Secrets of the Storm (The Rain Triptych)

by Brad Munson

  – and a jointed limb, a tentacle made of vertebrae as thick as a garden hose, whipped out of the water in the planter and wrapped itself around her neck.

  Ty heard the woman’s strangled scream as she let go of her cart and clutched at the biter-vine. He had barely completed his first step towards her when he saw the viciously curved spikes sprout from the knobby arm, growing right out of nothing, and bury themselves in the woman’s arm and shoulder. Her scream expanded, more pain than fear now, and her knees buckled. Her child tore its hand free, backed away, as a second twisting tentacle, then a third, whipped out of the water and wrapped around the woman’s waist and lower leg.

  The spiked arm twitched against her, an unmistakable sucking motion, and swelled from the width of a garden hose to a fire hose. Ty was halfway across the street, moving as quickly as he could, when a spike jumped out of the second and third tentacles and bit into the woman even deeper. They stuck. They swelled. Now they were as big as tree branches and turning, squeezing.

  Ty dragged up the M231 and held down the trigger, pouring fire into the tentacles where they emerged from the planter. One broke off; the other seemed unaffected as he lurched out of the hip-deep current and pulled himself onto the sidewalk …

  … just as the other two tentacles squeezed the woman into three separate pieces: legs, torso, head. The body splashed to the sidewalk with a meaty thump that Ty could hear from ten feet away.

  The little girl screamed louder than he thought possible: “Momma! Momma!” But she didn’t take a step towards the oozing body parts. She turned on her heel and ran, hard as she could, straight down Bel Air towards the school. He could hear the reedy shriek as it faded: “Momma! Mammaaaa … !!”

  The tentacles were dragging the body parts back into the water-filled planter. Ty tried to fire at them again, just to make them stop, but the M231 clacked impotently. He was out of ammo. He clawed at the pockets of his armor, but they were flat and soggy: no more clips. He was done. He sized the gun by the barrel – he could feel the heat even through his gloves – and turned it into a club. He threw himself forward and brought the stock down on the bony limbs, cracking them, breaking them, pounding and pounding until one cracked off and the other slithered back into the murky water of the planter. The water there thrashed and bubbled, as if the creature was trying to recover.

  Or getting ready to attack again, Ty thought, and backed away from the planter, down the street, towards the school.

  The screaming girl had already disappeared. He was on his own. A candle-eye waddled out of a doorway alcove; he crushed it with his boot and ground the powdery mud into the sidewalk. A flume twisted through the air and wrapped itself around the barrel of his useless gun. He pounded it off against the side of the nearest building, and then threw the rifle away in disgust.

  Fuck it. He was almost there.

  He put his head down and pushed. One more driveway. One more yard. Then he was past the engraved sign of the school, up the wide sidewalk, under the covered walkway and through the thick double doors that led inside some kind of main building. He could see people inside. He could see movement.

  He had made it.

  ***

  Everyone stopped talking – stopped moving –when he came in the door. He paused a few feet inside the entrance and let the water drain off his suit. Without a conscious thought, he pulled back his hood and stripped off the soaked-through cap underneath. He wanted to breathe.

  There were a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty people in the room. It had a stage at one end, two tables filled with snacks and dry clothes against the other end, and retractable grandstands on the two long walls, only partly deployed. Most of the people were very quiet, very frightened children. There were maybe half a dozen adults.

  He started to strip off his overcoat and a big man, as tall as Ty himself, lumbered up. “Hey,” the man said. “I’m James. James Barrymore.”

  “Ty Briggs,” he said as he pulled the coat free. “Is there somewhere I can hang this to dry?”

  “Let it drop for a second,” Barrymore said. “We’ll find a place. So … new in town?”

  “Yeah,” he said as he let the coat drop. He saw Barrymore’s eyes move up and down his fancy armor. He knew he’d have to explain; he wondered how much they’d actually believe it. “Long story.”

  “I can imagine. It’s just that … we know most of the parents already – all of them, actually – and you’re kind of a new face.”

  Ty nodded. “True,” he said. He let his eyes roam across the clusters of children and adults scattered around the room. That one was too young. Those were a bit too old. She’d be about eight; he figured she’d be light-skinned but still have that kinky brown hair she’d had the last time he’d seen her, when she was barely a year old. “And this wasn’t exactly how I’d planned it, but …”

  There. Not fifteen feet away, facing him. Staring at him.

  He went down on one knee. Barrymore, startled, took a step back. “Kerianne?” he called out.

  Her eyes widened. She recognized him. And she smiled.

  “Daddy?” she said.

  He opened his arms. “Hey, baby.”

  She ran to him and he gathered her up in the embrace he’d been waiting years to give.

  “Daddy!” she said as she hugged him hard.

  Mission accomplished.

  Twenty-five

  Linda Kramer hadn’t left the Convention Center for more than two days, not even to change clothes. Her home was far away by Dos Hermanos standards, halfway up the East Ridge near the mayor’s house, and that had turned into a long and dangerous drive. So she was still wearing the same violent pink pant suit when the first of the refugees – that was the best word she could think of, and they certainly looked the part – trudged through the main entrance.

  No snacks this time. Just water in a dwindling supply of paper cups. No cheerful group of greeters and hosts to show them to their seats. They were lucky the chairs were even set up and the heaters were on.

  Linda felt stiff and cold and nervous all at once. She realized now she might never see her home again; it was high above the valley, but there was no telling how high the water was going to rise, or if the building wouldn’t simply slip loose of its mooring and slide into the muck. And she really didn’t care. Really she didn’t. She just wanted out.

  She wanted Donald Peck to take her up in his arms and rescue her. That was all she had ever wanted.

  Still: she tried to get her hair in order, if only for her own self-respect – and for him, of course. It felt slightly stiff and brittle under her fingers, but she couldn’t let that bother her now. He would understand.

  When Donald Peck parked his police cruiser directly in front of the entrance, he left every light on it pulsing and flickering in the storm – a beacon for the last stragglers.

  He came in scowling. “Anybody here?” he asked as he took off his raincoat. She knew what that mean: anybody important.

  “Very few,” she told him. She was surprised and concerned at the low turn-out of VIPs. Most of the attendees from yesterday’s pre-meeting meeting were nowhere to be seen. The owner-operator of the Emporium, Herb McAndless, was a no-show. So was Marty Stein from VeriSil, and Tony O’Meara and Steve Chapin. And where was the Town Council?

  She offered him a cup of lukewarm coffee from the secret supply in the breakroom and saw that Peck was frowning at her. She could tell: he didn’t like the way she looked. She touched her hair again, but she was unaware of how bad it was: she was rumpled and stained, and her anxiety showed through her make-up like a painted skull. “It’ll be fine,” she said and forced a smile.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said and ignored the coffee. “No, it won’t.”

  Stu Axminster of the DHW&P came shoving through the door looking like somebody had killed his dog. “Goddamnit, Donald,” he said, “Richie Riegel just called me and said he ain’t bringin’ the Orange Monster back.” He was referring to the tricked-out Wa
ter and Power tow-truck that they used for most of the city repairs. It would have been a valuable addition to the caravan.

  Peck sighed. “Not surprising,” he said shortly.

  “He’s stealing, goddamn it!” the fat old man blustered. “Stealing goddamn public property! Your people need to pick him up! He—”

  “Stu,” Peck said. “My people are gone. So are yours. Besides, the Monster’s a two-seater, right?”

  “Yeah?” Stu said, sticking his chin out. “So?”

  “So it’s not going to help us with getting people out of town anyway, is it?”

  Stu blinked a couple of times. “Well … no, but–”

  “And you still have all the other city vehicles? The ones with lots of seats?”

  “Well, yeah. They’re all parked right next door in the holding lot. Under the Tower.” His stony expression was obvious: Stu didn’t like the way this conversation was going.

  “Do you have drivers for all those vehicles, Stu? The ones we’re actually going to use?”

  Stu’s eyes shifted away. “Well … probably. I mean, I called. I left a lot of messages, I just … I need to check on that, actually.”

  “You do that,” Peck said. “Now.”

  Axminster glowered at them, then grumbled away. Peck just shook his head. “I can’t stand much more of this,” he said, more to himself than to Linda. “I really can’t.”

  Peck moved towards the stage, weaving past clumps of dripping, miserable citizens. A few called out to him, asked him questions. A day earlier he would have worked them all – a smile, a hand on a shoulder, a quick word. Today he didn’t even bother to speak to them.

  He moved behind the podium to check the microphones, but Linda already knew they were working perfectly. She’d tested them half an hour ago. But as he bent to read the levels on the amplifier, a shadow stopped out of the wings and a cold current ran through Linda.

  “You’re just a liar, is what you are.”

  Oh, no, she thought. It was a thick, wet, phlegmy, all-too-familiar voice.

  Peck straightened and turned, though he already knew what he was going to see.

  Big Jennifer Toombs, her flower-print dress glued to her lumpy bulk and her plastic raincoat wrapped cellophane-tight, was standing in the wings, glaring at him.

  “You’re not lookin’ for my baby. You never looked for my baby.”

  Linda and Peck both noticed that a few of the arrivals were watching them, obviously hoping for a little entertainment. “Come with me,” he said to Big Jennifer – telling, not asking – and took her by the elbow. He led her into the wings.

  Linda followed. She held back, barely offstage and half-hidden from them by the curtains that hung along the edge of the stage, while the sheriff moved the fat woman to a place just inside a security door that read DO NOT OPEN – ALARM WILL SOUND. They both knew the alarm had never been connected. No alarm would ever sound; it was just another empty threat.

  She could clearly hear Donald taking care of the situation. “Mrs. Toombs,” he said testily, “we’re doing the best we can.” As if there’s any ‘we’ left, Linda thought.

  Big Jennifer sneered at him. “Hell you are. Even before this mess outside, you didn’t look for her.”

  “I–”

  “You were glad she was gone,” she said, her voice rising.

  Of course he was, Linda thought. Everybody was.

  “You wish I would go away, too! You wish –”

  He did it so fast it took Linda by surprise. He just threw up one leg, cocked it back, and kicked Big Jennifer as hard as he could, right in the middle of her broad, jiggling chest. Big Jennifer went oog! and flew straight back, colliding with the security door’s push-bar, throwing it open. She tumbled backwards, into the roaring night, just like that, all in an instant. Then the door banged against the outer wall and slammed shut in one swing.

  She was gone. Just like that, she was gone.

  Peck started to turn away – and caught sight of Linda Kramer watching him. He froze, but only for a minute. Then they both heard the pounding on the door, barely audible over the gurgling roar of the rain.

  “Let me in!” Big Jennifer bellowed from outside. “Let me in, damn you!”

  He didn’t even turn around.

  “LET ME IN!” She sounded outraged – beyond outraged. “I’ll GET you, you son of a bitch! I’ll tell EVERYbody you–”

  There was a pause. Peck cocked his head like a curious dog. Linda wondered what had stopped her.

  “Sheriff?” Big Jennifer said. Her voice was suddenly querulous. “Sheriff, there’s something out here.”

  He smiled coldly at Linda. And Linda smiled back.

  “Sheriff, there’s – SHERIFF! GOD, OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR OPEN THE DOOR OHHHHH—”

  Her voice cut off with a wet slash unlike anything Linda had ever heard outside of a butcher shop.

  They stood facing each other for a long time, even after the awful sounds had stopped. Finally, Donald Peck spoke. “Well, then,” he said to her. “Problem solved, I guess.”

  “Indeed it is,” she said, and stepped to one side. Sheriff Peck smoothed his immaculate khaki uniform and turned back to the slowly filling room.

  ***

  She watched him speak from the back of the room. She kept her eyes on him without flinching, until she heard the funny sounds in the yard next door.

  Just before he began, the Lazenbys strolled through the entrance as if they were visiting from the prom. He was perfectly groomed and bone dry, a silver-haired angel dressed in black who glided confidently down the center aisle and took the same seat on the stage as he had occupied the night before.

  Peck regarded him with barely concealed contempt. Careful, Linda thought. He’s still mayor. Old and crazy, yes, but still Mayor. And Miriam is not to be trifled with.

  “People? Let’s get started.” There was a whine of feedback that made everybody groan. He ignored it. “This is how it’s going to work …”

  He laid out the plan for evacuation in clear and concise language, and Linda couldn’t have loved him more. He handled the bitching and moaning of the refugees with care and grace – as always, she thought. As always.

  It went well – well enough, anyway – until the Greenaways stood up. The parents of one of the missing Little Girls.

  Sharon Greenaway was well-known in this town. She was well-liked, even after the things that Donald had said – well, implied – the night before. So people turned and looked at her when she said, “What about our daughter?” She didn’t look like the weak little mommy anymore. She looked mad. “You said you were looking. Just yesterday, you said so. And now you want to run?”

  “Sharon,” Peck said carefully. “Jim, I … I don’t know what to say. There are men out there right now, looking …”

  … and then he stopped. He just stopped.

  Linda held her breath. She waited for the next word. And she hated how he suddenly leaned forward on the podium and his shoulders slumped. Not the ramrod decision-maker now. Not the leader. Something different … and something far less.

  “Actually, Sharon … Jim … let me level with you,” he said. His voice was rough now. Weary.

  Oh, no, she thought. No, no.

  “All of you. We’re not looking for your daughter right now. We don’t have the men or the time. I hope somebody found her and took her out of town. I really do hope that. But right now … we have to go.”

  “The hell we do!” Sharon said, standing up so fast she knocked her chair over. “We are not leaving Dos Hermanos without Katie!”

  “Then you’re probably going to die,” he said flatly.

  The Greenaways stared at him for one moment longer, then turned and left the room. Half a dozen others joined them, casting poisonous looks as they stalked through the double doors. Lightning blasted the walls to white, and there was a tremendous, almost metallic CLANGGG! of thunder that rattled the windows.

  “Good luck to you,” he said as the
y left.

  The crowd was muttering. People were shifting. You’re losing them, Donald, she told him silently. Do something!

  And there was a huge BONG!, the crashing, deafening sound of a broken bell being run, just outside the door to the maintenance yard next door.

  Nobody else seemed to notice. She couldn’t tell why; it was as if the constant chaotic roar of the storm had made them deaf, but she heard it, very clearly. Just outside.

  She put on the rain parka she’d found the night before as another refugee stood up and asked why Donald hadn’t told them the night before. He said the worst possible thing:

  “I was wrong.”

  Oh my God, she thought. Shut UP. But there was a roaring outside the door, a vast mechanical bellow, and she had to see what it was.

  She slipped outside the door as the protests grew louder.

  There was a huge garbage truck in the lot. It was smashed up against one of the huge, thick pylons that held up the Water Tower, that huge tank of water that loomed over the entire city.

  As she watched, the garbage truck’s engine roared and roared, and backed up. Stopped. Roared again, for a second hit.

  “STOP!” she shouted. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” Her shout was lost in the storm.

  The truck hit the leg a second time with another deafening BONG! And she saw the huge metal pylon crack in ten places and buckle just above the hood of the truck.

  And it roared. And it backed up again for a third blow …

  Lisa bolted back into the Convention Center. Everyone was shouting at Donald. A fat old man was literally shaking his fist at the sheriff.

  “Goddamn it, I just lost my house! It just floated away, not two hours ago, and you—”

  “You, too?” said another guy. “Shit, I thought I was the only one—”

  “And those things out there! Those things!”

  “My brother didn’t come home last night. I don’t know what—”

  “My dad—”

  “Jimmy and Dooley and Wyatt, they—”

  Lightning cut through the room again. Thunder exploded – that same strange double-thump of sound and shockwave. But the audience just kept talking, kept pushing at him.