Storm Taken: A Supernatural Thriller

by William Michael Davidson

  But lying on the asphalt with Deborah Blazer standing over me with a gun in her hands, I had never felt more elated to “use my name.”

  And it worked. Officer Blazer, who always insisted on just being called Deborah, even reached down to help me to get up. She put away the gun and crossed her arms in front of her and stared at the bound and gagged figure leaning against the wall of the hair salon. The rain was coming down heavy, and all of us were drenched.

  “So that’s him, huh?” Deborah asked.

  “Special delivery,” I said. “A long story, and I’ll tell you about it later, but we wanted to get him to you. He took a kid with him after the killing. I don’t know if you know about that. I thought he killed him, but apparently he didn’t. He said the storm took him. Cocooned him in a ball of lightning and pulled him right up to the clouds.”

  I remember the look on Deborah’s freckled face; it was the grim, familiar expression of someone being reminded of something she most desperately wished to forget.

  “I know,” she said. Her blue eyes rose toward the clouds in fear and awe. “I’ve seen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  We rode in the front seat with Deborah and laid Drake in the backseat. The two men, both volunteers in Deborah’s band of community servants who had ridden with her, followed on foot.

  I was pleasantly surprised to discover that, even though it had only been a few days since the storm stranded us on the island, Deborah had been able to set up a “control center” in the auditorium of Naples Elementary School. She took us straight there, and when we rushed into the auditorium to escape the storm outside, I saw about thirty people within. A few sat at tables set up on the stage and were looking over papers, but most sat uncomfortably in the kid-sized auditorium seats and talked amongst themselves. There were candles set up throughout the auditorium, which did a poor job warding away the darkness; I had to squint to make things out.

  After Deborah explained why she had come back with Jesse and me and who the bound and gagged prisoner was, the men and women cheered, clapped their hands, and broke out into genuine celebration. Many of these people approached us and shook our hands. One short Asian woman even kissed me on the cheek. I had never been much of an athlete in school, so I can only guess this was the kind of celebration a home run hitter comes back to outside the dugout after he’s rounded the bases.

  But after I learned who all of these people were and why they were here, their excitement made perfect sense. Deborah knew many of these people and personally fished them out of their homes to help her set up this makeshift command center in the storm. She had explained to us, on our way to the school, what had happened to the two other on-duty officers who had been on the island. Drake had shot one of them, and I thought I remembered seeing that. I hadn’t remembered it until she spoke of it, and perhaps a part of me didn’t want to. The other officer, a fellow by the name of Pete Sanchez, had been taken just like Hot-rodder. Two nights ago, during one of the flare-ups, a ball of lightning had materialized out of nowhere, bubbled itself around him, and hoisted him up into the madness.

  Several of the men and women here were officers who were off-duty when Drake went on his killing spree, but it didn’t take me long to realize that they didn’t see themselves as off-duty. Many had come because of a commitment they felt to keep the community safe and under control, both from the storm and the crazy gunman in their midst.

  Deborah quickly explained what they had been doing for the last several days. She emphasized the word control many times. Their sole mission had been to keep the situation in control to the best of their ability, and for now, that was to keep residents inside and out of the storm and out of the path of the gunman. That was why she made her nightly rounds up and down the main streets, urging residents to remain indoors.

  Much more had been going on behind the scenes as well. I noticed maps spread across many of the tables on the stage. They had established quadrants for the small island and had designated a team for each section. I think everyone knew a time would come when residents would have to be notified what to do after food supplies ran out and the true chaos began. They had already thought this through and were prepared, so far as I could see, to mobilize when this was necessary. I also learned that they had already quietly gone into these areas to look for any injured, gather more qualified recruits, and get a sense of the situation in general.

  Deborah’s team had broken into an Urgent Care a couple blocks down on Second Street. From what I learned, two doctors Deborah had rounded up were stationed there to deal with the injured. Fortunately, there weren’t many. The wife of a middle-aged man suffering a heart attack had flagged down Deborah’s vehicle the night before, and he was taken there. Another of Deborah’s scouts, while assessing the situation in his neighborhood quadrant, had come upon a house with lots of hysterical voices within; upon investigating, he discovered that a despondent young man had slashed his wrists in an effort to escape the storm once and for all. He was also taken to the facility.

  Communication with outside authorities had been as futile for them as it had been for everyone else on the island. Their cellular phones had been equally uncooperative, and Deborah couldn’t pick up anything on police dispatch. Nothing but static. What most surprised me, however, were her futile attempts at making verbal contact with the emergency crews gathered just on the other side of the water.

  She had gone with others on her team to the very end of Second Street to the base of the crumbled bridge. That bridge, which had previously led into Belmont Shore, was the smallest of those that had once connected Naples to the mainland. Now that it had crumbled beneath the lightning, there was only a hundred or so yards of water between her and safe land. She had looked through the rain and the flashes of lightning upon the virtual ocean of flashing emergency crew lights where the storm wasn’t falling; most likely, she assumed, they were just as desperately trying to find a way onto the island as she was trying to find a way off it. She had begun to make verbal contact with them through her P-A when the lightning began to strike the water just before her.

  Her small team retreated from the water and returned on two subsequent occasions in an attempt to make some kind of verbal contact, but it seemed clear that the lightning wasn’t going to allow it. The storm wanted the island to be isolated from the outside. In Deborah’s opinion, even getting close to the water’s edge was just as dangerous as getting into it because the storm was somehow intelligent and had learned what they were doing. It would thwart anyone’s attempt to leave. After the last two attempts to return to the water’s edge and initiate some kind of communication with the authorities from the other side, she and all of her crew had given up hope of making any real contact with the outside. The only alternative now, it seemed, was to wait it out and maintain control and trust that this storm, like all storms, would eventually pass.

  Deborah ordered a big Samoan and a guy with a Dodgers cap to deal with Drake. These were the two people who had also been in the police car when Deborah found us. I’m not sure if I ever heard the big Samoan’s name, but the twenty-something guy wearing the Dodgers cap was Mickey. Full of vitality, Mickey was always smiling and always seemed helpful. He had the funny habit of nicknaming people, so much that I wondered if he actually knew people’s names. I was Mr. Author. Jesse was Paul Bunyan. He simply referred to Deborah Blazer as Big Chief. It could have been an annoying quality in a person, but there was something so playful and upbeat about him, I don’t think it bothered people all that much. They let him have his way.

  They took Drake into a small room to the side of the stage, and I delivered the second part of the news; I started to explain to Deborah everything Dominic had told us, that there might be a possibility of getting off the island.

  I had barely began my explanation when she stopped me in mid-sentence and told me to come up on the stage. They were about to have a scheduled meeting, and she preferred that I share with everyone. But I had the impression that
she, like the others here, had contemplated lots of different ideas and ways to get off the island in the last several days. Would Dominic’s observations just be another wacky theory?

  The big Samoan and Mickey came back onto the stage.

  “Got him locked up for ya, Big Chief,” Mickey said, wiping his hands. “That’s one less piece of trash Naples Island has to deal with.”

  “Very good,” Deborah said.

  “Locked up in the principal’s office. How’s that for irony?” he said.

  The thirty or so workers pulled over some of the folding chairs and took seats facing Deborah. I had the feeling they had done this several times, perhaps to take instructions, report the findings of the quadrants they had explored, or to simply brainstorm ideas. In the dim candlelight of the auditorium, it felt like I was joining an AA Meeting. Jesse sat alongside me.

  Deborah stood in front of the group, thanked me and Jesse for delivering Drake to them (which won another round of applause), and spoke to the group for a few minutes about the quadrants they had sectioned off and whether or not any of the recent scouts had anything new to report. Nobody did.

  The storm outside was raging violently. We could hear the rain pounding on the roof, and the thunder outside seemed unending and unrelenting. Occasionally we thought we could hear explosions. Perhaps the lightning was taking out trees and light poles—I think that was what most of us assumed—but what if it was taking out more? What if the storm was now taking out houses? What if it took out the auditorium I was sitting in, or even worse, my family? I should go home, I thought. I should go home and be with them.

  We all listened silently for a moment, and even though nobody said anything, I’m pretty sure we were all thinking the same thing. The storm was getting worse. This was another wave—another spasm—in what would inevitably destroy us, and we had no means by which to fight it. That was the most sobering realization.

  But if Dominic was right, then there might be one possibility. It would all depend, of course, on what happened when a few minutes after eight o’clock struck. If the lightning continued to rage on, he was just a crazy Santa look-alike with a radio in one hand and a Twinkie in the other. But if the storm ceased and the lightning faded, he would be much, much more. He would be a prophet, like Elijah, calling out to people in the desert.

  Seeing that nobody had anything of particular interest to report, Deborah asked for us to come up in front and speak to her and the whole group about what we wanted to share. I looked to Jesse, but he shook his head. I’d been in this situation before. For some reason, when you’re a writer, everyone assumes you’re a good public speaker. What a lie. He wanted me to get up there on my own.

  So I did, and Deborah took her seat in a folding chair up front. I was greeted again by applause. Once again, I felt like I was at an AA meeting and had just rattled off an impressive number of “days sober” before this thin, candlelit crowd. I had gone to AA meetings a couple times years ago, when researching for one of my books. I hadn’t told them I was a writer. I just sat in the back, sipped my coffee, and made small-talk, but it reminded me of this.

  The applause was understandable; after all, I was one of the two guys who special-delivered the “bad guy” to their doorstep. When the applause faded away and I saw all of these men and women looking at me eagerly, my hands went clammy and I felt a knot in my throat. I had no way to prove what I was about to tell them, and it was just one eccentric guy’s theory. I wondered how many bizarre theories they had discussed and debated over the last several days.

  “A lot of people think because I’m a writer, I’m pretty good at making speeches, but in all honesty, I’m not,” I said.

  This won some laughter and a bit more clapping.

  “Tell us what you got,” Mickey said cheerfully.

  The big, beefy Samoan sitting next to him folded his arms across his chest, looking kind of angry. I think he always looked angry. In fact, I think the angrier he looked, the more at ease he was.

  “I didn’t really expect to see so many people here already pulling together, and it’s pretty encouraging to see,” I said, not knowing exactly where to begin. “Earlier tonight, my neighbor, his name is Dominic, talked to me about some observations he’s made in relation to the storm. I wanted to come here and share them with you, because I think it’s important. And I think he might be right. There may be something to this.”

  I don’t remember how long I talked, but I got into my groove and explained Dominic’s entire theory to them as best I could. I discussed the cessation of cloud-to-cloud lightning and how such gaps occurred directly after the fiercest moments of the storm and the possibility that, during those times, we might have a chance of actually getting across the water and off the island; and of course, the possibility that others might get in.

  As I talked, the building shook with peals of thunder, and I occasionally stopped and listened somberly to the destruction occurring outdoors. It was electrical warfare out there. It were as if I was standing in some large, candlelit bunker in the midst of a violent battle. As I listened to what must have been street poles, telephone poles, and roofs exploding all around us, my thoughts and my heart turned toward home. I hoped my wife and children were okay. I wished I could be there with them.

  Car alarms sounded everywhere. Those that had gone off during the first and subsequent waves of the storm had long drained their batteries dry and been silenced, but now a new choir of sirens howled during the gaps of thunder.

  I don’t know how long I stood there babbling on. Along with Dominic’s theory, I explained how we had apprehended Drake, and I also included everything that had happened prior to the storm hitting us. I theorized that the storm had been “taking things” from us and trying to turn us against each other before it actually struck. Those little balls of lightening had permeated our homes, cocooned our belongings—just like Hot-rodder—in the storm’s effort to exterminate us. When I was done offering everything I had on the subject, I noticed several people whispering to each other, and for some reason, most turned their attention toward Mickey. I didn’t know what I’d said that put Mickey in the spotlight, but I must have struck some nerve.

  Deborah got up, gave me a manly slap on the back, and thanked me for sharing. “Mickey,” she said. “What time did you get through to the island?”

  That was when I learned that Mickey wasn’t on the island when the storm hit; he had gotten in after. He was probably the only person on the island who hadn’t been here when the storm struck, because his story was one in a million. He had worked the night of July 4th as a paramedic and instead celebrated Independence Day one day later by getting drunk with friends in his apartment not far from the bay. A friend dared him to swim to the island and back. They had seen all of the emergency crews lining the bay and knew something seriously funky was going on with the storm and the lightning but at that point didn’t realize the full magnitude of what was taking place. Being young, drunk, and stupid, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.

  Mickey ran over to the bay with his buddies, found a break in the front lines that rescue workers and the authorities had established, and swam his drunken self all the way to the island without one bump in the road. The story outright amazed me. This twenty-something accomplished more with a six-pack of Guinness than the National Guard had been able to do with all of the resources at its disposal.

  I had the feeling Mickey was just lucky in that way. I guess some people are like that. He was the kind of guy who could probably go to Vegas every weekend and come back in the black. I think everyone had chalked Mickey’s experience up to blind luck and hadn’t understood the timeframe.

  “What time did I come over?” he asked, thinking about it. He took off his Dodgers cap, scratched his mop of hair, and placed it back on his head. “I don’t know. Probably a little after eight, I think. A little after eight.”

  “Really?” Deborah said, and everyone in the room connected the dots at once.

 
; I noticed that it was silent outside. I had talked longer than I thought, and we were now in the gap. Someone mentioned that it was 8:05, and two people, a man and woman, ran to the front doors of the auditorium to look outside. Both affirmed what everyone knew: the clouds were lower, darker, and thicker, but there wasn’t a single spark of electricity in them. They were recharging, sleeping, and waiting for the next round, just as Dominic had predicted.

  “Should we test it?” I asked. “Maybe we should get out there to see if it works.”

  “I think we already have,” Deborah said. “I think Mickey here has pretty much proven your theory, don’t you think? You say it’ll kick back up at 8:18, huh?”

  “Yeah. And tomorrow night, we’ll have 8:03-8:13, if it keeps the pattern.”

  “Good,” she said, in thought.

  The man and the woman stayed at the front doors to the auditorium, keeping watch. They were as anxious as everyone else to know what 8:18 would bring.

  Deborah was in serious thought, her freckled face wrinkled in concern. “We’ll have to spend all night tonight and all day tomorrow going to the neighborhoods and alerting everyone of where to meet,” she said. She paced and seemed to be talking more to herself than everyone sitting there. “We’ll have to be organized and efficient. We’ll have to form a sort of parade right along Second Street, and at 8:03 sharp, swim across. Maybe even a minute or so later since its watch might be slightly off ours. We’ll have to gather something for those who can’t swim, the very young, and the elderly. We’ll have to be prepared.”

  “What about that Klutch guy?” someone asked. “Doesn’t he have some people following him? He thinks this is all weaponized weather and we’re under attack from the outside. That’s what I’ve heard.”