by Alex Kava
He was short and compact . When he grabbed hold of the rope it quickly became clear why he was chosen. He shinnied up with little effort. In no time, he pulled himself up onto a thick branch adjacent to those cradling the bathtub.
Creed watched the man’s face and within seconds he knew the bathtub was, in fact, a coffin.
He joined Jason under one of the other oaks, far enough away to give the family and the firefighters room to assess, to work, to grieve. The dogs were taking a break in the shade. Jason had already given them water and retrieved their reward toys. Both of them lay with their back legs kicked back. They watched the action and chaos around them, curious but at the same time, disinterested, almost as if they knew they had already done their jobs.
Jason had pulled out his cell phone. With one hand he was holding and scrolling. His prosthetic fingers were capable of intricate touch, but the kid had gotten so used to doing many things with one hand, it was almost as if he forgot he could use the other hand.
“What was the name of that restaurant we were meeting up with Maggie?”
“Southern Blessings.” He glanced back at Jason. His thumb was still scrolling. “Why do you ask?”
“One of the firefighters said it took a direct hit.”
“What?”
“I’m looking to see if there’s any information on-line.”
Creed patted down his pockets in search of his own cell phone.
“Are you sure that was the name?” he asked, hoping Jason may have heard it wrong.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Creed found his phone and had to turn it on.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I kept thinking it was ironic that a place with blessings in its name would get hit by a tornado.”
Creed’s phone was finally ready. He tapped a text message to Maggie: ARE YOU OKAY?
Then he waited.
48
SOUTHERN BLESSINGS
Just South of Montgomery, Alabama
Maggie knew she wasn’t good at this. Crime scenes. Dead bodies. No problem. But victims, injured and bleeding with glass sticking out of their flesh and steel beams on top of them? That was a problem. She wasn’t a first responder. She barely remembered CPR.
The gas fumes were making her lightheaded. She couldn’t think straight.
Hank couldn’t get the door open at the top of the stairs. There was something blocking it. While both of them called for help, she could see Hank
was getting a better respond. More of them were interested in getting the door opened than aiding those who had gotten injured. Two of the men were trying to ram the door with one of the fallen beams. It was no surprise that it was the two who had been the least engaged in helping while the storm raged.
The guy in the designer polo shirt had spent the entire time on the floor with his arms covering his head. The other man, Maggie had nicknamed Loverboy—perhaps a misnomer, because ever since the storm began, the man had nothing to do with the woman he’d been so enthralled with earlier over lunch.
The beam that had fallen on Frankie had taken part of the ceiling down with it. For a brief moment, Maggie thought it might be a possible escape route. But on closer inspection, she could see that a metal object had sealed the hole. Right now, all she cared about was getting this beam off of Frankie. The longer it crushed her legs, the more likely the woman might lose them both. But Gus didn’t seem to share her urgency.
“I think I could help,” Ronald, the truck driver, still offered. “I can use my one arm.”
That was yet another dilemma. Does she leave the shard of glass in? She knew from personal experience that taking a knife out could cause a victim to bleed out quickly. Was it the same for a bigass piece of glass in a shoulder?
And where the hell was everyone else? The older women stayed praying close to the stairs. The other loverbird? From what Maggie could tell she was texting on her cell phone. Maybe, hopefully, she was getting them some help.
Finally the waitress came over to take a look at Ronald. She removed her apron and tried sopping up the blood dripping down his arm. To Maggie she said, “Do you think he needs a tourniquet?”
Maggie noticed her nametag and asked, “Do you know how to do one, Val?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said and she started ripping the ties off of her apron.
She was younger than Maggie had noticed before. Probably in her twenties. The other waitress was older. The waitress who called her and Frankie “Hon.” The one Maggie didn’t save.
Maggie kneeled down next to Frankie. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her eyes were closed but she was biting her lip. It was bleeding. Maggie looked across the beam at Gus. He seemed content to let her call the shots. He also seemed content to wait for the paramedics. He leaned against the wall, watching and waiting.
Suddenly, Maggie realized her knees were wet. Frankie’s hair was wet, too. Somewhere water was seeping in. The rest of them could stand. Frankie couldn’t.
Now Maggie’s eyes darted around the crumbling basement. She stood and turned, shooting her cell phone’s flashlight over the walls, the shelves, the collapsed ruins. Finally, she double-backed. A five-foot length of steel pipe had come down with the ceiling. She grabbed it, pleased with how heavy and sturdy it felt.
“Come on, Gus,” she said, gesturing for him to come over to her side of Frankie. Val had finished her makeshift tourniquet and Maggie called to her. “Can you give us hand?”
Maggie shoved the steel pipe under the beam, keeping it away from Frankie’s legs.
“Val, when Gus and I lift this beam, I need you to pull Frankie out from under it.”
Frankie’s eyes were open now, open wide and hopeful. She couldn’t disappoint her.
Val came around behind Frankie and helped her bend forward enough for Val to get her hands under Frankie’s shoulders. Then Maggie motioned for Gus to join her. They would push all their weight down on the pipe and hope it would lever the beam up enough for Val to pull Frankie’s legs free.
“Okay, here we go,” Maggie told them.
She and Gus pushed and strained and the beam barely lifted. It wasn’t going to work. How could this not work. Frankie’s eyes watched, waiting and waiting. But it wasn’t enough. Then suddenly, another hand reached over and gripped the pipe.
Ronald added his weight. The beam began to lift. The other debris slid off and the beam lifted more. Val pulled and dragged until she had Frankie completely free.
“We need to get her up out of the water,” Maggie told them before they could celebrate.
They lifted her up onto one of the wooden benches. With her back against the wall, the bench was long enough for her legs without any overhang.
“How you doing?” Maggie asked her.
“Better.” She offered a weak smile. Then she jerked and grabbed Maggie’s hand, squeezing it tight. She grimaced and panic filled her eyes, again, as she said, “I still can’t move my legs.”
49
FLORIDA PANHANDLE
Hannah had suggested Brodie go take a lie down. She was too old for Hannah to tell her to go take a nap like she did with Isaac and Thomas. Brodie didn’t argue. She welcomed the retreat. She needed the relief. Another minute longer and she was sure her heart would explode right out of her chest.
She found Kitten and curled up on her bed. But she didn’t reach for the book on her nightstand. The stories, the wonderful adventures had been her escape. There was no escape from this. How could she get rid of the images and the memories when they had wrapped themselves so tightly and so firmly around he mind that they had managed to become apart of her.
Then she saw the notebook and pen also next to the bed. Brodie sat up and grabbed the journal. She found the first empty page and began filling it:
My name is Brodie Creed.
My name is Brodie Creed.
My name is Brodie Creed.
Brodie was the problem. She was weak, a scaredy-cat, a crybaby—though Brodie hadn’t sh
e a tear in many tears.
No, not Brodie. Charlotte hadn’t she a tear.
She readjusted the pen in her hand and wrote:
My name is Charlotte.
My name is Charlotte.
A soft tap on her door stopped her. She jerked and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, prepared to run. The reaction was so instinctive she didn’t realize how silly it was until Hannah peeked around the door.
“You okay, Sweet Pea?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come in?”
“I suppose.” She pulled her legs back up and pushed herself into the pillows, using the headboard as a brace. She held the notebook, the page with the words clutched against her chest. “Am I in trouble?”
“Oh, Sweet Pea. No, not at all.”
“When is Ryder coming home?”
Hannah smiled at her, and she wasn’t sure why. “He should be home tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to talk to her anymore,” Brodie said, but now she couldn’t meet Hannah’s eyes. She didn’t want her to see the how weak and cowardly she was.
“You don’t have to. You take as much time as you need.”
“Is she leaving?”
“The weather is nasty up through the route she needs to take. I asked her to stay the night. Is that okay with you?”
Brodie shrugged like it didn’t matter to her. It wasn’t’ her mother’s fault.
“I can’t make the memories go away,” she whispered, so softly she really meant it just for herself.
Hannah sat on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand. The first time she’d done this Brodie didn’t know what to expect. She placed her chapped and scarred hand in Hannah’s. Hannah’s was soft and warm and smooth.
“I’m no expert,” Hannah said, “but maybe we could try putting some good memories back inside your mind.”
“How do we do that?”
“Well, you’re already doing it every time you enjoy being with Isaac and Thomas. When you feel the warm sunshine on your face. Remember when you and Ryder slept outside under the stars? And Jason sure does like telling you about the dogs and showing you what they can do.”
Brodie tried to listen, really listen. She realized she was gripping Hannah’s hand like she needed to hang on.
“Sweet Pea, you’ve had to be strong and brave for so long.”
“Charlotte was.” It came out before she could stop it.
“Charlotte?”
“She was the brave one. Brodie was always weak and frightened. She cried all the time.” She looked up to see Hannah’s reaction.
“You are the brave and strong one. And you have always been Brodie,” Hannah squeezed her hand and tilted her head to make sure Brodie didn’t break eye contact. “Brodie may have been scared but she grew strong. Brodie became brave and fought back because she knew what it felt like to be frightened and she didn’t want to feel that way anymore. Brodie was the one who survived. Charlotte was just a name Iris Malone called you. She couldn’t make you be Charlotte. She tried, right? She tried over and over again to make you Charlotte. Isn’t that right?”
She waited for Brodie to nod.
“She tried and she couldn’t do it. You know why? Because Brodie wouldn’t let her.”
Brodie stared at her and finally nodded.
“None of us, including your mother, expect you to be that little girl anymore. But you don’t have to push her aside. She’s still a apart of you. She gave you your love of reading, your kindness to animals, your fascination with the stars. Sweet Pea, somehow you need to stop blaming her. It wasn’t her fault. None of it was your fault.”
“That’s what Dr. Rockwood said.”
“Maybe starting on Monday we can see if you can talk to Dr. Rockwood every week.”
“But she’s in Omaha.”
“She said she could talk to you over the computer or the phone. A video-chat. Or you could go back to Omaha for a little longer.”
Brodie shook her head, almost too violently as she said, “No, I don’t want to leave home.”
Hannah smiled, again, and this time Brodie furrowed her brow, questioning what she had said that made Hannah smile.
“That’s the second time you called this home.” She squeezed her hand, again, and Brodie noticed she had eased her grip. “Now, you get some rest. Maybe a little later—only if you’re up for it—your mother brought some home movies. Some good memories. Would you like to watch?”
“With Isaac and Thomas?”
“Of course, but oh Lord, you’ll have to be prepared for them poking fun.”
Hannah stood and Brodie let go of her hand.
“Get some rest. I’ll fix some special movie treats for all of us to munch.”
Brodie watched her leave. She stroked Kitten. Then suddenly she remembered the notebook she still had clutched against her chest. She looked at the words. She tore the page out. But instead of crumpling it and throwing it away, Brodie folded it carefully, protecting the words inside the fold. She folded it a second time then hid it clear to the back of drawer in her nightstand.
50
JUST SOUTH OF MONTGOMERY, Alabama
Creed’s phone dinged, again. He glanced at it and wanted to throw it against a wall. They were heading back to the Jeep. Between sending messages that “failed to be delivered” to Maggie, Creed argued with Jason. The kid wanted Creed to leave him and Scout to continue searching while Creed drove to the restaurant. Scout’s tongue dangled sideways. Both dogs were panting. The humidity was stifling. He wanted to get both dogs inside the Jeep.
“I can’t risk leaving you being without some A/C relief for Scout,” Creed said.
He knew he didn’t need to remind Jason that sometimes dogs couldn’t cool off fast enough on their on. Although dogs sweat through their paw pads, panting was their only way to circulate air and cool their bodies. Because scent dogs breathed more rapidly while working a scent, there was a risk of them becoming dehydrated quickly or worse. In a very short period of time, an overheated dog could suffer critical damage to her brain, heart, liver and nervous system resulting in heat stroke. Creed had never lost a dog to heat exhaustion. He’d even had the heat alarm systems installed in all their vehicles as an extra precaution. He carried saline bags with IVs in case he needed to do a SubQ to rehydrate a dog more quickly.
He knew Jason only meant well. He wanted make sure no one else was missing in this housing development. Creed finally convinced him to give one of the firefighters a business card with his and Creed’s phone number. After all, they were only a mile or two from the restaurant. They would come back. But even as Creed promised, he noticed the horizon growing thick and dark with another round of storms.
Now, ready to leave, he tapped one last message to Maggie, again, as he started the Jeep.
“We did see that cell tower down over the interstate,” Jason told him.
“But weren’t you just on the internet?”
Jason pulled out his cell phone. “It was really slow. And I never really connected. Not getting anything now. I’ve got her number in my contacts, I’ll keep trying while you drive.”
Creed punched the address of the restaurant into the GPS. He had a feeling they’d need to try more than one way to get there, and they wouldn’t be able to look up directions or maps. He was relieved when he saw that they really were only three miles away and according to the GPS, they’d be there in less than five minutes.
“I’m sure first responders are there,” Jason said. “The firefighter dude told me about it—” He glanced at his watch, “Like half an hour ago. Maybe they already got everybody out.”
“Lets hope so.”
Jason turned the radio on, and the station was already broadcasting weather advisories. He turned up the volume.
“Folks, this is Willis Dean at WALCtv in Montgomery, Alabama. Please pay attention this afternoon and evening. I know we have some folks who were already hit. Damage reports are coming in, and we’ll get you information as we
get it. But folks, as bad as it’s been we can’t let down our guards. There is another line of storms developing.”
Creed’s phone dinged, and Jason punched the radio volume down. Creed handed him his phone while he weaved his way around more downed power lines.
“It’s Hannah,” Jason said. “She wants to know if we’re okay. They’re probably just hearing about the damage.”
Another ding and Creed shot a look of hope.
“Hannah, again. Said Dr. Avelyn and Penelope are coming up to help. She wants to know what the hotel is where were staying. I’ll text her back on mine.”
He handed Creed back his phone then started tapping on his own.
“So we must have service if her message got through.”
“I’ll text Maggie, again.”
“Thanks.”
“The damage must be more widespread than what we’re seeing if Dr. Avelyn and Penelope are headed here,” Jason said.
Creed knew that Dr. Avelyn belonged to a national group of veterinarians that responded after natural disasters. They worked with local authorities to treat injured pets. Penelope Clemence helped reunite displayed dogs with their owners. The woman had made it a mission to rescue abandoned dogs and find homes for them, even working with shelters to raise funds. To her credit, she’d turned almost a dozen facilities across the country into no-kill shelters. Some of Creed’s best scent dogs had come by way of Penelope.
Only a few miles after exiting the housing development, and Creed could see a it wouldn’t be a simple trek. Up ahead, a jumble of debris blocked the road.
“I guess we’re taking the long way around.”
Twenty-four minutes later, they still hadn’t heard back from Maggie. Although one of their texts finally claimed it was delivered. Flashing lights of the rescue crews could be seen from half a mile away. Vehicles lined both sides of the highway. Only a couple of units had made it all the way into what used to be the parking lot. A HAZMAT unit in full gear had taken over what used to be a gas station on one side of the street. Eighteen-wheelers flipped on their sides and upside down were scattered everywhere like some kid had overturned his toy box. Except some of them were crumpled like tin cans.
