John (2) | (50.03)

[mragland]

3.13.1928 – Los Angeles

John had always enjoyed driving the Stutz. This time of night/day there was hardly any traffic at all and he was able to keep the pedal down, doing about sixty-five miles an hour most of the way. The rush of air in the open car was intense, and he was thankful for the goggles Georgie kept in the glove box, which made keeping his eyes open a lot easier.

The trickiest part about the drive north was the tunnel. Arguably too small when it was built, the clearance of the circular archway was entirely inadequate for the safe passage of fully loaded trucks to drive in the two lanes on either side. These trucks would frequently resort to driving straight down the center of the tunnel in order to get through it. A danger to oncoming traffic, to say the least, and accidents were not uncommon.

John wasn't in a mood to be cautious and shot through the tunnel at top speed, unconsciously holding his breath as he did so. He was through it in a matter of seconds. There was no sign of flooding or water along the roadside yet, though the illumination of his headlights was adequate only at reasonable speeds, and not much of the countryside was visible. It was a blur, mostly. Most of the floodwaters, if Georgie was correct, would flow down the Santa Clara River toward Oxnard. It stood to reason that any flooding would be much worse further on. This thought both troubled him and propelled him forward.

After about another twenty minutes he reached a spot where a small bridge crossed the Santa Clara, which was a wide, dry ditch much of the year, but tonight there was mud, a great deal of it. Up ahead he could see the lights of a pair of parked police motorcycles. In front of them stood two officers, maybe sheriff's deputies, John couldn't be sure. He was, thankfully, not well-acquainted with law enforcement. This spot was where the bridge used to be, but the trestle was nowhere in sight. John geared the car down and came to a stop in front of the policemen.

It was a strange scene. The stars were out and there was not a cloud in the sky, but down on the river banks there was mud and detritus everywhere. Here a dining table, there a horn from a Victrola. It didn't take much consideration of the scene for John to figure out that homes had been washed away upstream, their contents deposited along the banks of the river.

John, still seated in the driver seat, looked up at the taller of the two officers, not shutting off the car's motor. "I'm trying to get to Alicante," he called out, "Is there another way?"

The policeman cleared his throat and spoke up, "You can't," he said.

"Why not?" asked John.

There was a pause as the two officers glanced at each other. "Because ... because it ain't there," said the tall one. "The water took everything. There's just mud and tree limbs where it used to be."

A few moments passed. The other officer swung his flashlight up, shining the light in John's face. "Hey, fella," said the policeman, "are you alright?”