The mayor’s nighttime curfew is hours away, Christina reassured herself. These people have as much right to be out and about as I do.
But as she pedaled her way through the clogged streets of dead cars on her way to the lab, it became clear that many of those wandering around were up to no good. Only five blocks from home, she heard the sound of breaking glass and came upon a gang of four young men robbing an athletic shoe store. She turned a corner and sped away from the scene. Minutes later, she saw a solitary man strutting angrily down the sidewalk while shouting and brandishing a handgun.
Her heart beat faster and her legs pumped harder to cover the distance to UCLA as quickly as possible. No women, she thought, noticing the sinister absence of any females except herself outdoors. She felt distinctly unsafe, and wondered if she should turn back and go home.
But I’ve got to help Dr. Chen.
While riding down a street devoid of pedestrians, Christina wondered if she’d be safer on a major road. But the looters freaked her out; she decided to take her chances in quiet residential areas.
Reeking garbage cans waited in vain for the weekly pickup. Many were overflowing, and rotten globs of filthy paper and other debris drifted down the street. Christina struggled to navigate around the stalled cars and trash. Too late, she swerved to avoid a smashed whiskey bottle.
“Shit,” she said when she heard a hissing sound.
She rolled forward a bit further and felt the pressure leaking from her rear tire. She dismounted and leaned her bicycle against a car. The inner tube was punctured. Thank God she had a patch kit, and knew how to use it. She reached to unzip the patch kit from beneath her saddle.
Then she smelled it. Vinegar.
A wet spot stained the pavement under the car.
She froze, then drew her hand back from the zipper. Her other hand rested on the bike seat; she used it to slowly pull the bike away from the car.
No sparks. No sparks.
Rather than let the front wheel flop and strike something, she risked a static discharge and grabbed the handlebars. Holding her breath, she walked the bike away from the potentially explosive vehicle, exhaling with relief when she was a few feet away.
A palm tree growing in a tidy yard nearby certainly wasn’t leaking hydrogen gas. She tilted her bike against the trunk and concentrated on repairing the tube.
“Hey baby, you got a problem with your wheels?”
Christina jumped. In her rush to fix the flat, her awareness of her surroundings had slipped. Two men with baggy pants and baseball caps worn sideways were approaching from not far away.
“No problem,” she lied, sweeping her tools into the sack and standing to face the men. The tube was patched, but not yet inflated. No other people were on the street. The men sauntered toward her. She strapped her pack on her back and prepared to ride off, flat or no.
“Nice bike,” one said, glancing over his shoulder as if to confirm they were alone.
“Back off,” she said in her most commanding voice. For an instant the gangstas paused. She hopped on her crippled bicycle and pedaled furiously. The young men dropped their pretense of friendliness and sprinted after her.
Normally she could easily outpace anyone on foot, but with no air in the back tire, the bike moved like she was riding through deep sand. Within two seconds she realized they would catch her before she reached the end of the block.
“Wait up, bitch.”
Panic accelerated her thoughts. In a flash she wondered if they just wanted her bike. Should she drop it and run? But on foot she would be completely powerless.
The gap between her and her pursuers was down to three or four seconds and closing. A sob slipped from her lips. There was no escape.
Unless…
She didn’t have time to analyze the risk.
Two cars ahead she saw the telltale dampness on the ground. She prayed the bacteria were still eating, still dumping their flammable waste. While moving, she lifted a foot from the pedal and reached for the kickstand. The metal stake popped into place. She steered the bike as close as she could to the side of the car. The men were almost upon her, shouting and lunging for her backpack. She allowed the bike to tilt slightly. The kickstand scraped along the ground. The bike wobbled but kept going. She turned sharply around the front of the car, encouraging the men to cut close around the fender.
The hydrogen flame she’d ignited was invisible but devastatingly hot. She never knew whether it caught one or both of the men. She rode away from the screams and didn’t look back.