Richard took a deep breath as he left the hospital and entered the body-strewn parking lot.  He was numb from the pain he had just witnessed. He had to stay strong and stay focused on what he was about to do. He had to keep going. The air was still smoky. He heard helicopter activity far off. It was like he was walking through a minefield, blindfolded, taking each step with caution, knowing that one wrong move could send him tumbling down into an abyss of despair. Cries for help, screams, sobbing, hysterical babbling. He had to step over the body of a young girl, no more than twelve years old, lying on the ground, her eyes wide open, staring at the sky. Men and women, young and old, children about half in hospital gowns, some lying rigid, wide-eyed, some curled fetus-like, some hugging a patient in fear, one couple appearing to be making love, some tucked tight in blankets like mummies, trembling. There was a woman sitting in a corner, her face twisted in an expression of pure terror, her hands clasped over her ears, rocking back and forth.

For the first time in almost twelve hours, he thought of Washington and Stacey, wondering why they hadn't come to the hospital yet.  Could Washington be too sick?  Could he be...?   He stopped as his lefts began to shake, a quivering that invaded his whole body.  The fear was similar to that of a soldier whose comrades have been killed or injured in battle, and wondering if he will be the next one to suffer. Should he forget everything, except getting to the church to find out?

Wait. Slow down. Don't go spastic, he said to himself.  He took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. He reminded himself to take things one step at a time instead of jumping to conclusions.  Maybe there's another reason, like they might still be at the church because they're helping out, the same as I am. 

That sounded plausible, and it calmed him down.  He breathed a sigh of relief. He began to move again through the mass of bodies.  If he could find that DWP engineer and help get water to the hospital somehow, that could save a lot of lives.

He hoisted himself up to the brick wall edging the hospital grounds and looked down.  He peered over, surveying the landscape of the hospital grounds in front of him. The road from Glendale and from Los Angeles seemed alive, a black ribbon of movement.  Refugees.  He watched as they walked slowly, some carrying shopping bags, some badly burned.   More and more refugees, suburban survivors of what would eventually be known as the Hinckley Holocaust, moving slowly but surely, no known destination, just away from the burning crater that was once Los Angeles, California. The scene was reminiscent of pictures of refugees from the Second World War, walking vast distances with few possessions and no guarantee of safety at the end of the journey.

A hum rose to Richard's ears, sending a shiver down his spine. Eerie. There were none of the suburban souds so typical of this time of day---crickets and birds, car traffic, kids skateboarding down the hill. Only the steady drone of tramping feet and a windlike moan. As Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia, once wrote: “A great wind is blowing and that gives you either imagination or a headache.”

Closer up, he could make out individuals, some with heads and faces covered. He realized they were refugees, in desperate need of assistance. Mothers, fathers, even children were holding up their unsteady comrades, themselves unsteady, wounded, burned, and exhausted. He saw an elderly woman, her face charred from the fires, carrying a small child on her back, its mouth slightly open, seemingly unconscious. He wanted to rush down and pick up another child, all alone, screaming for its mother, to rescue the old lady falling beneath the tight foot march.  But he could do nothing but watch, his heart in his throat, as the child's cries for help were swallowed up by the overwhelming sound of the crowd.

Why did John Hinckley Jr. do this?  So Jodie Foster would notice him, Reagan said. Who is Jodie Foster, anyway? he asked himself.  Richard thought of all the people studying to be doctors and nurses, studying hard to learn how to keep people alive a little bit longer; what did it mean next to the people who killed, robbed---bombed---all for sport, or lust, or greed? He thought that these people must have little understanding of the value of life, and how much more valuable it was than the attention they sought. Richard had a deep understanding that life was a gift, something to be cherished and not taken for granted - a sentiment that John Hinckley and other misguided souls seemed to ignore. If only others shared Richard's appreciation for life and had a deep-seated need to protect it from those who would take it for granted.

It seemed so hopeless.  It was like climbing a mountain with no end in sight. Thousands upon thousands of people trampled over each other, rushing in frantic haste to get away.  To where?  The mountains, with the desert beyond?  How would they survive?  They were so psychotic, so desperate and sick and ill-equipped.  How would they ever make it through 40 miles of mountains?  The thought seemed too daunting to consider, yet there was no other option. One way or another, they had to make it across the mountains.

He turned away.  In the few moments he had spent watching the scene below he had reached a decision to avoid the mobbed road; it was too slow and dangerous.  He'd have to get to Via Carlotta some other way.  He could reach the street while its lower half tilted in the same direction.  He bypassed the debris and was about to take a shortcut between two still-burning homes when he heard the scary oh-whoooo of a coyote.  He stopped.  Sweat rushed to his skin.  Coyotes lived throughout these hills though he'd never seen one.  He'd only heard them late at night, yipping and howling.  They came out of the hills for food and water, especially in the early evening.  He'd heard stories of packs ganging up on the helpless animals and even tiny children.  The Del Carlos had had a cat carried off by a coyote right before Mrs. Del Carlo's eyes as she stood screaming for help.

He decided to detour.  He decided to take a different route. No sense in looking for trouble.  Taking the alternate path would avoid potential risks. And then he heard a dog's hysterical bark and the cry of a child.  He hesitated, then immediately reversed his direction. Without hesitation, he changed course and ran towards the sound of the child's desperate cry.

He saw the coyote first.   From the rear, the yellow-gray fur looked mangy.  He noted the animal's poor condition, making it clear that this was no ordinary coyote. Portions of skin showed through where the fur had burned away.  He stared in horror as he realized the coyote had been burned, likely from coming too close to a fire. The animal stood with its forefeet resting on its prey. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent intensity that warned this was an animal to be feared.

When Richard drew closer, the animal turned, bared its teeth, but stood its ground.  Richard was intimidated by the animal's boldness, yet he had to keep moving. What he saw brought bile to his throat.  Someone lay beneath the coyote, covered with blood and flies, trapped by a downed tree.  He began to retch, but then he saw the child.   No more than 2 years old, the little girl lay huddled on the ground on what must once have been a pleasant patio with a view of the valley.  Guarding her was a small brown-and-white dog.  The dog barked furiously, advancing and retreating, warning, threatening, but not attacking.  The child screamed.  Her eyes were wide with horror as she reached her hands out to Richard.

Angry and repulsed, he grabbed up the nearest object that could serve as a club and turned on the coyote.  His heart was pounding, and strange, strangled sounds came from somewhere deep within him.  He advanced.  "Git!  Scram!  Git, you...you...Leave her alone!" he screamed.  He felt as if he could smash the animal, kill it, bash it to pieces.

The coyote slunk away, loping off to safe distance where it stopped and looked back.

The child's cries brought Richard back to his senses.  He threw the club down and rushed to her.  Dirty, tear-streaked, she had burns on her chubby arms and legs.  He picked her up gingerly and hugged her to him.  The mother was dead; of that there was no doubt.  Without a backward glanced he turned and ran, the dog at his heels.

The more destruction he saw, the more anxious he became.  So many of the homes had been completely burned to the ground, with nothing left but a few blackened chimneys. Any swimming pools he saw were so littered, he couldn't believe the water was drinkable. Even the sight of an untouched swimming pool filled him with dread - what was lurking underneath the surface? What if the water and power engineer's home had also burned?  Could he be dead?  His heart sank at the thought; he had come to consider the engineer an ally in his journey. Or gone, one of the thousands fleeing to the hills? He had no way of knowing, and the questions weighed heavily on his mind.

But the homes on Via Carlotta had suffered less than others, he found out to his relief.  Maybe it was because of their tile roofs.  For the first time he came upon families leaving.  They pushed wheelbarrows full of belongings, their children tied by lines to their wrists.  He asked for water for the child.  "We don't have enough for our own," people said.

He knocked fearfully on the door of 943 Via Carlotta, a door that was charred but still standing, and waited.  As he nuzzled his chain in the baby's soft hair, he realized that its diapers were wet and full.  How long had the child been outdoors without food or water, waiting for its mother to move?   The bomb had gone off yesterday about this time.  If he hadn't come, would the coyote have gone after her, too?

After a time, he heard footsteps, then a woman's voice, high-pitched with fear, called to him through a closed door.  "Go the hell away, you son of a bitch!  We'll shoot!  We've got a gun!"

Richard backed off, the sweat suddenly rising to his forehead.  Were they crazy in there?  Would she really shoot him? He had never been in a situation like this before, and he wasn't sure how to react.

"I'm looking for Mr. Scarlolfo!" he called back, a tremor in his voice.  "I'm from the hospital. Is he there?"

He heard a lock turn, and then the door opened only the width of a chain.  He placed himself so he could be seen, though he couldn't see inside the darkened house.  "What do you want with Dan?"

"Please, open the door and let me talk to him.  I need his help to get water.  The pipes broke, and people need water---and I've got this baby who needs care."

"Wait!" The door closed and the footsteps receded.  Richard lifted the sobbing child so that her head lay on his shoulder.  He put an ear to the door and heard voices mumbling in the background, then two sets of footsteps returned.  The chain was removed and at last the door opened.

Before him, holding a gun that was leveled at his middle, stood a plump woman in her sixties, wearing a flowered housedress.  Just behind her stood a tall, slender man on crutches.  The woman glanced around anxiously as if suspecting that Richard had a dozen accomplices who might dart out of hiding and storm the house.

He'd never faced a gun before.  He stepped back, trembling, and then suddenly the whole scene seemed ridiculous.  This old woman could be Grandma Billie.  How could she consider him a threat?  He shivered until he nearly peed his pants, and then suddenly he was giggling, laughing until tears came.

"Might as well let him in, Gladys. He seems harmless enough," the man said.  Then to Richard, "Well, what are you waiting for?  Come in."

"The baby hasn't had food or water since the bomb, I think," Richard said when he regained control.  "I don't know anything about babies.  Could you----do you think...?" He left the sentence incomplete.

Mrs. Scarlolfo handed the gun to her husband and reached for the child.  She cradled it in her arms and began to make sympathetic cooing sounds. Relieved, Richard waited as the door locks and chains were replaced.

"I'm Dan Scarlolfo," the tall man on crutches said. "And you are?"

"Richard Billie."

"All right.....Richard.  Follow me."

Richard followed the man through several badly damaged room whose contents were strewn about and whose walls were cracked, to a little room that must have served as a den.  Its windows had been boarded up, and the room was lit by ten candles.

The retired engineer lowered himself cautiously into a hard-backed chair.  Richard brushed off his filthy jeans, knowing it would do no good, and sat on the couch opposite.

"Firstly, I want to apologize for the, ah, greeting," Mr. Scarlolfo said, "but the world's crazy right now.  This morning three men with guns came down the street and broke into every home.  They raped and killed a woman two doors down. Our friend, Mrs. Garcia, who lives next door, had to hide in her closet while they ransacked her house.  They'll steal anything---they're not just after food."

"People are evacuating," Richard reported.  "Verdugo Road is mobbed.  I haven't heard a radio report.  Are they telling people to leave?"

"The army should have the roads cleared in another 24 to 36 hours, then they'll start getting people out.  But most people won't wait, they're too scared of radiation, although they say it's not a danger yet.  I'm staying." He nodded at his crutches.  "I couldn't get far with these, anyway.  Now, what can I do for you?"

Richard explained how things were at the hospital and how he had come to this house because the nurse had remembered that Mr. Scarlolfo had worked for DWP.  "I guess what I'm hoping is that you'll know the location of the nearest wells supplying the hospital and you'll be able to get us some water," Richard finished.  He took in the engineer's pained expression as he shifted slightly in his chair and remembered about the strained back.  "Or tell me what I can do to get the water flowing," he added.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, son," Mr. Scarlolfo said, rubbing his thinning gray hair.  "Do you know anything about the water system, how it works?"

Richard's face grew hot.  If Washington were here, he'd know.  Washington knew things.  But it was different for him.  He was weird about learning---he picked up some things and not others.  Like the way he could draw maps of every continent, country, and even every island in the world.  But he couldn't figure out how to change a bike tire.  "No, sir.  I'm sorry, I don't," he said.

"Well, looks like you and I will have to put our heads together to figure out what to do.  Now, let me explain....."

Water, the engineer said, came from two sources.  Local wells, deep in the ground, and from the Colorado River, some distance away.  It was the local well water that fed most of the city.  Pumped from underground pipes, it went first to reservoirs spotted around the city.  From there the water was again pumped to city streets and individual homes.  If a pipe broke on any given street or a hydrant was knocked over, the water and power people could shut off the flow to that one block.

"There are shut-off valves at the wells to stop flow into the reservoirs, and at the reservoirs to stop the flow of the pipes going to homes.  Each reservoir holds about a 3-day supply of water."

"When I left my block this morning," Richard said, "all the hydrants were spouting water.  I wondered how long that would go on until all the water was gone."

"The reservoirs are probably empty or close to it, unless the valves at the wells are still open."

"Do you know where the wells are?  Could you get them to divert that water?"

He shook his head. "I know where every well is in this city, but it wouldn't do any good.  First, we'd have to shut off the flow to the reservoirs. Those valves are deep, likely 200 feet down.   You need special turnoff rods to reach them and strong men to turn those rods."  He shook his head again.  "Even if we had the manpower, we can't get those rods.  They're on the tank trucks, which could be in the DWP yard in Pasadena, or anywhere in between here and there."  He scratched his head.  "But even if we could stop the flow, we couldn't pump it up.  The pump is run electrically."

"And the power is out," Richard said weakly.

"And there won't be any crews to repair it for a good long while, I'm afraid."

"Hey, what about swimming pool water, Mr. Scarlolfo?"

"Possibly.  Normally it's potable, but now with all the debris and ash, probably not anymore."

"The hospital has contact with Goleta.  Maybe they could find out how to purify it, unless the radiation......"

"Now, that could be a problem.  They said it was a ground burst.  Not so much radiation now, but in four or five days....I don't know, maybe it would be all right."

"How? How do we pump it? And how do we get it all the way to the hospital?"

Mr. Scarlolfo lifted himself from the chair just as his wife came to the door.  "That's a sweet little baby, Dan.  Poor thing.  I cleaned her up as best I could and gave her some milk.  She's sleeping now.  And that poor dog.  He drank so much water I thought he'd pop."  She looked at Richard.  " Would you like something to eat, young man?"

His stomach rumbled at the mention of food.  "Anything would be great.  Thanks!"  He turned back to Mr. Scarlolfo.  "The hospital's at least five blocks from here, sir.  We can't get hose from the fire department.  What're we going to do?"