Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  Tillie had a low tolerance for forced inaction. She would have loved to step outside the bus and scream at the top of her lungs for the drivers to get their acts together and move on. They seemed totally oblivious to the hurricane bearing down on them from the rear.

  Glancing back, she noted mostly sober faces among her charges. Polly, Sadie and Clara all looked like they expected Armageddon. Happily, a few seemed to take things in stride. Fred chuckled at something as he spoke to Betty Lou, and MacArthur sat with a bemused smile on his face.

  Tillie scooped up a white lunch box from the floor in front of her, flipped the lid up and surveyed its contents. In times of tension she did not enjoy much of an appetite, but eating meant doing something, and doing something was infinitely better than sitting there doing nothing.

  The act of eating had no effect, however, on her growing displeasure with what she saw happening, or not happening, on the glutted highway. After finishing her lunch, she leaned toward the driver, now clearly irritated. “What do you think is the big holdup, Chick? Accidents?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “But I’d say more likely it’s construction work. That and just too darn much traffic. We passed a stalled car back there in the left lane. I’d be surprised if we don’t see more along the way.”

  She hadn’t thought of that, but he was probably right. And the longer they sat out here, creeping along with engines running, the more likely other vehicles would run out of gas or suffer from overheating. She glanced at her watch and frowned.

  One-fifteen.

  She unfolded her map and studied it. They were traveling among a series of exits on the north side of New Orleans along Lake Pontchartrain. She made a quick estimate that they had covered only about eight miles in the past forty-five minutes.

  32

  Marge sat a few seats behind Tillie, arms crossed in thought. Sarah Anne had talked herself out for the moment, having exhausted all the “what if’s” regarding Nora’s path and destructive potential. Her tortured ramblings sounded too much like the Chicken Little syndrome. Marge had been more impressed with Bryce’s light-hearted approach, joking that the hurricane might provide a good tailwind. Despite the slow pace along the jammed highway, she saw no need to speculate on all the dire possibilities.

  Reflecting upon her observations of Bryce, she admitted that overall he’d made a quite favorable impression. She liked what he had said this morning at the cathedral, about the worshippers being responsible for making a church a shrine, and not blaming God for his problems. She wondered if his sons had been killed in an auto accident, with him driving. In any event, as she thought about him, she realized she liked most of what she had heard. He was sensitive, plain-spoken, easy-going.

  There were so many similarities between Bryce and Keith Walden. But such comparisons were unfair, she knew. Unfair to both men. They were two entirely different people, each with his own set of qualities, good and bad, though she could not put her finger on anything really bad about either of them. Maybe a few shortcomings, but nothing truly objectionable. She recalled those apparently odd mood shifts she had noted in Bryce, but saw nothing sinister in them, nothing that could not likely be cleared up with a simple explanation.

  Despite her disclaimers to Sarah Anne and Troy, he did seem somewhat attracted to her. But was she really ready for this?

  Around two o’clock, the wind picked up. Along the highway, gusts lashed the trees from side to side. Traffic remained bumper-to-bumper, and though the pace had improved, Bryce guessed they were not averaging more than fifteen to twenty miles per hour. He’d had difficulty keeping up with road signs on the right side of the bus, but they had crossed the outlet from Lake Pontchartrain and he knew they should not be far from the junction with I-59.

  As rain began to pepper against the windows, Troy looked around. “Must be some kind of problem up ahead. A blue light just passed us on the right.”

  They had seen vehicles occasionally traveling up the emergency lane in search of an exit to escape the tie-up on the interstate. And as they watched now, they felt the bus slowing, then veering to the right. Chick braked to a halt and they could tell he had opened the door and was talking with someone.

  Tillie first spotted the vehicle with the blue light passing her window, then alerted Chick. “He’s waving us over,” she said. She stood up to get a better look.

  The vehicle was black with no police markings. She couldn’t tell much because of the rain and the dark overcast, but the flashing blue light appeared to be a portable one fixed to the roof. As Chick pulled over and stopped, a man wearing a hooded yellow slicker hurried back to the bus. When Chick opened the door, the man stuck his head in, climbed onto the bottom step and half-shouted.

  “There’s been a big pileup near the junction up ahead. Probably have the highway blocked for a pretty good while. If you want to take this next exit, I can lead you around it on the Mississippi side.”

  “Let’s take it,” said Tillie. With the weather obviously worsening by the minute, she had no desire to sit parked on the interstate.

  Chick threw up his hands and glanced toward the man in the slicker. “She’s the boss.”

  Judging by the badge clipped to the yellow fabric, the man was some sort of policeman, though only his face was visible inside the hood. He waved a hand. “Okay. Follow us.”

  As they moved slowly along the shoulder of the highway, Tillie got on the microphone to explain what was happening.

  “We just had a stroke of luck,” she said. “Some officers saw our bus and took pity on us. It seems there’s been a big accident that’s closed the highway up toward the junction of I-10 and I-59. They volunteered to lead us around it into Mississippi, so we won’t get stuck and have to wait while the storm nips at our heels.”

  In the back, Bryce listened to her, then turned to Troy. “Did you get a good look at the car?”

  “No. Just saw the blue light. Why?”

  “I wonder what kind of cops they are, why they aren’t headed up to help out with the accident?”

  “Must be county rather than state troopers.”

  “Yeah. Maybe so.”

  Maybe, but why would a Louisiana deputy be leading them into Mississippi? He would feel better if he knew the car was something other than a blue Cadillac. Locasio’s having anything to do with this seemed a rather remote possibility, but he decided to have a look anyway.

  “I think I’ll wander up toward the front, Troy,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind letting me out?”

  Troy scooted over in the seat and Bryce slid out. He strode quickly up the aisle, pausing to banter a few words with Fred and Betty Lou, then stopped beside the seat occupied by Marge and Sarah Anne.

  “Thought I’d stretch my legs a bit and see what’s going on up here,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  In the aisle seat, Marge smiled. “We’re fine so far. Sarah Anne hasn’t been too happy the way the storm seems to be catching up with us. Thank God these fellas are going to help us keep moving.”

  “I wondered where they were from. Did you get a look at the car?”

  “It wasn’t a car. It was a van. Appeared to be black.”

  “Maybe it’s a sheriff’s deputy.”

  He walked on up to where Tillie sat staring out at the strengthening storm. The big windshield was made in two sections, with the wipers operating independently of each other. The long blade on the driver’s side clacked noisily as it slapped rapidly back and forth, while the blade on the right moved more slowly, giving Bryce a bit of difficulty in seeing out.

  “Looks like we’re coming to an exit,” he said. He squinted at a sign indicating U.S. Highway 190.

  Tillie studied the map in her hand. “Going east it intersects with Highway 90. Ninety crosses the Pearl River, which is the state line with Mississippi, then goes along the shoreline to Mobile. There must be some road not far along there that leads back to I-10.”

  Bryce watched as the van with the flashing blue light moved
onto the exit. He could now see the vehicle was large and black, not unlike a flower car from a funeral home. The perverseness of the thought brought a grin to his face, along with a realization some of his fellow passengers might take that as a bad omen. He had seen Highway Patrol vans in Tennessee, though none had been black. Whatever branch of law enforcement was involved, he thought, the truck might be used in conjunction with accidents along the waterways. Perhaps its role was to pull a boat trailer.

  Feeling a bit better about their prospects, Bryce had started toward his seat when a strong gust broadsided the bus. He grabbed the back of Marge’s seat as the big vehicle shuddered.

  “Whoa, Nellie,” he said, grinning.

  Marge frowned. “That felt almost like somebody had run into us.”

  “We’re a big target. The wind could hardly miss us.”

  She looked toward the window. “It’s getting pretty nasty out there. I hope we get back on the main highway before we get blown over.”

  “No danger of that,” he assured her. “I-10 isn’t far away. Just hang in there. This bus is a heavyweight. It would take a lot more wind than we’re likely to encounter to turn over something this size.”

  As he made his way toward the back, he wished there were a rear window so he could see the vehicles behind them. Hopefully, if the blue Caddy had been following, Locasio and his buddies had managed to get caught in the wrong lane when Chick unexpectedly eased onto the shoulder of the highway. Feeling a little more upbeat, he paused to dispense smiles and words of encouragement to some of the long-faced, frightened passengers.

  One was Clara. “Come on, cheer up,” he said. “We’re warm and dry in here. I’ve seen worse storms than this in Madison.”

  “I suppose so,” she said. But her look was skeptical. “One thing’s sure, I’ll certainly be glad to get back to Madison.”

  “Look at it this way, you can tell your grandchildren about how you were almost caught in a hurricane down in Louisiana. They’ll certainly never see one in Nashville.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” she said, almost managing a smile.

  Before she could open her mouth to continue, Bryce had slipped away and disappeared toward the rear of the bus.

  33

  Claire Holzman sat at the small table in the mobile home and stared at the whirling image on the thirteen-inch TV screen. Where the devil was Ike, she fretted? They had a cell phone in the trailer and another in the truck, but she hadn’t been able to get a rise out of him. Sipping at a tall glass of iced tea as she listened to the news reports on Nora’s progress, she pondered what to do if he didn’t show before long.

  Claire had never been in a hurricane, but she had heard and read enough to know a mobile home was not the place to be should one come calling. And that ominously spinning mass on the TV was obviously chugging along a direct path to New Orleans. She was on the far side of the city from the storm’s approach, but a hurricane this large could sweep right onto the coast where she sat without so much as a how-do-you-do to New Orleans.

  She had almost everything packed and ready to roll. Only the paintings on the wall remained, a couple of beach scenes and a venerable old live oak reaching out with its gnarled and twisted limbs. Ike’s easel still sat in the corner by the sink, holding a half-finished pelican perched on a weathered post. She didn’t like to move his work until he gave his okay. He could get a little testy at times. But she could take care of that while Ike hitched the trailer to the truck.

  A muffled rumble rose from the rear where a gasoline-powered generator did whatever such things did, spit out watts and volts and amperes, she supposed. Claire was aware of the noise only in a subliminal way. Since the engine ran constantly, except for occasional brief periods of maintenance, the sound formed part of the natural background.

  Claire and Ike Holzman were certainly cousins if not full-fledged members of the family known as “workampers,” nomads who shifted with the wind and followed the beckoning lure of seasonal jobs. Most of them set their compasses according to some rational plan, like mountains in the summer and sunny climes in winter. Not the Holzmans. They were completely free spirits, as unique as their DNA. They moved without rhyme or reason, without plan or pretense, with no clear route or destination in mind. When they decided the time had come for a change of scenery, they would simply hit the road and go wherever the strip of asphalt led them.

  Not by accident, there was something of the sixties flower child in them, the utter abandonment, the break with tradition, the yearning for absolute freedom. But their link to that tumultuous era did not cause them to shun traditional creature comforts. While zealously guarding their self-reliance, they equipped their mobile home like a self-contained island. All the modern conveniences were there-–stove, refrigerator, microwave, TV, stereo with CD player, laptop computer, cellular telephone. They even had a Global Positioning System satellite navigation device, although neither of them had the slightest care about where they happened to be located on the face of the globe at any particular moment in time.

  As the wind began to kick up noticeably, causing the trailer to make strange screaking noises and shudder gently like a frightened animal, Claire heard the sound of a vehicle pulling up on the graveled parking area. She hurried to the door, expecting to see the big red pickup. Instead she found a white patrol car from the county sheriff’s force.

  A lanky young deputy with long blond hair tossed about by the wind stepped out and frowned at her.

  Claire felt a catch in her throat. “Has something happened to Ike?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Deputy Carl Floyd. He planted his hands firmly against slim hips. “But something’s gonna happen to both of you if you don’t get this danged trailer out of here pretty soon. Haven’t you been listening to the news?”

  “I have. But there’s not much I can do without Ike’s truck to hitch onto this thing.”

  “Where is he? He can’t be out making the rounds today. Everybody’s closing down.”

  “He went into New Orleans this morning. Took a couple of paintings to one of the galleries, then planned to pick up some supplies, including some spare parts for the generator. He should have been back by now.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Deputy Floyd, shaking his head. “I heard on the radio the traffic coming out of there is pure hell.”

  “You think he’s stuck in it?”

  “Unless he’s found a way to get that pickup airborne, he is.”

  “What should I do if he doesn’t show up soon?” Claire asked.

  “Surely he’ll make it before long. But if he doesn’t, call me and I’ll get somebody out here pronto. Write down my cell phone number.” He read it off to her.

  “Will you be in the area?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The sheriff’s got me going door-to-door warning everybody around here to leave. He’s real worried. He worked over in Pass Christian back in 1969 when Camille hit. Said he tried to get a bunch of people to break up a hurricane party and get out of there, but they just laughed at him. Told him to arrest them if he wanted to. Of course, he couldn’t do that. But when Camille blew in, it hurled a wave over the place high as a three-story building. Not a single one survived.”

  Claire bit at her lower lip. “How much time do we have?”

  “An hour or so. The storm surge isn’t expected until after dark. But it’s gonna get pretty rough before too long. Winds may be strong enough to give this trailer fits by late afternoon.”

  She folded her arms against the slight chill of the wind gusts. “I sure hope Ike hasn’t gotten involved in a fender bender.”

  “If you’re running late, it would probably be best to drive over and park at the high school. They’re setting up an emergency shelter there. Even have some school bus drivers on standby to go pick up families, if necessary.”

  The rain started just as Deputy Floyd pulled out past the large live oak that had modeled for one of Ike’s favorite paintings. He turned onto the hard-packed sand of the r
ural road and disappeared into the cloud-shrouded afternoon. A narrow two-lanes wide, the road came off Highway 90 a few miles to the north, ran past the small plot the Holzmans had rented and continued on to the beach along the Gulf shore.

  Claire ducked back inside the mobile home and returned to her table. She kept thinking about those poor people in Pass Christian. She had already seen her share of the aftermath of disaster and wasn’t keen on witnessing any more. Growing up as an Air Force brat during the Cold War, she had traveled about various parts of the world where man as well as nature had taken his toll. Rebellion against the life she had led in a tightly-structured military household was one reason she had taken so readily to the unorthodox lifestyle of a headstrong young landscape artist with an unruly ponytail. Even more compelling was the release she’d felt from the strictures of a disappointing career. Claire had graduated from nursing school with visions of making important contributions to the health of her patients. But she quickly learned that nowadays the initials RN usually meant Recording Nonstop. She had only limited time for treating patients. Her chief duties appeared to be shuffling papers and entering endless data in the hospital’s records. When Ike proposed, she promptly turned in her resignation, spread her wings, and flew. They were in their late thirties now, married ten years, and she had not regretted one minute.

  Bryce resumed his seat next to the window. As he looked out, the trees swayed like tall green dancers and the rain swept over passing vehicles in undulating bursts, propelled by strong gusts of wind. Though still heavy along Highway 90, the traffic didn’t seem as bad as on the interstate.

  After they had gone a few miles past the Pearl River, the bus abruptly slowed, then turned to the right.