Blood Music

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

April Ulam shielded her eyes to look into the sunrise. The windmills of Tracy were silhouetted against the yellow sky, propellers still turning, feeding power to the deserted gas station where the twins had refueled the truck. She glanced at John and nodded as if in agreement; yes, indeed, another day. Then she walked back into the small grocery store to supervise Jerry’s search for provisions.
She was a lot tougher than she looked, John decided. Crazy or not she had the brothers in a spell. They had spent the night in the station, exhausted, after traveling less than twenty miles out of Livermore. They had finally decided to take the central valley route. This had been suggested by April; it was best, she thought, to avoid what had once been populated areas. “Judging from what happened in Livermore,” she had said, “we don’t want to get bogged down in San Jose or anyplace else.”
The way they were going, they would inevitably have to drive through Los Angeles, or find some way to skirt around it, but John hadn’t mentioned that.
She gave them direction, at least. There was no sense criticizing because without her they would still be in Livermore, going mad one way or another-probably violently. John walked around the truck, hands in his pockets, looking at the dirt.
They were all going to die.
He didn’t mind. He had become very, very tired last night—tired in a way sleep could never cure. He could tell Jerry was feeling the same way. Let the mad woman lead them around by the nose. Who cared?
Los Angeles might be interesting. He doubted they would ever get to La Jolla.
Jerry and April came out of the store with shopping bags in both arms. They propped the bags in the back of the truck and Jerry took out a worn map from the truck’s glove compartment.
“580 south to 5,” he said. April agreed. John took the wheel and they rumbled down the freeway.
For the most part, the highway was free of cars. But at wide intervals they passed deserted (or at least empty) vehicles-trucks, cars, even an Air Force bus—along the roadside. They didn’t stop to investigate.
The asphalt was clean and the drive was fast. The hills around the San Luis and Los Banos reservoirs should have been green with winter rains, but they were a matte gray, as if coated with primer before application of a new color. The reservoirs themselves were glossy green and still as glass. Nowhere was bird or insect visible. April regarded all this with fated pride; my son did this, she seemed to be thinking, and while a frown crossed her face as they passed the reservoirs, on the whole she did not seem to disapprove.
Jerry was both intrigued and thoroughly spooked by her, but he wasn’t about to say anything. Still, John could sense his unease.
The fields to each side of 5 were covered with mossy brown sheets that glistened in the sun like plastic “All those trees and vegetables,” April said, shaking her head. “What do you think happened to the crops?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am,” Jerry said. “I just spray ’em, I don’t judge ’em.”
“Not just people. Takes over everything.” She smiled and shook her head. “Poor Vergil. He had no idea.”
They made a pitstop at a Carl’s Junior just off the highway. The franchise’s doors were open, and there were a few piles of clothes behind the service counter, but the building was undisturbed and unconverted. In the rest-room, as they pissed in parallel, John said, “I believe her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s so sure.”
“Hell of a reason.”
“And she ain’t lying.”
“Hell no. She’s looney tunes.”
“I don’t think so.”
Jerry zipped up and said, “She’s a witch, John.”
John didn’t disagree.
The monotonous brown-covered farmlands gradually changed color and character as they approached the Lost Hills turnoff. More bare earth appeared, dusty and dead-looking. Little spouts of air swept the land in the distance like maids cleaning up after a wild party. “Where did all the crops go?” April wondered.
Jerry shook his head. Don’t know. Don’t want to know.
John squinted into the dusty haze ahead and tapped the truck’s brake pedal, down-shifting expertly. Then he slammed the brakes hard and the truck spun out, tires squealing. Jerry cursed and April grimly hung on to the edge of the window.
The truck came to a halt reversed on the roadway. John turned them around and grabbed the gearshift back into neutral.
They stared. No words were necessary—or even possible.
A hill was crossing the highway. Slow, ponderous, perhaps a hundred feet high, the mass of shiny brown and primer gray moved through the wind-churned dust barely a quarter mile ahead.
“How many of those are there, do you think?” April asked pertly, breaking the silence.
“Can’t say,” John demurred.
“Must be one of them Lost Hills they were announcing,” Jerry said without a hint of levity.
“Maybe that’s where all the crops went,” April speculated. The brothers did not care to discuss the point John waited until the hill had passed, and a half hour later, as it slid over the fields toward the west, started the truck again and put it back in gear. They slowly crossed the mangled asphalt. The air smelled of crushed plants and dust.
“Martians,” John said. That was his last protest to April’s claim of knowing what had really happened, fie said very little after that until they started the climb up the Grapevine, past the unconverted trees and buildings of Fort Tejon and the vague outlines of tiny Gorman. As they neared the ridge, he stared at Jerry with wide eyes, pupils dilated, and said, “City of Angels, coming up.”
It was five o’clock, early evening and getting dark.
The air over Los Angeles was as purple as raw meat.