Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “Nance, shut up your bawling and come here,” Bill called from the lounge. “They’ve just said the Mayor’s gonna address the city in a few minutes. It’s a recording of some speech he made earlier, this morning.”

  “What’s it to do with you, Bill? You didn’t vote for him last time. And I haven’t got the time…”

  “It’s not an election speech,” he snapped. “It’s about evacuating the city. Will you shut up and listen?”

  It wasn’t like Bill to talk like that! Nancy hurried into the room to see what the fuss was about… and slowly her jaw dropped as she gaped in horror, speechless until Bill Naseby was finished. Then her knees turned to jelly. “For God’s sake let’s get out of here,” she gasped, untying the strings of her pinafore. “Kids, quick, get your raincoats.”

  “Just hold on a minute,” Bill suggested. “Let’s just talk about it for a moment. There’s your job…”

  “Talk? Don’t be a nut. We’ll talk about it when we’re in Yonkers. As for my job, my job can go…”

  The phone bleeped, and Bill reached it first. “Yeah?… oh, hi, Ernie. What’s up?… Yeah, we were just watching it. What are you and Marge gonna do?” There was a long pause during which Bill’s ever cheerful face grew longer and more serious. “Okay,” he said at last. “That sounds best. Just let me check with Nance.” He turned to his wife. “Ernie says the streets really are jammed and do we want to go up-river with him and Marge and their kids on the Glory of Liberty? It’ll mean walking down across Eleventh but he’s got her moored at the end of the 54th dock, so it won’t be too far.”

  Ernest, Bill’s brother, was mate on one of the tourist pleasure boats that toured the harbor.

  “But where’ll we go on her?” The blonde curls were shaking with fright. “What’ll we do for wheels when we get ashore? I’ll bet the river’s real nasty already and the storm’s not due here till this afternoon. That poor old tub can’t take rough weather — she’ll sink.” She remembered a Sunday afternoon trip on it last year, the stink of oil, the way the bulkheads creaked and groaned as the boat nosed the current back up to her berth, layer after layer of thick paint, soft as putty in the sun, covering the crumbling areas of rust.

  “The Glory’s got to be a better bet than the streets,” Bill said. “Come on, if you’re worried about staying…”

  “Worried?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Of course I’m worried, Bill. “I’m shit scared. We gotta get out, quick.”

  “Then grab your coat, sweetheart, throw some clothes in a bag, and get the kids moving. I’ll lock up.”

  The three children soon reappeared in raingear and the young family huddled together on the sidewalk, heading for the docks on the Hudson River. Nancy was clutching the little silver swimming trophy she’d won fifteen years ago, before she’d ever met Bill. She’d always treasured it.

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue — 8.30 am

  “I’m standing on the Battery,” Rod Kimmelman shouted into his microphone. “And boy, is it blowing out here!”

  The camera moved away from the close-up of his face to show him huddled in the shelter of the huge mobile NABS camera van; even the van was trembling in the gusts.

  “I reckon there are wind speeds here of well over 100 miles an hour,” Kimmelman said. “Certainly no man could stand up to them. Look there…” Once again the camera tracked, to where trees were bending almost to the ground; one or two of the smaller ones had already been uprooted.

  “This is where,” Kimmelman continued, “the real brunt of the storm will first be felt here in Manhattan. It is expected that within the next few hours the wind strength will increase dramatically as the eye of the storm approaches, and the water level is going to rise even more dramatically, as the tide starts to come in. In fact, the experts say that where I am now standing may be under several feet of water. They could be right; the sea has already risen some three feet above normal for the state of tide, which is dead low at the moment.” The camera tracked away to show large wavelets lapping at the shore, clearly only inches beneath the park itself.

  “Over there…” another point, and the camera moved again, “there are the Narrows, leading out into Lower New York Bay and then the Ambrose Channel. That cut normally protects the harbor from the worst effects of gale force winds. Well, no one knows for sure what is going to happen later on this morning and this afternoon. Reports from Sandy Hook, Crookes Point, Rockaway and Coney Island already indicate considerable flooding; if the tidal surge does reach something like 40 feet, as some experts are predicting, it is going to come pouring right over there, pushed by maybe 200-mile-an-hour winds. It’s already pretty rough out there.” The camera focused on the Narrows; the Bridge was some six miles of water from where the van was standing, but even at that distance the surging whitecaps could be seen, and the zoom lens revealed that spray was being tossed higher than the deserted bridge itself.

  “What do you think of the Grand Old Lady, then?” Kimmelman asked. Another track, to reveal the Statue of Liberty, standing as proud as ever amidst the sweeping clouds and the forked lightning. “I tell you, folks, I wouldn’t want to be on top of her right this minute. This is Rod Kimmel-man, reporting for the National American… Holy Jesus!”

  The screen went blank.

  “He’s lost power,” Jayme said, grabbing Richard’s arm as they stood before the monitor.

  “The van’s been overturned,” Richard snapped. He had warned Rod not to go out there, but Rod had his reputation, as the man who always reported the unreportable story, to protect. He picked up his phone. “Jay, Alan… okay, but you’d better make it quick.” He put the phone down. “They’re sending out a rescue team. I don’t know if they’ll get through. Christ, the crazy fool.”

  “Here’s the latest update from the Hurricane Centre,” Julian said, pulling the sheet of paper out of the teleprinter and handing it across the desk.

  Richard looked at it. Faith was now holding an absolutely steady course and speed, northwest at 20 knots. But she was still nearly 120 miles away, and yet already the winds were strong enough to knock over a heavy television van. And Atlantic City was only just within the 100-mile arc — the normal maximum distance for hurricane winds to reach out from the center — and they were recording 150-mile-an-hour gusts. There could no longer be any question in anyone’s mind that they were on the edge of a catastrophe. Even the double-glazed windows in the office were buckling, and a variety of noises penetrated the supposedly soundproof room from the outside world. But it was the window, all the windows in the building, that were principally worrying him. He would have liked to evacuate the weather room, but it was their duty to send out the news for as long as there was power, and it would be impossible to move and re-site all the computer equipment into the windowless studios.

  He stood looking down into the streets, still clogged with vehicles, scattered every which way now, but mostly abandoned by their drivers and passengers, who had sought shelter, either returning home or wherever seemed safest; scattered around the vehicles, or on top of them, was all manner of debris, from shattered billboards to television aerials and the branches of trees.

  The lights flickered, went off, and came back on again.

  “What the hell…?” Julian demanded, staring in outrage at his computer screen, which had promptly returned to the ‘please wait’ display.

  “Power outages,” Jayme announced, returning from down the corridor, where she had taken a copy of the weather update to Hal Waring. “Seems it’s pooping out all over the place. Greenwich Village is blacked out.”

  “So thank God it’s daylight,” Julian said, having got his data back again.

  “The whole lot is going to go before too long,” Richard warned. “There doesn’t seem too much point in us all staying here. Why don’t you try to get home, Julian?” Julian lived in the city, and well above the 50-foot mark. “Take Jayme with you.”

  “And you? Who’s going to do the next
update?” Julian demanded.

  “I’ll do it.” Richard grinned. “I shouldn’t think JC will be watching. And if he is, there’s damn all he can do about it now.” He could, and should, of course, leave the updates to Julian and get out himself — and get to Jo while he could. But this hurricane was his baby, the one he had foretold, and which was behaving so much more horrifically than he had ever supposed it could. He wanted to be involved with it in more than a passive way, for as long as he could — which meant for as long as there was power.

  Jayme and Julian looked at each other. “We’ll stay, too,” the girl decided. “Heck, I don’t really want to go out into that; it was bad enough this morning.”

  “Okay,” Richard agreed. “Just remember that the time is going to come when you won’t be able to go, even if you want to.”

  “So we’ll set up house for the duration. I’ll grab us some lunch from the canteen.”

  “Here’s your spiel.” Julian tore the sheet of paper from the printout and placed it on Richard’s desk. “Not a lot to add, really. It’s just…”

  “God Almighty!” Jayme screamed. She had just opened the door and had glanced at the window as she did so, to see a television aerial, swept off the roof of one of the neighboring buildings, come straight at them.

  “Down,” Richard shouted, and hurled himself across the desk at the girl, taking her round the thighs in a football tackle and sweeping her to the floor, skidding round Julian’s desk as he did so. The noise of shattering plate glass was enormous. The flying metal actually only smashed the outer pane, but it also cracked the inner one; that was sufficient to give the wind a target. The room seemed to swirl around them, papers, pens, computer screens, printers, even chairs being lifted into the air. The TV monitor crashed to the floor and dissolved into flying splinters. Richard had to force Jayme and himself into the knee well of the desk to stop them being lifted too, but even the desk was moving, being driven across the floor, and the wind was searing through the open door and down the corridor, bringing a chorus of screams and shouts of alarm from the other offices.

  “Get through it,” Richard yelled into Jayme’s ear, pushed himself off her, and shoved her towards the door. She tried to crawl, her shoes coming off, the wind seeming to inflate her trouser legs so that she looked like Michelin woman, then dropped to her stomach as a fresh gust sent furniture again whirling around the room. She rolled and screamed in sheer horror as the front of her white shirt became covered in blood.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Richard groaned, forcing himself up, and leapt at her again. They went rolling over and over, through the doorway, helped by the wind now. Men were running up the corridor, being checked and forced back by the enormous force thrusting at them, but grouping together in an attempt to push the door shut.

  “Julian,” Jayme moaned. “Julian!”

  Richard dragged her to her feet against the wall, hastily checked that the blood was not hers; she was actually unhurt except for scratches and bruises. He shouted at the men to wait, hurled himself back into the stricken office. Two others came with him, and they seized Julian’s arms and half pulled him, half fell with him, through the door. Then the door was slammed shut, and Richard knelt beside the injured man, his heart seeming to slow; Julian’s throat had been cut by a jagged piece of flying glass.

  Long Island 9.00 am

  “What?” J. Calthrop White shouted into the telephone. “What? Rod Kimmelman? Disappeared? With one of our camera teams? The building damaged? How the hell?… A window? Who the hell was the moron opened the window?… Blown in?… Several? Whose fault was that? I want to know, by God… Julian Summers? Dead? Look, don’t bullshit me… Shut up, goddamn you, and listen. What was Connors doing giving the latest update? I fired that bastard myself, this morning. And he was a disgrace to the station, hair blowing about, eyes staring, tie under his ear — who was the goddamned director?… Shut up, Goddamn you, and listen… Listen!… Okay, goddamn it, you’re fired too. Give me Kiley…

  “Kiley, what the hell is all this crap? Windows blown out, people disappearing or being killed… all true, is it? Well you’d better get things under control down there. Now look here, Kiley, has that fax gone off to London? And the transfer made?… Now you look here, Kiley, I don’t give a goddamn if everyone else in New York wants his money out, I want ours out, now. You tell Hatton that if he doesn’t get his ass moving he’s lost my business. You tell… Christ Almighty!” He stared at the phone for several seconds, then raised his head to look at his wife, his butler, his chef, and the three upstairs maids, who had gathered in the downstairs hall of the Long Island mansion. “He’s hung up. The shitting bastard has hung up on me. Me!”

  “James, do remember your blood pressure,” his wife remonstrated.

  “Hung up on me,” JC screamed. “My own goddamned employee, hung up on me.”

  “Ahem,” remarked the butler. He had worked, briefly, for one of the royals in England, and was not prepared to acknowledge even J. Calthrop White as a god. “It is possible, sir, that the telephones have ceased to operate.”

  JC stared at him. “Ceased to operate?”

  “He means they may no longer be working,” his wife translated.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ… you could be right. Where’s Murray?”

  “Here, sir.” The uniformed chauffeur, also English, had just come in; now he stood to attention, cap under his arm.

  “Get out the Rolls. I’m going into town. That goddamned station is falling apart, and Kiley isn’t worth a damn.”

  “Now, sir?” Murray cocked his head. Even on Long Island — the house overlooked the Sound — the wind was howling and the trees in the twelve acres of landscaped garden were slashing back and forth.

  “Now, you goddamned popeyed idiot,” JC shouted.

  “James,” remonstrated his wife. “I think it will be a very tiresome drive, especially if the reports of traffic tailbacks are true.”

  “It could possibly be dangerous,” the butler suggested.

  “In the Rolls? For Chrissake, that thing is built to keep out a bullet. I may not be back for lunch, dear. Don’t wait for me; I’ll grab something from the canteen.” He pointed at the butler. “You’re in charge should this wind get up.”

  The butler bowed. “Of course, Mr White.”

  The chauffeur was holding on to the door of the Rolls with both hands — inside the garage; the steel gates were open. JC climbed inside and the door was slammed shut. Murray sat behind the wheel. “I heard on the radio, sir, that all the bridges in and out of Manhattan have been closed.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” JC snapped. “I am J. Calthrop White. Do you suppose anyone is going to close a bridge to me? Drive, man, drive.”

  Kennedy International Airport — 9.30 am

  In the sheltered area of the taxi rank, the rain had dried off the automobile, long ago, leaving streaks of oil and dust on the windows and yellow paintwork. Albert Muldoon had actually awakened half an hour before, in a thoroughly bad temper. His recently repaired radio had failed on him the previous night, and when he had started off to drive back to Manhattan early this morning he had run into the mother and father of all traffic jams, with people shouting about the storm being about to hit the city. He had reckoned they were all nuts, but there had been no arguing with them. So he had made a U-turn and regained the comparative sanity of the airport; there had been flights enough coming in but he was off duty and so he had slept in his cab. Because of the radio failure — goddamn that asshole of a mechanic who’d said it was fixed when it wasn’t — he’d been unable to call in, but he knew Carrie wasn’t going to worry about him; he’d been out all night before.

  But now he had overslept, with the result that he was the only cab on the rank. All those other shits had got fares and pulled out… but none had returned from delivering their passengers? They were probably caught in that jam. Serve the bastards right.

  Well, he wasn’t going anywhere without a fare. He poured the last of t
he coffee from his vacuum flask, debated about going into the building for a sandwich, and decided against it: he might just miss the fare. So he moved the cab to the very front of the rank, and sat there, listening to the wind howling, watching the rain hitting the road beyond the drive-through… and listening, too, to the familiar roaring of airplane engines; there was a lot of activity out there.

  But where the hell were the passengers? He lit a cigarette while he stared at the glass doors, the empty pavements. Normally, at this hour of the morning, there’d be hordes of people spewing out of the terminal with their bags, fighting for cabs. But even the rank captain wasn’t to be seen. There was probably some kind of strike on, Muldoon figured. He never doubted a fare would eventually arrive.

  The noise of the aircraft taking off died, the doors opened, and people ran out. But these weren’t passengers; they wore the uniforms of various airlines and they were heading for the staff car parks, totally ignoring the lone taxicab. Muldoon rolled down his window. “Hey, you!” he bellowed. “What the hell is going on? Where are all the goddamned people?”

  A ticket clerk paused beside him. “They’re all going someplace else. Haven’t you got a radio? The Governor has ordered the evacuation of the airport. All incoming flights have been diverted, all aircraft on the ground have left.” He followed the exodus towards the parks.

  “What the fucking hell is going on?” Muldoon shouted after him again, gazing at the other people, clerks and ground hostesses, security guards and concessionaires, cleaning women and baggage handlers, who were now pouring out of the terminal. “Someone plant a bomb in there?”

  “Haven’t you heard of Hurricane Faith, you dumb asshole?” a policewoman demanded. “In a couple of hours she’s gonna flood this airport with forty feet of water. You get the hell out of here.” She joined the rush round the corner.