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If only he'd used the stolen mountain bike. The borrowed mountain bike. Taken
it and gone south on the side roads and narrow trails along the western flanks
of the
Sierras, heading out toward the meeting place in Calico on the fifteenth of
next
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It was funny. The only thing that had been funny in the past couple of days.
Not funny amusing. Funny peculiar.
The big white building shaped like a pyramid what was it called? Didn't
matter.
It still stood there, soot streaked, amid the fire-stormed ruins of the
central part of the city. On one wall, about eight floors from the point,
someone had painted a message in bright red letters.
"1115CACA."
It had crossed his mind that it could be a runic reference to the date and
place of the rumored meeting, a reminder aimed at those who might comprehend
it. The fifteenth day of the eleventh month in Calico, California.
"For those who don't understand, no explanation is possible. If you do
understand, then no explanation is necessary."
Jeff wondered where that old quotation had sprung from, and why he was trapped
and hunted in the fabled city of fourteen hills.
"Fuck knows," he said, actually managing a weak grin at himself....
IT HAD PROVED impossible to get into San Francisco on any form of transport,
even on the bike. Every single road was blocked solid with jammed vehicles.
And so many dead!
Jeff had dumped the bike into a culvert, carrying on with his lightened pack,
and his broad-bladed butcher's knife stuck in his belt. Hunger was becoming
more and more insistent.
He'd eventually entered the city over the Oakland Bay Bridge, walking across
the tops of the cars on the upper deck, picking his way in the dark, high
above the racing water.
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The idea of trying to get to his apartment, and even track down his
girlfriend, was seeming more and more ridiculous.
The night wind had tugged at him, and a light mist had coated the rusting
metal, making it slippery.
Jeff had reached over halfway, past Treasure Island, when a croaking voice
from the shadows nearly made him fall.
"Would you have a can of beans, mister?"
"What?"
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An old woman with straggly hair, wearing a thick coat several sizes too large
for her, had waved a hand at him.
"Two cans of beans, mister, then? Or could you make it three cans?"
"Bugger off before I slit your throat, you stinking old harridan!"
"You have a nice day, too, mister." She'd raised her voice. "I can catch the
scent of death on you, son!"
For a moment he'd considered pursuing her into the maze of trashed metal and
glass to carry out his threat to open up her scrawny neck. But discretion had
prevailed, and he'd simply continued on into the city, coming down off the
bridge and walking cautiously toward the Embarcadero.
Among the shambles of ruined stores and smart eateries, Jeff had holed up
until the dawn was well established. Then he'd crept warily out into the ruins
of the city that he'd loved, the city that had been his home.
Somehow nothing stated the sad demise of the city as much as the bridge. The
graceful arch across the chill gray waters, its girders painted a dark reddish
brown.
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The color of the heart's blood of all the country singers who had come west
and failed to make it. That was what his neighbor on Jackson Street, Mad Dave
Caswell, had told Jeff the day he'd arrived in town.
Now, silhouetted against the pink sky, he'd seen that the bay bridge had a
great gap at its center. Huge hawsers trailed into the water, and the middle
span dangled in thin air. Much of it was stained a bitter ebony color,
streaked with scorch marks.
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