by Peter Foley
Mother is Pastor Quincy Gordon’s wife, a folksy, spindly, middle-aged woman. She smiles gracefully and puts a towel around Hazel’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry, dear, you’re all right now. Oscar, fetch some coffee for Hazel. Bless you! You’re so wet!”
Hazel is grateful for the towel, not least because she has become acutely aware that the rain has rendered her white blouse almost see-through. “How do you know my name?” Hazel wraps herself in the towel.
“My child, everyone in California knows Hazel Cox, the famous meteorologist. I’ve seen you on TV and I’ve heard you on the radio many times these last few years.”
Hazel blushes from the recognition.
“And what’s your name?” Hazel asks.
“You can call her Mother,” interposes the Pastor.
“Well, Mother, I need to get to the Staples Center. It’s not far from here. I’d be grateful if you would drop me off there.”
“I’m afraid we can’t take you there,” the Pastor says. “It would be a mistake to go to the Staples Center on an occasion like this. Besides, I have my flock here, and it is my duty and my honor to take these fine people to higher ground, to a safe place where they will be protected from nature’s wrath. I offer you a place on our modest ark, Hazel. The hurricane makes our time limited. Please, come with us, come with us now. We can’t leave you out in the hurricane.”
“Thank you, but I need to get to the Staples Center. It’s a covered stadium, and it’s being used as a secure safe house for government employees in the area, and I need to carry on studying the hurricane. Plus, I’m expected there, and if I don’t show up my boss–”
“Hazel, Hazel, Hazel, please be calm. There’s no need to worry. Have no fear. Fate has brought us together. I will keep you safe. We’ll mosey on to our dwellings where we can wait out the hurricane. You’re welcome to contact your safe house and, if they’re able, they can come and offer you safe transport to your destination. Do we have a deal?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice, so… yeah.”
“We always have choices, Hazel. We always do, but I’m sure you don’t want to go back out in the rain right now. We must press on, the worst is yet to come.”
Hazel is swarmed by warm smiles and well-wishes as she takes a seat next to a young woman. Someone hands Hazel a blanket and another serves her hot coffee from a Thermos. She looks up to thank everyone. For a moment, it seems unusually dark out, even for the conditions, but then she notices the windows of the bus are boarded up with coarse timber sheets that blot out all external light. The sound of a microphone cracks again and the Pastor begins to sing. The bus sings along as the engine lurches into gear.
What the hell have I stumbled into, Hazel wonders.
At the back sits a row of stern unflinching faces that carry a weight around their eyes. They sit motionless as the rest of the party clap, sing and cheer. Hazel takes another look at the woman by her side. She’s heavily pregnant and looks no older than nineteen.
“Where are we going?” Hazel asks her.
The young woman smiles as a tip of lightning explodes outside. “We’re going to Salvation.”
13
If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there
After a few miles of wading through submerged roads, Stephen slows his pickup to a halt. The rain blows sideways and the sky booms. He looks to his phone’s screen just as it cuts to black.
“Damn update killed my battery! Ain’t worth a damn!” He balls the phone up in his fist and launches it into the back seats. The phone ricochets around and Stephen realizes he has no idea where to go. Warily, he drives slowly on, hoping to stumble across a plan. The elements howl against his pickup, shunting it from side to side. He scans the radio stations, hoping to find some comforting source of information, or any sign of human activity at all. He turns the small black dial and watches the red marker slide up the plastic scale, all he finds is static. The woolly, shifting noise from the speakers syncopates against the metal rainfall on the car and gives the moment a preternatural feel.
He stops again and punches the steering wheel. “Oh Lord, what’s a man to do? Damn! I’m hungover as hell and I need a place to go. If there was ever a time to give me a sign, Lord, it would be now. Gimme a friggin’ sign, would ya?”
As the words leave his mouth, he spies a curious hand-painted wooden sign tied to a post at the next junction with the words “Salvation this way” painted on it above an arrow pointing left.
“Holy shit! God, you picked a fine time to be literal! Here I come, Jesus!” He laughs and slaps his hands together. “Come on, Red. We’re doing good today. This calls for music! Hank – sorry bro, you ain’t going to cut this now. We must have loud music, very loud music!” He reaches to his glove box and fumbles around inside through a litter of long forgotten items: an old parking ticket, a grubby cleaning cloth, and some deodorant, which he looks at for a second. “Maybe later.” His determined groping continues until, “Ahhh!” he gasps. “I have all the answers right here.” He slips a well-worn AC/DC 8-track cartridge into the music player. Suddenly life is better; living easy, living free, season ticket on a one-way ride. He shifts into drive and makes his way towards the most welcome, if not crude, sign.
The first sign comes and goes, but moving along Stephen finds another, and another and another, all directing him to “Salvation”. The signs are not so close together that he feels confident he will see another one, but sure enough, mile after wet mile, the wooden painted signs keep coming.
The sky darkens as the music runs out and he feels he must be close to whatever Salvation is. The clouds crack with a brilliant blue flash that fills the sky. Cold watery winds blow and rock his pickup, but the flooded roads are no match for trusty Red. Even when the tarmac gives way to a winding dirt road that rapidly steepens and turns to thick sludge, the pickup ploughs on. The signs eventually guide him through many miles of heavily wooded terrain.
What is this place?
Turning a bend in the road, the lights of his pickup illuminate a rain-soaked wind-blown large concrete structure that sits sheltering between high, wet tree trunks and flapping leaves. Nature is in the process of reclaiming the building’s thick, coarse weather-beaten walls that are long stained mossy green. It appears abandoned but well built. Its enormous perspective and pronounced angular shape unsettles Stephen.
“It’s a bunker,” he mutters to himself, in an attempt to mute some rising anxiety. The shape of the building gives the surroundings a mystical, almost supernatural atmosphere as the sky canon booms and white light strobes.
Why would someone put so much concrete in the middle of the woods? he wonders.
The bunker stares back at him. It’s an engineering feat but it’s rough-looking, with the aura of something sinister. He wonders its purpose. Perhaps military? Likely military, he considers. Its very existence seems to signal conflict. Looking down on California from the hills, the intriguing time-worn concrete exterior suggests it once had some dark, definite purpose. The place feels like an island. Whoever designed it wanted to isolate its occupants from everyone, and for the inhabitants to feel like they’re on the very edge of the world. Regardless, Stephen decides to go further and see if he can get inside. He takes a deep breath and ventures out of his pickup.
The rain beats down on Stephen as he slams the car door. Temperatures are plummeting and the rain sweeps through at shifting angles. He approaches the building with quick caution and walks around its perimeter. The mysterious ruin has a haunting beauty, but it’s a decaying shell, an echo of history. There are no windows and he finds only one door, which has a sign hanging above it: “Welcome to Salvation”. Standing in the entranceway of the monument, he pauses for thought. He hears the distant whine of a car engine. The only road for miles leads directly to this facility.
This could be either welcome company or trouble – but at least it’s a sign of life. Misery loves company, he thinks, as he take
s a few steps out from the doorway.
Another crack of thunder breaks the night and the rain falls like an ocean. Taking one more step to better view the road, Stephen gets bogged down in the thick mud and his feet start to sink in a mire that wants to suck the cowboy boots right off his legs. While using both hands to pull himself out of the mud by his knee, he’s suddenly illuminated by the headlights of a speeding meandering car that’s started to slalom and buck in the deep wet ground.
No one can accuse Drew of meaning any harm, in fact, he’s blissfully unaware. It’s so dark that even the huge concrete structure is almost invisible, and let’s not mention the influence of the five empty cans of cider in the footwell of his car. He hits the brakes, but with the conditions – the rain, the mud – it would have taken the pull of an anchor to halt the Buick, and he sees Stephen far too late.
The impact is swift and horrible. Stephen’s body rolls over the hood, his head smashes the windshield as he bounces over. He comes to rest in the mud behind Drew’s car with his boots still rooted in the wet ground under the front fender. The rain pours on Stephen’s half-conscious, mud-covered body and the darkness of night grows deeper.
“Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit!” Drew shouts. “Was that a deer? Or some kind of antelope? This fucking rain, I can’t see shit!” He leaps out of his car in a panic. He has never hit anything or anyone. He races to the back of his car without ideas, hoping, praying that it’s not a living thing that he’s ploughed into. Dimly lit by his car’s rear lights, he can see the crumpled figure of a man, his face smeared with mud and blood. Without first aid training or supplies, Drew suddenly feels drunk and slow. He kneels beside the stricken man. All Drew can think to do is beg the man not to die, when suddenly a series of dazzling white lights appear.
“Pick that man up out of the mud!” commands an emphatic southern voice that’s clear enough to cut through the wind and rain. Pastor Quincy Gordon casts a shadow over Drew and Stephen while several men climb out to assist. Mother bolts from her seat and into the chaos outside. She runs over to Stephen’s limp body. Stephen stirs awake to see her eyes looking into his while Pastor Gordon shouts instructions to his people.
“Get the doors of our sanctuary open so that Salvation can be this man’s place of healing. Quickly! Quickly! Quickly! There’s no time! Can’t you see both his legs are broken. Broken clean in half! Get the stretcher from the medical bay!”
The tattooed bus driver runs to the door of the bunker, as do many. Together they heave open the large steel door.
“My boots, I need my boots. My legs aren’t broken, ma’am. Look…” Stephen says, but before another word can leave his lips, the driver returns with a gurney and three other people descend on him in perfect co-ordination. With Mother’s help they lift Stephen onto the stretcher with a movement that sends a tear of pain down his body. By the light of the Buick, Mother sees his two alligator boots stood side by side in the mud. Fighting against the wet earth, she pulls them up, and before the hurricane can claim them all, the group carries Stephen into the mouth of the monolith.
14
In the shelter of each other the people live
All six Greyhound buses spill their passengers into the mud and the rain as the Pastor leads his three hundred into the dark of Salvation’s entrance corridor.
“Is everybody inside?” yells the Pastor.
“I think so,” comes a response.
The large metal door booms closed, trapping the hurricane outside and plunging the corridor into darkness. With a thunk, an unseen generator blinks dim lights into life. Encouraged, the drenched figures trudge deeper into the shelter.
The air is damp. Green stains grow up the walls around the door and mix with the shadows. The crowd follow one another down the musty concrete walkway to the first room on the left. Hazel follows through a doorless entrance, the space opening to reveal a large square room. Inside, pews and a lectern have been arranged to duplicate the layout of Pastor Gordon’s Simmons Street Temple. A huddle forms at a table stacked with coarse blue and white towels. The Pastor takes a white towel and dries his hair by the lectern before asking the people to take a seat. Hazel looks around for the injured man, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m so glad you’re all here,” begins the Pastor. His greeting sets off cheers, laughter and general relief as people stagger past one another along the pews. People shuffle and bunch to make space, every inch of pew is taken. Each person wears a towel either on their head or draped at their shoulders. Collectively they look to Pastor Gordon for his words.
“Welcome to Salvation!” he says, with both hands spread out wide. The congregation breaks into steady applause.
“I know all of you are ready for food, and for your beds, so this will be a quick meeting to orientate you. We’ve had one hell of a day, I know. I’ve never known a day like it. It’s been a very special day. After this meeting, everybody, go get some rest or enjoy some evening entertainment. We’ll have music and dancing in the Common Room, it’s just a little down the corridor, by the kitchen, further on up to the left.
“And each of you should look forward to breakfast tomorrow, a hearty breakfast, be ready for that. The Planning Committee will get you up at seven. There are things to be done here if this is to be a home for us all. Let us all be grateful for this shelter. Its mighty walls will keep us safe. That hurricane is going to be with us for quite some time. Many have escaped the state, but many more did not find transport or shelter and that’s a tragedy, but we have our ark, and its mighty door and its mighty lock, so let us be thankful.”
The crowd agrees. The Pastor continues.
“We are all illuminated by electricity created by the many generators we purchased with our sweat and blood, and they will give us power for everything we need as we take our shelter. We have a special loudspeaker system, a public address system, so I can talk to you all and make announcements into every room in the shelter throughout the day, so you’ll be kept informed. You’ll miss nothing.
“We have all the supplies we need. We have coffee, cans of fruits, all kinds of fruits, you wouldn’t believe it. We have Mylo – an extremely good drink, cheddar cheese, evaporated milk, boxes and boxes full of supplies. We have beds, mattresses, sheets. We have tremendous supplies built up by our workers. Every vegetable, every kind of delicious food. We have rooms and rooms of supplies and medications. We have manuals, we can do surgery if we have to, we have all sorts of books on every procedure. Technical books on how to build anything we need and maintain everything we have. We have a drug we’ve found that’s supposed to not only stop cancer but reverse cancer – what’s it called? Cornella? Yes, Cornella. And those working in the kitchen will bake it into all the food we eat, you may notice the taste. When used on meat it makes a rare roast, a beautiful roast, you’ve never tasted a roast like it. We have a refrigerator, a beautiful walk-in freezer to store our food; we have sinks, and a big, big cooking stove – many people would love a stove like this. We will be comfortable. We have modern furniture, most of it made by our brothers and sisters, all beautifully handmade. We have clothes we can tailor to suit you and we have showers and facilities enough for all.”
The list stops, Pastor Gordon pauses. He looks down at the open Bible on his lectern.
“You must all feel like I feel. Let us all be thankful.” He speaks slowly. His followers are committed to every word, from the edge of their seat they lean forward, but not everybody in the room is quite so attentive.
Hazel runs a towel over her head and observes the room. There’s a level of dusty decadence and crooked luxury to the space. In years gone by, someone had clearly poured money into it. The interior is well appointed, which surprises Hazel. She expected to see nothing but dank gray walls, but instead she finds a well-maintained open space. An old dusty-looking piano sits in the corner waiting to be played. Modern loudspeakers are an ugly recent addition. Between the loudspeakers, and from a simple woode
n lectern, Pastor Gordon stands, still wearing his long, but very wet, black gown. He speaks, but Hazel isn’t listening.
Just be polite, she tells herself. It’s shelter for now, at least. It’s too dangerous to go anywhere right now anyway…
She looks at the faces around her.
What a random collection of people.
She looks at her phone and sighs.
Zero signal.
The Pastor continues. “We have some new faces with us, some new family members to complete our perfect jigsaw of personalities. I’m pleased to announce that Hazel Cox is one of them.”
Hazel’s eyes snap up from her phone’s screen.
“How fitting that a weather scientist joins us on our mission. There are other new faces you may notice, so let us all welcome them to our collective bosom. You know, earlier, Hazel told me that she had plans to take shelter at the Staples Center.”
The crowd laughs.
“We all know what happened in the Superdome in New Orleans when Katrina hit, don’t we? My golly, those people inside were trapped for six days with no electricity, no water, the toilets stopped working and, even with the National Guard in there the public were raping and killing each other, just tearing each other apart. How horrible, how horrible. It got so bad that the National Guard left them to it. Hazel, I’m glad I have spared you from that tonight, and I am so thankful you’re here with us.”
The congregation applauds.
“There will be some things that Hazel and the new members will have to get used to. It will be an adjustment. Just to clear the slate – we say everything to everybody’s face here. No criticism, you can’t say anything behind anybody’s back. If you do, you’re in trouble. If you want to say something to the family, or to me, about me, that’s fine, I welcome it. We grow stronger for it. Now do you understand the essence of what I’m saying?”
