The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

by Robert Dunbar

  Froth flew, and the car rocked. Shit! He hoped that only rain drove against the windows, not seawater. The engine sputtered. Damn it! Come on! He twisted the key in the ignition again, and the Volks bucked over the mud, then splashed toward the street.

  Water surged around the tires, skewing the car as the steering wheel tried to wrestle away from him. He sloughed through a flooded field, splashed across a lawn. Volleys of rain struck like buckshot. Two empty cars angled on the corner, and he twisted the wheel, narrowly sluicing past them as the wind shoved the Volks onto the sidewalk.

  When he reached the corner, the gale eased up fractionally, but in the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement. A white avalanche slid out from beneath the boardwalk, frothing over the cars, burying them and tumbling down the street.

  He stomped on the gas pedal as the hissing roar pursued him.

  Water streaked on the windows until the world became a streaming gray. Where the hell am I? With a thundering slap, the Volks went down a steep curb into a shallow pool. Christ, the hotel has got to be...

  Liquid havoc swirled. Some structure hurtled down the street, plunging end over end, already unidentifiable, splashing and smashing itself into bits that the wind swept away. The dim brick facade of the hotel momentarily surfaced in his vision, and he jerked the wheel, sideswiping a mailbox with a dull clang. The Volks splashed deep into the lot. He stomped on the brake, but the car kept going. Slower. Pushing through the water. The Volks hit the wall with a shattering thud, and he pitched forward against the steering wheel and flung open the door.

  The storm shoved him down like a hand, and leaves and dirt filled the air, choking him, as brackish spray swept up from the ground. Head lowered, he clambered toward the back of the hotel, his jacket coruscating with a thousand violent ripples. He clutched the doorknob. A spout of wind pounded him to the wood, and the door burst open. Groping his way in, he snatched away the bit of electrician's tape he'd earlier used to disable the lock.

  He threw his weight against the door. It stopped a foot short of closing, wind roaring through. It's getting stronger. His shoes slipped on the wet floor as he strained. The door slammed with a soft chop. Gasping, he leaned against it, rivulets running from his clothes. A muffled roar drummed through the wood.

  Damn...soaked... His teeth chattered. I'm sure as hell not going back out to the car for my suitcase. He'd thrown his clothes together, just to fool the D'Amatos, but left everything else.

  He staggered down the hall. Just ahead of him, a window blew out, and the curtain billowed, glass and water scattering.

  He edged around the window, uselessly flicking a light switch as he passed. At the end of the corridor, the lobby windows glimmered, and he stumbled onward. Above his head, the chandelier tinkled softly, then jangled like piano keys. Groping to the foot of the stairs, he mounted slowly, pausing to listen. The storm bellowed against the walls. Another window exploded, but faintly, in another part of the hotel, and his grip tightened on the banister.

  He felt his way along the recessed shadows that lined the corridor. A door slammed, nearby this time, and a ripping moan--full of the shattering of glass--grated along the outside of the building. "Just the wind," he said. "The wind." He repeated it louder, then shouted it but still couldn't hear himself.

  He could see now, like a diver rising into shallower depths. The windows held a turbid incandescence, and streaming radiance filled the passage as he fumbled his key into the lock.

  In his room, light faded. An eruption rattled the floorboards beneath his feet, and the downpour drowned the thunder. Here it comes. He groped for the window. The real thing. Bits of debris skated past outside, too fast to make out, and the buildings across the street streaked and blurred. Something huge sloughed through the street below. A car? A tree? A shark? Then the world beyond the window ceased to exist.

  Coruscating patches glimmered.

  Something clattered overhead, and the walls buckled with a loud crack. Like the end of the world. Twisting around, he felt for the swaybacked chair, dragged it away from the window. As he began to sit, his hand strayed to his wet clothing, and he shivered. Unbuttoning his shirt, he peeled it off and dropped it at his feet. Setting the flashlight on the dresser, he angled the beam into the oval mirror so that the room filled with a rippled gleam, and the reflected light seemed to pool in the dent in the mattress. He perched on the edge of the bed and worked his heavy shoes loose, then kicked them away. Rolling soundlessly in the din, they left a mottled trail.

  The door to the hall swung open. In his wet socks he rushed to slam it, threw the bolt. His soaked pants clung as he wrestled them off. Gathering his things, he started into the bathroom.

  He stood very still.

  The building swayed.

  Wind blasted, and the bathroom lit with a sputtering flash. He heard the clatter of something falling in the other room, and again the building moved. Windows popped along this side of the hotel, a steadily tinkling cascade, and he wondered how much more the old bricks could take before they burst from their mortar. No longer even aware of the chill, he dropped his clothes in a sodden heap and stumbled naked to the chair.

  A clap of wind rattled the windowpanes. Then the wind veered from another direction, seeming to move slowly around the building, groping for a point of entry.

  Winds mounded the water, then chopped at it, shattered it.

  Waves slapped into the air. They surged forward, crushing the stairs, splintering across the boardwalk--a row of shops vanished. Power lines sparked and flared, and flame spurted like a tear in the fabric of the storm.

  Even in the sheltered bay, rain-slashed waves swamped the few boats and submerged the dock. Storage huts blew into pointed boards as sheet metal crumpled, peeling back from roofs, and metal and wood took flight.

  The door exploded open, and she burst into the hall with a swell of rain. Gasping on the floor, she rolled onto her back. "Charlotte!" With both feet, she kicked the massive door shut against the gale. "Charlotte, where are you?" Stumbling, she massaged her shoulder. "Charlotte, I've got the jeep outside. The wind blew it into the porch--we've got to get..." She raced, dripping, into the hallway.

  The grandfather clock ticked harshly. "Where are your lights? Is your heat off?" She tripped, her flailing hands identifying the object in her path as she caught herself. No. The chair lay on its side, and her hand went to the bent wheel. "Oh no, please." She felt around on the floor. "Charlotte, it's me." In the parlor, the smell of damp soot tinged the air.

  For a second, she thought the storm had destroyed the room, but when she tugged at the curtain cord, the torrent pounded against intact glass. A flash of lightning made the wreckage lurch with shadows. Only then did she realize that everything around her looked dry, despite the smell of wet ashes from the fireplace. Her glance wandered numbly across the broken knickknacks littering the floor, the torn cushions, overturned table. "Charlotte, can't you hear me? Are you hiding?"

  She raced back to the stairs. "Charlotte, it's a hurricane! We have to get out of here!" Above her head, floorboards creaked. "Are you upstairs? How did you get up there?" She put one foot up on the stairs, but solid blackness stopped her. "I'm coming," she whispered. "Wait." Stepping down, she felt her way back toward the kitchen. "I'm coming." Rain slapped at her face when she pushed open the kitchen door. Both windows had gone, and the dripping curtains dangled like knotted ropes. A fiery light in the sky seemed to flare through the broken glass. Yanking open the utility drawer, she felt for a flashlight, then raced back to the hall.

  "Charlotte?" The beam slipped up one stair after another, finally dissolving. "Are you there?" She took a step. Somewhere, a shutter banged rhythmically. She climbed.

  Behind her, a hinge creaked.

  Her head turned in agonized twitches. Below her in the hallway, shadows swirled, filling the house like water. The creak sounded again. Insistent. The door to the cellar swayed slightly in the draft.

  She'd look for shelter. As
she descended, her feet felt strangely heavy. It's easier for her to go down than up. And the storm is so loud. That's why she can't hear me. She pulled the cellar door open wide. "Charlotte! Charlotte, it's me. Are you all right?"

  The smell floated like dust.

  Oh God, not rats. Not here.

  Retreating from the beam, the gloom swung about her. Rotting plaster had crumbled away from the walls, exposing slats furred with cobwebs, and she thrust the flashlight forward like a weapon. Her holster chafed at her side, and the stairs creaked damply beneath her tread. Peering about, she clutched at the dusty banister.

  Sheeted furniture loomed like fun house ghosts, and crates blocked the walls. More of her husband's memorabilia. A whole museum's worth. From the back, a muddy dimness shimmered back at her.

  Just a mirror. She moved closer, choking on the must that hung in the air.

  The sheet puddled on the crumbling concrete, dirty water already seeping through, and the beam trembled over the heap in the corner.

  No. But she recognized the dress. And she knew death when she saw it.

  My fault. She moaned softly at the crooked position of the legs. I should have been here. Something sparkled. On the bureau. Dazedly, she tilted the flashlight back: the silver frame flashed softly.

  portrait of Charlotte's husband what's it doing down here Charlotte will be so upset she

  A dark lump occupied the shelf beside it, and she angled the light farther. It took her a long moment to comprehend.

  What remained of the face still bore an expression of outrage.

  It made a sound like nothing he'd ever imagined--a hollow, roaring whine that thudded against the walls until the whole building lurched and clattered. It seemed to possess actual shape, this noise, a terrible spinning circularity, constant and without contour. Still the roar grew shriller, and pressure gushed against the walls.

  At first, he'd tried to take notes, scribbling incoherently in the flickering dimness, until the notebook dropped from his fingers, the pen rolling. No heat. He couldn't feel his arms or legs. Never any heat in this room. He'd pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself, but the chill sank deep, and the blanket sagged away from his shoulders. He couldn't move to adjust it, could only twitch when the floor rocked, and his mind seemed to drift in a howling void.

  The room settled into a deeper layer of gloom. Rain drilled at the glass in random flashes, and he felt a muffled rumble, as of something being dragged across the floor above. Did the room brighten perceptibly? He seemed to feel a tightening in his chest, as though he'd surfaced too quickly from the depths, and ripples of light disturbed the ceiling. No longer solid, the walls seemed to quiver, pulsating like the flesh of some huge, shivering beast. He focused with perfect clarity on a spider that scuttled along the opposite wall. Pale. Nearly translucent. Suffused with the green throb of life. He watched it sink gently into dimness.

  The boy has to die. His mind seemed very clear. It has to end. The howling tore the world, leaving a hole that sucked him in and spun him down to a familiar nothingness. Memories swirled, slowly engulfing him, and he floundered, desperately trying to grasp at one thought, only one, that might no longer have the power to wound him. He found nothing. The storm drummed in the floor, and in tiny lurches, the painting of the sea beat rhythmically against the wall.

  Thunder shuddered the window--it startled him, and a moment passed before he understood why. He'd heard it. He'd heard the glass rattle.

  The surging din of the storm had begun to diminish. A resonating groan, like the death agony of a whale, rumbled through the walls, and the pattering of rain flooded the room with noise. He had no idea how much time had passed. Trying to make out his watch, he stood, clutching the blanket, then wobbled to the window, the floor like ice on his bare feet. He pressed his face to the pane, and the glare of lightning froze falling silver that glittered at a rapid angle. A quick look downward made him gasp.

  The world glinted in a solid shimmer...as though the old hotel had been carried out to sea.

  XXIV

  Water seethed, mottling the glass. He cracked the door and blinked as daylight flooded the foyer. Now or never. A chill whistled in. Small waves rippled over the front step as he pushed the door wider. For a moment, the impression of ubiquitous movement disoriented him. Rain pelted straight down into broad puddles that covered the sidewalk, and spinning rivulets connected those puddles to deeper pools in the street. Streams gurgled around the corner, and a dented stop sign rattled.

  He'd already checked the back. The parking lot had become a small lake--no sign of the Volks. Guess they do float after all.

  Adjusting the hood of the slicker, he pulled the door closed behind him and stood with his back pressing the glass. Beneath the slicker, which he'd found after kicking down the door to the D'Amato apartment, he wore his leather jacket, two sweaters and the heaviest shirt he could find in D'Amato's closet. He could barely move his arms. At least it's not so cold now. Shuddering, he snapped the top clasp of the slicker. Not really.

  A swatch of gelatinous seaweed raveled on the stairs beneath him. The shocking chill of water seeped through the heavy rubber boots--also D'Amato's--and right through the doubled socks. Rain dripped heavily from the slicker. Clutching the rail, he surveyed the flooded block. In the streets, water looked knee-deep, but the pavements on this side seemed only partially submerged. Across the street, tiny waves lapped at the other hotel, cresting on the stairs. Wind slapped wetly.

  Splashing down onto the sidewalk, he tried to keep to the higher patches of concrete as he headed into town. He ducked under doorways, staying as close as he could to the dubious shelter of buildings, grasping at every rail and post. Freezing water trickled into his boots before he'd made it to the corner, and his pants felt like ice at the knees.

  Monsters. Like an alien spider, a crab-thing with impossibly long legs splayed across the sidewalk. Nearby, a flattened creature the color of clay sprawled in a puddle: it appeared to have fleshy wings. By the curb, a mass of tentacles bulged. Everywhere.

  A twisted street lamp tilted above the flow. Jutting with bricks and mortar, a fragment of chimney dominated the center of a shallow pool, and a drainpipe raveled across the pavement. Like some huge ruined umbrella, a television antenna poked from a larger pond, and the corner of a door protruded from the water. He alone prowled the wreckage.

  Rain slowed to a saturating mist. He'd hardly started before he needed to rest. Blasts of wind boomed down the block as he climbed the stairs of a building he didn't recognize. Have to go on. He sheltered in the doorway, gasping, while the wind seemed to strike in some complicated rhythm, driving chilling wetness in around the edges of the slicker. The boy will move. Clutching the rail, he splashed back down and hurried into the deepening gloom, skirting a side street that had become a river. He'll run now. The boy would need to be holed up in a new hiding place before the townspeople began to trickle back. It's what I'd do in his place. He bent into the wind, scarcely progressing. Just ahead of him, a storm door banged with a constant, furious clatter, until it pulled loose and scraped across the sidewalk. Water slid in patches of brown and green. His hands slipped away from a pole, and the gale danced him across a sodden lawn. Everywhere lay trees, uprooted or shattered, and some of the houses sat at strange new angles--several had moved considerable distances. Some of these dark spots in the water might be basements. Struggling toward higher ground, he skirted a car that had wedged tightly against the front door of a cottage on a slight rise. With each gust, wet gravel from the driveway hailed into the side of the car, making a noise like bullets, and he ducked his head, protecting his face with his arms.

  The drizzle ceased, and wind sighed to nothing. Be night soon. In the sudden silence, he sloshed forward, the muscles in his legs aching with every step. Got to hurry.

  Before him stretched a swamp. He could see no way through the flooded intersection. Could go back the way I came, try to find another way around. But the sky di
mmed steadily. No time.

  Wading in, he tried to feel a curb beneath his feet, some ridge to balance across. A fine mist began to blow, and he stumbled. His boots plunged hard. Instantly, numbing water climbed above his knees. Shit! Slowly, he pushed on through the muted hush. The gurgle pouring from a broken pipe had become the loudest sound, almost the only real sound. Can't stop. Nearby, an old Chevy tilted against the Seaside Savings & Loan, and the drowned car began to founder. His teeth chattered as he waded deeper, giving it a wide berth. What the...? He felt a pull. It can't be a current. With a low moan, the wind stirred again, and he struggled to keep his footing, but each gust twisted him, and the water rushed between his legs. He lunged for a handhold on the car, his grasp sliding along the windshield. Sucking waters surged around him.

  As he clambered onto the roof, liquid coils tightened, and he felt the vehicle wobble, then begin to lurch away in an angling roll. The street! Water moiled, and the Chevy sank deeper, engulfed in a welter of blurring forms. There's nothing there! The front end of the car dipped. Whatever sewage line or natural fault had lain beneath the asphalt had given way. A stony grinding shuddered through the roof, through his bones, and the car began to spin. Tipping, it plunged past the entrance to the Savings & Loan. He gathered his legs beneath him and leapt.

  With a splash, he caught at a railing, rust and paint chips grinding into his palm. He grunted, twisting his knee on the stairs. Ripples tugged at him, and he tasted salt. Pulling himself to the top of the stairs, he clung to the doorway and shuddered.

  The car vanished in a snarl of muck, and water swirled, choked with disgorged effluent. After a moment, he inched his way along the ledge. A fat wave lapped at a window, then dragged the length of the facade without cresting. Not so deep here...maybe. Edging around the corner, he reached the back of the building.