Desperate Creed

by Alex Kava

  “Where’s the restaurant?” Jason asked just as Creed’s phone dinged.

  Finally, a text from Maggie:

  HANGING IN THERE. HOPING A RESCUE CREW IS ABOUT TO BUST US OUT OF HERE!

  Creed scanned the area. Though the gas station pumps had been destroyed and the vehicles tossed, the cinder block station was still standing. He noticed a sheriff’s patrol car and recognized Sheriff Krenshaw. He shifted into PARK, left the engine to idle and A/C on.

  “I’m gonna ask Sheriff Krenshaw. I’ll be right back.”

  He grabbed his K9 CrimeScents ballcap and pulled it on. It usually gained him entry and allowed him to pass through most barricades. Turned out, he didn’t need. Krenshaw saw him and waved him over.

  “Mr. Creed, good to see you, again. We’ve got quite a mess.”

  “We heard a restaurant got hit.”

  “Yup. A bunch of people are trapped in the basement.”

  “Have the rescue crews reached them yet.”

  He shook his head and grimaced. “We’re gonna need more than a rescue crew. They’ve got some earthmoving equipment coming, but I’m afraid that next round of storms will beat them here.”

  The sky had already started to darken.

  “Sir, I have a couple of friends trapped inside.”

  “No foolin’?” His wince was more pronounced this time. “I’m sorry about that. Have you been in contact with them yet?”

  “Finally got a text.”

  “You might give them a heads up about another round of storms. But Mr. Creed, I wouldn’t tell them how bad this looks. Hate to take away a person’s hope.”

  “How bad is it, Sheriff?”

  He turned around and pointed to a parking lot littered with debris. At first, Creed couldn’t tell that there was ever a building. Then he saw the concrete foundation and one wall still standing in the rubble. But everyone’s main focus was on what now sprawled across where the restaurant used to be—an 18-wheeler, its trailer on its side and split open. And it was right on top of where Maggie and Frankie were.

  That wasn’t all. The storm had tossed and rolled and stacked the huge blue containers that the truck had been hauling. And now Creed could see members of a HAZMAT team inspecting the barrels.

  “What’s in those?” Creed asked, but the knot forming in his stomach told him he might not want to know.

  Krenshaw shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Trying to call the company. Driver didn’t make it. But I will tell you this, the number two exporter in Alabama is the chemical manufacturing industry. I’m hoping none of those containers broke open.”

  51

  JUST SOUTH OF MONTGOMERY, Alabama

  Willis didn’t like the way the radar map kept lighting up. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Inflamed commas, the signature of a hook echo, seemed to be forming in a blink of an eye. Storm chasers had already called in four different tornadoes on the ground, and that still didn’t account for what he was seeing on the radar.

  The tornado that Simon had called in earlier had hit an industrial complex. Photos were coming in of a residential area where it had flattened homes. The same tornado plowed through a gas station and restaurant before marching on, skimming the southern edge of the city. From recent reports the monster was still on the ground, raking across the state.

  As violent as that storm appeared, it wasn’t the only one. It was a juggling act keeping up. As soon as one warning expired another supercell would replace it. The news team faced the same challenge. Hundreds of photos, livestream video and damage assessments flooded their social media pages. Reporters were out on the roads and trying to get to some the areas hit. There were fatalities, though in the early hours it was best to wait for the authorities to confirm. Sometimes it became a challenge to sift through what was real and what were rumors gone wild in the chaos of the moment.

  Willis looked up from the monitors, and Paul handed him a new printout.

  “They’re saying people are trapped underneath that restaurant,” Paul told him.

  He sat down and gestured to the television monitors. One of their anchors was talking about it right now. Willis glanced up then did a double take.

  “Is that a semi trailer?”

  “The truck stop across the road got hit, too. I know this place. It’s not far off the interstate. My wife and I have eaten there.”

  Willis shook his head. “Any word from Simon?”

  Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Paul wince and look away.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Don’t wait too long, Paul. Send someone out to check.”

  “Roads are blocked. Where do I even send them?”

  “The last place that Simon called from. Please, just do it. I don’t have a good feeling about this. This was the kid’s first Alabama tornado. We shouldn’t have sent him out.”

  “We didn’t send him, Willis. He went out on his own. We only send teams.”

  Willis turned and stared at the man. Paul was a twenty-year-plus weather veteran, most of those years here at this station.

  “We have hundreds of spotters and chasers, Willis. We can’t take responsibility for all of them.”

  Willis stopped from reminding Paul that the last he checked he was still in charge. Instead, he simply said, “Send someone, Paul.” Then he swiveled his chair back to the radar screens.

  Paul barely left and another one of their interns leaned into the doorway.

  “Mr. Dean, you have a call on line one.”

  “I can’t take any calls right now. I don’t take calls.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, sir,” the young woman was visibly flustered. “It came in one the news desk. They told me it was really important. They said it was your wife.”

  “They’ll need to take a message.” Why in the world would she call him in the middle of this. He was irritated. Beyond irritated. In all their years together she’d never interrupted...and suddenly, she wouldn’t dare interrupt unless...

  He tapped one of the screens until it brought up his own neighborhood. No, it wasn’t close to any of the tornadoes. Though some of the thunderstorms hitting it were severe.

  He stood and hurried to the door. He couldn’t remember the young woman’s name. It didn’t matter. She was already gone. His eyes darted to the phone on the wall and he saw that line one was still blinking.

  “Suck it up, Willis,” he told himself and pulled the receiver off.

  “Beth? I’m a little busy here,” he said.

  “Willis, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.” Her voice sounded far away, a bit muffled and gargled like she was calling from under water. “I’m trapped.”

  “Beth, I can barely hear you.”

  “I was at Southern Blessings.”

  “What’s that?” He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “The restaurant. A tornado hit.”

  His eyes flashed to the television screen. It was still showing the semi trailer. There was a hazmat team.

  “We’re trapped, Willis. And I’m scared.”

  52

  SOUTHERN BLESSINGS

  Just South of Montgomery, Alabama

  Maggie was desperate to find some relief for Frankie. Ronald’s arm had stopped bleeding and Val was keeping watch over him. Gus had joined Polo shirt and Loverboy convincing them to try another tactic other than brut-force, which wasn’t working. She finally had Hank’s attention.

  “Is there any way to stop the gas leak?” she wanted to know. She could taste it as much as smell it. At this rate they would all die from carbon dioxide poisoning before they could be rescued.

  “It must be a break in the line,” he told her. The grill in the kitchen is gas.”

  “What about an emergency shut-off?”

  “If the line’s broken it won’t matter. Are only chance is to break through that door.”

  She pointed to the maze of pipes that ran in between the ceiling beams.

  “Could you check?”

  He shot the
flashlight up and around following the pipes that were still intact and inspecting the ones that were broken. His bald head glistened with sweat. The air was hot and stifling down here. Maggie’s shirt stuck to her like a second skin, but it didn’t matter if she couldn’t breathe.

  “Here,” he said. “This one is gas.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He followed the pipe with his flashlight, stepping over debris and around the two older women. She noticed their feet sloshed through water. How much higher was it?

  “Oh dear,” one of the women said. “Did the gas line break?”

  Hank ignored them and zigzagged all the way to far corner and over the chest freezer.

  “There.” He pointed to a lever. “This is the gas shut-off.”

  “Hold this,” he told her and shoved the flashlight at her. “Keep it right there.”

  Then he climbed on top of the freezer so he could reach it. He gestured for the flashlight and pointed it directly on the lever, stopping to read what was written on the blue lever. Then he grabbed it and pulled it down.

  “We still need to close off those broken pipes,” he told her. There’ll be residual gas in the lines.

  He hopped off the freezer and started searching the boxes on the shelves and sorting through items left on a workbench. He picked up a couple of things and moved back under the pipe.

  “Hold this, again.” He handed her the flashlight.

  She pointed it up while he stuffed a rag into the pipe. Then he started winding duct tape around and around until she couldn’t see the rag. Could it be that simple?

  “There’s another break over here,” he said and waited for her to point the light.

  They did this three times. Maggie couldn’t tell if it worked. Her nostrils were already filled with the smell. Her chest ached from breathing in the fumes.

  “They’ll shut it off at the main,” the woman said from her place, sitting next to her friend.

  Again, Hank ignored her, but Maggie asked, “Is that standard procedure?”

  “I believe so, but it depends how bad the tornado was. It may have compromised the main, too.”

  “Thanks. I’m Maggie, by the way. Are two doing okay?”

  The woman put her arm around her friend whose face looked pale. “We’ll be fine. I’m Clara and this is Adele.”

  Maggie looked to Hank. He was still standing beside her. She had expected he would be anxious to join the men at the door, but he swept the stream of light around their surroundings. It flicked over the hole in the ceiling where the support beam had pulled down a chunk with it. Maggie saw Hank’s eyes go wide.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shot the light back and forth as though trying to get his bearings.

  “We’re directly under the kitchen,” he said. “That must be the grill or the dishwasher.”

  She waited for more of an explanation. She could see him working his jaw as he eyes examined the ceiling.

  Finally he said, “I just realized, that’s a lot of weight above us.”

  He skimmed the flashlight everywhere now, shooting it in people’s eyes. He was looking for something or someone.

  “Rita’s not down here,” he said. “I don’t see Ann Marie or Sofia either.”

  Maggie realized that it only now occurred to him look and see if his co-workers had followed him.

  The other waitress, Val, overheard him. She stayed by Ronald’s side, but to Hank she said, “You know Ann Marie is scared to death of going down underground. They probably went back into the restrooms. Isn’t that where they always tell us to go?”

  Maggie watched the two of them exchange glances. Hank looked up, shooting the ceiling above the freezer with his flashlight beam as if he might be able to see if the women were safe in the space above.

  Maggie already felt guilty about Rita. How did she miss seeing the other two women? She couldn’t think about it. There was nothing she could do for them now. Hopefully they were safe.

  “Any chance there’s another flashlight down here?” she asked Hank.

  “I have no idea. I’m guessing all this crap is the previous owner’s. We never came down here.”

  “So it’d be okay if I looked around?”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” He pointed to her cell phone. “Have you been able to send anything? Mine doesn’t have a signal, but it’s about five years old.”

  “I received one. Not sure if mine got delivered.”

  “It’s hit or miss.” The woman who Maggie had pegged as one of the lovebirds had been tapping since the storm ended. “I was able to get a call through.”

  “You talked to someone?” Maggie asked.

  “Yes. But only briefly before my call got dropped.”

  “I’ll keep trying then. Let me know if either of you hear anything,” Hank said and he left for the stairs, taking the brightest light with him.

  “I’m Maggie,” she told the woman.

  For the first time, she looked up from her phone.

  In the stark white light Maggie could see laugh lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. She was probably in her late forties, maybe fifty. She was pretty with intense blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair.

  “I’m Beth,” she finally said. Her eyes caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster inside Maggie’s unbuttoned shirt. “You a cop?”

  Maggie glanced around then bent down and lowered her voice, “FBI. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it.”

  “No problem. We all have secrets.”

  It was a strange thing to say, but Maggie expected the woman might be in shock. After what they’d all been through it was no surprise that emotions would be skidding a bit over the edge by now. She was fighting her own battle with claustrophobia.

  “Maybe we can keep each other updated,” Maggie told her. “If we get a connection.”

  “Sure.” And the woman went back to her phone.

  There was something in her tone that told Maggie she probably wouldn’t share. After all, she hadn’t mentioned the call phone before now. Maggie knew how a chaotic situation could press one person to fend for herself while another would risk his pain from glass in his shoulder to help another. It wasn’t up to her to pass judgment, but she learned quickly who she could rely and who she would not.

  Maggie went back to the shelves along the back wall. She turned her phone’s flashlight on, again. She needed to conserve her battery. Maybe there was a flashlight on the workbench where Hank had found the duct tape. No such luck. She skimmed the light over the boxes. Some were labeled. Most of them were taped shut. She glanced back at Frankie to see how she was holding up. Even in the dim light Maggie could the pain etched on her face.

  She shoved a couple of boxes around. Then in the back, she found one that interested her enough to pull forward. She peeled off the packing tape and shined the light down inside. Maggie pulled out one of the bottles in the case and ran the light over the label: Conecuh Ridge. Clyde Mays Alabama Style Whiskey. 85 proof.

  Finally, she found something that might take Frankie’s mind off the pain.

  53

  SOUTHERN BLESSINGS

  Just South of Montgomery, Alabama

  Creed offered for he and Jason to work a grid with Grace and Scout. The gas station and the restaurant were just off Interstate 65, which meant travelers coming and going. Just like yesterday it was difficult to know if anyone might still be missing and possibly in the rubble.

  Sheriff Krenshaw had told Creed that all the staff at the gas station was accounted for. Several motorists and truck drivers had already been taken by ambulance to an area hospital. Some were still being cared for at the scene.

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Krenshaw told him. “Too dangerous. Lots of spilled fuel. Couple of the semi-trailers are all busted open.”

  “How about the restaurant?” Creed asked, wanting to get closer, wanting to see what was left. “Are you sure everyone made it underground?”
/>
  “Actually, they already pulled three people from what they think was the restroom.”

  “Did they mention how many others might be trapped?”

  Krenshaw stared at him for a moment, clearly not understanding what Creed had asked. Then he saw the realization sweep across Krenshaw’s face. “I’m sorry, son, I should have said three fatalities.”

  Creed’s pulse started racing. He hadn’t asked Maggie about Frankie. But she would have told him. Or had she told him, and the text hadn’t come through yet?

  “Are you able to talk to your friends?” Krenshaw asked.

  “Not really. A text message finally came through.”

  “One of the carriers is bringing in a mobile station.” He craned his neck and looked at the access road. “Should be here soon. Or they might be setting up a bit further out. Getting some generators trucked in.”

  “Have you guys been in contact with anyone?” Creed asked.

  “I think they had a 911 call, but it got dropped before they got much information. Without knowing who all’s down there, we don’t have a number to even try. Family’ll be showing up soon. But you know how that works. Sometimes they can be more of a problem than a help. Rumors start flying and it’s hard to sort through.”

  His eyes kept scanning the roads. Suddenly, he looked back at Creed. “Actually, if you can get through to your friend, you might be able to get us some information. My biggest worry right now is that we won’t be able to do a damned thing before those storms get here.”

  Creed glanced by at the western sky. He could see the mass approaching, the lightning inside illuminating the motion and the layers.

  “Hey, mister,” Krenshaw said to someone behind Creed. “Only first responders past this line.”

  Creed turned to see a hulk of a man in Ray Ban sunglasses, dark trousers, a white collared shirt soaked with perspiration and the shiniest leather shoes he’d ever seen at a disaster site. Instead of answering Krenshaw the man lifted the ballcap in his hand and pulled it on, struggling a bit. The cap was almost too small for his head. The letters on the navy cap surprised Creed. They surprised Krenshaw, too.