Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  “They’re in the Buchan house,” he told them. “Some of them, at least.”

  “So where are we going?” Glory said.

  He raised an arm and pointed down the road to where a crossroad intersected the main avenue. “That way,” he said.

  “What’s down there?” Sharon said.

  “A friend’s house.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  In the lantern room, Phillips closed his book and chuckled. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.” He picked up the binoculars and stood up. He tried to scan the horizon, but the glass walls of the lantern room were translucent with the water that cascaded down from the roof. The deluge outside cut visibility even further. There was no way to tell if anyone was approaching, but he was willing to bet a fair amount that no one else would be insane enough to try. He swiveled the glasses onto the island, looking for signs of movement on the road. Here, too, his vision was obscured. He watched as a large gnarled live-oak tree on the road near the lighthouse slowly began to go over, its roots unable to hold it down in the rain softened soil. It seemed to fall silently, what must have been a mighty crash muffled by rain and out-shouted by wind. Phillips chewed his lower lip. Those trees looked centuries old. If they couldn’t hold on…he looked over at the rifle leaning against the glass. Destroyer, he thought, and laughed softly to himself. He looked back outside. The gray half light was becoming noticeably dimmer. Night was coming on.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “Wow,” Glory said. “This place is amazing.”

  She had thrown herself on a big leather couch in the living room. A massive flat panel TV dominated one wall, the shuttered windows the other.

  “Glory,” Sharon said, “Dry off before you get water all over the furniture.”

  Glory laughed, sounding a little giddy with the relief of being indoors, warm and dry again. “Gee, Mom,” she said, “After we broke in, you think they’re going to be worried about me dripping on their nice leather couch?”

  “Just get a towel.”

  Glory rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” They had packed flashlights in their improvised backpacks. Glory picked hers up and walked off down the hallways by the stairs, looking for a bathroom.

  “There’s towels in a closet at the top of the stairs,” Mercer called out. He was rummaging in a cupboard by the door. He came out with a pack of kitchen matches and a pair of squat round candles. As Glory came back around and headed up the stairs, he placed the candle on a side table and lit it. He started to hand it to Sharon, then stopped as he saw the look on her face. “What?”

  “So,” she said, “you’ve been here before?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Like I told you…”

  “A friend’s house, yeah. People like us don’t have friends like this, Mercer. What’d you do, break in? Rob the place?”

  He gestured to the shotgun she had leaned against the wall. “I needed a weapon.”

  “You take anything else that didn’t belong to you?”

  He thought about Kathy-with-a-K. “No,” he said, “Nothing else.” He walked over to the gun cabinet and began taking shells out of the drawer. “Stay here,” he said. “Keep the lights to a minimum.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He picked up the shotgun. “I’m going to go find out what the hell those people are doing. What’s so important they’re willing to kill for it.” He cracked the shotgun and loaded a pair of shells.

  “And then what?”

  He snapped it closed. “You know the answer to that.”

  “You’re going to kill them.”

  “If I can.”

  “Because they need killing,” she said.

  “Yes. You have any objections?”

  “Would it matter,” she said, “or are you just being polite?”

  “I’m just being polite.”

  “Then no. But what about that flood out there?”

  “This is higher ground, so it should be okay for a while. We may have to move again. We’ll deal with that when we come to it. In the meantime, I want to cut down the number of threats we have to deal with.” He walked to the door. As he turned the knob, he heard her say something. He turned back. “What?”

  She was looking away. “I said good luck.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  He had improvised a sling for the gun from some old strapping he’d found in a utility closet. He slung it on his back and hefted his improvised spear as he headed out into the storm again. Me mighty hunter, he thought wryly, feeling slightly foolish. But he sobered quickly. Those were real monsters out there, and they needed slaying.

  He wouldn’t have believed that the wind could have blown any harder, but it was. The sound it made was an unending high pitched banshee scream, a hysterical, insane shriek that went on and on and abraded his nerves like sandpaper on bare skin. The blast as he stepped out from the shelter of the house knocked him sideways and off his feet. This is insane, he thought as he staggered back upright. No one can go out in this. But, he thought, no one else would be this crazy. That trait, of being just a little crazier than anyone suspected, had served him well through the years.

  This time, however, he was wrong. As he approached the crossroads of the main avenue, he saw lights bobbing dimly through the rain ahead. He faded into the trees by the side of the road and advanced slowly. Wind-whipped branches flogged him as he slipped through the concealing brush. As he drew closer, he could make out a strange parade staggering down the road. First, a ponchoed figure, head down and straining against the wind, a powerful flashlight trying vainly to illuminate the road ahead. It looked like an underwater spotlight in a swimming pool. Then two more figures, one in a poncho, the one behind in what looked like some kind of flight suit. They were carrying a coffin sized wooden crate between them. The man behind, the one with no rain protection, looked dazed, stunned. The final marcher in the parade was a man holding a submachine gun trained, Mercer noticed, on the man in the flight suit. As they passed, Mercer realized he’d seen the face before. It was the Deputy he’d seen in the days before the storm, the one who they’d sent to make sure Pass Island was cleared of all humanity. Mercer hadn’t ever had much use for cops, but Max hadn’t had any problem with the guy. Now, however, it looked like the cop was a prisoner. Sorry, buddy, Mercer thought, looks like you played out of your league. Shit happens. Then he reconsidered. Another hand, another gun maybe, might be useful. If he could get the guy out of there. He considered the possibilities. There was only one man with a gun that he could see. He could take the machine gunner with a quick rush. Maybe. Of course the other two might have sidearms, in which case he’d be fucked. No, those odds were not ones Kyle Mercer was willing to play. A little crazier than your opponent was one thing. Being a dumbass was something else. He decided to follow and see what presented itself.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  They had slapped Bohler awake, the stinging open handed blows shocking him slowly back to consciousness.

  “Wake up, Sunshine,” the obvious leader, the man who had dunked him, said. “Good for you we’re a man short. You’ve got work to do. It’ll keep you alive a little longer.” The man with the ruined voice had put his mask back on, and he kept his gun trained on Bohler as the man who always looked worried cut his cuffs off. The blonde woman leading, they had marched him out into the storm and the gathering dark, up the road, to the Mayhew construction site. Inside, the half-finished house was a shambles where wind and water had entered, unopposed by door or window, and rampaged through. They sloshed through inches of standing water on the lower level to an area where a large crate rested on a crudely improvised workbench thrown together from pressure-treated lumber and plywood. At the woman’s order, Bohler and the worried man hefted the crate down. Bohler felt like the sheer weight of the thing would pull his arms out of their sockets. He didn’t dare complain, however. Back out into the storm they went. Bohler kept his head down, concentrating all his attention on not dropping the crate.
It seemed to take an eternity to make their way back to the house. Inside, they hauled the crate awkwardly up the stairs, into the wood-paneled room on the second floor. When they were done, the woman pushed him away and picked up a crowbar that had been lying on the fancy mahogany desk. Bohler stood dumbly and watched her begin tearing at the lid of the crate, until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. The leader was there, holding a pistol a few inches from his head. He held a pair of zipcuffs in his other hand. He was smiling.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said.

  “You never asked me any,” Bohler said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Oh yeah,” the leader said, simulating chagrin, “I guess I forgot.” The smile vanished. “Hands behind your back.” Bohler had a brief thought of trying for the gun. But the man with the funny voice was a few feet away, water still flowing off him in tiny rivers onto the expensive hardwood floors, the gun still pointed at Bohler. He put his hands behind his back. The leader zip-cuffed him again, not too tight, but tight enough. “Now,” he said, “Do we need to go back to the tub?”

  “You’re going to kill me if I tell you,” Bohler said.

  “Yes,” the leader said, “I am. I’m not going to lie to you. Fact is, Barney Fife, you’re going to die here, either way. But there are a lot of ways to die. Some of them are quick, some, not so much. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make it quick. Two in the noggin, and you’re on to whatever’s next. Or you can stay here and spend the next few hours dying. And before you do, you’ll still tell me what I want to know. Now. Who. Are. You. Here. For?”

  Bohler’s shoulders slumped. “Some people got left behind. A waitress from the club and her daughter. We sent a Coast Guard chopper out here to pick them up.”

  “We know about them, Barney Fife,” the man said. “Tell me about the third person. The man.”

  Bohler through for a moment. What would be the harm in telling? This Mercer character was a thug. A hired gun. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, Barn,” the leader said. “Time to…”

  “We think the third person is a guy named Kyle Mercer,” Bohler blurted out.

  “We?”

  Bohler swallowed. “One of the people on the chopper with me was an FBI agent.”

  “I see. And why was the FBI interested in this Mercer?”

  There was a brief moment of distraction as the lights dimmed. A bright, harsh light filled the room, throwing jittery shadows on the wall. There was a smell of burning metal in the air and a crackling, hissing sound. Bohler turned instinctively towards the source of the light, only to have his chin jerked back harshly by the leader’s hand.

  “I probably just saved you from burning out your eyes,” the leader said. “Whatever you do, don’t look at that without eye protection.”

  “Thanks,” Bohler said dryly.

  “Hey, bad enough to have to die without being blind when it happens.” He took Bohler by the shoulder. “Come on in the other room.” He marched Bohler ahead of him. They paused at the door. “Montrose,” the leader said. That’s when it really hit Bohler that he was going to die. He realized that some foolish part of him had held out some hope of mercy. But they wouldn’t be using names in front of someone who was going to make it out of here alive. He felt his knees begin to shake.

  “Yeah?” the woman answered.

  “You can make the cut without damaging what’s inside, right?” the leader said.

  “You want to run the fuckin’ cutter, Blake?” Montrose said. Blake didn’t answer. He guided Bohler out of the office and into the master suite. The room was dimly lit by a pair of brass bedside lamps on either side of an enormous raised bed against the wall.

  “Okay,” he said almost pleasantly, “why was the FBI after this Mercer character? Or do you want another trip to the tub?”

  “He was some kind of contract hitter in Chicago,” Bohler said in a low, defeated voice. “He killed a confidential informant working for the FBI. They were into the Russian mob and Mercer killed one of their people. A guy they’d flipped.”

  “Ah,” Blake said. He shook his head. “Unbelievable. One of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen, taken out by a street thug. Guess anyone can get lucky.” He raised the pistol. “Okay,” he said. “Back to the tub.”

  “No,” Bohler said, the panicked word escaping from between his lips. He was able to stop himself from pleading “You promised.”

  “Come on now,” Blake said, like a mother trying to get a child to take his medicine. “It’ll all be over before you know it.” He raised the gun. “Now move.”

  This is it, Bohler thought. This is the end. He was trying to be stoic, but the trembling in his legs betrayed him and he staggered a little as turned and walked towards the bathroom. He tried hard to think of a prayer, but all that his mind could grasp was the thought of going back in their, dying struggling, with his head held under the water.

  “I got to tell you, Barney,” Blake said. “You’re a pretty pathetic excuse for a lawman.”

  There was a sudden darkness.

  Surprisingly, there was no pain.

  Then, from the darkness, out of the other room, Bohler heard a curse. He realized he was still alive. The lights were out. He turned. A flash of lightning outside leaked in around the shutters and dimly outlined Blake, still standing before him, gun raised, but wavering. Bohler turned the rest of the way around, dropped his shoulder, and shoved forward with his legs as hard as he could. His shoulder caught Blake in the gut and knocked him backwards. The room was dark again as Bohler straightened up. “Mother FUCKER,” Blake’s voice came out of the darkness. The voice was near the floor. Bohler realized he’d knocked the man down. He advanced on where he’d heard the voice and kicked out as hard as he could. He felt his foot connect with something hard. There was a cry more of rage than pain, and he felt a hand brush against his foot an instant before he pulled it back. He turned and stumbled awkwardly, his hands still bound behind him, towards where memory told him the door must be. He crashed into the wall face first, grunting with pain. Another flash of lightning showed him the door a few inches to his right. He staggered sideways, heard the roar of the pistol and the crack of splintering wood where he had been the moment before. Then he was in the hallway. He could hear Blake roaring orders behind him. Stairs, he thought. Where are the stairs? He put his shoulder and hip against the wall, sliding down the hallway carefully. The wall ended abruptly and he nearly overbalanced and went over the railing he could feel at his hip. He felt with his feet till the railing ended and found the top riser of the stairs. He got halfway down before his balance failed him and he crashed noisily down the rest of the way. He landed on his face and felt his nose break with a sickening crunch, then slid head-first the rest of the way down. He lay there for a moment, stunned and disoriented in the darkness. Blood was pouring freely from his shattered nose and his chest felt like someone had been pounding it with a hammer. It was hard to get his breath. He realized dimly that there was a rectangle of, not light, but less darkness across the room from him. The door facing the beach was open. He could hear the wind howling through it, and some of the windblown droplets of rain were reaching him, this far inside. Who the hell left the door….he thought, and then a flash of lightning limned a figure standing in the doorway. Bohler’s heart sank. He wasn’t going to get away. Then there was someone beside him, grabbing him by the neck of his flight suit. “Come on,” a voice he didn’t recognize grunted as he was hauled to his feet. “Get going. Out the door.” The man followed, still guiding Bohler by the scruff of the neck. He felt something sawing at his cuffs, then they fell away. He almost wept with the relief, then the pain hit as circulation returned to his wrists and he cried out. “Good,” the voice said. “Make a lot of noise.” They were out the door then, and Bohler turned to face his rescuer. Even in the darkness, he recognized the face. “Mercer,” he said.

  A startled look crossed Mercer’s face, then was gone. He pointed in the directio
n of the ocean. “Run that way,” he said. “Try not to actually run into the deep water.” Bohler turned to look.

  The house was set far back from the actual beach front. There was a long stretch of well-tended grass before the line of dunes that shielded the lawn from the ocean. The sea, however, had come up far enough to leak through the dunes; the grass now stood under a couple of inches of salt water. Wavelets, an echo of the ocean rollers that were clawing at the dunes, rippled in the shallow water.

  “RUN!” Mercer barked. Bohler could hear people clattering down the stairs. He started running.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  When the lights went out, Worth knew exactly what was happening. He had been sitting next to Moon in the office, both of them turned away from the starburst light of the plasma cutter. The sputter and hiss of the cutter suddenly ceased and the rest of the lights went out. Worth groped for the flashlight by his leg.

  “What the fuck?” Montrose said.

  “Somebody killed the generator,” Worth said.

  “Who?”

  Worth remembered a shadowy figure in the marina office. “Our friend. The guy who killed Barstow.”

  “What the hell for?” Moon said.

  Worth located the flashlight, snapped it on. “I don’t think he likes us very much.” They heard a crash from the other room, a grunt of effort, a shot. “Stay here,” Worth told Montrose. He and Moon were up and through the doorway to the master suite before the words were fully out of his mouth. Moon had snapped his flashlight on as well, and the beams picked out Blake getting to his feet, cursing.

  “Where’s…” Worth began, but Blake cut him off.

  “Get after him, damn it!”

  “He’s out there, Blake,” Worth said.

  “Who?” he glanced at Moon, who stood by impassively, waiting for orders.