Seven Steps to the Sun (13 page)

'What happened to the film industry?' asked Mike, pushing his cup forward for a refill.

'From what I hear, the prices went up so much over the years, it became too expensive to make films here any more. If you're looking for a job in that area you'll have to go to San Francisco. That's where all the studios are now.'

'Weren't they affected by the earthquake?' asked Mike.

'No, for some strange reason they missed it. I hear that it's a real swinging town,' said the woman, getting Mike his coffee.

'Many clubs, jazz clubs up there?'

'There could be, but I don't rightly know.'

'Do you know where I can hire a car?' asked Mike, finishing his coffee.

'Can't help you, but if you go to the hotel, they'll be able to tell you,' said the woman, in a very sad way. Mike didn't know quite what to make of her. Maybe it was the pressure of living in a sort of no-man's land, where decisions of what to do with it hadn't-been fully thought out. He paid for the coffee, and went through the connecting door into the hotel. Here he asked the receptionist where he could hire a car, and whether she had an entertainment guide. The girl rang the car hire people. Mike gave her a tip, and pinched her entertainment guide. Not long after a small wheelless vehicle came speeding up the street and stopped.

'You the fellow who wants a hire car?' said the driver, hopping out.

'I am,' replied Mike very regally.

'Fine, jump in, and I'll run you down to the depot.'

Mike went round the car and got in. The man slammed the door and set off at great speed.

'Don't get much call for cars, except on weekends, and during the winter vacations,' said the man, as he turned into a garage. Mike followed him into an office.

'Now let's see. You want a hire car, how long for?' asked the man sitting busily down behind his table.

'Just a few days, no longer than a week,' Mike said, not knowing the answer.

'Fine, we'll say a week. Then if you want it for longer you just ring up and I'll automatically extend the hire period,' said the man writing this down. 'Where do you think you might be going?'

'In and around Los Angeles, and possibly a trip to San Francisco.'

'Fine, you'll want one of the long-distance cars, that'll be three dollars a day, plus a fifty dollar deposit.' Mike took out his bank card and handed it over.

'Will you pay for the whole week?' the man asked, starting to put the cards into the phone. Mike nodded and the man carried out the operation. Within a few minutes the man had his money, and stamped the form.

'This way, Mr Jerome.' Mike again followed the man into the garage.

'Ever driven one of these before?' said the man, pointing at the wheelless car.

'No,' replied Mike.

'Well, it's the easiest thing in the world. It works on a floating principle, so you can use it on and off the road,' said the man proudly, opening the door. The car itself looked for all the world like an overgrown bubble, except that it would seat four people.

'As I said, it's very simple. The stick, here, is like the old steering wheel. To start you pull it backwards, wait until the engine starts, then push it forward to lift off the ground. This pedal here is the throttle, press it down and faster you go. Move the stick to the left or right and that will turn the car. The switch here will allow you to go either forwards or backwards, and this one will give you maximum clearance for rough country. Speedometer, fuel gauge and oil pressure. I think that's it. Your maps are in the pocket, and there's a list of fuel stations. Don't get too low on fuel as there aren't many around.' He said it all in one long spiel, then got out and handed Mike his copy of the hiring agreement and waited for him to get in.

Mike pulled the lever back and the engine fired up. He pushed it forward and felt the car lift off the ground. Pushing the accelerator pedal down moved the car forward at a sedate speed. Once clear of the garage, Mike stuck his foot down and the car rocketed away up to seventy miles an hour. A slight panic came when he arrived at a corner, as he didn't know where the brake pedal was. He lifted off the accelerator, and the car slowed so quickly he was thrown forward with great violence.

Mike stopped the car after this and caught his breath. While stopped, he quickly thumbed through his entertainment guide. It was quite an interesting document. It told him where he could fish and hunt, where to buy guns and waterproof clothing, but it didn't tell him anything about night clubs or jazz concerts.

He decided to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening driving around and went all over the Los Angeles basin, satisfying the urge to explore. It was strange to see the once bubbling community shrunk into the status of a mammoth ghost town. On his way back to the hotel, he found a self-service petrol station and filled up in readiness for the morrow. The idea was to get up early and drive north, perhaps as far as San Francisco.

It wasn't Mike's morning. By the time he'd finished breakfast and was ready to go out it was raining hard. Despondency made him lethargic but the thought of spending the day drinking with the men in the bar drove him on out to the car. He took a last look round the room and impulsively picked up the small tape recorder. If the day continued hopeless he could at least concentrate on recording his bizarre experiences. Once in the car, he couldn't find the windscreen wipers. He tried all the switches without any success.

The engine started immediately he pulled the lever, and he edged the car into the street. To his fury and pleasure the windscreen wipers promptly started to work. He flicked all the switches, but nothing stopped them. Mike could only think that their operation must be triggered off by contact with water. He looked at the map to refresh his memory of the route north, and set off west down Sunset Boulevard. Twenty minutes later he found himself at the intersection of the freeway heading north along the coast and then on to San Francisco. He could see why a vehicle on wheels would be no use. The road had pot holes in it like shell holes in a battle field. The hovercar just skimmed gently along without a bump or jolt. The rain beat relentlessly on the outside of the car with a pleasant drumming sound which made him feel very drowsy. Mike hummed a selection of jazz tunes to keep himself awake.

Twenty miles or so from the outskirts of Los Angeles the freeway came to an abrupt halt. Mike stopped the car and studied the barrier across the road. His map showed the freeway going straight north without any interruptions. He swung off" the road and drove alongside the fencing until he found a gap that allowed him to get back on the road. He was so pleased with his new toy that he didn't notice the warning signs of earthquake damage until it was too late. Grabbing hold of a handle in the car, he prayed that the hole he was plunging into wasn't too deep. The car flew over the edge of the crater and he waited for a terrifying crash. Although the drop wasn't great and he remained conscious as the car somersaulted over and over the handle broke under the strain of the final impacts, and he hit the roof of the car with a hell of a bang. Unconsciousness overtook him as he struggled to get out.

Mike's head ached, like the inside of Big Ben at striking time. He got unsteadily to his feet, and went over to the wreck. No wonder the car cracked up, it only had a very thin skin of plastic for the bodywork although, pulling at a bit of it, Mike discovered it was stronger than it looked. He must have been unconscious for some time, for the rain had stopped and the ground was very dry. From the position of the sun he reckoned it must be after midday. Checking that he still had his money, bank card, and tape machine, he inspected the sheer sandstone cliffs surrounding him and made a move to climb back up, but the sandstone crumbled under his weight. He walked round his prison studying the walls and then pulled a piece off the bodywork of the car to dig footholes in the face of the stone. It was long hot work but ultimately rewarding. He lay on the top of the crater, breathing hard. The countryside looked bare and desolate, with only the yellow-red sandstone for scenery. Mike sat up and crossed his legs Yoga fashion and studied the lie of the land. After much consideration he decided that the only way back to Los Angeles was down the disused freeway.

He picked himself up off the ground and started to walk back down the road, seeking somewhere to shelter from the sun. He walked for over an hour before he came across an old petrol station, looking as if it had been deserted since the time of the earthquake. He kicked down the half hung wood door to the workshop and went in. It was bare of equipment, but contained the usual rubbish found in deserted places. Mike hunted around until he found a water tap, and turned it on. To his surprise, there was a gurgling and banging and water trickled out. He waited and slowly the flow increased until it was gushing forth. It took another minute or so before the water lost its discolouration. He smelt it and washed his face. He hesitated about drinking the stuff, then decided that if the water were bad they would have turned it off. It wasn't very good reasoning, but he needed a drink, and the reassurance to take a drink. He tried the water, which to his surprise tasted fresh and sweet, and drank slowly, until he felt satisfied. He was just about to turn away when he saw a yellow copy of the
New York Times.
However old it was, it would give him something to read, while he waited for the sun to go down.

Outside he sat against the side of the workshop where there was enough shade to make his stay quite pleasant. He opened the paper and shook the dust from it, and stared at the date. February 9th, 2005. He shook his head and then the paper, to see which of them was playing tricks. The date remained the same. He couldn't tell how old the paper was, so he could only conclude that he must be in the first ten years of the 21 st century. There was no point in analysing his feelings at this new time change. He'd decided before it was a pointless exercise, and he was going to need all his concentration to get him back to Los Angeles.

He started to read the paper. The main headline of the paper stated that the federation of Africa was sending troops to Cambodia to give them protection against infiltration from the north. He turned to page 4, as the article suggested, and studied the map. It seemed from the map that Cambodia was now the third most important country in Indo China. The paper explained that the Cambodians had a military pact with the federation of Africa. They appeared to be having a stand-up row with Thailand and Vietnam over rice stealing, and had asked for help from Africa. The Russians and the Chinese had attempted to pour oil on troubled waters with little effect, so the Africans had sent their troops in to stop the food-stealing. Mike looked through the paper for news about Europe, but couldn't find any and put the paper aside as it wasn't really going to help his journey back down the road.

He got up and went back into the garage to look round for some sort of container for water but there was nothing suitable. The only place he hadn't inspected was the office, which was joined to the end of the building and still seemed to be intact. He tried the door, but it was locked. It seemed a little strange that nobody had broken in and smashed the place up, as usually happens. He pushed hard on the door to find that it wasn't locked, just jammed by the twisted frame. It stuck about half way open which gave him enough room to squeeze through. The sight that greeted him turned his body cold and rigid. Sitting in an old fashioned wooden chair was a skeleton. Chilling enough in itself, but the exaggerated leanness of the bones and the smile of the skull startled him for an instance into thinking he was looking at the professor.

Mike recovered from the initial shock and went up to the white parched bone. A board in the floor moved and the skeleton fell apart, ending in a heap on the floor. Mike picked up the skull and in the forehead were three sizeable holes. Bullet holes? On the back of the door he noticed the dead man's jacket. Inside he found a wallet, identification paper and three hundred dollars, which he put in his pocket. The man's name turned out to be William Rite, born in 1973, which would mean the man must have been in his thirties when he was killed. The drawers in the desk contained nothing of interest to him but he picked up a rifle propped in a corner. It was still well oiled, although covered with dust and cobwebs, and the magazine, to his surprise, was full. Outside, after making sure he wasn't being watched, he took aim at a rock with the rifle. There was a loud report and the bullet ricocheted into the distant desert. Hurrying back to the shelter of the garage he listened intently for a few minutes, but there wasn't a sound and he sat down to wait patiently.

His eyes closed as he watched the distant heat waves dancing, and he recalled a time when he'd taken a few days off with Sue in the north-west of Scotland. The day had been very stormy, but towards evening it cleared and they'd sat with a flask of whisky on the white sand, watching the surf roll in. Mike suddenly felt very sad within himself at this memory from the long gone past.

The sun was sinking before he stirred again. The emerging long shadows made him shiver and he half expected the pile of bones to take shape and move. He went into the workshop for a long drink of water and, after a last look round, set out. He was glad to get moving. The twilight came and went, leaving him in a starlit landscape. The pot holes in the road seemed bigger in the dark but he struggled and stumbled along, reckoning that, if he walked at a steady pace, he'd cover about three miles an hour. This, if his memory proved correct, should bring him to the outskirts of Los Angeles by morning.

It was a couple of hours' hard slog later that he heard calls of a jackal. It sounded too far away to bother him but the farther he walked the nearer it came, until he stopped, aware of scrabbling on the roadside. The jackal howled again. Mike stood rigid. He was now fully alert, the cry of the jackal was miles away, but the scrabbling was still going on. Swinging the rifle off his shoulder he peered into the dark to see what was making the noise. It seemed impossible to gauge exactly where the sound came from. Suddenly it stopped and the night became very still, even the jackal was silent. Mike could feel his fear of the unknown thing out there in the dark mounting to a ridiculous pitch. He steeled himself, rose slowly, rifle at the ready and walked on down the road. Nothing happened. He began to gain confidence and his stride lengthened. The shot that rang out made him jump so hard he tripped and fell. The second shot ricocheted uncomfortably close. 'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?' Mike bellowed at the top of his voice. Another bullet hit the ground by his side as the only reply. It struck him as a macabre thought that maybe they didn't hunt animals any more, only humans. No more shots were fired, so after several minutes Mike started walking on.