by Scott Carson
Gillian put one gloved hand out on the sheared brick wall. Gripped it tight, feeling the abrasive, torn stone, searching for solidity.
“Okay. Put him on.”
“I don’t have him. He walked off. Waded off. You know what it’s about?”
Gillian hesitated. How many listening ears were there right now? What had Aaron told Sarah Burroughs?
“Maybe,” she said. “But if he’s gone, I can’t verify that. What did he say?”
“That he was en route to the dam and needed to speak with you. Said it was urgent.”
“Thank you,” Gillian said, and then she lowered the radio and clipped it back onto her belt.
The worst of it might not be over after all.
She pushed away from the busted bricks and looked for the man who’d handed her the Gatorade. He was walking through the crowd, passing the bottles out, and heading back toward his truck, which waited in about three feet of water. It was one of the newer Jeep pickups, a Gladiator. A lot of shiny off-roading muscle. She doubted he’d ever had it off pavement before this morning, but it had done the job nicely.
She went after him and called out, badge held high. He was almost back to the truck before he turned and noticed her. A young guy, maybe just twenty, with a beard and a baseball cap.
“Thanks for the drink,” Gillian said.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I’m gonna need to borrow your truck, too.”
He looked from her face to her badge and nodded without hesitation.
“Whatever you need,” he said, and then reached into his pocket and held out the keys.
She was surprised, caught off guard by the complete compliance, and then felt foolish for holding the badge out. He was ready to give the truck to anyone who said they needed it. Material possessions didn’t mean much in Torrance this morning.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the keys. “I’ll try to take care of it.”
He laughed. “My house is gone,” he said. “I’m not too worried about the truck. But let me get the rest of the Gatorades out before you go. A lot of people down here need them, I think.”
She helped him unload four more cases of Gatorade from the bed of the truck.
“Where’d you get all these?”
“The Citgo.”
“It’s open?” she asked, and he looked at her strangely.
“No. They were floating in the parking lot.”
The Citgo was two miles out of town. She hadn’t even considered that the water had swept that far with that much fury.
“Good work,” she said hollowly.
“Sure. Good luck,” he answered, and then he turned away and began to break the Gatorade bottles out of the case. She stared at his back and thought about saying something more, expressing sympathy for his house, but it was clear he wasn’t waiting on that, and it wouldn’t matter. This wasn’t a day for words. It was a day for deeds.
She left him there, passing out his Gatorade bottles, and drove away in his truck. He didn’t even look up when she passed.
She drove northwest out of town, the Gladiator’s knobby off-road tires chunking and thumping over unseen obstacles underwater. At one point the spray from the water began to rise in twin plumes in front of her, and the engine howled in protest. Too deep, she thought. It won’t work. I’ll just get it stuck. The tires kept finding purchase, though, and the truck kept grinding ahead. She felt a rise under the driver’s-side tires and realized that she was actually driving down the sidewalk now, and then she spotted a thin antenna protruding from the water just a few feet in front of her, the tip painted bright orange.
What the hell is that? she wondered, and then registered it just in time: it was a snow marker for a fire hydrant.
She spun the steering wheel hard to the right and hammered the gas. The truck banged down from the sidewalk back onto the road, water geysered in front of her, and the engine growled like an angry cat. She missed the hydrant by inches.
A block farther on, the engine growl lessened and she felt that the truck wasn’t pushing so hard. A little past that, and it was evident that the water level was dropping quickly. She was headed uphill now, and she could actually see dry pavement for the first time. It wasn’t going to make for easier going, though; the asphalt had been carved up and lay scattered in slabs, like broken ice across a pond in spring.
Up higher, though, out of the floodplain, the road shouldn’t be damaged at all. It was just a matter of getting there. She was reviewing her options and thinking that she needed to turn west and see if she could claw her way to the ridgetop, where Maple Ridge Road would likely be high and dry, when she saw a solitary figure walking ahead of her, knee-deep in the water, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was in uniform. One of the National Guardsmen, maybe, or military.
He turned and looked back at the oncoming truck then, and she saw that it was Aaron Ellsworth.
He looked at the truck only briefly and then turned away and continued his slow, steady slog. She lowered the window and shouted.
“Aaron! It’s me! Gillian!”
He stared at her, squinting into the rising sun behind the truck, and then headed toward her with an unsteady stride, favoring his wounded foot.
He’ll be lucky if they don’t need to amputate it after a night in this filth, she thought, but if the pain bothered him, it didn’t register on his face. Not much registered on his face, actually. He looked washed-out, numb.
Looked, probably, just like her.
He waded up to the door and pulled it open and the water promptly ran into the cab, an inch covering the floor of the passenger seat. He looked down at it and said, “Sorry. Nice truck, though.”
“Not mine.”
“Even better. Nothing parties like a rental.” He tossed the duffel bag into the backseat and hauled himself up. His face was lined with scratches beneath two days of stubble and his eyes were red-rimmed and sunken against dark, puffy flesh.
“How long have you been at it?” she said.
“Since it happened, basically. I’m guessing the same is true for you?”
She nodded. He sighed, peeled a glove off one hand, and then ran the hand over his face. “They tell you I was looking for you?”
“Yes.”
“You know why?”
“Not exactly. But I think we’ve both got an idea.”
He glanced at her and then out over the submerged landscape. “Right,” he said. “We’ve both got an idea. I want to see him, though. I don’t like him being up there. It’s bad to have him up there.”
Gillian didn’t follow. “Who?”
“Fleming. He’s been up there all night. He’s the man in charge is what I was told.” He rubbed his face again, wiping at his eyes with his thumb, and he wasn’t looking at her when he said, “You hear anything from my dad?”
“No.”
“That’s a problem. He’d have found a way.”
“Easier to say than do. Cell towers down, everyone working, total chaos.”
“He’d have found a way,” Aaron repeated.
She didn’t argue. They sat there with the engine muttering and wisps of steam rising from beneath the hood. He said, “Were you going to take Maple Ridge out there?”
“I was going to try. It may be closed, too.”
“It won’t be. If you can get us up there, we’ll be able to get close to the dam.”
She put the truck back in gear and cut the wheel but hadn’t yet moved her foot to the gas pedal when he added, “Is this what your family expected? What was predicted, I mean.”
She was grateful for the simple questioning look in his eyes. No trace of doubt or indictment. He just wanted to know.
“It’s close,” she said softly, “but the flood went in the wrong direction.”
“What does that mean?”
“Torrance was never the target,” Gillian said, and suddenly her mouth was dry. She reached for the Gatorade bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. She saw his
eyes follow it thirstily and extended the bottle. He took it and drank deeply.
“What was the target, then?”
“The city,” Gillian said. “New York. It was always about the city. There was no score to settle with Torrance. Torrance was just a neighboring village; it meant no harm. The debt that’s owed was supposed to…” She stopped, unsettled by how easily the matter-of-fact madness returned to her tongue.
“Supposed to what?” Aaron prompted.
“The debt that’s owed was supposed to be paid by the city,” she finished. “The idea was to take down the whole system. Reservoir by reservoir, tunnel by tunnel, until New York was dry. But that didn’t happen.”
“Or maybe it’s not done,” he said.
“If there was any truth to the old stories,” Gillian said, “then it played out here last night. It’s done, and it went the wrong way. They took all that evil and sent it into their own backyard. Killed their own neighbors. That’s what they did.”
Her voice was rising, and she stopped talking altogether before she reached a full-throated scream.
“That’s not what I mean,” Aaron said. “I’m saying this isn’t the end of the Chill, even. All of this came from a partial breach. Most of the lake is still up there.” He nodded toward the mountains. “It’s still up there, and so is he. Fleming.”
59
Deshawn almost died in a pothole.
The water wasn’t deep, maybe eight inches over the road, but the pothole that had cratered open during the flood surge was at least two feet deep and hidden beneath the swirling brown water. It jarred his hip and wrenched his knee and he almost went down. He thought that if he’d fallen right there and cracked his skull, he might’ve drowned. Wouldn’t that be something: live your whole life in the tunnels, working with explosives and whirling blades, and then die on the surface in a pothole and eight inches of water.
He wrenched his foot free and waded ahead, off the pavement and into a field alongside the road. It was hard to believe anyone had ever made a go of farming in this place. Everything was on an incline; even the fields were spread out across hills—nothing flat about them. He took a bottle of water out of Rochelle’s purse and drank while he took stock. The road ahead had a four-way stop, and there were signs indicating Torrance to the left and the Chilewaukee Reservoir straight ahead.
He used one of the gold spangles to locate the zipper on Rochelle’s purse and dropped the granola bar wrapper and water bottle back inside. He was fumbling with the zipper, trying to close it, when the sound of an engine came from behind him.
It was an old white SUV, a Ford Bronco, like the one O.J. had made famous all those years ago. The body had rust damage and there was a crack on the windshield but the tall tires were new and it had no trouble motoring down the road, shedding the water in plumes on either side.
Deshawn lifted his hand and put out his thumb. The Bronco came to a stop and sent a spray of muddy water into Deshawn’s face. He rubbed his eyes clear with his shirtsleeve and when he lowered his arm he saw the bearded face of a wild-eyed kid grinning at him from behind the wheel and, just below, a Confederate flag decal on the driver’s-door panel. Below, a coiled rattlesnake warned Deshawn not to tread on him.
Oh, boy, Deshawn thought, but a ride was a ride, and the kid was the only passerby he’d seen yet. Beggars and choosers, he figured, so he gave a little smile and nod and said, “Thanks for stopping.”
The kid kept that odd grin. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt even though it was cold out, and there was a strap across his chest that Deshawn had mistaken for his seat belt and now realized was a bandolier filled with brass cartridges.
“Nice purse, boy,” the bearded kid said, and then he swung a rifle out of the passenger seat and brought it to bear on Deshawn’s chest.
“Thank you,” Deshawn said. “I like it, myself. A real nice lady gave it to me. It’s got water in it. You need some water?”
The kid barked a laugh. “Only thing nobody needs today is fuckin’ water.”
“Mind pointing that thing somewhere else?” Deshawn said, taking care to keep his eyes on the kid’s face. “No need for that.”
“Hell there ain’t! We’re in martial law now, boy!”
“No,” Deshawn said. “We’re in search-and-rescue. It’s a very different thing. The law’s doing just fine. So why don’t you—”
“Give me the fuckin’ bag and get down on your knees,” the kid said. The odd grin was gone and his eyes were empty and Deshawn remembered how uncomfortable his father had been all those years ago when they were lost on the back roads, the first and last time they ever went into the woods as a family. He thought that this kid had probably never been in the city and that if he went, he’d be just as scared as Deshawn’s father had been of the tiny mountain towns. That was a problem: everyone scared of the other just because they didn’t intersect. And when they did, well, they might intersect like this.
That worsened the problem.
Deshawn tried to focus on the kid’s fear. The one thing they shared.
“We’re all scared today,” Deshawn said. “I know I am. I need to find my daughter. Can you help me? She’s with the police.”
“Bullshit.”
“The truth.”
“Ain’t no police left to matter, don’t you get it? This day’s been a long time coming and I’ve been ready for it. You think I was scared? Shit. I been planning for this day. And there ain’t nobody gonna rob me or fool me or run me off. It’s dog eat dog now.” He grinned. “However you wanna look at it, I was ready, and you don’t look so ready, standing there with your purse.”
“Let’s relax here,” Deshawn said. “Let’s try to help each other out and—”
“I said on your fucking knees!” He screamed it this time, and when he screamed, the gun barrel shook.
Deshawn nodded and went down on his knees in the mud beside the road. His right hand was still inside Rochelle’s purse. It was an oversized bag, and he was grateful for that, because the bag didn’t jostle as he moved his fingers over the water bottles in search of the pepper spray. He found the canister, slid it into his palm, and felt for the discharge button with his index finger. Found that, too. Was there a safety of some sort, some pin that needed to be pulled or tab that needed to be broken off? Better not be.
“Throw your shit up in the back of the truck,” the bearded kid said, “and then we’ll decide what else you gotta do to earn your life.” He leered and blew Deshawn a kiss.
“Yes, sir,” Deshawn said, and then he used his left hand to remove the purse strap from his shoulder and toss the bag into the truck. The kid’s eyes followed the purse’s arc, as if he’d thought Deshawn might swing it at him instead—and that was good, because by the time his eyes came back to Deshawn, the pepper spray was ready to meet them.
Deshawn fired the pepper spray with his right hand while lunging forward and grabbing the rifle barrel with his left. The kid screamed and the gun went off, a single, staggeringly loud shot that blew chunks of asphalt out of the water and pebbled them against Deshawn’s face. The kid was torn between desire and instinct then, brain and pain—he knew better than to let go of the rifle, but he was also desperate to reach for his burning eyes. In the end, he tried to do both, reaching for his eyes with his right hand while clutching the rifle with his left.
Deshawn dropped the pepper spray, got both hands on the rifle barrel, and ripped it forward, thirty years of sandhog muscle and an overload of adrenaline going into the single yank. Not only did he get the gun but the kid came with it, tumbling out of the Bronco. No self-respecting redneck badass wore a seat belt on the day of martial law, apparently. He fell howling into the mud, pawing at his eyes with both hands now, and Deshawn stepped aside to study the rifle. It was a bolt-action hunting rifle of unknown caliber to Deshawn, who’d never been around many long guns. He understood enough about the butt end of it, though, and he used that to hammer the kid’s skull until he was facedown and moaning and
no threat to get back up.
“Son,” Deshawn told him, “if the day of martial law ever actually comes, you’d be wise to sit it out.”
He used the rifle to spread the kid’s feet apart, and then he stepped forward and drove one powerful kick of his steel-toed boot into the hillbilly fool’s testicles. The kid howled again, his pitch a good bit higher this time, and then slid down the muddy embankment and into the ditch.
“If you need your gun or your truck,” Deshawn called down to him, “they’ll be with my purse.”
He walked back to the road, tossed the rifle into the Bronco’s backseat, and then fished Rochelle’s purse off the floor and set it beside him on the passenger seat. By the time he’d gotten settled, the kid was up on his knees in the ditch, one hand rubbing his eyes, the other clutching his balls.
Deshawn tapped the horn in a cheerful farewell—beep beep bu beep beep!—and drove away.
60
Aaron sipped the last of Gillian’s Gatorade and rested his exhausted body while she drove them down the dry pavement of Maple Ridge Road. He was feeling better than he had in hours, seeing how much of the county remained unmarked by the flood and appreciating the way the dry, sunlit sky appeared to offer a confirmation of hope, when Gillian’s radio brought them the news that his father was dead.
They’d found Steve Ellsworth’s body more than a mile below the dam, in the carnage of what had once been a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood named Pleasant Ridge.
He hadn’t drowned there. Hadn’t drowned anywhere.
He’d been shot twice.
The call hadn’t gone out on a shared band. The dispatcher was seeking Gillian directly, because the FBI was on scene and had questions for her about the sheriff of Torrance County.
“They want to ask you about the last time you spoke with him,” the dispatcher said. “They seem interested in what he was doing at the dam, and they’re hearing rumors about the way the sirens and surveillance cameras were disabled.”
Gillian brought the big Jeep truck to a stop on the side of the road. A gentle breeze fanned through the pines and carried their fragrance into the truck. They were high above the flooded valley now, with the sun full on their faces. Gillian held the radio to her lips but didn’t speak. She was staring at Aaron.