Caravan

CHAPTER 1-2

Peter had mixed feelings about the churches. Not being religious himself, he tended to distrust them. True, they were doing very good work now, providing not only temporal care—such as food distribution—but also tending to people’s spiritual needs and keeping up morale. As the situation got progressively worse, people would turn increasingly to religion as a source of comfort. That was fine as far as it went, but Peter could not help recalling how the medieval Church had grown into a mind numbing monolith, encouraging superstition and ruthlessly crushing all individuality. If Mankind were to rise and grow again, freedom of thought would be an absolute necessity. Peter was afraid the churches were bringing short-term relief and long-term oppression.

He stopped outside the mission and dismounted. This looked like his best prospect for spending the night. He could be fed at the mission and then sleep through the night sitting up against the wall. The nights could be chilly in Los Angeles but usually weren’t unbearably cold. One of his few possessions—aside from money, which was only occasionally useful—was the blanket tucked in his knapsack. That would be enough to keep him warm tonight.

He started to walk his bike over to the mission when he noticed something going on down a side street just to the west of the building’s wall. A black man with a motorcycle was being hassled by a pack of young whites.

“I think he’s from Pacoima,” one of the rowdies was saying. “Coming over here to spy on us, find out where our soft spots are. Probably him and his buddies want to make a gas raid tonight. Come on, shine, where’d you get that chopper?”

The black was young, tall and angular; in happier days, he might have been a college basketball player. He wore a red tanktop shirt, blue pants and a red bandana around his forehead. His face was adorned with a crisp black goatee and mustache, and was topped with a short mane of curly hair. He bore an expression of smoldering dignity. “You touch that cycle,” he said, “and I’ll carve the Gettysburg Address in your lily-white ass.” His voice was so quiet as to be almost inaudible, yet carried a feel of power with it.

The pack was startled for a moment, then the fellows laughed nervously. They outnumbered the stranger nine to one. “Who do you think you are, n****r, coming around here and giving orders?” asked the leader, moving a step closer. The rest of the pack did the same.

In one swift motion, the stranger reached into his pants pocket, whipped out a switchblade and flipped the knife open. His hand moved in a little circle in front of him, giving the appearance that the blade was floating on its own. “Not orders,” he said. “Just sound advice.”

The rowdies stopped again. The stakes were getting higher, and they were uncertain what to do. The leader was in the worst position—he didn’t dare lose face in front of his buddies. So, after eyeing the switchblade for a moment, he calmly reached down to his belt and pulled his own weapon, an army surplus bayonet mounted on a wooden handle. “If you want to play games, we can do that too—right, fellas?” Inspired by his behavior, the others drew their knives.

Peter looked around. No one else in the park was in a position to see what was going on—or, if they were, they were doing a good job of ignoring it. He felt a queasy sensation in his stomach and the spit in his mouth tasted sour. He checked that his own knife was loose in its scabbard, should it be needed.

The pack was circling in on its prey, but with less confidence than it might ideally feel. The prospective victim was not some helpless stranger frightened by their bullying, but a powerful-looking man with a sharp knife and an apparent knowledge of how to use it. The gang moved in cautiously.

The black stood his ground, turning slowly to keep an eye on the people behind him as well as those in front. His knife hand stayed limber and pointed directly at the leader’s throat

With a loud, bull-like bellow, the leader charged. The black sidestepped him easily and flicked his wrist in what seemed an effortless motion—yet, when the leader straightened up again, Peter could see that a deep s***h had been cut across his left ear and was bleeding profusely. “Next,” said the black, laughing.

Three others came charging from different directions. One received a quick kick to the groin that doubled him up in a hurry; the second found himself stabbing air as the victim had whirled away and brought a slashing blow down on the hand of the third. “Come on,” yelled the gang’s leader from the sidelines. “What are we, a bunch of chickens? Let’s get him!”

They all converged at once, though showing a great respect for their victim’s prowess. The black had a longer reach than most of them and was able to keep them momentarily at bay with his slashes, but he couldn’t last forever against their superior numbers.

Peter was not a very good fighter, though he’d had more than his share of practice over the last year. He usually avoided fights if he could, but this was one he couldn’t ignore if he wanted to live with his conscience. Drawing his knife and emitting a loud whoop, he rushed forward.

The gang was startled by this attack from a new direction and froze momentarily, giving Peter an advantage he badly needed. He incapacitated one of the foe with a quick stab to the side, under the ribs. Turning to the next man, he lashed out across the face, cutting just above the eyebrow. Blood streamed out of the cut and into the eye, blinding the fellow and making him think his eye had been put out. He dropped to the ground, screaming.

The black had not hesitated when the attackers did. His knife was busy slashing away at his opponents, making them put up their guard and fight defensively. But now they had recovered from the surprise of Peter’s attack, and were launching a counter-offensive of their own. Peter found himself facing two big menacing types with murder in their eyes. Without the element of surprise on his side, the other two were undoubtedly the better fighters. Peter backed slowly away from them until he found that his back was right up against the wall of the mission. The other two kept closing on him, evil grins on their faces.

The one on his left lunged at him. Peter tried to twist away, but wasn’t quick enough—the attacker’s knife cut across the top of his left arm, sending a shot of pain through Peter’s body. Blood poured out, staining his already grubby shirt, but he had little time for worrying about that—he was fighting for his life.

His twisting had put him in a bad position, because now he had his left side outward and his right side—along with his knife hand—towards the wall. He had to duck rapidly as the second attacker, seeing the opening, made a vicious swipe at his head. The blade whistled barely a quarter of an inch over Peter’s hair.

In making that s***h, though, the youth had left himself open. Peter charged forward and thrust his knife into the attacker’s gut. The man let out a cry of pain and crumpled slowly to the ground. Peter pulled his blade out quickly, fell to the ground and rolled to get away from the first attacker, who was coming at him again.

When he got to his feet, he saw the man facing him in a low crouched stance. They circled one another for a long second, then the fellow charged. Peter tried to play matador, sidestepping the charge and parrying the thrust, but he was only partially successful. The other’s knife cut through his shirt and scratched the ribs on his left side. Peter turned and backed away again.

The other, sensing a quick kill, charged again. He got only halfway to Peter, though, before. he screamed and fell forward. A switchblade was embedded in his neck.

Peter looked around, surveying the battlefield. Seven bodies were scattered around the ground, most of them alive but severely wounded. The remaining two gang members were fleeing down the street. In the middle of most of the devastation, the black man calmly admired his handiwork. He appeared unscathed. With a grin at Peter he walked over and pulled his switchblade out of the throat of his last victim, wiped it off on the man’s shirt, folded it up and stuck it back in his pocket. Then he walked over to his motorcycle, prepared to drive off.

“Hey,” said Peter, “aren’t you even going to thank me?”

The other turned. “Thank you? For what? Doin’ something that anybody with any guts should’ve done?”

“But it wasn’t anybody, it was me, and I’m bleeding.”

The black ambled over, grabbed Peter’s wounded left arm roughly and examined it. “Sheeyit, man, that ain’t nothing but a flesh wound. It’ll heal up, ’less it gets infected.” He stopped as an idea occurred to him. “You live around here?”

Peter shook his head.

“Oh, a stoner, huh?” Peter hated that expression. Since the Collapse had begun, a lot of people had left their homes and taken to roaming, looking for someplace better than the one they’d left. Supposedly the term “stoner” had come about because these people were described as “rolling stones,” but Peter had more than a little suspicion that the word was also a play on his name.

“Look,” the man continued, “how’d you like to settle down somewhere that’s peaceful, where there ain’t no shortages and everybody works together?”

Peter eyed him warily. “Sure, who wouldn’t? Only where are you going to find a place like that? Your back yard?”

“Don’t get cute, man, I asked a legit question.”

“And I said yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Peter Smith.” The lying came by reflex now.

The black extended his hand. “Kudjo Wilson.” They slapped palms instead of shaking. “Listen, if you really want to go on to somethin’ better than all this,” and he waved his hand to include the park crammed with junked autos, “I think you’d better have a talk with my man.”

Peter shrugged. “It can’t hurt, I suppose. Where is he?”

“Oh, he’s a few miles away yet. If you want, you can hop on the back and hold on, and I’ll take you to him right away.”

Peter shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ve got a bike that I’d rather not leave behind—and we can’t readily take it with us on that cycle.”

“Right you are.” The other thought for a minute. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ride on ahead and tell him about you. He’s going to be coming through here anyway, or damn close. Why don’t you wait up alongside the freeway, the one over there.” He pointed further east. “It’s a couple of blocks that way. You wait just before the bridge of the overpass, southbound side. Do you have a watch?”

Peter shook his head again. “It was stolen a month and a half ago.”

“Well, anyway, he’ll be along in a couple of hours. It’ll be after dark, if that doesn’t bother you.”

“Well.….” Peter began.

“Be there,” the other advised. He started his motorcycle. “We won’t wait.” And he drove off.

Holding his sore left arm, Peter went back to his bicycle. After the fight with those toughs, the mission might not be the best place for him to spend the night, after all—they might come back with friends, looking for revenge. His stomach was rumbling from not having been fed since breakfast, but it would be better to stay alive than to try for a free handout here and later be murdered in his sleep.

He pedaled further east along San Fernando Mission Boulevard and eventually came to the overpass that Kudjo Wilson had mentioned. The sun had just set and the sky was getting ominously dark. He paused at the bridge and looked up at it. Should he believe what the black had said? He had long ago given up believing in fairy tales, and that story had sounded suspiciously like a modern-day El Dorado. A place of peace and plenty would be very hard to come by, and invitations to it just wouldn’t pop into his lap so casually. Besides, how could a black man hold the key to Utopia? It didn’t make sense. If there were such a place, what was that Kudjo Wilson doing here?

But then again, what did he have to lose? If this were an ambush, what could they take from him besides his bicycle, a blanket and some practically worthless money? It would be little enough loot for such an elaborately planned trap. Besides, Wilson could have robbed him of all that right on the spot if he’d wanted to. The whole affair was very puzzling.

Peter wheeled his bike up the on ramp and parked it by the side of the bridge.

He sat there in the dark, waiting. Traffic on the freeway was virtually nonexistent due to the lack of gasoline—only two cars in over an hour’s time, and they whizzed by him in the fast lane without even slowing. He wondered whether the people he wanted had passed him by without even seeing him, or whether they would ever come at all. This whole thing could be an elaborate and incomprehensible practical joke.

You’re a fool, he told himself sternly. Listening to stories of Never-Never Land at your age. You’d probably buy the Golden Gate Bridge if someone offered it to you right now. But he stayed, because there was nowhere else to go.

After what must have been another hour, he saw some headlights approaching from the north. These were traveling much slower than the cars that whizzed past, and as they came closer Peter could make out a whole string of cars in a procession. The leading vehicle stopped just before getting to the bridge and pulled off to the side of the road. The cars behind it followed its example.

A spotlight stabbed out at him from the top of the vehicle, blinding him with its glare. “Mr. Smith?” called out a strange voice.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Come on in, we’ve been hoping you’d be here. Would you like some dinner?”