predators. They looked around a lot, stared at people, and the people looked away. I looked away.
I was glad to see that Harry and Zahra did the same.
We didn’t need trouble. If trouble came, I hoped we could kill it and keep walking.
The gun was fully loaded now, and I wore it holstered, but half covered by my shirt. Harry bought himself a knife. The money he had snatched up as he ran from his burning house had not been enough to buy a gun. I could have bought a second gun, but it would have taken too much of my money, and we have a long way to go.
Zahra used the shoe money to buy herself a knife and a few personal things. I had refused my share of that money. She needed a few dollars in her pocket.
16
Earthseed
Cast on new ground
