by Angela White
She was already shaking her head, raising her sunglasses. “That’s another week. Let’s try to find a dam or a bridge around here that’s okay.”
Marc stared, stomach suddenly uneasy.
Angela gave him a quick look that revealed a desperate need. “I feel it too, but I can’t waste another week. I can’t.”
“I won’t ask you to unless we can’t find a shallow or dam, like we did when we came over the Mississippi.”
Angela studied the mud-streaked lanes of Interstate 29. The cracked pavement was full of potholes and mud that was slowly drying in the steady breeze now that the temperatures had stayed above freezing for a few days. The wind was calm, weather clear for a change, and Angela lit a smoke. She wasn’t sure what was wrong, but knew something was since there was only darkness when she searched her mental doors.
“Do you–”
The ground under them began to shake, and she slammed on the brakes, jerking them to a stop. Scared, she started to get out as the vibrations increased.
Marc put a gentle hand on her wrist. “Wait. If it gets worse, we’ll get out. Watch for big cracks.”
His touch was soothing, exciting.
He let go slowly, responding to her interest.
The ground under them rumbled and swayed, shifting nearby debris piles, and from the distance came the distinctive sound of buildings collapsing.
The shaking eased gradually, quieting over a period of maybe a minute, before finally going still. Angela looked at Marc, who was busy studying the map as if nothing had happened. “Should we go on?”
“Yeah, stop if it starts again. Always stay clear of anything that can fall on you, and watch for cracks. They open up fast.”
Angela eased on the pedal, shocked to discover that not only was there a fault line under St. Louis, but it was active. They had felt other tremors, of course, but not while driving and not this strong. In the Midwest, the big one hadn’t come yet, but things were certainly warming up.
They listened to Pink Floyd as she drove over weedy, debris-littered streets, rolling around the abandoned cars with indecipherable notes mildewed to dashboards. The conversation was about anything other than the destruction all around them. Mother Nature was clearly the cause here.
Marc was aching. Time looked short for them, and though he could say they were friends, he wasn’t sure if there was more. She had been keeping the space between them since waking up in his arms in front of the burned-out fire, one of the best memories for him from the entire trip. She’d been so peaceful in his embrace, so relaxed (sexy), and he was discouraged.
Appearing to look at Dog, who was curled up contentedly on the backseat, Marc stole another look at her profile as she drove. She was still so far out of reach that he didn’t think he would ever have a real chance with her again, but that didn’t stop the want.
Angela could feel his hot looks, but she was blocking so she didn’t catch the exact thoughts unless he sent them to her. She tried not to fidget. She loved having him so close but hated it too. Her female body was acutely aware of him sitting next to her, and she was reminded of a time when the mere thought of sex didn’t make her cringe. She had loved to touch him, to kiss him, to run her fingers through his feathered black hair. They had stolen dark, shadowy moments of heaven, and the voices whispered that he could conquer her fears and make her feel it again, that Marc could also have a part in healing her that way.
“You have to trust me.”
Angela threw him a startled look. “What?”
“You have to turn by that tree.”
Her eyes darted away, face red, and Marc thought again that she had done so much better on this journey than he’d thought she would. They both had.
2
The couple made it to the Nebraska-Missouri state line before dusk and stopped to inspect the area. Marc wasn’t encouraged.
The bridge they’d hoped to cross was almost completely submerged. The river was well over its banks, covering even the roads leading to the blue metal structure, but the water was only dammed up on one side. The south end was nearly empty, so low that they couldn’t see it from where they were. As a result, the ground between them and the bridge was mostly covered with nasty, stagnant, reeking liquid, the edges of it pushing up onto the road they were sitting on.
After a long study, Marc handed her the binoculars. “No way that we could cross that, even if we found a way in.”
“Damn. I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen yet. Is that a bulldozer jammed up against the railroad trestle?”
“What’s left of one. The water backing up like that behind the bridge might mean there’s a shallow spot a bit downstream.”
The Blazers rolled slowly, and Marc searched, picking out places that appeared solid as he guided her around the spots that were a quicksand-like mud that would suck them down.
Half a mile from the doomed bridge, Marc had her stop so that he could get a better view, and she waited nervously, stomach full of spiders. Angela grimaced at that thought and hid it as he came to her window. There was danger here.
“It’s steep, but maybe we can make it. Tracks say someone else did recently, and if I had to guess, I’d say they did it in a small, light car. Look at it while I unhook my Blazer and then we’ll try. You go first.”
Angela did as he said, hating the way the damp ground gave under her weight and tried to steal the boots from her feet. She felt a little better when she observed that it wasn’t a straight drop into the riverbed, but it still looked rough. She could see the tire ruts that someone else had left further down, just above the shallow water that rushed by with bits of debris bobbing furiously.
Not feeling the peeks of sun anymore, Angela tightened her belt and slowly drove toward the muddy bank, heart thumping wildly. This wasn’t going to go well.
Better tell him, the witch warned.
Angela shook her head. It was too late to go back now. Nothing would keep her from her son!
“Nice and slow until you hit the flatter part before the water, then pick up speed,” Marc instructed over the radio.
Angela rode the brakes as she started down, and the vehicle bounced over the big rocks, jarring her.
“A little faster, honey.”
She eased off the brake, and let it coast as the water rushed by. It was deeper than she’d first thought, maybe two feet and moving fast, and then she was in. Easing on the gas too late, sprays of water flew up from her mostly submerged tires, creating small rapids that surged outward.
Her tires slipped near the middle of the wide riverbed, going sideways with the water, and then she was back in control and shooting across, heart pounding.
Marc was coming down the incline behind her, and Angela felt her tires slip again as she hit the muddy embankment on the other side. Pedal going to the floor, her tires dug into the wet ground, and the Blazer came to a stop with a jerk that snapped her seatbelt painfully against her chest.
Angie let off the gas and hit reverse, but only sank further into the thick slop. She got no response from the four-wheel-drive mode, either. Slamming it into drive, she was overwhelmed by that feeling of danger, and the Blazer fishtailed as the ground began to shake again.
Out! We have to get out!
Angela mashed the pedal, spinning tires, and a cloud of white smoke billowed into the sky.
Marc didn’t warn her as the rumbling increased. He hit the gas and slammed into the rear of her smoking, sliding Blazer, knocking it up and out of the thick mud with little visible damage.
The sound of the bridge’s final collapse was extremely loud, but Angela didn’t notice it as she was suddenly hit hard and moving again.
As she cleared the edge, she picked up her mike, stopping to look back. “Damn that was...Marc! Get out!”
Marc knew the wall of debris-laden water was surging toward him hungrily. He’d been here before. When his tires bogged down where hers had, he shoved himself out the window and got onto the hood, glad Dog was already
on the hill, out of reach.
“The tree! Grab the tree!” Angela’s scream was frantic.
Marc darted across the protesting hood, jumping just as the water slammed into the Blazer. It was snatched by the current, and rolled violently. The thick swells quickly carried it under.
“Marc!” Angela jumped out, rope from her kit in hand, and ran to the embankment. She leaned over the edge, frantic as Dog yapped furiously next to her.
“Marc!”
“Here!”
She spotted him in the center of the churning, rising water, and threw the long cord hard.
It landed on his outstretched fingers. She saw him double it around his wrist, and she hurriedly tied it the other end to the hitch of her Blazer. She ran for the driver’s seat, not thinking, just doing what the witch told her to.
Marc held the rope and then his breath as the water closed over his face, body submerged, scraped, bumped, sliced, battered.
The rope tightened, jerking his shoulder brutally, and then he was out like a fish caught by a boater, gasping for air. He coughed violently, feet and hands digging into the mud, clawing at the grass for purchase as she hauled him up.
The angry roar of the water echoed in protest at the escape.
Angela observed him collapse in her mirror and had her bag in hand as she rushed to him. “Marc!”
She saw him move and remembered to breathe. “Are you hurt?”
Marc pushed onto his knees as he coughed out mouthfuls of diseased river water. She ignored his protests, running her hands over him to check for injuries.
“...finger, or should I give you something?”
Marc was confused, trying to get his air back. “What?”
She gestured at the rising water rushing loudly by. “Some of that’s inside you. We have to get it out before it can settle in and do damage. I’ve got a shot of something that’ll do it.”
She set a tiny vial on the ground by his feet. “I’ll get camp set up.”
Marc blew out a disgusted sigh, pushing up onto shaky legs. “Fucking quake. Some great joke.”
“...swallow it all and then take a deep smell of the bottle. Are we okay here?”
Marc blurrily scanned the muddy ground and a park-like area about two hundred yards away. No buildings in sight, crooked elm and willow trees behind plum fields, and thick, lush grass sprinkled with poppies. It actually appeared normal.
“Over...there. This should be part of the Brownville...State Rec area. Leave my duffle bag... couple of jugs of water. No fire ...stove’s okay.”
Angela left him alone, glad that the sound of the water crushing anything and everything would drown out his misery and provide privacy. She studied the area around them before getting anything out and the wolf jumped up onto the roof to stand guard, though he had obviously wanted to stay with his master.
Angela turned to check on Marc and saw his torn shirt hit the ground, exposing a wide chest that she was drawn to even over the distance. When his hand dropped to his belt buckle, she spun around, clumsy fingers getting the Coleman lit. She’d almost lost him. Her impatience had almost killed them both.
If it was supposed to be, it would have been, the witch tried to comfort.
Angela found Marc’s naked body across the distance again and couldn’t look away. His hair and face were lathered, and as he poured the clean water over himself, she felt a chill of desire. He was a beautiful man, and they would be sharing a bed tonight to stay warm. She should have been afraid of getting so intimate with Marc so openly, but things had changed for her again. She certainly wasn’t afraid of him as a man anymore. It was a welcome change from the paralyzing fear that she had lived with for so long. Would she feel this confident around other men, or was Marc the only male that she could respond to? Their bond of trust was one of those blind comforts that might mask the truths she wasn’t ready to face. It would be too easy to fall back into a submissive role with Marc and forget her own needs in order to make him happy. However, knowing she could feel a normal attraction would give her hope that Kenn hadn’t damaged her beyond repair when it came to things like love…and sex.
Marc could feel her staring, body swelling to thickness in seconds, and he took his time rinsing, drying, dressing, and brushing his teeth. He felt a little better, though he hurt all over, and he was still alive. So, let her stare all she wants, Marc thought. Maybe she’ll see something she likes, and hold me down and take it.
Angela snickered, picking up the thought. The block between them had crumbled when she’d seen the water reaching out for him like alien hands, and she scowled at all the scrapes, cuts, and bruises on his arms, chest, and face.
Marc walked slowly, shirt open, duffle bag over his uninjured shoulder, and their eyes locked over the distance, speaking louder than the water still rushing by.
I almost got you killed.
Marc shook his head, full of fierce gratitude that he would never be able to express. You saved my life!
I’m sorry.
“Don’t be,” Marc stated firmly, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “No way to know the smart-ass upstairs was gonna pick those ninety seconds to shake the ground again. Your quick actions saved me. You deserve a promotion.”
Angela waved a hand at the tailgate. “Have a seat. I’ll patch you up while you tell me about this raise.”
He took the Irish coffee she pushed into his clammy hands, and the red-flecked wolf sat on the ground at his feet.
“All right. In the Corps, you’d start out a private, but you would have been a Private First Class after Versailles.” Marc watched for signs that it still bothered her, but spotted nothing as she raised a brow.
“And now?” she asked, opening the packages from her bag as the sun sank, leaving a pale orange and purple sky. Angela felt him fishing, but that bait had long since been stripped by her own guilt.
“Now, I’d say...a Lance Corporal.”
She laughed, hiding her wince well. Kenny was a Lance Corporal, though he also would have been ranked higher if he could have followed orders. “Better get a good raise with that. What about you?”
Stifling a sneeze, Marc shrugged, concentrating on the red of her lips instead of the stinging from the alcohol pad. “Happy where I am.”
Angela heard it all in his voice: the need, the respect, the fierce joy to be alive. She tenderly slid his dog tag aside to smear gel over his cuts and scrapes. It was heaven and hell, touching him, and she barely kept the old Angela from doing something they might regret…like allowing her hands to wander freely over his hot skin.
“Soup when you’re ready, then pills.”
Angela tried to hurry, to ignore how he felt, and her pulse was pounding when she stepped back.
“Ready for–” She fell silent as the ground under them lit up again, rattling the Blazer and everything inside it.
“Just a tremor. We’re all right.”
She hated the way the ground shifted under their feet, and when it pounded through her legs, the dirt giving a little, she stumbled, and Marc caught her.
Angela sucked in a breath, tight against his bare chest, but instead of immediately pulling away when the ground stilled under them, she was drawn by the devotion in his dark gaze as he stared at her. His heart was pounding as hard as hers was, body warm under her fingers, and she saw his nostrils flare, as if he was scenting her. The image made her blush. She wanted him. What a wonderful feeling!
Marc let her have the lead, patiently waiting, hoping desire would have its way eventually, but he was dying to kiss her. He craved it. He swore to himself that before she got to her man, he’d have at least one taste of her to remember when he was alone again.
A wave of sadness fell over him, and when she pulled away, he let her go, trying to keep it from his face. Who was he kidding? He would never take it, and she would never offer.
Angela pushed a bowl of hot soup into his hands. “Any other cuts?”
“No.” He stirred the warm noodles absently.
“I didn’t even tear my jeans. Lots of bruises, though.”
She handed him a small cluster of pills and a cup of water.
When he heard “painkiller,” Marc smiled. His body was sore all over, aching, but his shoulder hurt the worst. Throbbing sharply, it continued to swell. He was surprised it hadn’t been dislocated, but he didn’t complain or even mention it. There had been little time for anything else.
“We’ll stay here tonight.”
Marc agreed, watching her set up a lawn chair next to the stove.
She waved a hand, and he went where she wanted him, closing his eyes with a small smile that made her gape. Would his kiss still ignite her passion, or would it repulse her, the way Kenny’s did?
Angela dropped a blanket over his legs and held up another. “Lean forward a little bit,” she coaxed, laying it over the chair. When he sat back, she pulled it around his wide shoulders, not flinching when their fingers brushed.
Angela stayed behind him, and Marc couldn’t stop a small moan of pain when her hands settled firmly on his shoulder. Then she began rubbing, soothing, pushing, manipulating it back into position, her fingers like fire one minute and ice the next as she healed him.
Drained, Angela stepped back. “I’m gonna put the discs out. Twenty feet?”
He nodded, smothering a yawn as he handed her the wristband controller. “Two rows. One at twenty and one at thirty.”
She did it as he had shown her, and Marc watched for a minute, before slowly rising to his feet. “You want a cup?”
The wind gusted as Marc scanned the distant but clearer shapes of the mountains to their south, bringing the stench of rotting fish. He kept himself from gagging only by sheer will, his body suddenly feeling foreign and clammy.
“I’ll get it. Sit down, will ya? That was enough dope to knock you out,” Angela scolded, finished with the discs.
When he didn’t answer–only put a hand on the hatch for support–she came over and slipped an arm around his lean hips. “Come on, grunt. Time to hit the rack.”
“Been waitin’ weeks to hear that,” he joked tiredly.