September 3

No water. No heat. No food.

We are so screwed.

In the early morning, after we had spent all night checking and sorting the pantry after the glass jars shattered all over the shelves and floors, I tried turning on the faucet to clean my hands of the jelly and jam juice coating my fingers while wetting some towels to wipe the sticky juice off the floor, but there was no water. I went to the bathroom to see if there was water, but nothing. Same thing with the sink in the laundry room. I even checked the garden faucet. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"We don't have any water," I told Dad.

"I know," he said. "All the pipes must have ruptured. Both the stove and the heater aren't working either."

"What are we going to do?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said before calling out for Mom to get the heater for the greenbox, which was slowly becoming cooler before turning back to me. "Can you go get some firewood from the garage along with some of the twigs and leaves?"

"Sure," I said before remembering. "What about the food drive today?"

Dad swore before standing on a dining table chair and announcing, "We've got to go to the food drive. Maybe they will have some information."

Mom said, "I'll grab everyone's masks and tell my parents to get ready. Kids, get your socks and wear your shoes. Hurry up! We don't want to miss any food, especially because of the earthquakes."

So we all sprung into action, the coldness that plagued us this week dissolving. It's the one good thing about chaos and destruction, where there just isn't enough free time to waste your breath arguing and fighting. Everyone is just all action, all movement, and getting things done. We managed to get dressed and out of the house in less than five minutes.

After some minutes, as we neared the food drive, we could hear the chants and questions of everyone clumped together in the plaza echoing throughout the streets. There was this uncontrollable anger and fear in the air, and Mom looked at all of us before saying, "Stick together. It's dangerous out there, but we need the information."

"Should I go out first?" Dad asked. "Scout out the situation to see if we should just head back."

"No," Mom said. "In these situations, being alone can make you a target. Some of those people out there are crazed, starved animals, and they are unpredictable."

"They're people, Mom," Mira interjected. "Not animals."

"And people are unpredictable," she replied. "Like animals."

Ambulance blares filled the air and when I looked up, I could see plumes of smoke drifting throughout the sky, like each house was a small volcano. There were people on the sidewalks, crying in front of their collapsed houses, faces bruised and bloodied. Mom and Dad ushered us away from them and told us not to look at them in their eyes, but I felt sorry for them. I wanted to help, but I couldn't.

As we neared the plaza, I could better make out what they were saying, the cries and chants mixed up in a swirl of sound. There was an underlying chant: "We need food. We need water. We need heat," punctuated by a smattering of questions: "When will the water return? Is firewood going to be provided? Can we get gasoline, please?" and cries of desperation and anger: "Fix the damn pipes! Please, I've got children and grandparents. We paid all these taxes for you; now deliver! May God save us all. To Hell with God!"

We stayed clumped together as people formed clumps that morphed into swirling stampedes, kicking up ash into the air as a manmade mist descended upon us. May's eyes were wildly darting around with panic, and Mom was holding her steady while Mira and Dad stood guard around Grandma and Grandpa. I mostly looked around, hoping to see a glimpse of Charles in the crowd, but it's hard to tell when visibility is blurry and everyone's wearing masks.

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Suddenly, there was a crackling of static and the crowd quieted down for a moment before going back to their chants. The announcer then said, "Quiet everyone!"

But no one listened until the second crackling of static as his voice boomed throughout the plaza, "I have new information."

That's what got everyone. Even the most angry people and the most desperate all quieted down, waiting to hear what he had to say. I guess everyone was scared and helpless and just wanted to know what to expect next because at this point, no one had a clue about what's coming after the ruptures of the pipes and collapse of people's houses.

"But you all need to listen very carefully," the announcer said. "Last week, unfortunately, we were unable to complete the installation of the rockfall netting, and because of the lack of volunteers throughout the week, we were unable to complete the netting before this earthquake."

There were murmurs in the chat, but I think practically everyone knew what he was about to say, and when the announcer said it, it only crystallized everyone's fears. "The final mountain path got buried and the other two experienced more collapses. As of the moment, we do not have access to the food delivery trucks, but our members are working hard in Sacramento to give us access to the food."

There was a flurry of conversation.

"Are we going to have to cut down on more food?" May asked.

"I don't know," Mom replied. "I don't know."

"At this rate, I'm going to shrivel up and die," May said before giving me a look (like the type of look when she is planning something that'll likely involve me lying a bunch) before Mira hopped into the conversation, "We should've helped."

"There's nothing that could've been done," Mom replied. "One or two extra places partially secured wouldn't have made a difference."

"It could've," Mira said. "We all could've helped."

"What if the earthquake had happened last Saturday when you were out there?" Mom asked. "You could've died. It's better this way."

"I agree with your Mom here," Dad said, standing next to Mom. "So stop beating yourself over what you could've done and start doing something right now. We've got lots of work to do today at home."

"We should be helping people," Mira replied, as her argument fizzled in front of our united parents.

I turned towards her. "We've got to help ourselves first."

I think she knew what I meant about Charles and his family, where we've got to help our own family first before helping other people like his family, sort of like the mask on first in an airplane before helping another person. But when she turned away, I knew she wasn't satisfied with just doing that, but who knows what she is going to do more? With my secret out, I can only hope that she doesn't follow in my footsteps for other people because even though it's right and moral and good, I don't know if we can afford it.

"But, in the meantime, families with more food and supplies, please donate them to the less fortunate," the announcer said. "We need to survive together, as a whole community, or it's going to get bad, and we need things to stay good. So please, I am begging you, donate food for the less fortunate, in the anonymous bins that we have set up in front of city hall."

"But what if there is no food?" a skinny woman asked as we walked out from the crowd to face the announcer. "I've got sick kids at home."

"There will be food," the announcer said. "I know it."

But he didn't sound very convinced, and everyone knew it because he was bombarded by questions about power, about water, about ash, about masks, about virtually everything. The two security guards, armed with nothing but a handgun and some mace spray stood in front of him, as he answered the crowd's questions with hesitancy.

"We are working on fixing the water and natural gas pipelines. Expect them to return in a month or so," he said, but everyone knew it was a lie because that was too good to be true and felt like fake assurance. Before, it was a big deal to lose power for even a couple of hours, but now, losing water and natural gas for a month only feels like a fake bargain. "In the meantime, we are working on printing guides about the purification of water and how to create safe heat in homes that can be picked up this Wednesday at City Hall."

People began shouting all sorts of questions at him, mostly about water usage and about gasoline and about whether or not there was going to be a drive for heavy coats and batteries, but he mostly ignored them, heading back into the security of the building before him.

Just when he was in front of the door, he said, "There will be a town hall meeting next Saturday to answer all of your questions in a safe and controlled environment. In the meantime, for those who are unaware, make sure to check the postal office for letters from your loved ones. I know it's a bit unexpected, but we were getting letters shipped in with the food shipments. We haven't been able to deliver them to your homes due to gasoline shortages, so make sure to see if you've received one before the office closes next week. Stay safe, stay healthy, and keep your hopes up."

He then disappeared through the city hall doors with the two security guards following him closely as someone shouted, "Pig!"

"He looks like he has a feast every day," another person jeered, and there was a resounding applause in the front.

Someone shouted an expletive and people whooped along before people began joining a chant that resounded throughout the plaza: "Pig! Pig! Pig!" Mom and Dad looked around, panic glazing their eyes. There were people at the edges, stragglers trying to leave the roaring crowd to escape the anger and fear.

"We should go," Mom said.

"Wait," Dad said and put his hand on her shoulder, which was a good thing for what happened after.