Storm Demon

by Gregory Lamberson

  Since she couldn’t see through her sunglasses or the windows, she closed her eyes, controlled her breathing, and attempted to reach a Zen-like calm. The deafening roar of the wind and rain became soothing.

  After what felt like five minutes, she opened her eyes but remained still otherwise. She had passed Fifth Avenue, and the outline of the Tower loomed on her left and the Flatiron on her right. With her arms still wide apart, she felt safe enough to nudge the street with her heels, but her feet made no connection, and she dipped beneath the surface. The water had become deeper.

  Fighting the urge to panic, she waited for her body to rise. As soon as that occurred she kicked just enough to gain some propulsion, which helped her stay afloat without splashing. One more long block would take her to Sixth Avenue, and then she could swim harder.

  Hang on, Shana.

  Jake and Ripper waded through the lobby.

  “It’s almost four feet deep,” Jake said.

  As they neared the front doors, Ripper picked up a piece of clothing floating near one wall and held it up. “Isn’t this Maria’s jacket?”

  “Check the pockets,” Jake said.

  Ripper turned the pockets inside out. “Empty.”

  “She’s up to something, then.”

  Between the rain, the dark sky, and the lack of any electric illumination, Jake couldn’t even make out the New York Edition Hotel across the street. He had become so

  accustomed to seeing the Tower, the Metropolitan Life North Building, and the hotel lit up like jewels that he now felt as if he had slipped back through time to the Middle Ages.

  Ripper stood motionless beside him. “That current looks strong, J.”

  “I bet Maria used it to her advantage. You can swim, right?”

  “Hell, yes. In a swimming pool.”

  “We just have to make it one block.”

  “Yeah, in a hurricane.”

  “You have my gun, so I can’t have it against your head.”

  The body of a woman swept past them.

  “I wonder what happened to her,” Ripper said.

  “It’s only going to get deeper the longer we wait.”

  Ripper gestured for Jake to lead.

  “The door to Laurel’s parlor is recessed into the façade like this one, so there’s at least some shelter, and we saw that car go through its front window. Try swimming underwater. That way we’ll just be battling the current and not the wind, too.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Taking a deep breath, Jake plunged into the water. The current slammed into him, and he kicked harder than he anticipated needing to. He swam with both arms, even though he had only one hand to cup. He caught the corner of the entrance to Laurel’s parlor and kicked faster. When his head broke the surface he pulled himself into the alcove next to the door.

  Ripper surfaced, gasping for breath, and Jake helped him in.

  “Piece of cake, right?” Jake said.

  “Damn, that water’s cold.”

  “Let’s cheat for the next leg.” Jake stepped into the current again but went through the cave mouth where Laurel’s picture window had been. The water was calmer inside the flooded interior, where Laurel’s chairs and table floated.

  Ripper got inside and surveyed the room. “Can you imagine how much damage this storm’s already done to the city?”

  “Not really.” Jake waded across the parlor. “Watch your step. The floor is sunken.” He waited for Ripper to catch up to him. “My favorite restaurant is next door. Same deal. We should be safe from the current as soon as we reach the doorway.”

  He dove into the water and swam beneath the surface. This time he found it harder to pull himself into the alcove.

  Joining him, Ripper shook his dreads, casting off water as a dog would.

  Jake slid through the broken glass door and entered the flooded Cajun restaurant. He doubted he would ever eat here again. Although the booths were bolted to the floor, dozens of chairs and tables bobbed on the surface, along with plastic dish trays. Ripper followed him to the far end of the missing picture window. A neon sign dangling from the ceiling blew back and forth.

  “I hope the juice doesn’t come back on while we’re in the water,” Ripper said.

  “Don’t think about it. The furniture store is next. It’s a longer swim to the doorway, but then it’s a longer walk inside, too.”

  Jake dove in and swam even harder than he had before because he wanted to get as far as he could before exhaustion slowed him. He passed a standpipe set in the sidewalk. Halfway to their destination, Ripper passed him.

  Son of a bitch, Jake thought. He kicked faster and harder but seemed to move slower. He heard the wind and the sound of his own heartbeat. Where’s that damn doorway?

  He found himself moving backwards until Ripper seized his collar and guided him into the next alcove and through the broken furniture store window. Inside, gasping, Jake turned around. Cushions floated, mattresses bobbed, and wooden bed frames drifted along the expansive interior.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Ripper said. “The water could be over our heads when we come back.”

  “But the current will be on our side then.”

  “Maybe.”

  They made circular motions with their arms to make walking easier and push the cushions out of their way. When they reached the last window space, they swam to an optometrist’s store.

  “Why couldn’t there be a scuba diving shop on the block?” Jake said, his chest heaving.

  “What’s next?”

  “That yuppie coffee shop. It’s our last stop before the garage.”

  “We should have tried the roofs.”

  “In this wind? We’d have blown away. Besides, the rooftops are different heights, and there are no fire escapes on this side.”

  They swam to the coffee shop. Inside the dark interior the water churned broken glass.

  “I can’t believe we made it,” Ripper said.

  “Don’t get cocky.”

  They half walked and half swam across the coffee shop, and Jake saw the buildings on the opposite side of Lexington Avenue. “The wind is traveling perpendicular to us now. No sheets of rain.”

  “Check this out.” Ripper pointed at a large jar filled halfway with coins next to the cash register.

  “Bring it. I’ll explain what it’s for when we get to the garage.”

  The water along Park was still compared to Twenty-third Street, the only turbulence created by the downpour. The buildings blocked the wind.

  “There is a God,” Ripper said above the roar of the rain.

  They reached the parking garage with comparative ease, but the water reached the ceiling above the ramp.

  “What now?”

  “I swim down there.”

  “You’ll never make it.”

  Jake slid the backpack from his shoulders. “Sure, I will. We parked close to the ramp.” He handed the backpack to Ripper. “Open that for me.”

  Ripper tucked the money jar under one arm and undid the backpack straps. Jake took out a flashlight and what

  appeared to be an oxygen mask from a hospital, with a clear plastic bag attached to the front of it.

  “What is that?”

  “I made this myself out of curiosity. It’s based on a

  design used at an old job of mine.”

  “What was it used for?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Ripper examined the oxygen mask. “You won’t get more than a minute of air out of it.”

  “That’s all I need. As long as I can reach my car, I’ll

  be okay.”

  “The air in the bag will work against you; it will make it harder for you to reach the bottom.”

  “That’s why we stole from Jerry’s kids.” Jake took a pair of thick rubber bands out of the backpack, which he used to secure the flashlight to his stump. Then he pulled the oxygen mask over his head but not over his face. “If I’m not back in five minutes, leave without m
e.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  Jake took a deep breath, pulled the mask over his face, then took the money jar from Ripper, who gave him a thumbs-up. Grasping the jar, he dove into the water.

  27

  Traveling at ten miles an hour, Joyce inched along Queens Boulevard through Long Island City. Edgar couldn’t see the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge through the downpour, even with the windshield wipers at full speed. The wind rocked the vehicle from side to side. Martin sat in the backseat, his face glued to a window.

  “This is crazy,” Joyce said. “You’re crazy. Jake’s crazy. Maria’s crazy. You’re all crazy.”

  “I can’t help it,” Edgar said. “I owe them.”

  “For what? According to you, they had nothing to do with you coming home.”

  “You know better. I owe them.” He left it at that.

  “This hurricane’s tearing the city apart. Roosevelt

  Island is gone, and you want to walk across that bridge.”

  “It beats swimming.”

  “What if the bridge comes down?”

  “Then I’ll have to swim.”

  “This isn’t funny. We just got you back. Do you want us to lose you for good?”

  Edgar glanced at Martin, who continued to stare out the window, then turned to Joyce. “You’re not going to lose me. But these are my friends and they need my help. I’d do this even if I didn’t owe them.”

  “What about us?”

  “I love you. Both of you.”

  “Then don’t do this.”

  “I don’t have a choice. That’s not who I am.”

  “Is it always going to be like this?”

  He considered her question. “No.”

  “What are you even going to do if you make it to Jake’s office?”

  “I can’t tell you that.” He didn’t know the answer.

  The rain abated as she pulled under the elevated train tracks of Queensboro Plaza. “This is as close as I can get.”

  “Then this is where I get out.”

  Joyce held up a tied plastic bag. “I made you dinner.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.” He lifted one flap of his clear rain poncho and slid the food into the black canvas bag he carried, the strap crossing his chest.

  “I’ve got something else for you.” She handed him the gun case containing his off-duty Glock. “Jake gave it to me when he brought your stuff over. I kept it in a safe place.”

  Edgar was tempted to let her hang on to the weapon to show her she had nothing to worry about, but he knew he might need it, so he took it and put it into his shoulder bag. “Thanks.” Turning to Martin, he raised one fist between them. “Hey.”

  Martin looked at him, then bumped his fist.

  “Don’t worry. I’m coming back.”

  Then he kissed Joyce and got out of the car. The roaring wind seized the door and almost ripped it from its hinge and wrapped the poncho around him like Saran wrap. He closed the door and jogged away from the station toward where he knew the bridge to be. He did not turn back; the sight of Joyce and their son driving away might have changed his mind.

  The strobes of two police cars came into view, then the outlines of the vehicles. He backed up until they became impossible to see again and jogged in a wide circle around them so the officers inside would not see him. He encountered more strobes and veered left to avoid them.

  Two men waved air traffic control lights. They stood next to an army troop transport truck, the canvas stretched over it flapping in the wind.

  National Guards, Edgar thought.

  Moving closer, he saw another transport truck idling behind the first one and a third truck beyond that.

  The men waving the traffic control lights shouted something, but he couldn’t make out their words over the roaring wind.

  Edgar bypassed the guards and saw others serving the same purpose. He found it impossible to tell how many there were. Then he came alongside a wave of people walking away from the bridge. Refugees from Roosevelt Island or Manhattan, he supposed. The soaking wet men, women, and children looked miserable.

  He jogged in the opposite direction of them for fifty yards, searching for an opening, then cut through them. “Excuse me.”

  “You’re going the wrong way,” a woman said.

  “Turn around,” a man said.

  Ignoring them, Edgar continued toward the bridge, where cars blocked the entrances to both the lower and upper decks of the cantilever truss structure. As he moved closer he realized all the vehicles had been abandoned.

  Walking into wind and sheets of rain, he boarded the lower deck, which offered some relief from the storm because the upper deck acted as a roof. The bridge spanned seven thousand five hundred feet counting its approaches, and the refugees crowded the walkways on both sides of the bridge, somewhat protected by chain-link fencing.

  The abandoned cars took up all five lanes and faced in his direction, which was not the way the bridge operated. Seeing no path through the pedestrian traffic, he set off between the cars.

  28

  Jake swam down the ramp, the jar of coins making the trip easier. No water seeped into his replica of the mask that Marc Gorman, the Cipher, had used to steal souls, including Sheryl’s, for Nicholas Tower. Jake hoped his soul wouldn’t wind up in the replica. There was no regulator in the mask, so all he could do was breathe as evenly as possible, cognizant that he would have to discard it soon.

  The water grew darker, and when he aimed the flashlight bound to the jar at the garage below, the murky depths swallowed it. He leveled it at the ramp, tracing the surface of the blacktop, the oxygen bag attached to the mask pressing against his throat. He swam two feet above the pavement, conscious of the structure above him. At the bottom, shrouded in darkness, he set his feet on the ground. The weight of the jar held him in place, though his body tried to rise. The air inside the mask already felt warm.

  Jake swung the jar from side to side, trying to locate a signpost, and found his way when the beam reflected off a white column to his right. He swam in that direction, wishing he could discard the jar, but the last thing he wanted was to get pinned against the ceiling without air. When he reached the column, he set his feet on the ground again. The air in the mask grew stuffy, his breathing labored. He searched for his car, which he knew had to be close. The water devoured the light, and he narrowed his eye, his rhythmic breathing filling his ears.

  A figure as white as a ghost lunged into the light in front of him, and Jake screamed. The man’s eyes and mouth were open, his hair undulating like a swimming squid’s tentacles, clawed fingers reaching for Jake, who recoiled and dropped the jar.

  As the jar pulled the flashlight to the ground, Jake lost sight of the man and his body rose. Now in pitch-black darkness, he collided with the man, his fingers poking soggy flesh. Using his stump and hand, he shoved the man upward, which also propelled him to the ground. The beam of light pinpointed the location of the jar, which he seized. Crouching on the concrete floor, he swept the flashlight back and forth, slicing through the darkness, until it illuminated the drifting corpse, dressed in the blue slacks and shirt of an attendant.

  Dead, he thought. Of course. He could only imagine the death the man had faced when he was trapped by

  cascading water.

  A pair of arms encircled his neck, and his heart leapt. Twisting in his attacker’s grip, he aimed the jar at the ceiling, illuminating the snarling features of a dead woman with black hair, her eyes open. It stood to reason that if Lilith had sown the seeds of black magic in the world, she had also reaped the rewards of Black Magic and had created the first zonbie. Was Lilith watching him now through the woman’s eyes?

  The woman seized his throat in one hand and clawed at his face with the other.

  He twisted his head away, repulsed by the touch of her wrinkled fingertips. His body rose, and he knew that if he reached the ceiling he was doomed.

  Jake grabbed the woman’s hair and jerked himself d
ownward, then released his handhold to pull his hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his boot. Clapping the jar between his boots so that his position and the column of light before him remained steady, he stood face-to-face with the dead thing, which clawed at him like a wild animal, trying to reach his throat again.

  Without a second hand to fend her off, he had no choice but to encircle his left arm and stump around the back of her neck and pull her close to him in a tight embrace, the flashlight illuminating both their faces. Forcing his left shoulder under her jaw, he pressed the tip of the knife against her cranium and drove it through her flesh.

  The dead woman struggled, as if she knew what his actions meant, but he held her tighter and drove the knife through her skull and into her brain. She turned spastic, and he tried to wiggle the blade to inflict as much damage as possible to her organ, but the slot he had created in her head would not crack, so he made a sawing motion, sliding the serrated blade out and shoving it back in several times.

  Her eyes rolled in their sockets, she belched air, and her body turned still. A series of flashes erupted around her body, causing Jake to look away.

  When he turned back, the woman’s flickering soul rose from her body and faded. Pulling the knife free, he shoved the corpse with his stump and watched it float away leaking brain fluid. It disappeared into the darkness.

  Jake retrieved the jar, but panic set in: he had run out of oxygen. Leaving the mask on to protect his eyes, he held his breath. He might make it to the surface if he retreated, and he would probably not make it all the way to his car and then to the surface, but a retreat would make the mission a failure and the lives of his friends depended on its success.

  He had only one chance. Ripping the flashlight free of the jar, he swam to where he knew his car must be. Sure enough, the beam struck the windows of the Maxima and bounced back at him. He kicked faster, but his body rose and he corrected its trajectory. Reaching the passenger side, he jammed the flashlight under his left armpit and gripped the door handle. Then he realized he needed his hand free just to get his car keys out of his pocket.