The Shelter

by Peter Foley

  The producer interrupts. “Sorry, folks. We’re officially off the air. The hurricane’s coming in hot and heavy, and it’s dampened our signal. Time to go home. Be safe.”

  “Nice job. Shame nobody heard it,” Vance says.

  Hazel sets down her headphones and calls Flynn. “Well, that was a disaster. I’m glad I dressed up for that, Flynn. I thought this was supposed to be a TV appearance.” She stands and rearranges the waist of her black pencil skirt. “That wasn’t worth the thirty minutes I spent on hair and make-up.”

  Flynn isn’t listening. “It’s time to go to the safe house, Hazel. You know the address, I’ll text it to you just in case. You know the drill; follow the directions to the Staples Center. Any government worker that hasn’t evacuated yet will be there.”

  “I’m passing on Staples. I’m going to do what I always do; I’m going to go home to my own shelter and settle in.”

  “Hazel, we’ve been through this – government employees of a certain status are being distributed to various safe locations; the Staples Center is yours. Go there, and I’m not arguing. If you’re right, you’ll be out in three days. If you’re wrong, you’re in a safe, secure location. Hey, no questions.”

  “Yeah. No questions, Flynn. I’m not going, that’s all there is to it.”

  Flynn sighs. “This is a mandate from the top. If you don’t go the administration is going to cut your research budget by one hundred percent. Go to the safe house or lose the entire department. It’s your call. I don’t want to do this, but the word from Washington is if our chief meteorologist won’t play ball then there’s no point having a chief meteorologist. Get yourself to the Staples Center. Now.”

  11

  Thanks, Bobby!

  Drew sits at his desk on a chair that always causes him lower back pain. To his right is a stack of Imagine cassette tapes, copies of Shaved Fish, Abbey Road and The Beatles 1967-1970. Perched on the end of his desk is last Thursday’s copy of The Evening Star from Bucharest, a Do Not Disturb sign from the Milana in Sofia, various airline boarding passes and four pairs of elaborate-looking headphones. Beside this pile of objects rests his coffee mug, which has a picture of a Spitfire flying high above the green of England. He fills the mug with hot coffee from a silver cafetière then types on the black finger-worn keyboard of his laptop and stares blankly at what he finds:

  https://www.nationalGeoBlog.com/news/2021/3/weather-hurricane-jason-liveupdates/

  Tuesday, March 16th, 2021

  5 pm: A tropical depression has formed over the horizon. The weather system is about 350 miles west of California.

  Wednesday, March 17th, 2021

  11 am: The hurricane has strengthened. Strong winds are blowing at around 40 miles an hour. It’s considered to be no more than a typical tropical hurricane. It is officially named Jason and is 230 miles west of California.

  Thursday, March 18th, 2021

  3 pm: After a few more hours Jason has grown stronger and is now a hurricane. Winds are blowing 75 miles an hour. It is 30 miles off the coast of California and about to make landfall much quicker than expected.

  6 pm: The eye of the hurricane is expected to come ashore within two hours. The hurricane winds are 98 miles an hour and rapidly strengthening.

  A howling wind beats on Drew’s bedroom window. Suddenly, a branch from the cherry blossom tree breaks through the glass and claws at him. He reaches for his phone to make a desperate video call.

  “Come on, Bobby. Pick it up,” he says to the dialing screen.

  Not a moment later, Bobby’s smiling face appears in front of a snowy bright outdoor backdrop.

  “Bobby! I need a plan!”

  “What’s up with you, lad?” Bobby says. The images on screen glitch.

  “The hurricane, it’s bad! It’s raining – a lot! And it’s getting worse. I’m beginning to get the message that the headlines were not exaggerating…”

  “There’s no rain where I am, bud!” Bobby sniggers.

  “Have you seen the weather reports? Where are you?”

  “Colorado. Where are you?”

  “…What?… Where? Colorado? What do you mean ‘Where am I?’ Screw you. Some manager you are…”

  “Take a flight, come here, you’d love it.”

  “I can’t take a flight! All the flights have been grounded.”

  “Ah, you’re screwed then.”

  “Yes, Bobby. I know I’m screwed. Thank you. Could you not have mentioned this on the plane? ‘Drew, by the way, California is about to get nailed, you might want to think about leaving’.”

  “I did!” exclaims Bobby.

  “No, you didn’t! You’re a twat…”

  “Hey! You need to stop drinking. Plus, it can’t be all that bad. Just settle in. You’re the one who insisted on living in LA in the first place.”

  “I know, I know. My hangover’s killing me… Stop laughing… The parking lot outside is starting to flood…”

  “There’s only one thing for it – have you tried fishing?” Bobby says, bursting into laughter.

  “What am I going to catch? Alligators? Stop laughing. I guess all I can do is get in the car and see if it’s not too late to get out of California–”

  “What about that girl over the way from you? The one you’re always harping on about? What’s she doing?”

  “I don’t harp on, I hardly mention her, but, yeah, the hot woman across the courtyard has gone already. She’s gone to some place in the hills. I suppose if you’re not going to help, I’ll just follow her…”

  “Good luck, Drew. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Yeah. Screw you… What’s that…? The connection’s dropping… I can hardly see you… Wait, shut up, let me call you back and see if I can get a better line.”

  Drew hangs up and redials. Every attempt fails to connect. He throws his phone across the room. Angry, but not willing to destroy his $2,000 device, he throws it at the couch cushions before immediately running after it to save it from crashing to the floor. “Ah. Dammit! Dammit!” He tries to call Bobby again, but it won’t connect, he relents.

  I suppose it’s time to fire up the old dragon.

  Tripping over his bags, then over his feet, then over his bags again, Drew picks himself up and heads to his car with an armful of hastily seized essentials: a crate of cider, a bottle of gin, a two-foot-tall microphone, his watch, a change of clothes, a phone charger, his laptop and nothing more. He stands at his apartment door and prepares to brave the elements.

  He runs across the lot, through the downpour and the scattering pink blossoms, to his relic of a Buick. He’s bone-soaked by the time he gets into the driver’s seat.

  The wind whistles over the car. He turns the key, the engine howls and the headlights stutter into life. Shifting into drive, he sets a broad course for the hills after quickly consulting the map Megan gave him. The tires of his wheezing brown Buick cut through a foot of water from the tidal surges that have already started to flood the parking lot.

  “I don’t have enough booze for this,” he says, cracking open a can of cider.

  The wipers brush away sheets of water and the Buick proves weatherproof enough. Water does leak from the window seals, and the air conditioning has stopped blowing, but who needs it? Drew reasons. “Come on, car, you sound like you’re about to crap out a transmission.”

  Driving slowly on, he enters downtown California. There isn’t a soul in sight. Every street is washed and deserted. The car is flanked on either side by stores boarded up with plywood sheets. The tick of the car’s blinker is the only counterpoint to the rain. The gray skies grow charcoal black as the earth shakes in the hurricane’s shadow. Rallies of thunder warn the world underneath.

  An alarm starts in the distance, slow and rhythmic, like the sound of an old air raid siren, it’s joined by various other alarms in discordant syncopation. Rapid winds ring far off church bells. Trash cans, plants, bicycles and all manner of street debris rise and move in the air as if the wor
ld has been turned sideways. A loud crack sounds close by and the green head of a palm tree rolls across the intersection. He hits the brakes.

  “What was that?”

  He saw an apparition outside, no, not an apparition, an actual person, walking the streets alone in these conditions. He can’t believe it. He strains to see across the street with rain flowing thick over his windshield.

  A tall figure dressed in black moves on the corner of St Vicente and 14th. The stop lights are flexing in the wind, a mailbox clatters and shimmies on its moorings and, with no coat or other defense against the elements, there the figure stands. It’s a woman. She looks every bit a damned ghoul, like a single soul fated to perform some immortal duty on the deck of a sinking ship. The moment is long enough for Drew to realize the cold. He shivers. In the gloomy sky he notices a dark rainbow. He decides to wind down his window and appeal to the woman outside in the only way he knows how.

  “Hey! You friggin’ idiot. What are you doing?” he yells, as rain pours over his face and down his neck and into the car.

  No response.

  “For Pete’s sake!” Drew says, rolling the window back up and throwing the car door open. He runs to the woman. The weight of the downpour is ferocious. Within seconds, he looks like he has come out of a river.

  “Are you okay?” he asks her.

  Through eyes like ash flakes in bright crystal, the drenched slender woman stares beyond him. As the rain pours off his face, he tries to seize her attention.

  “You’re not okay. I can tell. Listen, love, why don’t you come with me. I know I’m a stranger in a strange car, but if you need a lift or someplace to go, you can come with me. You can’t stay here; the rain isn’t going to stop. You’ll die out here.”

  She stands perfectly still against the wind and rain.

  “You can’t die out here, it’s too wet. Over there, that’s my car. Let’s get in it, together. Come with me.”

  Feeling desperate, Drew takes her by the wrist. “I know times are hard, believe me I know, but let’s get in the car and go somewhere safe, okay?”

  She looks into Drew’s eyes as water pours down her face and off her chin. Without an utterance she moves with him. Together they hurry towards his car. Inside they slam the doors.

  “It feels more like a bloody submarine,” he says. “So, what’s your name?”

  The question is met with nothing, not even a glance in Drew’s direction.

  “If you need a place to ride out the hurricane, I know a place, it’s shown on this map, look.”

  She turns her head and looks out of her window, her black dress is sodden, her hair is dripping.

  “My name’s Drew, the last of a dying breed, but that might be a good thing. Nice to meet you.”

  More silence. The threat outside begins to consume the car. Drew reaches back and grabs another can of cider and opens it. “Fine. Here’s to yer health, my dear. Ha! You see that?”

  A vending machine, billowing black smoke from where lightning had hit it, is being swept down the flooded intersection.

  “That looks like I feel,” he says.

  His passenger’s stare extends well beyond the horizon, a horizon that’s suddenly shattered by a jagged blue-white scar and the noise of a cracking whip. Downed overhead telephone lines whip the ground as the hurricane gains momentum. A bruised sky is transforming into a censure for the landscape. The darkness stretches rapidly across all that can be seen. Within minutes of touching land, the hurricane has brought a crisis. This kin of Jupiter has become the most powerful feature on earth. The planet rolls along the hurricane’s axis now and it draws a mighty breath.

  God. Bless. America.

  12

  The worst is yet to come

  Hurricane Jason is yet to reach its peak, and as Hazel makes her way through the dark waterlogged streets, she knows it. If Flynn hadn’t insisted on her taking part in the media broadcast she’d already be comfortable in the nearest government safe house. Or perhaps, if she’d have fought harder, she’d be in her personal home shelter, drinking coffee and checking the latest hurricane data from a distance. But no, that wasn’t meant to be. Instead, as the hurricane touches land, she’s in the streets, driving towards the hurricane she spent the last week modeling. The Staples Center is in the wrong direction – the only way to get there is by driving into Hurricane Jason’s path.

  Hazel used to love the thrill of heavy rainfall. On camping trips the sound of pitter-patter on tent canvas would make her feel relaxed and superior during the night-time hurricanes. When the rain became heavy, it was even a little exciting to feel the power of nature rock the tent, but this rain is different. Hurricane Jason strikes her car like heavy white noise and it wants to trap her on the drenched streets. Apart from one other car she noticed a while back, the streets are hers to die in.

  Pumping the gas pedal in low gear, the front fender of her car parts the water like the prow of a boat. There’s no way for her to see what trouble lies ahead. A crack of thunder splits the clouds above and suddenly her car thrashes violently. She fights against the steering wheel but it spins out of her hands. A second later, her front wheel hits something with a jolt. The road is becoming a river, it’s impossible to see what’s caused the impact. The car, still moving, lurches heavily across to the wrong side of the street. She pulls it back and hears the sound of watery thumping from the front passenger-side tire.

  Shit!

  She tries to drive on regardless. She only needs to make a one-way trip to the safe house, everything else can be figured out later, but the car isn’t able to go on. The thumping sound gives way to a grinding noise and the car stops. She dashes into the tempest with horrible reluctance. Fighting the elements, she leaps to the front wheel and sees the tire has blown out and the front of her car is crumpled. She throws herself back inside and reaches for her cell phone.

  “Come on, come on! Please! Pick up!” She gets Flynn’s voicemail. “Flynn! Call me now! I’ve had a blowout on Selma Avenue. Call me! I’m stuck in the hurricane!”

  She tries a few other numbers as the thunder claps. She tries a few local breakdown recovery services but comes up with nothing but ring-outs and answering machines. She tries 911, then tries and tries again – nothing. She calls Flynn and gets his voicemail again.

  “Flynn! You need to call me. I need you to come and get me. I’m going to try and change the tire, but you gotta get out here.”

  The temperature drops and panic overtakes her frustration. It’s half-light outside, visibility is reduced down to a close blur. She takes a deep breath, opens the car door and wades through the water towards the trunk. She feverishly finds her tire iron and carjack and, after a struggle with the spare, sets to work.

  “This is impossible!” She winces as she fails to get a turn on the wrench. “One more try, come on!” she yells. With her whole body weight behind the wrench it slips and bounces her into the tire.

  “FUCCCKKK!”

  Her hands are raw and the road surface cuts her knees, a steady stream of rainwater drenches her up to her thighs. The black pencil skirt she wore for the studio isn’t helping. The downpour makes it impossible to change a tire by the roadside, especially for someone who’s more familiar with tropical cyclones than with auto repair. The bitter cold grips her as the evening creeps into night. She’s miles from the Staples Center, she has no supplies and the street tide is rising. The hurricane is in the process of swallowing her, she knows not to shelter in her car. She curses herself for not bringing even basic supplies.

  The sky continues to fall upon her. She looks around in hope, but she knows there’s none. She begins to feel like she’s drowning. Panic swells. With a flash of adrenaline her breathing becomes labored. She can hear the blood pump around her body as reality sinks in. She is no longer sure of anything, she cannot devise a plan. Time stops. All noise is muted. Her mind begins to wonder what shape death will take and what trauma she will have to endure. That’s when she sees it move, he
r vision is fuzzy, but she sees a large shape beckoning her. It speaks.

  “Ma’am,” a clear masculine voice calls out to her. Wet to her bones, she doesn’t hear the voice the first time. The noise of her panic is greater than any other sound.

  “Ma’am!” the voice booms again. Time resumes, and so does the noise of the rain. She looks up to see the outstretched hand of a hooded man.

  “Take my hand and come with me.”

  She tries to speak, but the wind blows away her words. She reaches out and takes the stranger’s hand. It holds on to her and they hurry across the road through the pacing rain towards six large indistinct silver vehicles. Heavy diesel engines tick over with irregularity and the pelting raindrops sparkle as they pass through thick white headlights. The doors of the leader bus open; behind the steering wheel a heavily tattooed man waves them inside. The drenched pair jump aboard.

  The bus is packed with people huddling side-by-side. They burst into cheer when Hazel appears. It’s warm inside and the bus feels sturdy against the elements. Hazel’s savior lifts his hood to reveal a pastor’s collar. He reaches out for a microphone and makes an announcement.

  “Bless our beautiful Greyhound bus, this silver beacon of light and hope. We have another spirit to whom we can offer salvation to and save from a watery damnation. I said I would offer safe passage to all those who deserve it. I will take those who are worthy. By my almighty vision I saw a woman in need, Hazel. I knew your time would come. Please, take a seat with your brothers and sisters. Mother, please offer Hazel a towel, a warm blanket, some coffee, some food and a seat.”