Richard Laymon - The quake

Richard Laymon

The Quake

***

For Stanley, the earthquake is a heaven-sent opportunity. Just before it struck, he was ogling Sheila, a female jogger, and that's not all he'd like to do to her. Now the city lies in ruins, and Sheila lies trapped and naked in her bathtub. Can her husband make it to her before Stanley does?

***

From Publishers Weekly

In this above-average disaster thriller, Sheila Banner is looking forward to a long, relaxing bath when a massive earthquake hits southern California, trapping her in the tub, naked but intact under two fallen beams. Meanwhile, Sheila's husband, Clint, is stranded at work, his car sitting behind a pair of powerless electronic security gates, while their daughter, Barbara, along with three classmates, is caught in a speeding car with a panicky teacher at the wheel. Through alternating chapters, Laymon (Savage) tells these three tales of survival in his customary speedy, whip-lean prose, eschewing descriptions of fallen bridges and highways to focus on the disintegration of humanity, the violence and predation unleashed by the quake. The imagery is graphic-roving gangs stripping and mutilating the bodies of the living as well as the dead-but, as in the best of Laymon's work, like The Stake, there's an edge of black humor to the proceedings, a faint cackle in the background. Still, this is strong, disturbing fare, not for the thin-skinned.

***

From Library Journal

Stanley Banks is not the neighbor one would want when Los Angeles is hit by "the Big One," the earthquake that destroys the sprawling city. In the quake's aftermath, the thin veneer that keeps the savages civilized crumbles almost as fast as the real estate. The Banner family is scattered when it hits, and Sheila Banner is trapped in a tub under the wreckage of her house when Stanley, her psychopathic admirer, finds her. Meanwhile, Clint and daughter Barbara are separately struggling to get home to Sheila, walking through Los Angeles while fleeing and fighting gangs that rob, rape, murder, and mutilate. Laymon (Savage, LJ 12/93) expertly lays on the horror here, and at times his Los Angeles seems to have been invaded by aliens, so quickly have the residents turned savage. Horror fans will find this hard to put down. Strongly recommended for public libraries.

***

From Booklist

Anarchy reigns supreme and altruism is obsolete in Laymon's novel about "the big one." The book opens minutes before an earthquake hits Southern California with the force of an atom bomb. We often hear heartwarming tales of neighbors reaching out to each other and communities pulling together in the wake of sudden disaster. Concentrating on one family, the Banners, whose members are caught on opposite sides of the city by their daily routines, Laymon throws all that out the window, portraying instead a world where normal people become panicked maniacs, perverts find the opportunities to act out their fantasies, and the stable and sane find it increasingly difficult to stay that way. Laymon writes well enough to maintain interest in the fates of the characters, and all the jumping back and forth among the separate Banners' various venues isn't as distracting as you might think. All in all, horror and suspense fans will be satisfied.

***

Minutes before the quake hit, Stanley Banks was at his living room window. Though he held the sports section of the L.A. Times at chest level, he only pretended to read it. He pretended, every weekday morning, to read it. In case Mother should happen to wheel herself into the room to spy him stationed by the window. She remained in the kitchen sipping coffee and listening to the radio. But sometimes she put in surprise appearances, and the paper made a good diversion. By now, she knew that Stanley was in the habit of standing the window to take advantage of the morning light while studied the front page of the sports section. That was what he had told her often enough. It wasn't the truth, of course. in truth, he stood there to watch the sidewalk. He was watching it, now, over the top edge of the paper.

He hoped he hadn't missed her. He glanced at his wristwatch. Eight o'clock on the nose. She ought to be running past the house within the next five minutes.

'Stanley!' his mother called. 'Stanley! Be a dear and fetch some matches.'

Stanley felt his throat tighten. 'Just a minute,' he called.

'Do as you're asked, please.'

I'm gonna miss her. Maybe not. Maybe not, if hurry. He slapped the newspaper onto the end table, then strode across the small living room to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of matchbooks from a wicker basket on the mantel and hurried through the dining room to the kitchen. He tossed them onto the table in front of his mother. They hit the surface hard bouncing and scattering. One matchbook skidded off the edge and dropped to the floor beside her wheelchair. Stanley whirled around. He managed only a single step of his escape before a harsh voice demanded, 'Stop right there.'

'Muh-therrrr.'

'Look at me when speak to you.'

'Yes, ma'am.' Stanley faced her.

Alma Banks, squinting at him through her pink-framed glasses, jabbed a Virginia Slims between her lips and fired a match. She sucked its flame to the tip of her cigarette. She inhaled, then blew twin gray funnels out her nostrils.

'I asked you for matches, young man. Not for a display of temper. '

'I'm sorry. If you just could've waited for a couple of minutes'

'Your time is so precious that you can't afford to do a small errand for your own mother?

'No,' he said. 'I'm sorry.' I'm going to miss her.

'Matches. That was all asked for. Matches. Do ask so much of you? You're a grown man. You're thirty-two years old. You live in my home. You eat my food. Is it so much to do a little something for me once in a blue moon?

'No. I'm sorry. Can go now?'

'May I? Please?'

'Go.' A flap of her hand kicked the smoke cloud coiling away from her face.

'Thank you, Mother.' He headed for the living room, telling himself not to rush. 'I'll be back to do the dishes in a minutes. just want to finish the sports section.'

'You and your sports section. It isn't going to vanish, you know.'

She wasn't letting up, but she wasn't following him. The wheelchair remained silent. She was apparently content.

'Your precious sports page isn't going to go up in a puff of smoke, do you know that? It can't wait two minutes while you find your mother matches?'

'I got you the matches,' he called.

'You threw them at me, that's what you did.'

He checked his wristwatch. Three minutes past eight. missed her

'I won't always be around, you know,' Alma reminded him.

He waited for her to start pouring on the waterworks.

Stanley almost felt like crying, himself. He'd missed his chance, been cheated out of it by the selfish whims of his mother.

And then she appeared.

Stanley thought, My God.

'Oh, Sheila,' he whispered.

She came into view from beyond the oleander side of the lawn, long legs striding out, arms swinging at her sides with relaxed grace. Her white shoes so bright they flashed like sunlit snow. Her tawny legs alive with shifting curves of muscle. They were way up to the golden trim of her shorts. The royal blue shorts shimmered and flowed around as she ran. Sliding over her thighs and buttocks, rubbing warm between her legs. She wore an old, faded blue T-shirt. Its chest shifted with the jouncing of her breasts. Stanley could tell that she was wearing a bra. She never ran without one. Stanley actually glimpsed her bra when her arm cocked back. Its side showed near the bottom of the armhole. It was white this morning. The hole gaped enough so that he could see a bra. Stanley wished she was not wearing it. Then he wad able to see most of her breast through the armhole. The way her shirt was cut off at the waist, the way it hung from her breasts, he would be able to look up and see them both. Their smooth round undersides Sure, he thought. If I'm lying on the sidewalk.