The Alt Apocalypse {Book 3): Torrent

by Abrahams, Tom

  Dub remembered it smelling like raw shrimp and gasoline. He remembered the men wearing large fish hooks clipped to the brims of their worn baseball caps. They spoke with thick rolling accents that sometimes made it difficult for Dub to understand what they were saying as they navigated the streets-turned-canals with a spot beam and a tireless vigor to help strangers.

  The memories were there in full color now. They took him from one disaster and dropped him chin deep in another.

  As the rain hit his face now, trickling into his nose and draining from the corners of his eyes, he remembered the boaters’ faces. He recalled how supportive they’d been, how they’d offered food and towels, and how they’d given him some cheap goggles to keep the water out of his eyes.

  He could hear their voices in the dark, calling to his family as their outboard-powered skiff gurgled toward them. They’d called out, promising help, safety, and dry land.

  “Dub,” they’d called. “Dub, is that you? Dub, we’re here. We’re coming.”

  Wait. He opened his eyes. The voices didn’t belong to the Cajun Navy some eight and a half years earlier. The voices were more familiar than that. And they were echoing in this world, not a previous one through which he’d already lived.

  “Dub! Wave if that’s you.”

  “Do you hear that?” Keri asked.

  They wiped the rain from their faces, staring into the dark, toward the streetlamp that gave the dim glow of yellow light.

  “I hear it,” he said, now certain it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t part of his trip down memory canal. It was here. It was now.

  Keri’s narrowed gaze turned to Dub. “Is that—”

  “Barker,” said Dub. “It’s Barker.”

  Dub sat up straight on the sloping roof. He cupped his hands at his face and yelled, “Over here! We’re over here!”

  His voice was absorbed by the rain. He called again, then a third time. The dark shape of a boat moved from the light. It was in the darkness now, a purplish shadow fighting the push of the water.

  “We see you!” Barker called back. “We’re coming. Stay there.”

  Dub and Keri stood. Hand in hand they stepped to the edge of the roof, above the overflowing gutter that pulsed water onto the tiles before it dropped back into the gutter and spilled into the rising water below.

  The water was only a couple of inches from the gutter now. It was reaching for it. It was touching it and pulling back for a stronger surge forward. It reminded Dub of an incoming tide taking nibbles at the hand-constructed, compacted walls around a sandcastle. With each surge, a bit more of it was underwater.

  “Do you see them?” asked Keri. “I think I see them over there.”

  Dub followed the line of her pointing finger and saw the shape of the boat. In the distance, beneath the pattering rain, the groan and whine of a small engine puttered.

  “That’s them,” he said.

  The current was shifting. It was faster now, if that was possible.

  How is that possible?

  As they had drifted precariously close to missing the roof of the house on which they now stood, he worried the boat and its undersized motor might not be able to navigate its way close enough to get them.

  Yet it moved closer, its elongated shape growing. Dub could make out the figures of people on board the boat now. There were four people. Five? They were sitting low against the frame of the boat. One of them was waving his or her arms. It was probably Barker.

  “We’re coming!” he repeated. “Hang tight.”

  “Where would we go?” Keri murmured. “What does he think we’re doing?”

  The tension in her voice cut through the rain and the cold. She stood there shivering in her underwear and a T-shirt, her arms wrapped tight around her own body.

  Dub shifted his weight toward her and put an arm around her shoulder, then moved it to her waist, drawing her more closely to him. Her body was rigid and trembling at the same time.

  With his free arm, he waved back at Barker. “We’re right here! On the roof. We’re not going anywhere.”

  The boat was within fifty yards now. It was struggling. The bow pitched up and down as the dark figure in the back of the boat tried to fight the current. The boat appeared to be moving diagonally, but it was powering straight ahead.

  Dub inched closer to the edge of the roof. His feet were at the gutter. Keri’s toes curled around it. Their bodies were ready before their minds were. Dub resisted the instinctive urge to jump to the boat despite its distance from them.

  The motor’s effort was louder now. The voices on board the boat rose above the rain. Dub could make out four people. Two of the men were Louis and Frank, the owners of the boat. Barker was there, and next to him was Gem. Even from that distance, he saw the exhaustion on their faces, the stress that stretched them long and deepened the creases at their foreheads and around their mouths.

  They were close now. Twenty feet. Ten. Five. Dub put his hands on Keri’s hips and stepped behind her. She would go first.

  Then, short of the roof, the boat spun in the current, its bow facing away now. The motor was spitting and churning water toward the spot where Dub and Keri stood, their bodies itching to jump.

  Louis called out, “It’s getting away from me. Current’s too strong. I can’t get closer.”

  “What should we do?” Keri asked. “I say we jump.”

  Dub shook his head. “That’s suicide. We miss the boat and that’s it.”

  The motor gurgle and sputtered. The pilot yelled out again, “I can’t get closer!” The boat was drifting farther away. Six feet. Seven. Eight.

  “We gotta jump,” Keri said again. “We can’t stay here. We’re dead if we don’t.”

  The rain fell harder against his head. It pounded like tiny hammers working away at his scalp. The boat was drifting, its motor no match for the current.

  “I’m jumping,” Keri said. “Let’s go.”

  Before Dub could stop her, she leapt from the edge of the roof and splashed into the water, landing halfway between where Dub stood and the motor, and disappeared into the wash of current.

  Without thinking, Dub jumped, landing in the current and dropping just under the surface. His head popped up without fully submerging. The rush of the water filled his ears. The cold stabbed at his chest. The back of the boat was straight ahead. But where was Keri?

  “Keri!” he shouted, trying to move forward, to use the current to take him to the boat. “Keri!”

  He spun around, facing the house as the water pulled him away from it. He bobbed, and water filled his mouth. He choked, coughed, and spat it out. He was churning his arms and legs, working to fight the water and acquiesce to its power at the same time.

  There was the boat. The far-off haze of the streetlamp.

  The rain. The boat. The house. The haze. The motor.

  And then, Keri.

  There she was, at the side of the boat. She’d made it. Somebody was pulling her aboard. She was alive. She was in the boat.

  Dub ducked his face into the water and kicked his legs as hard as he could. He swung his arms like a windmill, churning the water as he swam the few feet left between him and the boat. He lifted his head, spotted his target, lowered it again, and swam. He blew air from his nostrils, his arms and legs working. The boat pivoted.

  Keri was facing him now. She was leaning over the side of the boat next to Barker. Both of them were leaning over with extended hands. Dub was certain the boat would tip and send all of them into the flood.

  Barker grabbed his wrist; Keri took hold of his other hand. He kicked. Dub lifted himself with their help and collapsed onto the floor of the skiff. He heard his heartbeat above the pinging of rain on the aluminum hull.

  It took him a couple of minutes to gather the strength to sit up. By then, Louis had better control of the boat. They were moving with the current, staying away from debris and large structures.

  Keri threw herself at him. He fell back, her weight on him. She
was crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, kissing his face. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  “You just jumped,” said Dub. “It’s okay. We made it.”

  “You made it all right,” said Barker. “And Keri jumping like that was totally badass. It was like when your favorite player takes a three, and you’re like, ‘No, no, no!’ Then it goes in and you’re like, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’”

  Keri moved herself off Dub, but stayed close to him. They were on the center bench now. Barker introduced everyone to Keri.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You saved us.”

  “We ain’t saved nothing yet,” said Louis. “We’re riding with the current and trying to find dry land. That’s all.”

  “How did you find us?” asked Dub. “I thought the boat capsized. I thought you were in the water.”

  Barker shook his head. “No. Almost. When you fell out, you were gone like that.” Barker snapped his fingers. “We looked and looked, and we couldn’t find you. We thought…”

  Barker looked at his feet. His hands were clasped together, one thumb rubbing the other. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. His premature balding was all the more apparent when his hair was wet and slicked against his head.

  “How did you find us though?” Dub asked, moving past the uncomfortable, rain-draped silence.

  Barker looked up and offered a thin smile, motioning to the woman sitting next to him. “Gem. It was her idea.”

  Gem demurred. She shrugged. “It made sense. We knew you were coming to find your girlfriend. If you were okay, this is where you’d be. If you weren’t, at least we might find her.”

  “How did you know where my parents live?” Keri asked.

  “I remembered the street,” said Barker. “Louis and Frank knew where it was. We took a shot in the dark.”

  Dub thanked them all again. So did Keri. Then Dub said to Louis, “I thought you weren’t good with street names.”

  “I ain’t,” said Louis, working the stick to control the direction of the jon boat. “But every once in a while, I kinda know a street. Got lucky.”

  That was an understatement. Dub shook his head and chuckled in disbelief.

  “What now?” asked Louis. “Anybody else to save? We ain’t got nothing better to do.”

  Keri didn’t hesitate. “My family,” she said. “They’re all together. My parents can’t swim.”

  “You think you can guide us there?” asked Louis.

  Keri nodded.

  “Then let’s find a way there,” he said. “How many of them? Two?”

  “Four,” said Keri. “My parents and my sisters.”

  Louis exchanged glances with Frank. “It’s gonna get tight, but I think we’ll manage. Hold on, everybody. Rescue round two.”

  “I hope they’re okay,” Keri said worriedly.

  “They will be,” Dub said, not sure of it at all.

  CHAPTER 14

  April 5, 2026

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Lane Turner adjusted the damp and mildewed life vest strap at his waist. It was digging into the underside of his ribs. Lane thought about unclipping it and taking it off, but his host aboard the rescue boat had insisted he, his field producer, and photographer wear them. He worked his neck from one side to the other then let go of the vest, focusing on the conversation the pilot was having with his producer.

  The rescue boat had picked them up minutes after Lane’s attempted rescue of the drowning woman. They’d agreed to keep them aboard until there were too many people who needed rescuing. At that point, they’d have to catch another ride.

  It was a risk, given the rapidly deteriorating conditions. The producer had hedged; Lane hadn’t. Now they were trolling for survivors north of the French Quarter in an area called Mid City. They’d gotten a call about a family of four needing help.

  There were already six aboard a boat that could hold a dozen easily. Lane and his crew, the pilot and his crew. They worked for the city.

  The captain, a man named Bellau, was telling the producer about their work as he navigated the boat from street to street. There were colored lights around the exterior of the boat’s hull that illuminated its footprint in the water.

  “We’re part of the city’s Search and Rescue Marine Unit,” said Bellau in a briny-sounding voice. “New Orleans Police maintains a fleet of thirty-five boats. We’re tasked with searching, rescuing, and recovering people lost in any body of water located in Orleans Parish. Sometimes we work with the Coast Guard. Sometimes we’re on our own.”

  A radio crackled, hailing the captain. He held up a finger to the producer and answered the call. The boat listed to one side and then leveled. The large motor on the back spat and chortled, blending the water behind it, propelling the heavy craft forward where the captain told it to go.

  “Bellau,” he said. “SRMU 29. Go ahead.”

  The call on the other end was garbled and riddled with static. The rain pounding on the deck made it hard for Lane to hear every word, but he caught the gist of it. Some of the pumps had failed, as had some of the newer, supposedly stronger walls built in the last twenty years, post-Katrina. The call was warning that rougher water might be coming. More pumps were on the verge of quitting under the increased load.

  “Understood,” Bellau replied. “Update me when you have new information, SRMU 29 Over.” He ended the call.

  The captain inched the throttle forward. The bow lurched upward. Lane grabbed the side to prevent himself from slipping backward.

  “We need to speed it up,” said Bellau. “We’re running out of time.”

  “The pumps?” asked Lane. “They failed?”

  “Some,” said Bellau. “Others will soon.”

  “I thought they fixed all of that,” said the producer. “They rebuilt everything.”

  “Twenty billion dollars.” Bellau had both of his hands on the helm now. “Three hundred and fifty miles of pumps, levees, flood walls, and gates. They circle the city. They’re supposed to make us an island, high and dry.”

  “But they’re not,” said Lane.

  Bellau shook his head. “They’re not.”

  “Why?” asked the producer.

  “They were supposed to be built to withstand a one-hundred-year flood, meaning that they would hold back the kind of flood that has a one percent chance of happening. Old Mayor Landrieu wanted ten-thousand-year protection. You know, like they have in the Netherlands. That’s what he wanted back then. Didn’t get it. Instead, we got stuff that Katrina would have eaten for lunch.”

  “That’s it?” asked Lane. “That sounds ridiculous. Why?”

  The captain shrugged. “We still on camera?”

  “Yes,” the producer answered.

  “Then I don’t have a comment,” he said. “Those decisions were made way above my pay grade. I just do what I’m told. Right now we’ve got to find some people and help them before we can’t.”

  The producer signaled to the photographer to stop rolling, and all of them took their seats. They bounded against the chop of the water as Bellau motored closer to the address dispatch had given them at the outset of the mission.

  Bellau eased the throttle back, and the boat slowed to a near float. The motor rumbled more softly, the water gurgling behind it. The boat floated past what Lane thought at first was a thick tree branch, but when it nearly bumped the hull, he saw it was a body. It was the seventh they’d seen. Seven bodies. If there were seven already they’d seen, he wondered how many more were under the surface. How many more wouldn’t reveal themselves until the water receded? His producer had mentioned to him that more than eighteen hundred people had died during Hurricane Katrina. More than one hundred had died during Hurricane Sandy. Harvey killed more than eighty in Texas. There was no telling what kind of havoc this flash flooding might cause. There was virtually no warning, no way to get out. The city’s efforts had clearly been too little, too late.

  “We’re here,” he said, pointing at a street sign
that was barely above eye level. “Keep your eyes out, fellas.”

  The two other rescue workers took positions on either edge of the boat near the bow. They shone handheld spotlights out at the houses lining either side of the wide canal.

  “We can’t see addresses,” one of them called back to Captain Bellau. “The water’s too high.”

  The rain had slowed to a sprinkle now, and the sounds of swamp animals croaked and chirped. The air was chilled from the misty rain, but it was thick with humidity. The lights scanned the tops of houses on either side. They were empty.

  “They’re gonna be on a roof,” said Bellau. “That’s what the call said. We’re on the right block.”

  Lane motioned for the photographer to start rolling. He shouldered the camera and slid his right hand inside its protective weather gear. The red tally light atop the viewfinder illuminated, and Lane knew the photographer was recording.

  He was holding a stick microphone, its wireless transmitter wrapped in a plastic baggie and duct tape. He spoke into it, the top of the mesh almost touching his lips.

  “You hear me okay?” he asked.

  The photographer nodded. “Good to go. Gimme a level.”

  Lane lowered the mic a bit, holding it at his chest. “Mic check,” he said. “Chickety check. Chickety check. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Sibilance. Give me a chance. Sibilance. Chickety check.”

  “We’re good,” said the photographer.

  Lane caught the field producer rolling her eyes. “You doing a stand-up for the morning show?”

  “For whatever,” said Lane. “We could feed this back live and they could post to the web or the app. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “We don’t have a good enough signal right now,” said the producer. “We could send it with a delay. Let the system store it and then forward it. That might work.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Lane. “Just follow me. Whatever I talk about, you try to find. Leave the light off and gain up. It’ll give it an…ethereal look.”

  The photographer nodded. The producer protested. Lane assured her it would look good despite the lack of light and the grainy picture quality induced by adding gain, or extra pixels of white, to the lowly lit images. She relented and checked her watch so as to time the hit. Lane counted down from three.