The sign over the desk read “Granada
Hills Security Checkpoint,” but that did not disguise the fact that
this building was actually a deserted supermarket at the edge of a
deserted shopping center. Aisle upon aisle of denuded shelves gave
mute testimony to the bad times that had befallen the community. In
fact, the empty cavern of a building seemed to Peter to symbolize the
entire Collapse of civilization.
The guard behind the desk looked at him
suspiciously. Peter didn’t know much about guns, but the one in the
guard’s shoulder holster looked big enough to stop a herd of
rampaging elephants. Peter coughed nervously and cleared his throat.
“I… I’d like to join your community, if I could,” he said.
“I’m thirty-two and a good worker. I can do almost anything that
needs to be done.”
The guard’s scowl was skeptical.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Peter Smith,” he lied. His own
name, Stone, had acquired too many bad connotations in recent years,
and he never gave it out any more. He had trouble enough going
unrecognized without advertising himself further.
“Smith,
eh? Can anyone in Granada Hills vouch for you?”
“Uh,
no, I just got in. I’ve been bicycling down from San Francisco
these past few months, and this looked to be a good place to settle.”
“How
are things up there?”
“Bad,” Peter said. “It’s bad
all along the coast. From what I’ve seen of it, your area looks
about average.”
The guard grunted. “I’m afraid, Mr.
Smith, that we can’t accept you here. We’ve got too many people
already without adding strangers. There’s plenty of willing hands
to work but limited resources to keep them fed, if you know what I
mean.”
“Sure,” Peter nodded. The story was
all too familiar to him. “In that case, I was wondering if I might
buy some food from you. I’ve got money―”
“Granada Hills is on barter until the
money situation settles down again. Unless you’ve got something to
trade, you’re out of luck. Got any bullets, batteries, candles,
tools or copper wire?” Peter shook his head. “What about your
bike? We can always use another bike.”
“Sorry,
I need it myself. Things aren’t too safe for a man on foot; the
bike gives me a slim edge, at least.”
The other nodded. “Things are rough,
all right. I never thought I’d see the day when this sort of thing
would happen to us.”
“Look, is there any place in this
area that does take cash?” The sun was sinking and Peter wanted to
settle in somewhere before nightfall. He’d had too many scary
experiences in the dark lately.
“You
might try San Fernando; last I heard, they were still taking money.
You’d better watch them, though―they’ve got a rowdy bunch over
there.”
“How
do I get there?”
“You take this street over here,
Balboa, and go north about a mile to San Fernando Mission Boulevard,
then east a couple of miles. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
Peter started wheeling his bike out of the supermarket.
“Good
luck,” the guard called after him. “I wouldn’t want to be a
stoner now for all the gold in Fort Knox.”
Peter wondered idly as he pedaled along
whether there was still any gold left in Fort Knox. There probably
was, he decided; gold was not worth stealing at the moment. People
had more immediate needs, like food, water, gasoline and electricity.
Somewhere, he thought, the U.S. government may be trying
valiantly to carry on as though nothing unusual were happening,
guarding that gold and the wealth it supposedly represents like a
virgin dinosaur guarding a nest of infertile eggs. And if they think
about the Collapse at all, they probably blame it on me―as if I
were anything but the messenger who brought the tidings of disaster.
Being a prophet of doom is not a
rewarding career.
As he pedaled up Balboa Boulevard,
Peter looked around him and tried to imagine how the neighborhood
must have looked ten years ago, before the Collapse really got
underway. On his left was another shopping center and a tall building
that had once, according to a sign, been a hospital; currently it was
being used as a series of apartments. On his right were more
expressly designed apartments, once luxurious but now worn down and
ugly. Rubbish that could not be burned had been dumped outside,
lining the street and giving the air an unpleasant odor.
He passed another deserted supermarket
as he crossed Chatsworth Street and continued north. There were
houses on both sides of him, the ticky-tacky boxes that had been very
popular in suburban communities at one time. They had little front
yards that now contained gardens instead of lawns―lettuce,
radishes, tomatoes and melons all seemed popular. The gardens were
surrounded by fences―and some of the fencing, he noticed, had come
from the center divider of a freeway. A stop sign had been stuck in
one garden and dressed in tattered clothes to form a makeshift
scarecrow. A couple of houses appeared to have been razed to make
room for corn fields. The green stalks swayed proudly in the breeze.
Dogs roamed the streets and patrolled
in front of the houses. They barked at him as he went past, but
didn’t bother to chase him when they saw he was no threat to their
masters’ gardens. There were several goats standing around and a
large number of chickens, but Peter could see no cats running
loose―they and rabbits would be penned up and used for food. Pets
were no longer an affordable luxury. Birds, too, were scarce; no
doubt the neighborhood children were improving their aim with
slingshots.
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