Lee Goldberg - The Walk

He figured the Sepulveda Pass wasn’t too big a risk anyway. He was planning on walking straight up the center of the San Diego Freeway. The ten lanes of concrete plus the two lanes of Sepulveda Boulevard should make a nice, wide fire break.

Marty took a deep breath, got to his feet, and started walking again. To distract himself from the pain, and to make the time pass, he sang TV themes to himself, beginning with fifties shows and moving forward from there.

He began with Have Gun, Will Travel and was up to Green Acres a half-hour later as he approached a guy near the ornate gates to Bel-Air, sitting in a lawn chair beside a sandwich board that advertised “Maps to the Stars’ Homes(Only Five Dollars!” The “five” had been scratched out and replaced with a hastily scrawled “two.” The man was going through his maps, spreading them open on his lap and X-ing out homes with a fat magic marker.

“Doing much business?” Marty asked.

“Some,” the man said, intent on his work. “News crews, mostly.”

Made sense. It didn’t matter much to Americans if Los Angeles was destroyed, Marty thought, but God save Jay Leno’s garage, Brad Pitt’s sun deck, and Meg Ryan’s tennis courts.

“How do you know which homes have been destroyed?” Marty asked.

“I have my sources,” he said mysteriously and started marking up another map.

Marty headed off again, picking up where he left off in the sixties with Branded. He was in middle of the seventies and Good Times when he passed the northern fringes of UCLA. The jogging track, like most open spaces he’d seen since the quake, was clogged with people in make-shift shelters and tents. Above them, to the west, the ruins of the dormitories lay across the stands like fallen stacks of Legos.

His first home in LA was gone. Scratch that one off the Martin Slack Historical tour.

Although there might be food and water on campus, he decided not to stop there for fear he’d never get started again. He walked on, reaching the San Diego Freeway just as he was entering the eighties with Gimme a Break.

The freeway stretched up into the hills, towards a pall of smoke a few miles north that blotted out the sun. The ten-lane roadway was riddled with fissures, ripples, and sinkholes and littered with mangled, wrecked, and overturned cars. The only traffic was a small handful of living dead, either heading into or out of the valley. Surprisingly, the people walking south stayed in the southbound lanes to the left, while those heading north remained on the right, as if those rules made any difference now.

Marty supposed they instinctively clung to the habit for the same reason he was singing TV themes. It grounded them, allowing them to forget what they’d seen, to move like zombies on a pre-destined course. So he headed north into the Pass and dutifully stayed to the right, belting out The Greatest American Hero with all the passion he could muster.

3:25 p.m. Wednesday

After the Getty Center Drive exit, the hills on either side of the freeway seemed uninhabited, except by flames, which swirled amidst the acres of dense, dry scrub-grass, sending plumes of dark smoke into the sky, turning day into night.

He’d read somewhere that an acre of brush was equal to 5000 gallons of gasoline. It didn’t give him much comfort.

The fire had a sound, deep and heavy, like a waterfall only without the water. Glowing orange cinders swirled around him like red-hot snowflakes. Waterfalls without water. Snowflakes on fire. Walking through the Pass was surreal.

Marty’s journey was getting much harder now, not so much the walking, but finding TV themes to sing. He was discovering that the eighties and nineties were mighty lean years for TV songwriting. That, and it was increasingly hard to concentrate on distraction with an orange-black curtain closing in on him from both sides.

He stayed low, and well to the middle of the roadway, snaking through the abandoned cars, trying not to look at the bodies and body parts also left behind. Instead, he struggled to remember the lyrics to Helltown. Sammy Davis, Jr. sang it, but Marty kept confusing it with the theme to Baretta, which was easy, since Sammy and Robert Blake did them both.

Little balls of fire rolled down the hillside and across the freeway like tears. He didn’t know what to make of them until one rolled right in front of him.

Only it wasn’t rolling. It was running.

It was a wild rabbit, a ball of flaming fur, fleeing from the inferno. The freeway was being over-run with burning wild life. And where these burning rats, squirrels, and rabbits perished on the hillside, new fires started. The blazing creatures, in death, were unwittingly increasing the size and ferocity of their pursuer.

At least on the freeway there was no dry brush to spark under their fiery corpses.

Just puddles of gasoline.

No sooner did the thought occur to him than one of the burning rodents ignited a puddle of fuel with a loud whoosh just a few yards away.

It burned out quickly, but it was enough to terrify him. Suddenly, in Marty’s mind, those flaming animals became rolling grenades.

He hurried along, looking in all directions, trying to keep his eye on every flaming creature, every drop of gasoline, every wrecked car, hoping to anticipate the next blast.

This was so damned unfair, he thought. After what happened in that downtown alley with Molly, and what he went through in Beverly Hills, he should be exempt from having to deal with explosions any more. Since Fate hadn’t issued that exemption yet, this had to be another cosmic payback, retribution for demanding more explosions in the action shows on his network, despite the creative and financial pleas from the producers.

Blow something up, he’d say. Something big. You can never have too many explosions.

Now he was learning first hand how wrong he was.

To his right, a Jetta exploded, spinning through the air towards him like a gigantic sheet metal football.

Marty ran like a wide receiver, only he was screaming and this was one pass he didn’t want to receive.

The car smashed into the freeway not far from where he had stood, cartwheeling over the top of several cars, then crashing into the low concrete median.

He stared at the wreckage in amazement, gasping for breath.

A rat did that, he thought. One hot rat.

Marty hurried on, frightened, performing “The Eyes of a Ranger” as loud as he could, the flames dancing along with him on the hillside like insane orange ghosts.

Up ahead, a deer stood shivering between two cars, staring at Marty. The animal was seared black, her hairless skin smoldering. Marty passed close enough to touch the deer, but didn’t. “I’ll Be There for You,” he sang, turning away.

Marty marched on through Mad About You, The Nanny,” and Baywatch . By the time he got to Touched by an Angel, the sound of explosions was receding behind him and sunlight began to break through the smoke ahead, revealing the ruins of the Skirball Jewish Cultural Center and the two overpasses that crossed the freeway at its peak.

The smaller overpass, the one nearest to him, joined Sepulveda to a small street leading up to Mulholland on the other side. The span seemed intact, but Marty ran under it with a shiver of panic anyway.

The taller overpass ahead was massive, rising up several hundred feet to stretch Mulholland over the San Diego Freeway. The span had collapsed on either end, creating a towering, concrete island out of the center section that remained. Marty could see maybe a dozen commuters stranded up there with their cars, castaways in middle of an urban ocean. From their lonely vantage point, the destruction in the LA basin and the San Fernando Valley lapped up against their concrete pillars like waves.