Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  Muldoon scratched his head as he again mentally cursed that goddamned mechanic; he’d been sitting here all night to no purpose. And if there really was a big storm coming, Carrie would be scared out of her wits. He switched on his ignition and pumped the gas pedal, tooting his horn to get through the crowd. Back into that fucking traffic. Long Island — 9.45 am

  The Rolls Royce slithered to and fro over the road as the wind gusts became stronger.

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” J. Calthrop White demanded. “You been drinking?”

  “It’s the wind, Mr White. It really is getting kind of strong. I wonder if we shouldn’t turn back.”

  “Turn back? Look, don’t give me any bullshit, Murray. Put your foot down.”

  “I was thinking of the bridge, Mr White. It’s going to be scary up there.”

  “So what, are you afraid of a little wind?”

  Murray sighed, and rounded a corner, both hands tight on the wheel. At least there were no other vehicles around — everyone else had more sense than even to open a garage door in this weather.

  The automobile slithered again, and he got it straight by using all of his strength, but lost it again when by far the strongest gust so far gripped the high body. “Hell!” Murray gasped, and pressed his foot flat to the floor, but the Rolls still continued to move sideways.

  “What the devil…” shouted J. Calthrop White. But the Rolls was already off the road, sliding down the parapet to come to rest in a ditch, presently dry, but very muddy.

  “Sorry, Mr White, I just lost her,” Murray said. The engine was still running, and he put the car in low gear and revved, but there was merely an enormous upheaval of mud and a grinding noise. “I guess she’s stuck.”

  “For Jesus’ sake… you are fired, Murray. I am giving you 24 hours’ notice. Now get out of here and raise some help.”

  “I don’t think I can walk against that wind, Mr White.”

  “Goddamn it, man!” J. Calthrop White shouted. “I have given you an order. Get on with it.”

  Murray sighed, and opened the door.

  Coney Island — 10.00 am

  The tremendous banging on the downstairs door made Florence sit up. It had been so lovely, lying in bed with Bert, all morning, dozing off and waking up again to listen to the howl of the wind, the distant booming of the seas on the beach, the crackle of the thunder; that was what being on holiday was all about — not having to go out in weather like this.

  Eventually she had got up and fetched coffee from the vending machine in the corridor, then she had gone back to bed; it was a very long time since Bert had been so virile… she was feeling quite reassured that their love life — increasingly disarranged at home by his poker nights with the boys and his baseball Saturdays and her sometimes having to stay overnight at the Donnellys caring for the children — was still going strong. Maybe it was something in the violence of the storm outside had touched an elemental chord in his libido — it had certainly touched something in her.

  Then they had slept again, in each other’s arms. At some stage Emmie had banged on the bedroom door, and gone on banging even when they totally ignored her. Emmie didn’t have a man, and her idea of fun was to go out and look at the waves. But eventually they had been left alone until this much more insistent banging… which was now being accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.

  “What the hell…” Bert had heard it too, and jumped out of bed. “Somebody’s breaking in!” He nearly lost his balance as the building shook, but he grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist and unlocked the bedroom door, to be driven back by the blast of air that came gushing into the room. “Shut that goddamned street door,” he bawled down the stairwell; the little hotel, set well back from the Coney Island beach front, was a walk-up.

  “Hey, who’s there?’ came a shout back. “Your name Bert Bennett?”

  “Yeah. So what?” Bert demanded.

  “Your sister-in-law sent us down. She thought you’d left with everybody else, but when we got to counting heads up at Prospect… say, you guys deaf, or what? You didn’t hear everyone else leaving?”

  Florence had got out of bed as well, and, wrapped in a dressing gown, stood at her husband’s shoulder, gazing down the stairs at the patrolman, his cape and hat glistening wet, listened, too, to the sound of the surf, so close, closer than she had ever heard it, almost drowning out the whine of the wind. Suddenly she was gripped with a deathly fear.

  “You mean… everybody’s gone?” Bert was asking in bewilderment. “This place was full.”

  “All of Coney Island was evacuated two hours ago,” the patrolman told him. “Christ, you guys must’ve been dead. Come on, we have to get the hell out of here.”

  “I’ll just get dressed,” Florence said.

  “Lady,” the patrolman said. “You’re gonna have half the Atlantic Ocean inside that bedroom within half an hour. You coming now, or not? Because I sure as hell am leaving now, and I ain’t coming back.”

  Florence looked at Bert, and they ran down the stairs together, gazed in horror at the street, over which several inches of water were pouring, while at the intersection… even as they watched, a wave came bubbling down the alleyway, sweeping before it a garbage collection of shattered deck chairs, plastic bottles and boxes, discarded sun hats and shoes, and several drowned cats and dogs. “Oh, Jesus,” Florence whispered.

  “The beach…?” Bert asked.

  “The beach ain’t there any more,” the patrolman said. He pointed, and they splashed round the corner, away from the sea, to where a patrol car was parked. Inside was another officer, using his radio. He stared at them in amazement. “What the hell…?”

  “That dame was right,” his partner told him. “Would you believe it, Charlie? These two were in bed. In bed!” He opened the rear door and bundled the two almost naked bodies inside.

  “Well, they have to be the last,” Charlie said. “We’re under orders to get the hell out of here and rendezvous with the others at Prospect Park.”

  “Prospect?” Bert asked. “Say, we have to get home. We need some clothes.”

  Charlie gunned the motor and turned the patrol car; water was swirling around its axles. “Home being where?”

  “We live in the Bronx,” Florence told him, breathlessly, hugging her dressing gown around herself.

  “Well, you can forget that,” the patrolman told her. “All the bridges and tunnels are closed. They’re setting up an emergency center at Prospect Park. They’ll take care of… oh, Jesus Christ! Charlie!”

  The patrol car had slowed through a larger than usual surge of water coming down the street, and the engine coughed and died.

  “Fuck it!” Charlie opened his door and got out, throwing up the engine hood; he was knee deep in water. But the rain was falling so heavily there was no chance of anything under there drying out in a hurry.

  “We’re gonna have to walk it,” the patrolman said.

  “In this?” Florence asked.

  “Like this?” Bert put in.

  The patrolman grinned. “Maybe you’re better off than us, at that. Let’s go.” He opened the door for them, and they splashed out.

  “I can’t,” Florence protested. “I can’t. I’m freezing. And I’ll cut my feet to ribbons.”

  “Lady,” the patrolman said. “Look.” He pointed. “That row of houses over there is all that’s standing between us and the whole goddamned ocean. You reckon… oh, Holy Jesus Christ!”

  Even as they looked, the houses in front of them started to collapse, as if struck by a series of large bombs, windows and doors flying out beneath the impact of the sea, which was now assaulting them with 20-foot waves.

  Hunt National Bank, Wall Street — 10.30 am

  Seth Hatton was pleased with the turnout at the bank. Despite the massive traffic jams, the appalling weather, and the complete lack of co-operation from the authorities — added to the fact that it was a Saturday morning — he and his senior staff had been a
ble to contact almost every employee… and a good percentage of them had reached the office. Hatton did not think any of the other banks, or financial institutions, most of them far larger than Hunt National, had managed to obtain as good a response. He had also been first off the ground with moving records, thanks to J. Calthrop White. He didn’t like the man, but he certainly was a live wire. And if JC hadn’t started acting like a madman at two o’clock this morning, having his yes man, Kiley, actually ringing a bank president at home and convincing him that he had to get down to the office, they could have lost a lot of business — especially as other wealthy people had apparently awakened to the realization that the money market was going to be in utter confusion for the next couple of days. They had even opened the Stock Exchange, but down there the chaos was indescribable. People were unloading so fast, any commodity or property share remotely connected with the New York and New Jersey seaboards, that millions were being wiped off the Dow. There would be several fortunes to be made come Monday, if the storm was gone by then and the damage not as severe as people thought; it would be a case of who could start buying first: Seth Hatton had that much in mind.

  But meanwhile, business. He had all his top people on the fax machines and the computers, and everyone else on the telephones, even pool typists; it was a case of getting a line and keeping it until cut off, and then getting it back again. The voices ranged across the huge office, some shouting, some pleading, some speaking in low, confident tones, some almost in tears with frustration.

  But a lot were getting through, despite the enormous competition for air space; the truly amazing thing was that, realizing the extent of the emergency, overseas banks had also pulled staffers in to handle the enormous amount of transactions so suddenly required. “Hello! Is that Barclays, London?… Oh, thank God! Say, are you the person I was speaking with earlier?… Hi, there. That’s right, Hunt National. I have another one for you… yeah, to open an account and effect an immediate transfer… The name is James Jonathan Jurgens, address Apartment 35, Park Avenue and 48th Street, New York, New York… Right. The amount is $687,000… That’s it… Yes, same as before. Open the account and send us the necessary documentation and signature cards… Oh, sure, we’ll probably want it all back next week. Okay. Don’t go away.” Someone else, overhearing to whom the clerk was speaking, had rushed up with another batch of papers. “I have a couple more for you… Yeah… Okay, first… oh shit!” The clerk gazed at the phone in dismay. “I’ve been cut off.”

  “Keep trying,” his senior advised him.

  But the complaint was general.

  “What’s the trouble?” Hatton inquired, standing on the mezzanine outside his office and looking down into the well of the bank.

  “All the phones are dead, Mr Hatton.”

  Hatton hesitated, and the lights flickered, then went out, followed by the air-conditioning. The bank’s doors were naturally closed, and the gloom and heat was suddenly intense. “Well,” he said. “I guess that’s that. Thanks a million, everybody. We’ve all done the best we could. Now… let’s get the hell out of here.”

  New York Police Department Headquarters, Park Row — 11.00 am

  “Yeah,” said Assistant Commissioner McGrath into his radio. “Yeah… Yeah… Okay, that’s it. You guys pull out.” He put the handset down, looked at his waiting officers. “The tide’s surging right over the Battery and starting to flood down Broadway. I’ve told them down there to get out while they can, and it’s time we did the same. And the Mayor.” He picked up the radio again. “City Hall, City Hall, NYPD here. City Hall, NYPD. For Christ’s sake, why don’t they answer? I can see the God damned building, can’t I?” Not that he liked what he saw when he looked out of his window. Apart from the flying debris and the upturned trees, even as he watched a patrol car came round the corner, sideways, obviously being blown by the wind; he could see the driver fighting to regain control. “Jesus,” he muttered. The car tipped on its side, went right over, and came to rest against a wall.

  “City Hall.”

  “The Mayor about, Mitch?”

  “Right here.”

  “Naseby, McGrath, what’s happening now?”

  “This is it, Mr Mayor. The Battery’s gone. Water’s on Broadway. That means it’s only nine blocks from us. I guess we have to get out of here.”

  “Is the evacuation complete?”

  “Well, I guess not. We’re doing the best we can, but there’s been some resistance to the idea. You know what these folks are like, especially the older ones. Some of them don’t even answer the door, and I just don’t have the men to go through every apartment building. Mr Mayor, I want you to pull your people out.”

  “I promised…”

  “Sure you did. But this city is going to need you just as much to put it back together again when this storm is finished; you can’t do anything about that if you’re dead, now can you?”

  Naseby hesitated, then sighed. “Okay, McGrath, I guess you’re right. Evacuate now. We’ll be doing the same. Is your mobile headquarters set up?”

  “Yeah, at the Plaza Hotel. We have an emergency generator up there too.”

  “Did all the Telephone Exchange people get out?”

  “’So far as I know.”

  “Okay. Keep in touch. Let’s move.”

  McGrath replaced the handset, crammed the last mouthful of his sandwich down his throat, swallowed, stood up. “Everybody out. Those files ready?”

  Captain Luther nodded.

  “Okay, don’t forget the cells, now. Mustn’t let any of the bastards on remand drown. Let’s move it now, boys, or we are going to get our feet wet, and then some. I’m going up to the Chief.”

  Chief Grundy stood at his window, watching the streets. “Christ,” he remarked. “Listen to it howl. Look at that rain; it’s coming at us horizontal.”

  “It’s gonna be salt in five minutes,” McGrath told him. “Naseby says out. So let’s go.”

  They put on their hats and coats, headed down the stairs; the elevator had ceased functioning when the electrics had gone. Their desks had already been cleared and everything loaded into the waiting fleet of vans. Now these too started to move. The streets down here had been completely cleared, all abandoned vehicles pushed on to the sidewalks, and had been patrolled all morning to make sure they stayed clear. But now the outflow of vehicles from City Hall joined those from Police Headquarters to create a new jam.

  “For Christ’s sake,” McGrath muttered, staring through the door. “Sort it out. I’d better get out there…” He checked as one of the vans, caught by a gust of wind, slewed round and crashed over on to its side; the rear doors burst open and papers flew everywhere. “Oh, hell. Well, that’s it.”

  “Get it moved,” Grundy snapped. McGrath pushed open the door, followed by a squad of policemen, and other staffers, and ran into the teeming rain to join the blue clad crowd already around the overturned vehicle. Even sheltered by the buildings standing up was next to impossible; McGrath found himself on his hands and knees, and up to his elbows in water. “Jesus Christ,” he gasped, and struggled up, to be thrown down and sent rolling and splashing several feet further up the street. He realized that they might have left the evacuation just a little too late, looked up and saw an entire roof, it seemed, sailing through the air to crash into the building opposite, demolishing the front wall as if it had been cardboard. Then the wind got inside, blowing out the windows, tearing doors off their hinges, picking up desks and filing cabinets as if they had been toys and tossing them out into the street.

  A police sergeant landed beside him with a splash; he carried a megaphone. “We gotta go,” he bellowed. “Files or no files. Those vans don’t stand a chance in this wind.”

  McGrath wondered how he figured human beings could stand a chance, either. But he snatched the trumpet. “Clear out!” he screamed. “Forget the vehicles. Clear out while you can. Rendezvous at the Plaza Hotel.”

  Nobody heard him above the shrieking of the win
d, the roaring of the water, which was now racing through the streets as if they had all been rivers. But people were making their own decisions, staggering and floundering to where they supposed safety to be, or clawing their way back into the buildings in search of at least temporary shelter. Chief Grundy, on the headquarters ground floor, stamped his feet impatiently as he watched a trickle of water come in the door and make its way across the lobby. “Where the hell is Harmon?” he bawled.

  “Those guys down there don’t want to come out,” Luther gasped at him from the stairs to the remand cells. “They reckon they’re safer in the cells.”

  “Are they nuts?” Grundy himself ran down to the lower level. The cell doors were wide open, and the remand prisoners were free to leave — indeed, they were being implored to do so, but none of them looked anxious to take advantage of the offer. “For God’s sake,” Grundy bellowed. “Use force, Harmon. Throw them out.”

  Harmon turned to the policemen with him. “You heard the Chief,” he said. “Get those guys out.”

  Stuart Alloan scrambled on to his bed, dragging Domingo Garcia with him; he reckoned staying close to the monster was his safest course.

  “You trying to drown us?” Garcia yelled. He was a sallow little man, but he had a loud voice. “You leave us right here. You…” His voice trailed away as he stared at the stairs. Grundy and Harmon turned together, to watch a four-foot high wall of water rushing towards them.

  Park Avenue — 11.15 am

  When the phone went dead, Jo decided it was time to take shelter. She had tried calling Marcia and Benny again, eventually asking the operator for help, only to be told that all communication with Greenwich Village was cut — as if it had been a defaulting spaceship, she thought. Then she tried Connecticut, and Richard, but with no more success. At least she had been able to see his face on TV from time to time. Amazingly, the windows in the apartment were holding — fortunately the plate glass in the lounge faced away from the worst of the storm — but judging by the noise outside, and the heavy debris she could see flying past the apartment block, added to the howling of the wind inside the building as it blew through the broken street-doors, she didn’t reckon they would stand up to much more. So she herded Owen Michael and Tamsin into the bathroom, bolted the door, and they sat together on the mattress drinking hot soup out of mugs.