Quake Read Free Page B

mountainside, an avalanche on your back. You'll probably take a headfirst dive, but it's worth the effort. Staying in front so you don't get buried, Staying in front, no matter what. Gotta get outa this place! Through the roar of the quake, he heard his own yell.
        It occurred to him that a fellow with more panache might yell 'Geronimo!' in such straits. But all Clint yelled on his stampede down the stairwell was, 'YAHHHHHHH!!!' At the bottom, he crashed against a wall. He bounced off, fell against the stairs, scurried up and pawed the shuddering door until he found its handle. He levered the handle down. Light from the foyer stung his eyes. He rushed out of the stairwell, dashed across the reception area, flung himself against the front door, threw it open and managed to get outside into the morning sunlight. The earth still shook. The quake still roared.
        My God, Clint thought, it's never going to stop! Covering his head with both arms, he raced into the street. Into the middle of the street, away from falling glass and walls that might crumble. He whirled around. The two-story building that housed the law offices of Haversham Dumont, his employers, appeared to bounce and shimmy. Clint knew it couldn't possibly be jumping about so much without disintegrating. It's jumping, but not as much as am, he thought. He glanced up and down the street. Saw several cars.
        Couldn't tell for sure whether they were parked. Probably just parked, he thought. Nobody could be driving through all this. The cars were being tossed about like skiffs on a sea. And seemed to shriek with panic, their the quake. A sound like the rip of tough fabric made Clint snap head forward. He muttered, 'Jesus!' Moments before of the office building had been intact except for shattered windows. Now, it looked as if an oak its way through the stucco wall. Got out of there just in the nick of time. A horn blared. Its noise melded with the car alarms the roar of the quake and a legion of other noises shatters and clashes and slams and sirens - so that he was only vaguely aware of the horn. The blare was like something glimpsed in his peripheral vision. Something barely vaguely troubling. Until it wailed in his ears and he turned his head to see a red Toyota pickup truck torpedoing at him through the surf.
        He yelled, 'SHIT!' and dived for the curb. Airborne, he thought he'd done a halfway decent job leaping clear. The bastard wouldn't kill him, clip off both his feet at the ankles. But he felt no pain until he landed. The ground hit his hands and knees, slammed his chest, knocked him out. For a moment, he felt as if he were sliding down a grater. Then he stopped skidding. He thought, Bastard! raised his head, wanting to shout at the crazy asshole at the wheel of the Toyota. But he had no breath for shouting. The van owner had painted out some of the big white letters. Changing the brand name to TOY. Clint realized that he had actually been able to read the word TOY. The word TOY was not a vibrating, pounding blur.
        The quake's stopped. Thank God. Thank my God because the red TOY hadn't slowed down for the cross-street any more than it had slowed for him, and this time there wasn't a man in its way but BMW rushing into the intersection from the left. Just short of the crosswalk, the TOY cut hard to the right. Maybe the driver thought he had cleared the curb. Maybe he figured a bounce over the curb would be better than getting broadsided by the BMW. But hadn't he sliced the power pole? Maybe he'd figured it would snap like a toothpick when he hit it, and he would speed merrily on his way.
        The pole did snap. But the driver didn't speed through a quick spray of splinters. The pole didn't burst into splinters at all. Instead, its stump bludgeoned its way through the front of the TOY. The TOY stopped very fast. Clint couldn't see what happened to the driver. But the man in the passenger seat blasted headfirst through the