Storm Taken: A Supernatural Thriller

by William Michael Davidson

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?

  “The static crashes,” Dominic said, motioning to the radio in his hands. “They’ve changed. Something’s happening.”

  Chapter Thirty

  We all huddled together in the living room to listen to Dominic’s explanation of the lightning crashes. Once again, he turned on his radio and tuned to a very low AM station, and we heard the interference. This time, everyone in the room could hear what he was referring to, even Samantha, who wasn’t able to discern anything before. The interference was louder, but it was repetitive and rhythmic. It sounded like a fire alarm drenched in static. If I had just happened to be scanning stations on my AM radio and heard it, I would have assumed it was some kind of emergency alert barely getting through due to weak signal.

  “Can you hear it?” Dominic asked.

  “Sounds like an alarm to me,” Jesse said.

  “Exactly,” Dominic said, seeming rather pleased that we were able to discern it so easily.

  “But what does it mean?” Samantha asked, and she seemed a bit annoyed to be sitting around having another discussion about the sounds of lightning. “Does this mean I can get across the water soon?”

  “I’m not sure what it means,” Dominic admitted, “but I would assume that perhaps it means the final sequence of the storm has begun. I think this only validates our hypothesis that as the gaps shorten each night by five minutes, the storm is really shutting down. Maybe our ten-minute window of time tomorrow night really will be the last chance. Maybe the island won’t make it to the following night. It’s like a final stage alarm, or something of that nature.”

  “You don’t really know that,” Darrel said, and I was shocked to hear him speak up. He was still a walking anomaly. At times, I felt like he was the old Darrel—alert, aware, and helpful; yet at other moments, I felt that his mind was somewhere else entirely. I couldn’t really blame him for this, of course. If I saw Madison’s head blown apart with bullets, I’m pretty sure my brain would be toast as well. I tried to give him lots of grace and patience. “We don’t even know what this storm is, really. We don’t know if we’re going to get through tomorrow night. For all we know, the static could be things you’re hearing beyond Naples Island. Maybe that Klutch guy is right. What makes us so sure? Maybe there’s a war going on out there and we’ll be going out of the frying pan and into the fire when we leave here.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dominic said. “It’s only a hundred yards across the water. Someone would have seen and reported that by now you would think.”

  “I told Klutch the same thing,” I said.

  We didn’t talk much longer about that, probably because we all knew there was no point. We wouldn’t know if our plan would work until we actually crossed over, and even though I was more than convinced that there was enough evidence to suggest that our plan would work, nobody felt like debating it. Why snuff out the little hope we had?

  We all sat in the room for hours, and our conversation eventually led to the things in our homes that had gone missing prior to the worst part of the storm. In all of our fear and trepidation and plans to escape, we had never really sat down and talked through everything that happened before being trapped on the island.

  Dominic began the conversation by explaining how some electrical equipment in his garage had gone missing. When he had first realized it was gone, he only assumed some neighborhood thief had broken into his garage at night and stolen it. Why else would it have disappeared?

  Everyone followed Dominic’s example. Marsha, in tears, told me about the morning she had realized her manuscript was missing and how she’d assumed I’d stolen it. She apologized profusely for thinking so wicked a thing of me and demanded a hug to make things better, and I obliged. She was a strong woman; the wind almost went out of me when she embraced me. At least now it made sense why she had acted so weird that morning when she came to my house.

  Even Samantha, to my surprise, admitted that she thought some of the missing things in her home were because I had a crush on her. She skewed the story quite a bit and left out the whole part about her making a pass at me in her bedroom, but I didn’t feel the need to correct her. I was just impressed that she was as honest as she was; I hadn’t expected her to say anything.

  I think it was most difficult for Darrel to talk about this. He talked about the missing wedding ring and the morning he went through the files and found some of his wife’s papers gone. He was convinced she was going to leave him high and dry, just like his first wife.

  He didn’t talk very long. I think it brought great pain to his heart to realize that he had believed utter lies about her during her last days on Earth. It didn’t resolve well in his mind, and once again, almost in mid sentence, Darrel excused himself, went into the guest room, and probably collapsed onto the bed in tears.

  “My dad’s been really mad because he thought I’ve been taking things from him,” Hot-rodder said. “I’ve tried to tell him it’s not me. I saw one of those ball things before, kinda like the one I got stuck in. Before all this happened, I was out in the backyard, and I saw one of them shoot right out of the garage. I think it had a hammer in it or something. It went right up to the sky like a backwards falling star. Weird!”

  “Did you tell your dad about it?” Dominic asked.

  “I tried, but he didn’t believe me,” Hot-rodder said, shaking his scruffy head. “He said it was just silly kids’ talk. That kinda thing.”

  “Not so silly anymore,” I said.

  We talked for several more hours, and in the midst of that storm, I found it therapeutic. Maybe we all needed a little bit of that. I learned a lot more about Jesse’s family and even about Marsha and Samantha, and I promised myself that when this was all over—when the storm was long behind us—I would make it more of a point to turn off the television, the cell phones, and all of the noise that seemed to so often get in the way. I couldn’t even remember the last time I sat down with my family without a television, a tablet, or a cell phone being on.

  What happened to just sitting down and talking? Why couldn’t my kids—or even Madison and I—just sit on the couch and engage the people in the room with us without some kind of electrical device in our hand? When did all that happen?

  Before long, I grew weary and needed to be alone. My thoughts were utterly consumed by thoughts of Owen.

  I don’t know if anybody actually slept that night, but we tried. Toby and Mia slept in the bed with Madison and me, but I spent most of the night staring up at the dark ceiling and listening to the thunder outside. Dominic had said the static crashes had changed, and though not everyone agreed, I was convinced that the alarm in the clouds was an indicator that this freak of nature was in its final stages. I only hoped that we would be able to survive the storm’s uptick that would precede the ten-minute window we would be afforded to make our way across to the mainland.

  The next day was filled with anxiety. We had nothing to do but wait around until Deborah pulled up to the house to pick up Dominic and the rest of us at seven o’clock that evening. My eyes were constantly on my watch, and I debated many times about whether or not I should go back to get Owen. He shouldn’t have taken this long. He should have been back already. What was the problem? Had something happened?

  Madison was equally a mess, and Jesse restrained me several times from running back to the brick house and getting my son. He insisted I be patient and reminded me that, short of holding a gun to Owen’s head and forcing him back to the house, I had done all I could.

  But by the time two o’clock rolled around with no sign of Owen, even Jesse agreed it was time to do something. He agreed to go with me. I grabbed my shotgun, just in case, and Jesse and I headed to the front door. I was pretty convinced as we left, that this time, I really would use the gun to threaten Owen if that was what it took to get him to follow me. I was at the very end of my desperation.

  I kissed Madison, who was in tears, before I stepped outside with Jesse. We
had only taken a few steps away from my house when I noticed two people running toward us.

  My heart nearly stopped. In the flashes of lightning, I recognized the skinny blonde girl as Candice, and next to her was Owen. I was so overcome with emotion I nearly dropped my shotgun and found myself running toward both of them. They were scared. I could see that.

  “Owen!”

  We wrapped our arms around each other, and I didn’t want to let go. I couldn’t believe he was here. After a sleepless night and a day plagued with fear and doubt, my son was right here, in my arms. Jesse tended to Candice to make sure she was alright.

  “What happened?” I said, seeing how shaken he was.

  “It’s Klutch,” he said, voice trembling. “He’s going to try to stop you guys. I don’t know how, but that’s all he could talk about. We escaped. We did the search for Candice’s parents this morning and didn’t find anything, but he started acting really weird after that. He was drinking, I think. Kept talking about how you guys are gonna mess up the whole thing for him and how it’d be better if you were all dead. I got scared, Dad.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “But what if he comes to our house? What if he comes here and finds us?”

  “Did you tell him where we live?”

  “No,” he said, sniffling. He wiped his nose and shook his head.

  “Then he won’t find us here. We’re safe.”

  “Okay,” Owen said.

  “What about his followers?” I asked. “What were they doing? Do they want to see us dead too?”

  “They think he’s been acting weird too,” Owen said. “A few were talking about leaving, because they’re not so sure anymore. And something weird happened this morning. He had stored some weapons, I guess that some of the people there had donated in case everyone started to riot or something like that, and they went missing. He thinks you took them, Dad. He thinks you and the group organizing this escape stole them from him. I think that’s why he got so upset and drunk today.”

  “He thinks we took his weapons?” I said.

  Owen nodded, and it didn’t take me long to figure out what was happening. I looked to the clouds overhead. You’re still trying to do it to us, I thought. You’re still trying to turn us against each other.

  “Let’s get back inside, okay?” I said, and Owen agreed.

  We walked toward home, and Owen was still troubled. There was something eating at him, and he stopped me a few feet from our house. Jesse and Candice waited by the door for us.

  “Dad.” Owen looked down shamefully, and I knew what was coming. “I’m really, really sorry Dad. It was wrong for me to stay there. I should have listened to you. I made you and Mom worry, and that wasn’t right.”

  He was on the edge of tears. I hadn’t seen him cry in years, and it reminded me of when he was a little boy. I found myself looking at him, wondering where the time had gone.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Please forgive me.”

  I waited to respond. I had a feeling that Owen, who had never really rebelled in any meaningful way in his young life, would always remember this moment. Perhaps years from now, he would even sit down with his own children and talk to them about it. More than anything, I guess, I just wanted to get this right.

  “Owen.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I forgave you sixteen years ago when your mom and I brought you back from the hospital. That’s a question you never even have to ask me, son. It’s already been done.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he hugged me.

  I hoped I used my words well. I hoped he would remember those as the words of Eddie Dees his father, not Eddie Dees the writer.

  Owen went inside with Candice to see his mom, but Jesse stopped me at the door. He looked at me with a knowing grin and slapped me on the back.

  “Looks like you owe me a beer, my friend.”

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “And none of that pansy beer you keep in your fridge, okay?”

  “Consider it done,” I said, and we walked inside together.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Deborah arrived at exactly seven o’clock that evening, and we were all ready to depart when she pulled up in front of my house. The storm intensified just as we had expected, and we wondered exactly how bad it would get that night. Although we talked little about it, I think we all worried that increased rainfall, wind, and lightning would reach cataclysmic proportions that evening. Whatever the case, we knew that we and all of the other residents of Naples would have to stand out on the streets and endure it if there was to be any hope of escape.

  We bundled the littlest kids, Toby and Mia, up in raincoats. The storm had never been very cold, but they were going to get wet. Maybe the coats wouldn’t help much, considering how bad the storm would get, but we wanted the kids to feel safe; if keeping some of the rain off them made them feel even a little more at ease and a little less afraid, it would be worth it.

  While rummaging through the garage, Jesse and I noticed the duffel bag loaded with guns had disappeared. It was no surprise. Under normal circumstances, I suppose Jesse and I would have been alarmed and wondered who had snuck into the garage and stolen them, but we knew better at this point. When we noticed them missing, I walked back into the house, looked out the window at the storm clouds, and put my middle finger up against the glass. I wanted this storm to know exactly how I felt about it, and I hoped it understood me.

  “It’s not gonna work this time,” I said. “We’ve had enough of you.”

  By the time Deborah arrived, the rain was heavy, the wind was strong, and the lightning was constant. Dominic rode shotgun along with Mickey, whom Deborah brought along with her. I think she wanted both of them close to her. Dominic, of course, she wanted there because he was the “expert” on what the storm was doing. She probably just wanted Mickey along because she hoped that some of his dumb luck would rub off on her.

  Drake was in the backseat, tied up and bound, waiting to be thrown ahead of us into the water. I wasn’t sure exactly what Deborah was going to do in order to motivate him to swim across, but I was sure I’d find out. Maybe just the possibility of escape was enough incentive to get him swimming.

  Because the car was full, and nobody really wanted to ride in the backseat of a police car with Drake, we all walked behind as it moved forward at a snail’s pace. The car’s lights were flashing, throwing blue, yellow, and crimson light across the rain-drenched houses along the block.

  Owen, Jesse, and I walked side-by-side behind the vehicle, each of us armed. I didn’t like what Owen had told me about Klutch wanting to stop us. Maybe it was just the drunken blather of a man who was slipping from reality, but maybe he would actually act upon it. We weren’t taking any chances. I still had the shotgun, and Owen still had the nine millimeter we’d given him in the garage.

  My wife was to my left, and she managed the kids. She carried Mia, who was crying horribly due to the wind and rain, in utter confusion as to what was happening. I felt bad for the little girl, and my heart sank when I thought of her parents lying dead in the park. Toby walked by his mom’s side, and even though he was afraid, I could tell he was trying to keep it together. Owen had a good talk with him before we left, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned raising boys, it’s this: little brothers idolize their big brothers. I think Toby wanted to be brave for Owen. He wanted to make his big brother proud.

  It made me think of Alan. Oh, how I wished his hand hadn’t slipped out of mine. How I so dearly wish the river had given my little brother back to me.

  Hot-rodder rode next to them on his bike. We all told him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. He thought riding in the rain and lightning was cool, and seeing no harm in it, we acquiesced. It was kind of fitting. It would have been strange for him to be out there without the bike; it was kind of like Samson’s hair. The bike was where he got his strength and bravery, and none of us felt like being a Delilah and t
aking it from him.

  Darrel walked alone, behind the rest of us, in the twilight world of his grief. He seemed unaware and unaffected by the storm.

  Samantha and Marsha shared an umbrella and walked on the right side of the car. Candice walked behind them. They quibbled over who was hogging the umbrella more, but fortunately, the rumbling booms of thunder made most of their gabber inaudible.

  Marsha was towing Bessie on a leash, and the poor dog was clothed in a plastic doggie raincoat we received as a gift years ago from my wife’s aunt, a woman who probably treated her cats and dogs better than her own kids. We laughed when we received the gift, boxed it away in the garage, and forgot about it. White elephant gift exchange, here we come! I promised myself that I would never lose enough of my manhood to actually put a jacket on my dog. It was just wrong in every sense of the word.

  But desperate situations called for desperate measures. Toby knew about the jacket, and in his love for Bessie, he cried, pleaded, and insisted that I find it and let Bessie wear it, because she might get scared out there in the cold. So while in the garage, just before noticing the missing duffel bag of weapons, I found the ridiculous doggie raincoat and put it on Bessie.

  It was a short trip. Deborah stopped the police car about fifty yards from the water’s edge, where the Second Street Bridge once stood. Rain began to pour down relentlessly, and I could see flashing lights on the other side of the water. There were emergency crews over there, probably doing the same thing we were. I wondered if they had a Dominic on their side who had cracked the storm’s code, and if people would try to come over to us at the exact time we started to make our way across.

  Second Street was already filling with people, and Deborah parked her car at the very end of the street and at the very front of what would be a long line of cold, terrified souls. Naples has a little over two thousand residents and—considering others who had been on the island because of the July 4th holiday—I would have sworn I saw at least twice that amount of people pour into the street like ants. They came with their flashlights and camping lanterns, and they were of all sizes and shapes: young, old, and everything in between. Many came prepared. They had gone into their closets and their garages and pulled out their raingear and umbrellas. By 7:45, the street looked like a parade waiting to begin.