The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) by Barbara C. Griffin Billig, Bett Pohnka

the smog—but nothing existed  within the school which outlined the procedure for this sort of crisis.
    Although she had cautioned her pupils to run straight home and not tarry along the way, she wondered how many of them got the message and did her bidding, or were even so instructed by other teachers. At this moment the children could be loafing in the open air, observing the huge, dusky cloud which was still forming overhead.
    Althea Carr was in her thirty-fifth year and had already learned a lot about life; enough at least to put priorities in proper perspective. She was one of a minority, in her native California, and had been born and raised in Los Angeles. Her parents lived there still, and that was her destination—big, sprawling L.A.
    A meticulous woman, Althea smoothed her hair back, fastening a loose strand in her chignon. Her brows were plucked in arches, and the pale lipstick—her only make-up—blended with the tailored dress to define an image of a serious woman. Without looking she knew she was in order....now. After that first message of the disaster, she ’ d almost lost control, momentarily at least, but now she had her nerves calmed and her emotions restrained.
    With a last glance around the room, she picked up the batch of homework papers and placed them neatly in a manila folder. She had them tucked securely in the crook of her arm and was reaching for her handbag when she realized what she ’ d done. She dropped the folder on her desk. There was no need to grade those papers.
    There were two cars left on the lot as she hastened to her coupe. Fastening the doors tightly and locking them, a habit she ’ d developed years ago because of driving alone, she guided the vehicle under the freeway and then onto it, traveling north.
    Under optimum conditions the trip from San Mirado to her parents ’ home 70 miles away in Los Angeles was a good hour ’ s drive. But these weren ’ t optimum conditions today. The near absence of  traffic coming from the Whitewater direction told her that the horrors of the disaster lay visible on the route and all traffic was detouring that area. A few cars still cruised northward in the direction of White Water and Los Angeles. Was it possible that these people had not yet heard the word? A shudder raced down her body at the thought of what would be found should she travel past the site. Should she do that....go by to see what had happened? But the impulse to satisfy a morbid curiosity was extremely weak, and she turned the car onto an off-ramp and headed due east for several miles, leaving the coast behind.
 
    When next Althea entered the freeway system, her lanes of the freeway were empty. The lanes with traffic moving in the opposite direction were packed. People were pouring out of Los Angeles panicked, unaware they were also headed toward White Water. She mashed the gas pedal to the floor and grasped the steering wheel tightly, as if to steel herself to enter the city that everyone else was deserting.
    In the lanes approaching Althea, cars were moving at a slow creep, almost pushing each other. The heat from the blacktop, the honking of the horns, was unnerving to these other drivers. All it would take would be one irrational person to convert a traffic jam into a free-for-all.
    Like a mad bull one man began ramming his truck into the center divider, finally smashing a gap in it. Then he raced his truck through. There was a virtually empty stretch of freeway before him and he quickly accelerated. Other cars streamed in behind him. Instead of three lanes for traffic exiting Los Angeles there were now six....and Althea faced them.
    Turning her attention to the highway in front of her, Althea gasped. What she saw was madness! Had she driven onto the wrong side of the highway? She slowed and looked wildly around. Approaching vehicles had at first appeared to be on the opposite side of the divider—now suddenly her lane was blocked by on-coming cars....cars speeding