Storm Demon

by Gregory Lamberson

  Damn it!

  Jake exhaled some of the oxygen in his mouth and pulled himself down to the floor again. He dropped the flashlight and used his stump for leverage against the floor. Rotating his body, he slid his legs beneath the car’s underbelly, then let go of the handle and pushed his chest beneath the car as well. At least the mask prevented him from breathing in water.

  He removed his keys from his pocket, then felt along the car door until he found the handle and the lock. As he unlocked the door and opened it, he heard a reverberating rushing as trapped air escaped.

  Jake seized the flashlight, maneuvered his body out from under the car enough to sit up, and set the flashlight on the front seat. Grabbing the passenger seat belt, he swung his legs out from under the car and got inside, aiming his head at the inside roof. His forehead struck the dome light and he flattened his face against the metal and sucked in air from a trapped pocket.

  He burst into maniacal laughter, then lowered himself below the surface, grabbed the flashlight, and returned for more air. He reached into the backseat and found the strap for the ATAC 3000, which he slung over his head and one shoulder.

  Jake took several more breaths, calming his heart rate, then used his stump to push himself down to the seats, where he shone the flashlight into the face of a dead parking attendant, whose eyes did not dilate from the sudden light.

  Jake’s heart rate soared again. He had no idea if the ATAC would fire underwater—most machine guns did not—and he had no intention of wasting precious time or oxygen freeing the weapon to find out. The attendant clambered inside the car, and Jake set the flashlight on the front seat pointed in his direction. He planted both feet flat against the driver’s side and pushed off, streamlining straight into the zonbie and knocking him out of the car and against the inside of the door.

  Wrapping the passenger seat belt around his left ankle twice, Jake stepped halfway out of the car, grabbed the outside door handle, and yanked his left foot out. The zonbie turned to engage him, and he slammed the car door against its head, pinning it against the edge of the car’s roof and producing a reverberating sound, the water slowing his action.

  Jake pulled the door back six inches and slammed its frame against the zonbie’s head again and again and again until the zonbie’s head split open and chunks of brain escaped, rising like jellyfish. The man’s soul flickered in the water, rose, and faded.

  Swinging the door open, Jake twisted the silhouetted dead man’s shirt around his fist and sent the corpse toward the ceiling. Then he climbed back in and gulped the last of the air.

  No time to rest now, he thought.

  Grabbing the flashlight, Jake pressed his feet against the car and kicked off. He shot forward like a torpedo fifteen feet, then kicked with fury, riding his momentum. Only when he slowed did he engage his arms. He passed the column with ease and prayed he would find the ramp without trouble.

  When Maria reached Seventh Avenue, she rotated onto her front and swam freestyle. She sliced left against the current and made for the corner, where she wrapped her arms around a streetlight and set her feet atop its base. The rain continued to assail her, and she had difficulty breathing.

  Four more blocks to the High Line, she thought. Three more long blocks. Uncertain whether she could make it, she pulled her phone out of her pocket. Maybe Bernie had some luck with the 10th Precinct. The phone’s screen came on, but so did a message: No Signal.

  “Damn it,” she said to the storm. Twisting her head from side to side, she looked behind her at a pharmacy.

  It’s summer, she thought. Then she swam for the broken front doors.

  Despite the pressure in his head from the lack of oxygen, swimming up the ramp was the easy part for Jake. When his head broke the surface, he was not surprised to see that Ripper had left him.

  I would have done the same thing, he thought. No, I wouldn’t.

  The water seemed six inches deeper, and rain striking the surface ricocheted into his face.

  “Over here,” a trembling voice called out. Ripper leaned out of the last window in the coffee shop with his head just above water.

  Gasping, Jake waded toward him. “I told you to leave after five minutes.”

  Ripper shrugged. “My phone isn’t getting a signal, but I think it’s only been five minutes or less. Shake a leg.”

  “I’m too tired.” Jake glanced over his shoulder to make sure no zonbies swam after him.

  “Any trouble?”

  “None.”

  “Then why do you keep looking behind you like that?”

  “Habit.” Jake entered the coffee shop, which they made their way through.

  “That’s a sharp-looking firearm you’re packing,” Ripper said, his teeth chattering.

  “This old thing? I only put it on when I’ve got nothing else to wear.”

  A feeling of discomfort came over Jake as they approached the front picture window on Twenty-third Street. The wind continued to blow spray off the

  unnatural river.

  “Just remember the current will be on our side this time,” Jake said.

  “Unless we miss your building and it delivers us to Lilith’s doorstep.”

  I’m going to wind up there eventually anyway, Jake thought.

  They stood within the empty space where the picture window had been, holding on to the inside frame.

  “You go first,” Jake said.

  “Why?”

  “So you can catch the doorframe of my building with one hand and grab me with the other if you have to. That’s the main reason I brought you.”

  “Then here I go.” Ripper dove into the water, disappearing. Seconds later, his head reappeared and he swam freestyle, the current speeding him along.

  Jake jumped in after him, and the current carried him away, the wind adding propulsion. Rain needled the back of his neck as he moved closer to the buildings. The wind pushed him underwater, and when he surfaced it drove him down again, like a giant invisible hand. He passed the furniture store, then the Cajun restaurant, and before he knew it, Laurel’s ruined parlor. His heart beat faster as he worried he would be swept away.

  Ripper leaned out ahead, holding on to the doorframe with one hand and reaching for Jake with the other. Jake raised his stump and Ripper caught it, then pulled him to the doorframe, grimacing from the strain. Jake wrapped his right arm around the frame and coughed. Then they forced their way into the dark lobby, and Jake took out his flashlight.

  Maria’s jacket still lingered in the water inside, and they waded toward the stairs.

  Halfway there, Jake felt the water pushing toward them. “What the hell?”

  Ripper slipped and went under, and Jake dropped the flashlight to grab his outstretched hand. He turned toward the door as Ripper raised his head out of the water and grabbed Jake’s wrist with his other hand.

  Behind Ripper, the water in the lobby rushed at them, channeling through the broken doors. Jake’s feet flew out from under him, and he slipped underwater. Rolling over, he swung his left arm through the empty space within the inside doorframe and held on by the crook of his arm. Cascading water slammed into his face and he bowed his head, screaming loud to hear himself.

  Closing his right hand into a fist, he realized Ripper had let go of his arm, which he swung at the doorframe, his fingers clawing at the metal. With great effort, he turned to see Ripper clinging to the outer door with both arms. The wind increased, its roar deafening. The water level shrank in the lobby and on the sidewalk, and both men’s legs rose above the surface, extended in midair.

  A whirlpool had formed in the center of the street, and Jake’s arms ached from resisting its pull. A mammoth waterspout rose into the sky, dwarfing the Edition. Jake’s legs slapped the wet sidewalk, and Ripper’s did the same. The waterspout widened, filling the street from sidewalk to sidewalk and sucking in debris as the tornado had the day before.

  Jake and Ripper ran into the lobby at the same time, their sopping wet clothes weighi
ng them down. They slid across the wet floor, then scrambled up the stairs.

  Clinging to an inflatable pool mattress and kicking with all her strength, Maria had passed the corner of Eighth Avenue when the wind reversed direction, forcing her to look away. The water’s current reversed course as well.

  “Not now,” she said in a desperate tone. “Not now!”

  As the water drew her back east, she turned around and kicked toward a beauty salon on her right. She threw the poor mattress through the picture window space, hauled herself up, and climbed inside. The mattress sailed past her before she could stop it, the water inside the salon rushing out. She hugged a marble countertop as water cascaded around her, returning to the street, then climbed atop it and gasped for air.

  Maria studied the devastated salon. Dislodged furniture cluttered the window space she had just climbed through, and the remaining water, level with the bottom of the window, stilled. She hopped off the counter into the remaining foot and a half of water and staggered to the missing window to investigate. Outside, the water receded as low as two feet, as if sucked down a giant bathtub drain.

  Stepping over the beauty chairs, she clung to the wall and looked outside to her right. What she saw made her body stiffen: an enormous cyclone of water had risen beyond the Tower. It sucked up the water, expanding and growing taller.

  When Jake and Ripper staggered into the office, Carrie turned from the window with a terrified look on her face. “You have to see this.”

  They rushed to the window, which endured a continuous blast of water, and Jake gazed in disbelief as the waterspout moved north, directly into the Edition. At first the impact caused the speeding water to gush in all directions, raining down on the street below. Then the hotel’s clock tower sheared off, and the entire fifty-story skyscraper came crashing down, a dense cloud of smoke rising as debris filled the street and smashed into the base of the waterspout, tilting it at an angle.

  Dust blew against the window, clinging to its wet surface and preventing them from seeing anything else. As soon as the rain washed it away, more dust clumped on the glass.

  A louder, longer rumble shook the building, and Jake knew the Metropolitan Life North Building adjacent to the New York Edition Hotel on Madison Avenue had come down as well.

  “Get back,” he said, and they ran to the far wall just as the windows in the reception area and office exploded and water gushed inside, slamming furniture across the room and pinning them against the wall.

  Climbing through the window in the salon, Maria stumbled into the water on the sidewalk, which was only one foot deep now, and stood in stunned silence as the Edition Hotel toppled into the Metropolitan Life North Building. The art deco structure collapsed as well, no doubt crushing smaller buildings along Madison Avenue. At the same time, the waterspout exploded, drenching the buildings on both sides of the street and disappearing. Tremendous clouds of limestone-colored dust billowed out of the disaster site in all directions, swirling in the storm.

  Maria prayed the buildings had been empty due to the storm but knew that was impossible: lives had been lost. Had Jake’s building toppled as well? She couldn’t see through the swirling mud storm.

  She took a step forward and stopped. If the building had collapsed, she could do nothing about it. Even if she went back to look for Jake, she would have to pass the Flatiron Building and Lilith. She told herself that Jake and his companions had made the decision to stay where Lilith knew they were, and she had come this far to rescue Shana. Tears welled in her eyes, and she took another step toward Jake.

  Then Maria looked down. The water rose as if the tide had come in, and the current had reversed itself. Looking up, she knew the decision was no longer hers to make: a great wave rose at Seventh Avenue, heading in her direction. Turning once more, she ran west. She would rescue Shana, and then she would worry about Lilith.

  Carrie screamed. The water sloshed back and forth between the walls and then settled, four inches deep. Rain and dust blew through the window, so Jake closed the twisted blinds, which had several broken slats, but the wind just blew the blind at him.

  Jake hurried into the office, his every footstep splashing water, and closed the tattered remnants of the blind in there as well. Then he checked his bedroom, which had no window, and rushed back into the flooded reception area, where Carrie now sat atop her desk, Ripper stroking her hair.

  “Where the hell is Laurel?”

  “She left ten minutes after you did,” Carrie said.

  Jake’s spirits sank.

  Carrie clung to Ripper. “She took your gun and said she was going to kill Lilith.”

  Jake’s voice tightened. “And you let her go?”

  “Hello? She had the gun. I don’t believe that’s where she went, though. She saw her chance to run and took it.”

  Jake looked around the dripping wet room. His chest rose and fell, his soaked clothes clinging to him. “I’m going back out there.”

  “To look for her?”

  “To put a bullet in Lilith’s brain before any more civilians get killed.”

  “Then Ripper’s going with you,” Carrie said.

  Ripper gave her a questioning look. “We’re lucky we made it back alive just now.”

  “You’re right and you don’t have to come,” Jake said. “But I’m going.”

  Carrie’s expression grew cross. “Tell him you’re going with him.”

  “Why don’t you go with him?” Ripper said.

  “Because I can drown in four feet of water, and I’m not a tough guy like you.”

  “I’ll make this easy,” Jake said. “Nobody’s going with me. I’ll make it to that building alone.”

  “And then what?” Carrie said.

  Jake said nothing. He had no answer, no plan. But he did have an ATAC 3000.

  “I’m going,” Ripper said, setting the Glock on the desk. “But I’m carrying the big gun.”

  29

  Maria was halfway across the block when the oncoming wave rose to as high as the second floor of the buildings on West Twenty-third Street. It broke at the corner of Eighth, and churning, foamy water raced forward, knocking Maria from her feet and carrying her farther west at a fantastic speed.

  She tumbled head over heels and fought to get her head above water, and when she succeeded the wave left her in four feet of water at the intersection of Twenty-third and Ninth. The water continued to rise. She could try to wade or swim eleven blocks uptown or two blocks to the High Line and walk eleven blocks on the elevated train line, then travel one block through the water back to Ninth Avenue. It wasn’t much of a choice, and she followed the wave to Tenth Avenue.

  Edgar’s feet and legs ached as he approached the end of the bridge. He hadn’t engaged in any exercise lately, and the bridge’s incline was steeper than it appeared. On the bridge, he had gazed in wonder at Roosevelt Island below him, its streets flooded, houses submerged, and bodies floating between the upper portions of buildings still above sea level—all unreachable by helicopter and boat during the storm.

  Displaced people continued to pour onto the bridge. The wind grew stronger and louder as he crossed into Manhattan above the cathedral-style vaults that housed the Bridgemarket. Still shielded from most of the rain by the upper level, he stared in dismay at the flooded streets below. A curved ramp on the lower level separated it from the upper level, and water gushed before him like a waterfall.

  Raising his poncho, Edgar opened his bag, took out his gun case, and opened it. Fingers trembling from the cold, he plucked his Glock from its foam rubber compartment, picked up the cartridge, and slapped it into the gun’s butt. Then he returned the case and the gun to his bag separately, zipped the bag, and stepped into the torrential storm.

  The wind blew him sideways and he compensated, leaning into the force. With sheets of rain dousing him, he descended the steep ramp, continuing downhill on wet asphalt until he reached Sixtieth Street, halfway between First and Second Avenues. The fire hydrants
were underwater and parked cars inaccessible; only the tops of the parking meters remained visible.

  Edgar waded across the street, the blockish tram station barely visible on his right. With the wind at his back and the current helping him along, he waded to Second Avenue. He lost his footing and fell at the intersection, where he got up and followed Second Avenue downtown. To his surprise, the current diminished but the water grew deeper.

  Jake and Ripper descended the stairs to the dark lobby. Shining a flashlight around the walls and at the floor, Jake estimated the water was one foot deep. Dust lingered in the air, and enormous rocks had piled against the front of the building, dislodging the doorframes and filling the vestibule. Jake wore his Thunder Ranch in its shoulder holster and his new sword strapped to his back; Ripper held the ATAC 3000 ready to fire, with the strap on his shoulder.

  “We’re lucky this building didn’t come down,” Jake said. Maybe it still will.

  They went upstairs to the second floor, and Jake selected a door to an office facing the street and kicked it open.

  “This place needs better security,” Ripper said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  They crossed the wet reception office, which must have looked better than Jake’s before the windows had shattered and water flooded it. He went to the broken window, his rubber-soled boots sloshing through water, and gazed outside as Ripper joined him. The wind had blown much of the dust west, and the rain had reduced the rest to mud covering the remains of the Edition, which filled the street and hid the sidewalk. Limestone boulders reached halfway up to the second floor of Jake’s building, rain pounding it.

  Jake put the nylon hood on and pulled its drawstrings. “Walk softly.”