Empire Of Salt (4 page)

"Do you see what I see?" Patrick asked.

The man by the water pushed himself to his knees, retched mightily into the surf, then stood. Twin rivulets of yellow drool fell to the ground. The man ambled off the way he came, his gait uncertain.

"A drunk puking in the surf?" Natasha asked.

"Hey, we have those at home," Derrick said, having finished his business and rejoined his family.

"No. What's on the shore. What the birds were after." Even as he said the words, the first of many birds began to return. Within moments, the sky darkened and those that had fled returned to their interrupted meal of rotting fish.

"How many are there?" Derrick asked.

"What? Fish or birds?" Patrick asked in return.

"Dunno. Both?"

"Hundreds. Thousands."

"Is this really the Salton Sea?" Natasha asked.

Before anyone could answer, the wind shifted once more, drawing the stench back over them like a heavy oil cloth. Everyone groaned as they covered their noses and mouths. They rushed to the car, jumped inside and slammed the doors behind them. Then they sat in stunned silence watching the rotting fish, the birds and the barbaric drunk who had once again found a stick and was ready to resume his Don Quixote stand.

G
erald Duphrene sat behind the wheel of his golf cart, glaring in morose fascination at the remains of the coyote lying in the middle of Highway 111. The crushed body was perfectly perpendicular to the double yellow line, crossing it like a "T". It wasn't just the positioning of the body that had transfixed him, but also the juxtaposition of the absolutely flattened body with the perfectly undisturbed head. The long snout, the lolling tongue, and the wide bright eyes seemed alive on the dead creature. They stared back at Gerald in surprise, as if to ask,
how did I get here?

The sight reminded him of Private Abner Johnson back in '53. Old Ab had perished in a similar way on the hills north of Seoul when the Chinese were pushing them back and back to Pusan, though Abner never did see Pusan. They were lying on the side of a hill, trying to sleep amidst the cold rain and the constant shelling when it happened. No one could have foreseen it. Nothing could have stopped it. An American Sherman tank had crested the top of the hill, maneuvering backwards as it fired 76.2 mm shells at the ocean of Chinese soldiers. The tracks slid on the mud, sending the 32 ton machine skating down the backside of the hill. It crushed Ab's entire body flat, blood and guts shooting from the sides like a jelly sandwich that had just been hand slammed. One minute Ab had been talking about life on his daddy's tobacco farm in North Carolina, the next he was Korean War road kill... all except for his head. His head, like the coyote's, was perfectly undisturbed and seemed to be caught in mid-sentence.

Gerald remembered staring at old Ab for what seemed like a whole minute before he got up and ran. And it was a good thing he did, too, because the rest of the tank battalion followed the first, backing blindly down the hill as they scrambled to escape the tidal wave of slant-eyed yellow murder. Maybe Old Ab's death had saved him. Gerald nodded to himself. Good thing he was paying attention.

A cargo truck carrying cucumbers towards Tucson roared by, finishing the job on the dead animal. As the truck disappeared down the road to Niland, Gerald turned the golf car around, and drove back into Bombay Beach, reflecting - not for the first time - how cut off from the world they were. As he passed the
Welcome to Bombay Beach
sign he noticed that weeds were hugging the wooden supports. He made a mental note to return with clippers. They might not have many tourists, but that wasn't a reason for them not to look their best.

That sentiment went to the heart of his problems. What had once been a proud little community on the shore of a thriving inland sea had turned into a scene of all-out Armageddon. He'd seen Korean villages in better shape after UN Forces and the Chinese had steamrolled over them.

Now parked at the corner of Avenue A and Fifth Street, he glared at his community. He remembered in 1958, when he'd first moved here, how pristine and beautiful everything had looked. The trailers were rectangular pastel homes arrayed in perfect rows. The developer had sprung for fake grass for everyone, which provided impossibly green plots in front of every porch that only needed to be occasionally swept and cleaned with a hose. A service provided fresh flowers in pots set at the base of everyone's mailbox. The roads were new, nary a piece of litter in sight. The water of the Salton Sea was a Sultan's paradise of crystal blue water. And bikini-clad water skiers crazed the horizon.

He adjusted the brim of his baseball cap with his right hook, put the cart in gear with his left, and headed off down First Street at a slow roll. Things never stayed the same. Change was the nature of the universe. He'd had a drill sergeant in basic training who'd told him once that the measure of a man was not how he dealt with success, but rather how he responded to adversity... and life had sure given Gerald Duphrene his share of that.

The stainless steel hooks that were his hands and the Salton Sea were both examples of what could have been. They were
if onlys
and if he spent his days dwelling on
if onlys
he'd never get anything done.
If only
frost bite hadn't murdered his fingers.
If only
the land hadn't conspired to murder the dream of the Salton Sea. Nothing more than
if onlys
.

As he drove down the street, he managed to see past the ruin and degradation of the trailers, ticking off, instead, those which were still occupied. Now nearly half of them were empty with more and more emptying every day.

Some left by land, moving their worldly goods - or sometimes leaving them - and heading off on Highway 111 to better times.

And some left by other means.

A chill ran from his shoulders to his elbows where the prosthetics started. These were what bothered him most. He'd seen the monsters coming out of the water. He'd watched them creep into a house and ravage the occupant, sitting on the sofa watching television. He'd seen far worse in Korea, so one person eating another hadn't been what scared him.

He had scared himself.

Not because he was willing to do anything to stop the creatures.

Not because he wanted to protect the people of his town.

Not because he knew the price of war.

No. He scared himself because sometime between being a twenty-something badass in Korea and being a seventy-something cyborg in California, he'd turned into a wimp. Every time he saw the damned things he'd start shaking. He'd find himself frozen in place. He couldn't even speak.

And he hated himself for it.

After each occasion he vowed that the next time would be different. He promised himself that he'd do something, save someone, be that hero he'd once been.

But every time he failed himself.

Gerald turned down Avenue C, eyeing the dark and broken windows of the abandoned trailers. But this time would be different. He'd face his fear if it killed him.

He pulled to a stop in front of the old yellow and white trailer where George and Paula Silva had lived. That Porta-Wop and his wife had been good friends while Gerald's wife had been alive. But soon after his dear Jane died of lung cancer, the Portuguese-Italian ex-Army sergeant and his wife moved back to Kentucky where her family was from. The trailer had remained abandoned ever since and year by year it fell into more and more disrepair. Now, it was little more than a ruin.

Staring at the doorway, he felt the old fear return. He had to fight it. He had to conquer the feeling. Nothing bad would happen. Nothing could happen.

He'd captured one of the creatures using a bear trap and it was still inside. What better way to conquer his fear than with a real live - or in this case, real dead - test dummy?

All that bravado evaporated, however, as he stared into the dark maw of the doorway. He regarded the blackness inside. A niggling thought made him wonder which one of them was the real dummy.

Gerald set his jaw.

He'd find out soon enough.

But not this time.

He backed the golf cart out of the yard and into the street, and resumed his patrol. For now, there were other things that needed his attention.

An hour later, after washing at a nearby campground, the Olivers managed to find Grandpa Lazlo's restaurant, beneath a sign bearing a gigantic neon space station that looked capable of docking miniature intergalactic starships. One story and made of sun-faded yellow and blue painted cinderblocks, the restaurant had only one window by the front door to let light in. On the left was an alley between the restaurant and an abandoned gas station set back from the road, the pumps standing as skeletal monuments to a time of more plentiful tourists. The restaurant's wall bore a faded mural of space ships doing battle in a galaxy far, far away. Trash cans were gathered near the back corner. A laundromat was attached on the right, its huge windows painfully reflecting the sun.

On the fly-speckled window was a sign that said "Open." Natasha wondered why it would be open so soon after her grandfather's death two weeks ago. Although she hadn't really known him, she decided to take a dislike to Gertie, who greeted them at the door. The older woman was tall and thin with long white hair. She had high cheekbones above a ready smile, and wore flip-flops, orange dungarees and a bikini top.

"Frank told me there was a family parked by the beach. I figured it had to be you. Hi, I'm Gertie. I was Lazlo's girlfriend." She gave Natasha's father a hug before he could put his arms out. She grasped his shoulders when she was done and held him at arm's length. "You look so much like him, you know. Especially in the cheeks and the jaws. Soft eyes, though. Hmmph. Must be from your mother."

She turned and went back inside without saying another word.

Patrick looked at his family, who looked back at him and shrugged. Derrick helped Auntie Lin out of the car and they entered the restaurant together.

Whatever Natasha expected, it hadn't been to see a place so clean. The walls, counters and tables gleamed. She'd never liked cleaning, and really hadn't paid attention to how clean things were, but after the shock of the Salton Sea, she'd grown a sudden appreciation for sanitary surfaces.

Gertie stood imperiously in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. "Laz always liked the place clean. He used to say that it might be a natural disaster on the outside, but on the inside it has to be a place people want to come to."

"I'd come in as long as there were no dead fish," Derrick muttered. Then he saw the crazy man they'd seen on the beach, sitting at the bar and drinking beer through a straw.

Another woman came out of a swinging door from what must have been the kitchen. She was the same age and body type as Gertie but her skin was the color of dark chocolate. Her grey hair was closely cropped to her head, and she wore an apron over a bikini top, dungaree shorts and flip-flops.

"So are you going to sell the place and put us out on the street?" she asked, without even a "hello." She crossed her arms and stared at Natasha first, then turned her attention to Patrick.

Patrick stuttered. "I don't - we don't -"

Auntie Lin saved him by asking, "Who are you and what business is it of yours?"

"I'm Maude," the woman said, stepping closer. "I was Lazlo's girlfriend."