by J. Reichman
“Stack it here in the back room.” Jeff checked off items on the invoice.
The man unloaded and hurried out the door. “I’m Darren, by the way.”
“Jeff.” The bell over the front door rang. “I’ll be back.” He hurried into the store. When he returned, all the beer was stacked and Darren had checked off the invoice.
“Just sign,” Darren said. “Sorry, man, but I’m in a rush. Long day, like I said.” He grabbed the signed invoice. “Gotta get down to the pizza place and the bar then on to Two Rivers.”
Jeff watched the Bud truck pull away with regret. He’d been looking forward to a long chat with Ernie. He returned to daydreaming about his exciting life in Estes Park as he filled the beer cooler.
Chuck Hardin read the financial report with a self-satisfied smile on his face. North Fork Glen, my hometown, is coming up. Not out of the red yet, but my austerity measures are working. Let Henrietta Jones complain about her pot-holed street all she wants. He tapped the report, thinking it would show all those naysayers who expected him to fail, all those who made fun of him back in school. Now he was somebody. Even Dana had to be impressed by the excellent job he was doing as mayor. Now she’d surely be more satisfied with life in North Fork Glen, his jewel.
He looked out the Town Hall front window up Antelope Trace toward his home. He contemplated the village’s curved streets arranged in a random pattern to fit the topography. The yellowing aspen leaves, buffeted by the wind, turned up their undersides. Soon, they’d turn the hillside to gold and accent the lodge pole pines. The trees hid the village houses set on large wooded lots. Yes, he reflected, North Fork Glen is my gem.
The village lay nine miles east of Estes Park, Colorado, the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. Highway 45, a secondary road from Estes, followed the West Fork of the Big Butte River as it dropped to meet the North Fork about half a mile above North Fork Glen. The bridge crossed over the North Fork, and the highway ran through the village, then followed the North Fork down to Two Rivers where it joined the Big Butte.
From Estes down to Loveland, the Big Butte dropped twenty-five hundred feet in twenty-three miles, about the height of a ten-story building every mile. As rivers tend to do, it followed the topography of the land, dropping maybe only ten feet in a lazy three-mile stretch to spend the next three miles in a torrent of rapids that tumbled almost six-hundred feet.
Somewhat off the beaten path, North Fork Glen’s population doubled in the summer. Fly fishermen booked into Shannon Osterman’s Red Rooster bed-and-breakfast. Families rented Brett Jackson’s cabins to ride Wade Murphy’s horses or raft and swim in the river. Tourists taking the scenic route stopped to eat and shop. The village bustled with life.
Nick. He was at Striker’s this morning. Probably talking to Brett. Always asking me questions. Bet he thinks he can do this job better than I can. Well, he won’t get the chance. When everyone sees what a bang-up job I’ve done, I’ll get re-elected easily. Sure he’s a smart guy full of radical ideas. He doesn’t know this place like I do. Wants a bond issue. That won’t go over. Thinks he can draw in more businesses. People don’t live here for that. They live here for peace and quiet, for a good place to raise families.
Brett. He’s always at Striker’s drinking coffee in the morning. He likes this place exactly the way it is. And Wade. Saw his jeep pull up. The old coot wouldn’t like a bunch of tourists . . . or would he? Maybe his stable isn’t doing well. Still, my place is making money. Don’t need some chain grocery coming to town. And we do fine with our volunteer fire department. Don’t need police. Sheriff handles the petty crime we have. Nothing more serious than some tourist with sticky fingers. Never have anything serious.
Chuck leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and lifted his chin. The report revealed his fears to be unfounded, but he knew he had a tendency to always expect the worst. I ought to run home to tell Dana. Oh, no vehicle. He glanced at the phone, but rejected calling her. That would make him seem needy. He wondered why Dana no longer reassured him, calmed his fears, and denied his inadequacies. His success was hollow, unsatisfying, and he felt alone.
Then the phone rang.
FOUR
Chuck Hardin sprinted from Town Hall to his store, his mind racing about what he should do. He settled on escape.
"Zenia!" The blood pulsed in his ears.
"Back here," Zenia called.
"Come on. Hurry. We've got to go." The tightness in his chest increased; his breath came in short gasps.
Zenia sauntered from the back into the store, wiping her hands on a paper towel. "What's going on?"
"You've got to drive me. Dana took the Bronco."
"Hold on, here. Now, what's the rush?"
"The dam . . . the dam. It failed." He gulped. "Flash flood's coming. We got to get out of here."
"Slow down." Zenia frowned at him. "Sure it's not a wild rumor?"
"Some official called Town Hall. We got fifteen minutes." Damn the woman. Why is she so slow?
"Plenty of time. Here." Zenia tossed a plastic bag to him. "Get the cash."
Chuck’s hands shook, and he dropped bills on the floor. “Oh, God! Hurry up!” He saw Zenia filling a bag with apples.
The lights went out.
Chuck scrambled to the door. “That’s it. Leave now!”
"Might as well get some meat." Zenia took another bag to the frozen meat section. "Better get some for yourself, Chuck."
"We don't have time."
"Make yourself useful, then. Get my purse. It's got my car keys."
Cursing Zenia under his breath, Chuck dashed into the office and returned to find her out front loading the Range Rover. He tossed the purse to her and jumped into the vehicle. He heard someone call out and turned. Louise Sandler locked up Town Hall.
“I got Red at the bar,” Louise shouted. “No answer at Giovanni’s. Then the lights and phone went out.”
Zenia opened her car door. “I’ll tell Jeff and Brett.”
"We don't have time to run all over town telling people,” Chuck said.
"Mr. Mayor. Think of your constituents." Stopping in front of the service station, she left the engine running. “I’ll tell Jeff. You tell Brett.”
Chuck turned to look behind him, expecting to see a gigantic wave momentarily descend upon him. Fearing the worst, he trotted to the sporting goods store and slammed the door open.
“Town Hall got a call. The dam broke,” he shouted. “Got to leave immediately.”
Brett leaped to his feet. “I’m right behind you.”
Brett followed him from the store and paused to lock the door.
Chuck tittered at the absurdity of it and dashed for the Range Rover as Zenia emerged from Striker’s service station. Fearing he’d be sick, Chuck clutched his stomach and swallowed the bitter bile in his throat.
“Jeff said he knew something was wrong.” Zenia shut the vehicle’s door. “Now I'll run you up the hill."
Brett backed away from his sporting goods store and paused briefly. Ridiculous to go home. Shannon. He pealed out down Highway 45 to Cougar Run, noting the antique store and the deli were both closed. Up Cougar Run, he braked to a stop in the Red Rooster’s semi-circular drive and slammed the Durango’s door. He ran up the steps, jerked open the door, and called out, “Shannon.”
“Up here.” Shannon appeared at the top of the stairs, a pillow and pillowcase in her hands. “What’s going on? The lights went out.”
“Town Hall got a call. Flash flood’s heading this way.” He wanted to hug her, protect her from any danger.
Shannon hurried down the stairs. “We’ve got to leave.”
“We can’t. Can’t be on the highway.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’d be caught by the flood.” Brett put his arms around her. “We’re in no danger here.”
She wormed out of his arms. “Are you sure there’s no danger?”
“Most of the village is on high ground. There may be som
e flooding along the highway, that’s all.” In reassuring Shannon, Brett felt his own tension melt away.
“Kyle’s in school down in Two Rivers.”
“He’ll be fine,” Brett said. “The school’s up on a bluff.”
“I can see part of the river and town from the bedroom window. Only the roof of the bar and Giovanni’s pizza place.”
“Let’s go up. Maybe we can see something.” Thinking Shannon’s bedroom was a perfect retreat from danger, Brett followed her up the stairs.
Jeff’s truck tires squealed on the pavement as he left Striker’s service station.
He turned up Antelope Trace toward his parents’ house, but they weren’t home. Got to call them, he thought. He stopped at the first cross street. His cell phone seemed dead. No signal. He wondered what he should do and wanted to see what happened. He drove to Deer Trail, turned downhill where he could see part of the general store and the side of Brett’s store, and parked to witness the coming disaster.
Estes Park dripped. Nick could make out the outlines of the upper stories of tall buildings obscured by fog. The Stanley Hotel sat upon a rise and only the entrance was visible. Nick found the streets empty and forlorn; the hospital, dismal and dejected.
Lyn stood under the portico and gave a small wave as she spotted the CR-V. She sprinted to the vehicle when it came to a stop.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you." She leaned to Nick and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. She removed her rain hat, and her russet curls sprang to life.
"Long shift?" Nick pulled away from the hospital.
"You know how night shifts are. Once visitors are gone and the patients are asleep, it's hard not to fall asleep yourself."
"You can have a long nap at home."
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Something’s wrong. You’re biting your lip.”
Lyn shrugged. “Nothing but the usual. Maxwell left vague instructions. I called to clarify and he got real snippy with me. Treated me like I was an imbecile.”
“He’s the new guy, right?” Nick knew that Lyn often felt marginalized by the male doctors.
“Young. Inexperienced.” Lyn sniffed. “I’ve twenty years’ experience on him and probably know twice what he does. Doctors.”
“It’s an ego thing, Honey. Especially with the guys barely starting out.”
“You aren’t that way.”
Nick smiled at his wife. “I learned long ago to listen to you.”
"We need to stop. I thought I'd make lasagna tonight. I need some ricotta and mozzarella."
"Nicki called."
Their older daughter Lila, an obstetrician in Denver, hardly ever called, but Nicki, still in medical school, phoned once or twice a week.
"What'd she have to say?"
"Something about coming up this weekend, but I couldn't find your schedule.”
"I'd better call while I have a good signal." Lyn dug her cell out of her purse. “It’s me. . . Yes, I'm off this weekend . . . well, that'd be fine, but it'll be awfully boring for you unless we get some sunshine.” Lyn smiled at Nick.
For the next ten minutes, Nick heard only parts of one side of the conversation.
He thought how proud he was of his wife. Smart, professional, she carried herself head high. The curves attracted him first, but then he found the short, slim girl also possessed a wonderful mind. He considered his life dominated by women. Raised with two older sisters, he raised two daughters himself. A pediatrician, he dealt more with mothers than fathers. As a result, he was often more comfortable around women than he was around former jocks like Brett or sportsmen like Wade and Jeff. Playing tennis and golf in high school, he’d been on the fringes of the “in” crowd—never excluded but never truly included. His college fraternity was an exception where he fit in with his male companions. That experience gave him confidence to run for office in Estes Park
Nick remembered seeing Wade’s Jeep when he left the village. Wade must’ve been checking the river. He’d looked at it, too, and the rushing water bothered him. He’d noticed Brett standing outside Striker’s looking lost. He liked Brett. He looked forward to the monthly poker games. Even playing poker, Brett was often indecisive. Chuck Hardin was the opposite—impulsive and erratic. Wade seldom played, but when he did, he rarely spoke and never revealed emotion. An enthusiastic player, Jeff howled with delight when he won and groaned in anguish when he lost.
"You don't need to do that. I love to entertain . . . I don't know the forecast. Let's check on it and talk tomorrow . . . Yes, the river's up. I'm looking at it right now."
Frowning, Lyn covered the mouthpiece. "I wanted to stop for cheese."
Nick shrugged. He checked his rearview mirror. Pickup truck. Red. Could be Charlie Sandler.
"Sorry, Nicki. I was talking to your father. He picked me up. We're on our way home . . . I'll talk to your dad about that . . . tomorrow, then. Bye."
She turned to her husband. "I told you I needed—"
"We'll stop at Hardin's. They have cheeses."
"They don't carry ricotta." Lyn flipped back her shoulder-length hair.
"Look, the river worries me. I want to get home."
Lyn stared out the window. "It does look menacing." She sighed. "I suppose I can use cottage cheese. Rain, mist, fog." She rubbed her eyes. "Disorienting. Where are we?”
“Two curves above the bridge.”
“Good. Almost there.”
As the highway veered away from the river, Nick saw the junction of the West and North Forks. Water jumped high into the air. He tensed. The bridge, half a mile, and then they were home. A sharp curve led them to the bridge. Nick slowed and looked to his left. A wall of angry, debris-filled water loomed over them.
"Nick!”
He accelerated sharply. "We'll be fine. We’re faster than it is. Hold on!"
Heart pounding, he raced down the highway, not daring to look back at what was behind them. Time stretched like a giant pulling taffy. Nightmarishly, the road elongated in front of them. Nick knew Lyn was shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words. Across from Town Hall, he braked sharply, whipped the steering wheel, and fishtailed onto Antelope Trace, the first road up into the hills. Lyn shrieked as the river tugged at the CR-V. He gunned the engine, whipped the wheel to counteract the river's pull, and the all-wheel-drive caught. He sped up the hill and turned at the first cross street. Slamming on the brakes he brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt. He stared at the hands gripping the steering wheel. His? He brushed a hand over his eyes. Yes, His. “Lyn?”
He heard a squeak as a reply and turned to her. She gripped the door handle and console, her knuckles white.
"We made it." His voice sounded far away to his own ears.
Lyn buried her head on his shoulder. He could feel her trembling and held her tightly.
"I've never been so scared." Lyn’s voice cracked and she hiccupped.
"Me, neither." His heart raced as though he’d sprinted a great distance. He could cry with relief and tried to catch his breath.
Lyn clutched him. “You’re a terrific driver.”
“Terror can do that to a person.” He breathed deeply. “We’re safe.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her.
"What about everyone else?"
"I don't know." He brushed her hair back. “There was a pickup truck behind us. Looked like Charlie Sandler’s.”
“Oh, no. Did you see what happened?”
Nick shook his head. “Could be he stopped before the bridge. Otherwise . . .”
Lyn straightened and took a deep breath. She glanced to her right, down toward the flat. "Can you see anything?"
Nick shook his head. "Not from here." He backed the CR-V to the road and turned its nose downhill. They stared through slapping windshield wipers at the destruction below. Only the top five feet of Town Hall were visible over the surging water, and the building appeared to be moving. A hard knot formed in Nick’s gut. I’ll never occupy the mayor’s seat in Town Hall.
<
br /> "They would've received a warning," he said.
"I hope so."
"Look." He pointed upstream. "It's an old Bronco."
The vehicle floated upright, rocking back and forth with the current, and soon disappeared from sight.
"Where'd it go?"
"Maybe it hit the back of the building." Nick glanced into his rear view mirror. "Zenia's coming."
Zenia pulled up beside the CR-V and lowered her window. "I had to run Chuck home. Thought the man was going to hyperventilate."
"Did everyone get out?" Nick said.
Zenia nodded. "Think so. We had warning.”
“Look at that.” Lyn put on her rain hat and opened her car door. “I’m going closer.”
Nick killed the CR-V’s engine and got out of the vehicle. He stood looking down at the destruction, his arm around his wife’s shoulders. The river bellowed like a jet taking off and carried with it a smell of earthy mold and decay. A tree floated by.
“Look. There’s a roof,” Lyn said. “Part of a house?”
“I think Town Hall is off its foundation. Oh, there goes a deer.”
Her umbrella up, Zenia joined them. “Town Hall’s resting against Hardin’s.”
They turned at the sound of a vehicle. Jeff’s truck pulled to a stop and he got out. Another person is okay, Nick thought.
“God damn!” Jeff stepped under Zenia’s umbrella. “I never seen anythin’ like it. Water chest high through Brett’s store. Even higher on Hardin’s. Trees and everything.”
Nick’s mood plummeted. The town’s center is underwater.
“We saw an old Bronco come downstream,” Lyn said.
“Anyone in it?” Zenia said.
“Couldn’t tell.” Nick said. “We were crossing the bridge and saw this coming at us.”
“Nick drove like hell,” Lyn said. “We barely made it.”
“Anybody on the highway between here and Two Rivers will be crushed like a bug,” Jeff said.
“Nick says there was a pickup truck behind us.”
“Looked like Charlie Sandler’s,” Nick said. “Don’t know what happened to it.”