Earthquake (7 page)

Shaking his head, Brendan turned right off Brooklyn Place and onto Sacramento Street.
He hurried past the cigar factories. The lodgers who lived upstairs were scurrying out the front doors, carrying baskets and bundles tied with stiff hemp twine. The crowds were just as thick, but the street was wider, and Brendan's uneasiness lifted a little as he passed the Chinese broom factory, the merchandise stores, and the two white groceries he had delivered to last year. The harsh sound of the conversations around him still grated at his nerves. It was so strange to hear people speak and not to be able to understand anything they were saying.

At the corner Brendan turned right and started down Dupont. He thought about crossing, but the acrid smell of the meat market unsettled his already queasy stomach. He hurried past the Japanese and Chinese Bazaar. The solid line of workers in front of the boot and shoe factory was beginning to thin out. The tea store had closed, its door boarded shut.

Brendan walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets. He saw some of the Chinese men looking at him sidelong, but they were all too preoccupied to do more than notice him. The air was hazy with smoke now and it was impossible to see far enough to tell where it was coming from.

St. Mary's was still surrounded by people as Brendan got closer. He could see dozens of women kneeling near the doors, praying. He turned on California Street and edged along the sidewalk.

A woman in a huge Gainsborough hat was arguing with a policeman. The false grapes and cherries that decorated her hat bobbed in time with her wide gestures. Brendan couldn't hear what she was saying, but it was obvious that the policeman was trying to detach himself, to walk away. The woman clung to his arm, her voice earnest. As Brendan watched, the officer lifted her hand and tried to leave.

“Is that you, Brendan O'Connor?” someone shouted.

Brendan recognized Mr. Malloy's deep voice. The tall man was heading toward him. As he got closer, Brendan saw the heavy gray shadows under his eyes. One of his cheeks was smudged with black and his usually perfect suit coat was torn.

Malloy called out again when he was halfway across the street. “What are you still doing here, son? Get the girl home all right?”

Brendan waited until Malloy was beside him to answer. “I think so. She told me to leave, then ran off.”

Malloy nodded. “I'm glad you got out of there.
The fires are sweeping that way, and fast. The whole Financial District is burning and so is half the town south of The Slot.”

Brendan automatically turned to face Market Street, even though the haze of smoke made it impossible to see more than half a block away. “Are the firemen putting it out?”

Malloy laughed, a blunt, angry sound. “There's no water. The main on Seventh and Howard is broken. So are others, I am told. The reservoir pipes have been sheared off. They are using the old downtown cisterns now, but there aren't that many of them left and no one seems quite sure where most of them are.”

Brendan blinked. “No water?” He was suddenly aware of his thirst. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “How is anyone going to drink? I mean . . .”

“Here,” Mr. Malloy said. He pulled a silver flask from inside his jacket.

Brendan shook his head emphatically. “Thank you, sir. But my father drank and I swore I'd never touch—”

“I wouldn't offer a boy your age
whiskey,” Malloy assured him. “This is water. I filled it from the Howard Street geyser where the main broke. Figured I'd need it before the day was out.”

Brendan took the flask gratefully. The water tasted sweeter than any he had ever drunk. He wanted to gulp down all of it, but he took two swallows, then handed the flask back.

Malloy pocketed the flask, then pulled a small clipboard out of his pocket, along with a stubbed pencil. “So tell me what you've seen. You were up in Chinatown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How does it look?”

Brendan hesitated, unsure what to say. “It looks pretty bad. Most of the buildings are damaged and quite a few are collapsed. The people are scared. Most of them are leaving, carrying whatever they can. There are a lot of families. You usually don't see the women or children.”

Malloy tapped his pencil, looking up. “You might have a future in reporting if you want one. That's the kind of thing most people miss.”

Brendan managed a smile. “I'd like to be a reporter,
sir.”

Malloy smiled back. “It'll take years off your life, but it's damned exciting.”

A distant thudding boom made Brendan stiffen, but there was no tremor in the ground. People all around them stopped for an instant, then went on.

Mr. Malloy looked at his watch before making a note on the smudged paper on his clipboard. “That's dynamite,” he said, looking up.

“Dynamite?” Brendan echoed. “I thought it was just gas mains exploding or drugstore chemicals.”

Malloy was still making notes. “We've had that, too. But this is the army. They're trying to make firebreaks, a wide enough space so that the flames can't jump over. They thought Market Street would be wide enough, but it wasn't.”

Brendan heard someone shouting orders. He turned to look. Soldiers brandishing rifles were going door-to-door. Brendan glanced at Mr. Malloy.

“They're evacuating people. It's past time you got out of here. Chinatown is going to be an inferno in the next few hours. Even sooner if the evening breeze rises.”

Brendan glanced back up Dupont Street. Dai Yue and her uncle were probably already walking along
some sidewalk together, carrying as many of their belongings as they could manage. He envied her fiercely for a second. Maybe her uncle was harsh, but he cared about her, about the kind of life she was going to live.

“Are you listening, son? I told you it's time to get out of this part of the city. The soldiers are setting up refugee camps in the parks and squares. Brendan?”

Brendan focused on Mr. Malloy. “I heard you,” he said. “Thanks.”

Mr. Malloy gripped Brendan's shoulder. “When all this is over, you come see me. The Call Building is on fire, so you'll have to find out where we've moved the offices. But if there's a job, I'll see to it that you get it. You take care now.” Without another word, Mr. Malloy walked away, heading up California Street toward Nob Hill.

Brendan watched him go. There was another dull booming sound, but this time the earth rose and fell beneath Brendan's feet. He heard one woman gasp, but everyone else simply paused, like children when the music stops in a parlor game.

Brendan stood still. A half dozen soldiers were gathered in a little knot, and a man was standing
before them with his hands in the air. His shirt was tattered and streaked with grime. One of the soldiers backed away, leveling his rifle at the man's stomach.

Without warning, the man bolted and ran into the crowd, shoving people aside. The soldier took aim and held his rifle to his shoulder, but did not fire. It was impossible to shoot into the mass of people that clogged the street, fleeing in front of the flames.

People rushed past Brendan, walking in family groups, in couples, holding each other. He headed up California Street, but then stopped. He turned and looked at the rising wall of smoke. Here and there he saw sparkles within it. Flames? He turned around and started running back toward Chinatown.

Dai Yue's fear was like a live thing inside of her. She pressed her hands against her stomach to trap it there, to keep it from racing through her body. She could still hear her uncle's mumbled pleas, yet she was helpless to do anything. She had dragged away splintered boards and shards of glass, but her digging had done no good. Her uncle was still buried, and even worse, he seemed weaker now.

“Uncle?” she said softly, reaching through the tangle of wreckage to take his bloodied hand. She held it, wondering what she should do, what she could do. This time she heard the wind chimes before she felt the trembling in the ground.

Accompanied by the clear, discordant brass
chimes, the earth rose and fell. Then it seemed to shake itself once more before it quieted. Dai Yue held tightly to her uncle's hand, even once the ground was still again. Dull explosions, the same ones she had been hearing for an hour or more, followed the tremor. Dai Yue didn't know what they were, but the sounds frightened her—they were getting closer.

She squeezed her uncle's hand. He didn't respond. There was a light touch on her cheek and she looked up, startled. She blinked. Ashes, carried on the breeze, swirled above her like miscolored snow.

Dai Yue's uncle pushed futilely against the heavy timbers that had trapped him. He shoved, sweat springing out on his face. Then he fell back, his face pale. “Dai Yue. Get me out. The fire is close.”

“I cannot, Uncle.” She felt her tears, warm and wet on her cheeks.

“You must.” Each word was spoken slowly and carefully.

“If I had not run away this morning—”

“Foolish child. Just get help.”

“I will try. But it will be difficult. Everyone
is running.”

“Find Chou Yee. He will help.”

“But Uncle—”

“Go now.”

Dai Yue tried to find her voice. She knew she should honor her uncle's wish.

“Hey! Dai Yue? Come on, you have to get out of here!”

Dai Yue straightened at the sound of Brendan's sudden shout. He was running toward her, one arm in front of his face to protect his eyes from the floating ash.

“Come on. The fires are closing in.”

Dai Yue whispered Brendan's name, afraid to believe that he was real.

“Dai Yue? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, then finally managed to answer. “My uncle . . .” She pointed, and Brendan came to stand beside her.

“Oh, my God!” Brendan knelt. He touched first one timber, then another.

Dai Yue heard her uncle's curse and she bent closer, explaining quickly that Brendan had helped her get home. Her uncle glared at her, struggling feebly against the weight of the rubble.

Brendan faced her. “Tell him to stop moving.”

Dai Yue watched as Brendan prowled along the edges of the wreckage that had been her uncle's pharmacy. He moved stiffly, in quick, nervous jerks that told her how frightened he was. But when he spoke, his voice was clear and steady.

“Help me with this.”

Dai Yue ran to grasp the long, stout board. Alongside Brendan, she strained every muscle, and finally it began to come loose. A moment later, they stood panting side by side, the long board freed, lying at their feet.

“Hurry,” Brendan rasped. Dai Yue helped Brendan carry the board, then watched as he pushed it under the beam that had pinned her uncle's legs. Then he carried a wrecked cabinet over and jammed it beneath the long board.

“Help me again,” Brendan said.

Following his gestures, Dai Yue leaned her full weight on the long board as Brendan shoved it downward. The beam on her uncle's legs lifted, scraping against the boards that lay around it.

Dai Yue heard her uncle's gasp, then another scraping sound and a sharp
intake of breath.

“Is he free?” Brendan asked, the words squeezed out from between his clenched teeth. His face was red with effort.

Dai Yue leaned, trying to see without taking her weight from the board. Her uncle had pulled his legs to one side, his knees bent. “Yes,” Dai Yue told Brendan. Together they let the board rise, then fought to get their breath, coughing on the stinging smoke.

Dai Yue's lungs burned painfully as Brendan slid the long board beneath the timber across her uncle's chest. Dai Yue heard her uncle curse and was glad that Brendan could not understand. For her uncle, a Fon Kwei face was a reminder that his only son was dead. He could not know what she had learned—this boy was different.

“Dai Yue!” Brendan was already shoving down on the lever. Dai Yue hurried to help him. This time, as the timber lifted, a series of dull thumping blasts sounded and some of the buildings across the street slumped.

“Tell him we have to hurry,” Brendan said as he jerked the long board out of her uncle's way.

Dai Yue helped her uncle, pushing
back a tangle of small debris. He was weak, but managed to stand up.

“Ask him if he can walk,” Brendan prompted Dai Yue.

She asked, her stomach tightening.

“I can walk,” her uncle said.

Dai Yue translated this answer for Brendan as her uncle took a tentative step. At first, he seemed steady, but then he lurched to one side. Dai Yue cried out and leapt to steady him. Without warning, Brendan stepped forward. He ducked beneath her uncle's arm, then straightened up slowly.

Dai Yue saw her uncle's eyes widen. He jerked back and lost his balance again. His legs buckling, he put nearly all of his weight on Brendan, cursing all Fon Kwei in a low, growling voice.

“What's he saying?” Brendan asked once they had her uncle upright again.

“He thanks you,” Dai Yue said.

Brendan started forward. “Keep in step with me,” he shouted at her.

Dai Yue kept her eyes on Brendan for the first four or five steps. Then she looked forward again. Together they started down the street.

Dai Yue's uncle walked slowly, and she was afraid
he was more hurt than he had admitted. At the corner, he turned to face Dai Yue.

“That way.” He jutted his chin to indicate a narrow alley that ran between two buildings.

Dai Yue told Brendan what her uncle had said, and they broke into single file to go down the passageway. At the far end, Dai Yue emerged into a tree-lined garden she had never seen before. Her uncle started across it, walking unevenly. Halfway to the other side, he stumbled. Brendan caught him. Dai Yue's uncle shrugged him off, staggering on alone.

“This way now,” Dai Yue's uncle rasped, leading them through a doorway. They passed down a hallway lined with doors on either side. The hall ran from the back of the house to the front. They came out into a narrow street.