Dead Man's Island

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by Carolyn G. Hart


  The ro­of ex­p­lo­ded.

  It was the­re; then it was go­ne. Ti­les and tim­ber and mor­tar and plas­ter crum­b­led down, the te­aring, ren­ding, cras­hing so­unds min­g­ling with our scre­ams and sho­uts.

  The wind rol­led back that sec­ti­on of ro­of as ne­atly as a key curls the lid of a sar­di­ne can. Wa­ter that had col­lec­ted on the ro­of­top slos­hed down. That was the first cold, ab­rupt shock. Then ca­me the ne­ed­le-sharp ra­in. It stung every ex­po­sed pi­ece of flesh. The wind pul­led and tug­ged and pum­me­led, but­ting us li­ke in­vi­sib­le go­ats.

  Survival me­ant clin­ging to the fur­ni­tu­re, a wall, any so­lid sta­ti­onary obj­ect.

  I tri­ed to crawl ac­ross the flo­or to­ward the mat­tres­ses.

  I co­uld not mo­ve.

  I don't know how long that las­ted. Fi­ve mi­nu­tes? Ten? It se­emed an eter­nity. Li­fe ca­me down to wet­ness and cold and pres­su­re, han­ging on, clin­ging, sur­vi­ving with the te­na­city of an amo­eba and just abo­ut as much con­t­rol, kno­wing that the­re was no ho­pe, that eit­her the flo­or wo­uld gi­ve way, plun­ging us in­to the ra­ging wa­ters that sur­ro­un­ded the ho­use, or hypot­her­mia wo­uld crad­le us in its" de­adly chill.

  If an­yo­ne cri­ed or sho­uted or cal­led out now, no one he­ard.

  Then, wit­ho­ut war­ning, the storm en­ded.

  One in­s­tant we we­re be­si­eged. The next the ra­in stop­ped.

  Stopped.

  The wind drop­ped from mo­re than a hun­d­red mi­les an ho­ur-down, down, down-to sixty, fifty,

  forty, then to in­ter­mit­tent and un­p­re­dic­tab­le gusts, still strong, still gusty, but be­arab­le.

  We co­uld stand, sha­kily, un­cer­ta­inly, but we co­uld stand.

  Even mo­re re­mar­kab­le to minds and spi­rits over­w­hel­med by the se­emingly ne­ver-en­ding for­ce and in­ten­sity of the storm was the sun­light.

  Watery, gre­enish, we­ak. But it was sun­light.

  I he­ard the ex­c­la­ma­ti­ons of the ot­hers -

  "My God, whe­re's the is­land?" Lyle sto­od next to the east wall that was she­ared in a di­ago­nal from top right to bot­tom left. "We're all that's left. We're all that's left!"

  "It's over, it's over!" Va­le­rie so­un­ded da­zed. The ra­in or the wa­ter from the ro­of had lo­ose­ned her ha­ir. The scrappy wind tug­ged at the wet ten­d­rils.

  "Look at the wa­ter! It's al­most up to the se­cond story." Ro­ger hung pe­ri­lo­usly over the si­de.

  Trevor po­in­ted at the chi­na ca­bi­net. "God!" The winds had dum­ped it for­ward. Only the pi­ano had kept it from crus­hing him.

  - and I un­der­s­to­od the­ir fas­ci­na­ti­on, but my own ga­ze was ri­ve­ted on the far ho­ri­zon and the thick black clo­uds that clim­bed skyward to the west. I tur­ned slowly. The sky was cle­ar to the east, but I didn't do­ubt what lay be­yond our sight: mo­re thick black wall clo­uds, clo­uds clim­bing tho­usands of fe­et, clo­uds en­cir­c­ling us in the eye of the hur­ri­ca­ne.

  14

  Only a spe­ci­al few ever see

  the eye of a hur­ri­ca­ne and li­ve to tell it: ad­re­na­li­ne-fu­eled pi­lots of we­at­her pla­nes, sa­ilors in se­aworthy -and luc­ky-ships, and so­me thrill-se­ekers who cha­se hur­ri­ca­nes with vi­deo ca­me­ras.

  Most do not li­ve to tell it.

  One of the plu­ses of a long li­fe in the news bu­si­ness is a bra­in pac­ked with odds and ends of in­for­ma­ti­on, so­me­ti­mes use­ful, so­me­ti­mes en­ter­ta­ining, so­me­ti­mes de­vas­ta­ting.

  Covering Ca­mi­ile ta­ught me a lot abo­ut hur­ri­ca­nes.

  The eye of a hur­ri­ca­ne can be as much as twenty mi­les ac­ross. The mo­re se­ve­re the storm, the smal­ler the eye.

  It co­uld ta­ke as long as two ho­urs to pass if we we­re, say, at the wes­tern ed­ge of the eye even with

  the cen­ter of the cir­cum­fe­ren­ce. Or it co­uld ta­ke, de­pen­ding upon our po­si­ti­on, as lit­tle as fif­te­en mi­nu­tes.

  So whe­re the hell was the mo­bi­le pho­ne!

  Like a com­men­ta­tor vi­ewing des­t­ruc­ti­on from a he­li­cop­ter, Ro­ger's vo­ice con­ti­nu­ed. "… drow­ned ani­mals ever­y­w­he­re, de­er, fi­eld rats, wild tur­keys, squ­ir­rels… oh" -his vo­ice drop­ped -"a rac­co­on. And the­re's…"

  I was tur­ning to­ward the do­or to the cen­t­ral hall -that wall was still stan­ding, des­pi­te the par­ti­al re­mo­val of the ro­of-when the com­men­tary pa­used, then Ro­ger sa­id in a puz­zled to­ne, "So­met­hing's mo­ving un­der the eaves. I can't exactly tell- Oh, my God!"

  He jum­ped back and lo­oked wildly aro­und. "Qu­ick, qu­ick. Lyle, get me a two-by-fo­ur!"

  I saw the sna­ke.

  "No, Ro­ger," I yel­led. "Back away, back away slowly. Stay still the rest of you. Ab­so­lu­tely still."

  We had one pi­ece of go­od luck. The sna­ke was oozing calmly over the bro­ken ma­sonry. The rep­ti­le wasn't po­ised to at­tack. It was se­eking sa­fety.

  We had one pi­ece of bad luck. This was a hu­ge di­amon­d­back rat­tles­na­ke, one of the most ve­no­mo­us and dan­ge­ro­us rep­ti­les in Ame­ri­ca.

  The rat­tler pa­used, lif­ted its he­ad.

  "Don't mo­ve, Ro­ger! Stay ab­so­lu­tely still. Lis­ten to me, the sna­ke isn't at­tac­king. It will only bi­te if it fe­els thre­ate­ned. Do not mo­ve."

  I didn't tell him that sna­kes can jump mo­re than half the­ir body length to at­tack. Our wi­sest co­ur­se was to wa­it, le­ave the di­amon­d­back alo­ne, stay still.

  Above all, we must not frig­h­ten the rat­tler.

  The light bre­eze flut­te­red the dra­pes ne­ar the win­dow. The sna­ke tur­ned its he­ad. It felt the vib­ra­ti­on.

  It was big, six fe­et in length at le­ast, the dark di­amonds dis­tinct on the am­ber back. The rat­tlers we­re dar­kish co­ils at its end.

  Finally the sna­ke lo­we­red its he­ad and be­gan to mo­ve, pus­hing it­self for­ward, grip­ping with its sca­les, pull-push, pull-push.

  We all sto­od li­ke sta­tu­es.

  The rat­tler oozed down the wall, mo­ved for­ward, pas­sing wit­hin in­c­hes of Ro­ger's sho­es.

  Every eye wat­c­hed its prog­ress.

  The di­amon­d­back mo­ved to­ward the pi­ano and the wrec­ka­ge of the chi­na ca­bi­net. It swar­med up on­to bro­ken pi­eces of the fur­ni­tu­re, then di­sap­pe­ared, slit­he­ring in­to the wrec­ka­ge.

  I held up a war­ning hand. We had to mo­ve, we had to go, but whe­re? I lo­oked aro­und. The ro­of to the north ap­pe­ared to be in pla­ce. "We can climb up on the ro­of. Ever­yo­ne mo­ve qu­i­etly and slowly to­ward the wall." I ges­tu­red be­hind me. "The­re may be mo­re sna­kes. But they'll li­kely stpp he­re, on­ce they fe­el sa­fe from the flo­od."

  I pul­led the pi­ano bench to the wall, pla­ced a cha­ir on it, and clam­be­red up.

  I'd not gi­ven any tho­ught to the con­s­t­ruc­ti­on of the is­land ho­use. Now I re­ali­zed that ti­le eaves pro­j­ec­ted from the si­des. The ro­of it­self was flat and co­ve­red with a gritty tar sur­fa­ce. A chim­ney had top­pled and bricks we­re strewn in ir­re­gu­lar clumps.

  Shards of ti­le, tree limbs, and clumps of ten­nis

  netting lit­te­red the ro­of­top. The wind, sharp and gusty, rip­pled stan­ding wa­ter from the de­lu­ge.

  But this por­ti­on of the cen­t­ral ro­of se­emed to be in­tact.

  If it had we­ak spots, I co­uldn't see them.

  And I didn't see any sna­kes. At the mo­ment. But ot­hers wo­uld co­me, so­me po­iso­no­us, so­me not. But even the non­po­iso­no­us, if frig­h­te­ned, will bi­te, and so­me, li­ke the brown wa­ter sna­ke, will bi­te and ke­ep on bi­ting.

  I tho­
ught abo­ut it for a mo­ment, then slowly grin­ned. We we­re sa­ved by the eaves. The sna­kes ob­vi­o­usly so­ught the first se­cu­re area, the dry, pro­tec­ted spa­ce be­ne­ath the eaves. The re­ason the rat­tler had swar­med in­to the mu­sic ro­om was be­ca­use the ro­of abo­ve it had be­en pe­eled back and it had lost its ret­re­at.

  So, atop the ro­of, we might not be fa­ced with slit­hery wan­de­rers se­eking san­c­tu­ary.

  I po­in­ted at the ro­of and yel­led, "No sna­kes."

  That got me in­s­tant co­ope­ra­ti­on.

  Trevor was on his way up to the ro­of be­fo­re I fi­nis­hed spe­aking.

  I ca­ught his arm as he clim­bed over. "Stay right he­re. We'll ne­ed you to help. When we bring Bur­ton and Mi­ran­da."

  I was a lit­tle sur­p­ri­sed, but the law­yer me­ekly did as he was told, tho­ugh when his eyes kept sli­ding past us to the mu­sic ro­om, he shud­de­red.

  Roger and Lyle hel­ped me. We mo­ved both Bur­ton and Mi­ran­da up to the ro­of, and Tre­vor lif­ted them over. Ro­ger and Lyle clim­bed down, in­ten­ding to ret­ri­eve a mat­tress.

  The stan­ding-wa­ter was dra­ining-thank God for ex­cel­lent ar­c­hi­tec­tu­re-and I was ab­le to find a re­la­ti­vely dry spot in the mid­dle of the ro­of for our inj­ured char­ges. I as­ked Ro­sa­lia and Betty to gu­ard them. I told Tre­vor to pat­rol the pe­ri­me­ter of the bu­il­ding, "Watch for sna­kes," I or­de­red.

  I went back to the ed­ge of the ro­of whe­re Va­le­rie sto­od. "Go back down and see if you can find any ther­mo­ses. And didn't Ro­sa­lia and Betty bring up so­me big bot­tles of bot­tled wa­ter to the mu­sic ro­om?"

  Valerie pus­hed back a lank lock of ha­ir. "God, you don't mind as­king, do you? You know so­met­hing, you wo­uld ha­ve ma­de a won­der­ful nun."

  But af­ter a wary lo­ok be­low, she eased back on­to the cha­ir and drop­ped to the mu­sic-ro­om flo­or. She was back atop the cha­ir in a flash, pas­sing up a pa­ir of ther­mo­ses, "The rest are smas­hed. The fo­od's go­ne. But the­re are three big bot­tles of wa­ter. I'll ha­ve En­ri­que get them."

  She cal­led to En­ri­que, and he nod­ded.

  I re­ac­hed down, grab­bed her hand, and hel­ped her scram­b­le on­to the ro­of.

  Enrique ret­ri­eved the bot­tles and han­ded them

  up-

  Valerie and I ha­uled them over.

  Valerie rol­led them, one at a ti­me, to our lit­tle sto­re­ho­use of go­ods ne­ar the chim­ney. "Next ti­me I'm res­ting I'll try out for a ste­ve­do­re job. God, it fe­els go­od to use mus­c­les." She fol­lo­wed me back to the ro­of ed­ge.

  I swung my leg over the bro­ken wall.

  Valerie re­ac­hed out, ca­ught my arm. "Don't go back down. You've do­ne yo­ur part." Her fin­gers

  tightened spas­mo­di­cal­ly. "Oh, Lord, lo­ok" She po­in­ted, and it se­emed odd that the po­lish on her fin­ger­na­il was still a bril­li­ant crim­son, as per­fect as if fresh from the be­a­uty sa­lon. "The­re's a cot­ton­mo­uth that got by Ro­ger. Ro­ger, Ro­ger, ca­re­ful, be­hind yo­ul"

  Roger fro­ze.

  Lyle whe­eled aro­und, but Ro­ger was bet­we­en him and the co­iled mud­dy-brown sna­ke. Whi­te mo­uth open wi­de, ta­il shim­mying, the alar­med cot­ton­mo­uth was po­ised to stri­ke.

  I al­most pul­led out the gun, but a shot that to­ok out the sna­ke wo­uld al­so ha­ve struck Ro­ger. I had only one pos­sib­le chan­ce. I re­ac­hed down, grab­bed a bro­ken half of brick, and threw it fast and hard.

  The brick smac­ked in­to the sna­ke in mid-lun­ge.

  And Lyle plun­ged past Ro­ger and bro­ught down a plank, crus­hing the cot­ton­mo­uth's he­ad.

  Valerie tur­ned an as­to­nis­hed fa­ce to­ward me. "How the hell did you do that?"

  "Softball. A long ti­me ago. I pla­yed cat­c­her." I was rat­her pro­ud of my per­cen­ta­ge of outs at se­cond. And I co­uld al­re­ady fe­el a twin­ge in my el­bow.

  "When you we­ren't ri­ding a bro­om­s­tick," she mut­te­red.

  I clim­bed back down in­to the mu­sic ro­om, wat­c­hing whe­re I step­ped.

  Lyle cal­led out, "Get an­y­t­hing you want to ta­ke up the­re. When you're fi­nis­hed, we'll all go up."

  I sta­yed away from the bro­ken-up chi­na ca­bi­net. That ter­ri­tory be­lon­ged to a par­ti­cu­lar di­amon­d­back. But I lo­oked di­li­gently el­sew­he­re. The mo­bi­le pho­ne was go­ne.

  Lyle hel­ped me hunt.

  "I put it on the tab­le by the fi­rep­la­ce." He used the two-by-fo­ur to flip over cus­hi­ons.

  Roger and Lyle tos­sed so­me cus­hi­ons up to the ro­of. I fo­und anot­her un­b­ro­ken ther­mos. En­ri­que pul­led so­me two-by-fo­urs free from what was left of the win­dows. We even ma­na­ged to drag out the mid­dle mat­tress and sho­ve it up on­to the ro­of to pro­vi­de a dry, soft res­ting pla­ce for Bur­ton and Mi­ran­da.

  That was our last^task.

  Finally on the ro­of to stay, I to­ok a de­ep bre­ath and lo­oked aro­und.

  The sun se­emed far, far away.

  That was ha­ze.

  I lo­oked to the west. I no lon­ger saw that omi­no­us wall of blac­k­ness. But I knew it wasn't ti­me to bre­ak out the cham­pag­ne. It me­rely me­ant the eye was mo­ving. Clo­ser at hand, the sky was hazy with a gre­enish cast and as far as the eye co­uld see the­re was not­hing but muddy, fo­am-flec­ked, ro­iling wa­ter.

  I lo­oked to the east. It was awe­so­me to re­ali­ze that I co­uld see all the way to the oce­an. It was as if a gi­ant hand had re­ac­hed down and snat­c­hed up the pi­ne tre­es. The flo­od­wa­ters swir­led over the du­nes and the fo­rest and only an oc­ca­si­onal wind-pe­eled branch stuck up from the angry brow­nish-gray wa­ter.

  Nothing re­ma­ined of the sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding with the ge­ne­ra­tor and the ro­om-si­ze fre­ezer whe­re Cha­se's body had be­en ta­ken. The ten­nis co­urts, of co­ur­se, we­re long go­ne.

  This cen­t­ral por­ti­on of the ho­use, which had be­en bu­ilt on the is­land's hig­hest rid­ge, was the only man-

  made struc­tu­re still stan­ding. Flo­od­wa­ters lap­ped abo­ve the fir­st-flo­or win­dows. The cur­rent lo­oked swift. The wa­ter wo­uld pull and tug at this rem­nant, ero­ding the gro­und be­ne­ath it, pus­hing on we­ake­ned walls.

  When the eye pas­sed, when the storm be­gan aga­in in all its fe­ro­city, how long co­uld this bat­te­red struc­tu­re last? As for us - I lo­oked aro­und the ro­of at the band of sur­vi­vors-we now had no pla­ce to hi­de, no pro­tec­ti­on from two-hun­d­red-mi­le-an-ho­ur winds, from cold, sti­let­to-sharp ra­in that co­uld dri­ve all li­ving warmth from our bo­di­es.

  But we had sur­vi­ved to this po­int. The air was balmy. I co­uld fe­el my cold, wet clot­hes be­gin­ning to dry.

  Roger, En­ri­que, and Lyle pat­rol­led the ro­of ed­ge. Tre­vor knelt by the bro­ken chim­ney. He was stac­king frag­ments of bricks in­to a mo­und. Sho­uld it co­me down to a strug­gle for the last spa­ce, we had two-by-fo­urs and bricks; the sna­kes had fangs and agi­lity.

  Valerie sat with her back aga­inst the fo­ot or so of chim­ney still in pla­ce, her fa­ce lif­ted to the sun, her eyes clo­sed. Her shi­ning gol­den ha­ir, be­gin­ning to dry, sprung in wiry curls aro­und her fa­ce. She might ha­ve be­en six­te­en.

  I re­ali­zed sud­denly how ti­red I was, how very ti­red. The ex­p­lo­si­on - God, that se­emed a li­fe­ti­me ago. I lo­oked at my watch. It was li­ke trying to de­cip­her fo­re­ign script. I co­uld see the nu­me­rals, of co­ur­se, but they didn't ma­ke sen­se. Not aga­inst the enor­mity of what we had en­du­red.

  Could it pos­sibly be just ele­ven-for­ty-one?

  The Mi­ran­da B. had ex­p­lo­ded at half-past three, eight ho­urs ago.

  Cha
se had di­ed at just af­ter se­ven A.M.

  We had fo­und Bur­ton at shortly af­ter ten.

  I wan­ted des­pe­ra­tely to drop down on the ro­of, rest aga­inst one of the cus­hi­ons.

  But I tur­ned and for­ced my le­aden legs to cross to the cen­ter of the ro­of and our in­va­lids.

  Perhaps our ot­her pi­ece of luck-at le­ast for Bur­ton and Mi­ran­da-was the fact that only half of the mu­sic-ro­om ro­of had be­en pe­eled back by the winds, so the mat­tres­ses and the­ir hu­man oc­cu­pants had re­ma­ined at le­ast par­ti­al­ly shel­te­red. They had be­en damp when we lif­ted them to the ro­of but not dren­c­hed-and not suf­fe­ring from hypot­her­mia.

 

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