Maybe, if he were honest with himself, it was a little bit of all of that. But right now, as he waded into waist-deep water and approached what he now knew was a body, none of that mattered.
The body was moving toward him, bobbing in the water, carried by the slow current, which contained other flotsam: branches, empty cups, food wrappers, and beer cans.
At first, when he touched the body’s cold skin, he didn’t know if it was a woman or a man. It was too dark here. Everything was in varying shades of gray.
He dropped down onto one knee, the water hitting him at his chin now, pulled the body toward him, and flipped it over, supporting its buoyed weight on his knee.
Forgetting he was on camera now, streaming live to the world, he brushed the mop of hair away from the figure’s face. In the panic of the moment, he wasn’t sure of anything more about the person than that they were unconscious and not breathing.
It wasn’t until he laid his head on the chest, checking for a pulse, that he sensed the softness of a woman’s breasts. There was no pulse.
His own heart now racing, pulsing worriedly, and his breathing accelerated and short, he resolved to try CPR. He’d never done it. He’d never tried mouth-to-mouth either. But he had seen countless sweeps reports on the Southland’s News Leader about how to save an injured person. He believed he had no choice but to try.
He tilted the woman’s head back, pushing her hair back from her face, and opened her mouth. He fished around in it to make sure there was nothing blocking her airway. So far, so good. Then he pinched her nose, tilted her chin some more, took a breath, and blew into her mouth.
Her lips tasted foul. There was the distinct mixture of floodwater, rum, and vomit. Lane pulled away and gagged. He swallowed hard and tried again. No luck.
He shifted his weight and tried leveraging her body against his knee again, providing some support to her back. Her head tilted back, her hair splaying in the water like tentacles, and she bobbed lifelessly on the surface.
Another round of mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions accomplished nothing. Lane was trembling now. The water was rising. He stood and turned around, forgetting about the camera, the live audience, and called out, “We need help!” His voice broke and an aching knot swelled in his throat. He swallowed hard against it and was reminded of the taste of vomit-spiked floodwater in his mouth. He called out again, his words swallowed by the percussion of the rain on the water, on the roofs of the aging buildings, on the sopping clothing of the woman who floated before him.
He reached down and picked up her body. She was heavier than he imagined a person of her relatively slight size could be. He heaved her onto his shoulder and started trudging toward the camera, unaware or ambivalent to the fact his photographer was still rolling.
He struggled despite the depth of the water mitigating some of her weight, but he pushed forward. He was breathing heavily now. There was a tightness in his chest and a stitch forming in his side. He winced against it, stopping for a moment to stretch his side.
As he drew closer to the camera and his field producer, who had backed away as the flooding encroached, he was startled by a loud roar exploding to his right, accompanied by a blindingly bright flash of lightning.
It wasn’t a roar; it was a rumble. And the light wasn’t from the sky. Both were from a large city garbage truck rolling through the intersection he was unknowingly crossing.
He stopped short and pivoted toward the truck, the woman’s body swinging. It carried too much momentum, combined with his sudden stop, and Lane was knocked off balance. He splashed face first into the knee-deep water, awkwardly twisting his legs. Her limp body flung from his shoulder with a splash and slid forward in the shallows of the black water.
Lane swallowed a mouthful of the rancid water and coughed it out as he worked to regain his balance. Then there were strong hands on both of his arms.
Two men, one on either side, were helping him toward the truck. They were dressed for the weather and wore jackets that announced they were with the city’s emergency operations team.
Lane took a couple of weak steps with them and then resisted. He yanked his arms from their grasp and shook his head.
“No,” he said breathlessly, his chest heaving. “I don’t need help. Thanks. The woman needs help. Where is the woman?”
He pivoted and scanned the surface of the water. Then he swung back to face the two rescuers. No sign of her.
“Where is she?” he said, somewhat dazed. “Where is the woman? She’s not breathing.”
One of the men put his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said, holding on with a tight grip. “We’ve got her. There’s an ambulance trailing us. Our guys already have her.”
Lane glanced past the man in front of him and saw two others hurrying through the water with the woman in their arms. They were carrying her like a wounded soldier; each man had one of her arms draped over his shoulder. Her legs dragged behind, leaving a wake.
“Y’all shouldn’t be out here,” said the man with his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “The mayor just enacted a curfew. She wants everyone—”
“I’m a journalist,” said Lane. That last word felt strong coming from his mouth. It was the first time he’d referred to himself using the j-word in years. He’d resolved to call himself a news anchor long ago.
“You’re not with the woman?”
Lane shook his head. The ambulance lights strobed off the buildings down the street and reflected on the surface of the water.
“So you—”
“I saw her while I was doing a live shot. I ran over to her. I tried to help her. I swear I did.” The knot thickened again and Lane’s chest warbled with the threat of tears. He held them back.
“You don’t know her, then?” said the man. “Don’t have a name? No next of kin? Nothin’?”
“No.”
“Well, you did a good thing,” said the man. His partner concurred, speaking for the first time by echoing the sentiment.
“You think she’ll make it?” asked Lane. “She wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t find a heartbeat.”
The man glanced past him toward the direction of the camera and Lane’s field producer. He let go of his shoulder, but he didn’t answer the question. He didn’t really have to. They all knew the woman’s chances were slim. There was no telling how long she’d been facedown in the water, unconscious. The man motioned with his chin in the direction of his gaze.
“You belong to them?” he asked, his New Orleans drawl becoming apparent as he spoke. “That cameraman over there and the lady with him?”
Lane nodded without looking at them. “Yeah. My photographer and field producer.”
“He’s aiming that thing at us right now,” said the man. “Is he putting us on the television?”
Lane bent over, put his hands on his knees, and gagged. Then he nodded. “Probably.”
“Yeah.” The man shook his head, contradicting his verbal acquiescence. “I don’t want to be on television. No, sir, nohow. You be good now, ya hear? And get inside. It isn’t safe, even if you’re a journalist.”
“Thanks,” said Lane. “We’ll be careful.”
The men turned around and high-stepped their way back to the idling garbage truck. The beast of a high-water vehicle cranked as the driver pushed it into gear. It began its slow rumble up the street toward Lane. He stepped out of its path and watched it turn left, down the street where he’d found the woman and where the water was getting deeper more quickly.
It was then Lane saw the large bed of the truck. It was loaded, but not with trash or debris. It was full of people. From the back of the cab to the rear edge of the bed, it was packed with men and women. Some of them held small children in their arms. They stared at Lane as the truck turned and rolled toward the black. A couple of them waved. Lane waved back. But none of them, not a one of the two or three dozen people in the back of that garbage truck, people who clearly had been rescued from the floodwaters, said a
word. They were as quiet as if there had been nothing in the truck at all.
Lightning flickered in the distance. Lane was transfixed. This was one truck on one street at the onset of what was going to be two or three days of rain. What more was to come? How many more dozens, hundreds, thousands of people would be facedown in the water or forced to leave everything behind for the crowded, dank confines of a garbage truck on their way to safety?
Lane trudged back to his team. He tried to avoid looking either of them in the eyes. He couldn’t do it. Instead he searched the water for his duck shoes.
“That was…” began his producer in a trembling, tentative voice, “incredible. Amazing.”
“Freaking A, man,” said the photographer. “You were amazing. I didn’t think you had that in you. No offense. But…freaking A, man.”
The camera was on his shoulder, but the red tally light in the front of the viewfinder was off. He wasn’t live and he wasn’t recording anything. He was grinning from ear to ear.
Lane couldn’t look at either of them. He tried, but there was some sort of magnetic, guilty pull that kept his eyes fixed on the water. Maybe it wasn’t guilt. Maybe it was that he didn’t want to cry. He knew if he looked at either of them, he would.
After thirty seconds of silence, the rain slapping at them as it had since they’d left the hotel, he finally spoke. “Anybody would have done it.”
“Not true,” said the field producer. “I didn’t do it.”
“Me neither,” said the photographer.
Lane sighed. “Well, I think we have our story for the rest of the trip, and it’s not basketball.”
“I agree,” said the field producer. “Totally. I’ll get on the call in the morning and—”
Lane lifted his head and balled his fists at his sides. He tensed, trying to hold it together as his eyes locked with hers. She stopped cold.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “We start now. The story is now.”
CHAPTER 10
April 5, 2026
Santa Monica, California
Danny squirted water from the bottle onto the hot griddle. It sizzled, and steam plumed up toward the vent. He wiped a spatula on his white apron and scraped the charred remnants of ground beef into the catch basin at the side of the griddle.
He relished the humid, acrid odor of the burnt burger pieces. It was a reminder his day was almost over. He dug at a particularly stubborn crumb and sprayed more water. Another blast of steam plumed, some of it reaching his face, and he grimaced like a man too close to a fire.
The crumb scrubbed loose; then Danny guided it into the basin. “I’m the boss,” he reminded the crumb under his breath. This was his house.
“You say something?” asked Arthur, the burly fry cook who stood behind him, refilling the wholesale-sized oil bottles. He’d worked at the diner for years. Danny wondered sometimes if they’d built the place around him.
“No,” Danny said. “Just mumbling to myself.”
“Ha,” said Arthur with an amiable chuckle that made his frame shake. “Talking to yourself, huh? I guess that’s cool as long as you don’t start answering back.”
Danny had heard Arthur say the same thing fifty times if he’d heard it once. He smiled at his friend as if it were the first time and nodded.
“True,” Danny said. Then he deepened his voice, talking as if he were someone else. “No it’s not.”
Arthur slapped Danny on the back. “You got jokes. You always got jokes, Danny Correa.”
Danny found it remarkable that Arthur thought him comical. Inside his own mind, the one that had only one voice, he was empty of humor. But perception was reality, so he didn’t fight it.
Arthur capped the last oil bottle and re-shelved it near the griddle. He stepped close to Danny, lowered his voice, and asked, “What do you think of her?”
His eyes were affixed to the woman settling the cash register, the head waitress and de facto closing manager. Her name was Claudia. She was roughly Arthur’s age, Danny figured, somewhere in her mid-fifties. She was single, she was good with customers, and she didn’t take crap from anyone.
“I don’t,” said Danny.
Arthur’s shoulders sank and he huffed. “No,” he said, dragging out the vowel with frustration. “For me? What do you think of her?”
Danny snapped his head toward Arthur and took a step back to focus on his face. Was he serious? “Are you serious?”
Now Arthur frowned. “Yeah, why? What’s wrong with that? I’m a man; she’s a—”
“She’s a Claudia,” said Danny. “I just never thought of her that way.”
“What way?”
“Like,” Danny fumbled for the right word, “like, a woman?”
“I asked her out,” Arthur admitted. “We’re going out tonight after work. As soon as we’re done and that last jerk of a customer leaves.”
Danny didn’t have to turn around to know what customer Arthur was referencing. It was Derek. He was sitting in a corner booth, nursing his fourth cup of coffee. Or fifth.
Instead of taking his prescribed breaks, Danny had chosen to work through his shift without a rest. He’d done it not so much because he wanted the lower back ache and shoulder pain that came from a long, uninterrupted stretch at the griddle, but because…Derek.
The unnervingly attractive gazillionaire had waited patiently. He’d occasionally run his sun-kissed hands through his full head of styled hair or checked the heavy two-toned aviator’s watch on his wrist. But he hadn’t said a word or interrupted Danny in his work.
The time was coming, though, and the meeting and long conversation was at hand. He couldn’t avoid it any longer.
“The guy’s here for me,” he whispered to Arthur. “You and your lady can take off if you want. I got the rest. I can lock up.”
Arthur’s eyes widened with surprise and then narrowed with suspicion. “Are you…?” He wagged his finger between Danny and Derek.
Danny shook his head. “No, I’m not. He’s not. He’s with my ex. He’s got something to talk about with me. I don’t know what it is.”
Arthur nodded as if he understood, although there was no way he could. He wiped his hands on his apron and thanked Danny. Then he eased toward Claudia. Danny felt her glare from across the diner, but she apparently acquiesced to whatever Arthur had suggested. Within a few minutes, she’d slapped the keys on the counter in front of him and walked out of the place, arm in arm with Arthur.
When he was sure they were gone, Danny palmed the keys and stepped out from behind the counter. He locked the door from the inside and then spun around to walk the distance of the place to Derek and the last booth.
Derek had his back to him until he slid into the booth across from him. The first thing he noticed were the dark, face-defining circles under his eyes and the pale yellow of his complexion. He had the aged appearance of someone who’d undergone chemotherapy and radiation. He was healthy enough, but there was something there that signaled past illness. There was a translucency to his skin that gave Derek an ethereal appearance. Danny imagined if Derek took another swig of the bitter, room-temperature coffee, he’d be able to see it slide down his throat.
“Thanks for waiting,” said Danny, forcing the back cushion to leak air as he leaned against the vinyl covering.
Derek bit at his nail, or what was left of it. Danny noticed the skin around his nail beds was irritated and red. There were traces of dried blood on a couple of them. Derek chewed on the nail, or skin, or whatever he’d torn from his finger. His right knee was bouncing, and it made the coffee cup rattle against the laminate tabletop.
Danny glanced at the cup. “You want more?”
Derek shook his head, stopped bouncing his knee, and raked his fingers through his hair again. He blinked a couple of times and met Danny’s gaze.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, his voice shaky. “I know you didn’t want to, that’s why you skipped your breaks.”
Danny didn’t deny i
t.
“I don’t blame you,” said Derek, drawing the side of a finger to his teeth, nibbling as he spoke. “That’s why I didn’t complain about sitting here for seven hours.”
Danny planted his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. He leaned forward, anxious to get this over with and go home to Maggie.
“Here’s the thing,” said Derek, “I’m not a bad guy.”
Danny looked out the window, his own reflection bouncing back at him. It was after midnight. He’d probably missed the last bus.
Derek held his hands palms up. “I get it,” he said. “I do. Seriously, though, Danny, I’m not a bad person. I have good intentions. I pay my taxes, I give generously to charity, I volunteer at a food bank…”
Danny dipped his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Do you want some kind of award? Because if you do, I—”
“No.” Derek swallowed hard. “That’s not it. I’m telling you I have good intentions. That’s not to say I don’t do selfish things, bad things.”
“I can think of at least one,” said Danny.
Derek didn’t respond directly. “This time, my desire to change the world for the better, to shape it in a way that I think is beneficial to everyone, has backfired.”
Derek checked over one shoulder, then the other, as if anyone were in the closed diner, and lowered his voice. His knee was bouncing again, rattling the coffee cup on the table. The spoon fell from the saucer.
“It’s backfired in a monumental way,” he said, his eyes growing distant. “Monumental. And I have no idea how far-reaching it is. It’s like I dropped a pebble in a pond and can’t stop the concentric circles from growing. Then it starts to rain and there are countless concentric circles. All of them are different sizes, growing and spreading. Now I can’t even find the original spot where I dropped the pebble.”
The two sat there silently for a moment. Then Danny slapped the table, startling Derek from his reverie.
The Alt Apocalypse {Book 3): Torrent Page 10
