But these were not normal circumstances, nor was this in any way a normal place. People were boiling out of the upper parts of the squatter’s community like ants out of a broken nest, and what struck Rydell about it now was the quiet with which they were doing it. These were not, in some sense, civilians, but hardened survivors used to living on their own in a community of similar people. There were a few people screaming, and probably running the wrong way, or in circles, but from the moving vantage point of the bucking, pitchingATV~ it was hard to tell. Rydell’s impression was mainly of determination; they’d decided that the place was burning, and they’d decided they were getting out. Most people seemed to be carrying something. A few were carrying small children, more carried household goods, and Rydell had seen at least three carrying guns.
Elmore’s style of getting through the crowd was straightforward; he’d gun it toward whoever was in his way, sounding an irritating little horn that Rydell suspected nobody was hearing anyway, and trust that people would get out of his way. Which they managed to do, some just barely, until the ATV’s right back wheel clipped a stack of yellow plastic vegetable crates and brought that down on top of a couple of heavily tattooed characters in lederhosen and paint-splattered construction boots. Elmore had to hit the brakes then, and Rydell saw Chevette flip off; he couldn’t grab her, because he had the chain gun in the hand nearest her and no way to put it down.
Blocked by the pile of empty yellow crates, Elmore whipped it into 255 63. FUNICULAR reverse, pulled back about four feet, and popped it, plowing into the crates and the men in lederhosen, who promptly went lateral, swarming over the pile of crates and grabbing Elmore, who didn’t look to Rydell like fighting material. “Get off him,” Chevette’s girlfriend shouted, trying to keep from being pulled from the saddle with the driver. Rydell slung the chain gun up and put it in the face of one of the tattooed men. The guy blinked at it, looked Rydell in the eye, and started to go after him, but some cop reflex caused Rydell to bellow “LAPD! Get on the ground!”-which made absolutely no sense under the circumstances, but seemed to work. “This is a gun,” he added, and remembered Fontaine’s advice that the chain gun was anything but directional.
“You people are crazy,” snapped one of the tattooed men, barechested and elaborately inked, scrambling over the yellow crates, the light catching on a round steel stud in his lower lip. His partner was right behind him.
Rydell jumped down and found Chevette struggling to extricate herself from what seemed to be a pile of squashed eggplant. As he was turning back to the ATV, he saw a woman with a crew cut and serious biceps tackle Elmore, who went over into the crates.
“Where’s Tessa?”
“I don’t know,” said Rydell, taking Chevette’s hand. “Come on.” As soon as they were away from the ATV, which in any case wasn’t going anywhere, Rydell began to get the idea that something was seriously wrong here. While most of the way from Fontaine’s, people had been running toward Bryant, now he saw they were running back, and now you could see the fear. “I think it’s burning there, by the ramp,” Rydell said. You could see the smoke now, and Rydell noticed how quickly it was thickening.
“Where’s Tessa?”
“Lost her.”
A young girl came running, screaming, with her shirt on fire, from the direction of the city. Rydell tripped her, handed Chevette the chain gun, and bent to roll the girl over, smothering the flames. The girl just kept screaming, and then she was up and running, though Rydell saw that her shirt had been extinguished. He took the chain gun back from 256 Chevette. “We don’t want to try that way,” he said. He didn’t want to think about what might be happening there, if the crowd was trying to force its way through flame. “Come on, let’s try this.” He tugged her through the doorway of a cafй, deserted, cups of coffee on the tables, music playing calmly, steam rising from a pot of soup on a hotplate behind the counter. He pulled her behind the counter, and into the tight little kitchen, but found that while there were windows, they’d been barred against thieves with elaborately welded grids of rebar. “Shit,” he said, leaning to peer through the salt-crusted pane, trying to estimate the drop here, in case they could find a way.