City Center, The by Simone Pond Read Free Book Online

dirt.
    “It’s time to go, my little Lillian,” Mom said, holding me close as we shivered together under the giant oak tree.
    “Are we gonna use Dad’s escape plan?” I asked.
    “Yes. We’re going to Temescal Canyon. There are others like us. Ones who refuse to go to the death camps, or to work on the new Los Angeles center.”
    Tears blurred the world around me. I buried my face into Rags. I didn’t want to stay behind, but I didn’t want to leave my home of fifteen years. I loved my home and the neighborhood I grew up in. But everything I loved was gone.
    We collected survival items based on Dad’s list and put as much as we could fit into two suitcases. During our packing, I found a photo of my family when my sister was a baby and a more recent one taken before my brother shipped off. I placed them in between the pages of my Bible at Psalm 23.
    The days prior to our journey we walked around the ghost town our neighborhood had become like thieves in the night, siphoning gas from abandoned cars until we had enough to get us to the Palisades. Sometimes we’d spot a person frantically pedaling by on a bike with backpacks and bags attached to every limb. They had the same instinctual sense to get the hell out.
    “Survival of the fittest,” Mom muttered under her breath.
    One night we walked for a few miles until we reached a dark alley. We stood at the back door of the underground surplus store and Mom knocked three times in a row, waited and then knocked once more. We waited in silence. After a few minutes, a burly man wearing head-to-toe camouflage opened the door and gestured for us to enter the pitch-black stairwell. I held Rags in my left arm and guided myself through the darkness with my right. We reached the dingy cellar at the bottom lit up by a few lanterns. There were rows and rows of shelves jam-packed with surplus equipment and non-perishable food.
    The large man led us down an aisle containing various sizes of guns and rifles.
    “Find one that feels comfortable and fits your body,” he told us.
    At the age of fifteen I had never seen a gun in person, let alone touched one. I put Rags down on the cement floor and studied the nearest rack. I ran my fingers along the cold barrels of the shotguns. I didn’t want to lift any of them up. I was terrified. I cringed at the idea of firing a gun, but it was clear we’d either be the hunted, or the hunters. I had no other choice.
    “It’s okay, honey. We’ll need them for protection,” Mom said.
    I lifted one off the rack. A long and heavy shotgun. I mimicked how actors held guns in the movies. A wave of intense energy surged through my veins.
    “This is the one,” I told the man.
    He patted my head and handed me a much smaller one.
    “Try this,” he said. “It’ll be easier to handle, and you can slip it into your backpack.”
    The man set out two giant backpacks and helped us transfer only the necessary items from our suitcases. He put my Bible off to the side, but I tucked it into the side pocket when he was busy writing down the route.
    “Avoid Sunset and Pacific Coast Highway. Otherwise you’ll hit the barricades. Park the car at the top of the street, and walk to the address. You’ll cut through the backyard. The entrance to the woods is behind this row of bushes.” He handed Mom a hand-drawn map. “The Temescal campsite is located a few miles up the trail. Whistle three times when you get to the top of the slope. Someone will meet you and guide you to the campsite. There will be a group gathered. From there, you’ll make the journey north.”
    The day of our escape, or “our extended camping trip” as Mom called it, we loaded the family sedan with our giant backpacks stuffed with the essentials for survival—camping gear, non-perishables, first aid, firearms and ammunition. And, of course, our journals to record everything. So we’d never forget, so that future generations would never forget. Mom pulled away from our home. I noticed