Into the Hurricane

by Neil Connelly

  Max scans the water surrounding her. It’s thirty feet to the stairs, way too far to make a break for it—and what’s to say this monster can’t climb steps? She’d just be leading it to Sabine. Ivory launches once more from below, and Max sees the rows of yellowed teeth in his mouth. Without thinking, she leaps across the open space between checkout lanes and lands on the next countertop over. It’s far from a perfect landing—it takes wild arm-swinging to maintain her balance—and she nearly slips on the rubber soles of the boots. She tugs them off, certain that if she needs to make such a leap again, she’d be better off barefoot.

  Ivory swims around and begins circling Max’s new perch. After a few loops, he settles down beneath her, hanging just below the surface with only his eyes exposed. In the dim light, his scaly skin seems more pink than white. Max uses her flashlight to confirm that the row of checkout lanes ends far short of the steps. Some shelves would take her higher up, but getting to them means going into the water, and that’s the worst idea ever. She scans the area for some kind of weapon, but there’s nothing. Desperate, she squats over the register and grabs hold of both sides. She heaves it up and waddles carefully to the edge of the counter, holding it just over the space where Ivory had been. But he’s retreated a few feet, clearly out of range. He’s watching her again, and their eyes come together. Max remembers what Eli said, how the alligators were so patient, they didn’t mind waiting for prey to rot. Maybe somewhere in his reptilian brain, Ivory knows what Max does, that the floodwaters are rising.

  With this thought, Max heaves the cash register as far as she can. It crashes into the water with a cannonball splash, a few feet short of Ivory. And after the water calms, she can see him exactly where he was before the attack, waiting for the inevitable.

  I SWEAR THAT THE SECOND MY FEET MAKE CONTACT WITH the solid ground of Shackles Island, some energy sparks from the rain-slicked roadway up through my boots and legs. If anybody were here to witness my success, I imagine them clapping. Sure, I’m Eli LeJeune, lost cause and loser, the kid who couldn’t save his big sister. But I also just crossed a raised drawbridge in a hurricane, a climb I had no right making. And for the moment, despite everything this storm’s throwing my way, I’m alive. That’s got to count for something.

  The trip back over was all I expected it’d be. I wasn’t even twenty feet in when my grip gave way and my feet slipped. But somehow I held on, too stubborn to die, I guess. After that, I stopped worrying and just fell into a zone. I’d reach and grab and pull, shift my boots, reach and grab again. I didn’t let the idea of slipping or falling enter into my mind, and go figure, I didn’t. Maybe there’s some kind of big lesson in there, but this isn’t the time to dwell on it. Somewhere ahead of me, Max and Sabine are trying to ride out the storm, and somehow I need to find them.

  The gulf has nearly claimed the whole island, from beach to intercostal, and we still got the storm surge coming. If Max had to find shelter, where would she take the kid? I look at the nearest houses along the intercostal. Too close to the water’s edge. She wouldn’t be that dumb. And no way she’d go back to the Odenkirks’. No, Max would head for higher ground. Course there’s not but a handful of buildings that even begin to qualify, being more than one story. Most of them are in town, mostly up on Infinity Road, so I lean into the wind and start dragging my heavy legs through the rushing water, which only grows deeper.

  Right now, I bet my mom and dad are watching the Weather Channel, wondering where I am. I’m sure the TV’s showing pictures of some correspondent up in Lake Charles or over in Beaumont, no doubt in some dark hotel parking lot wearing a raincoat and getting blown sideways by the rain and wind. They always drop the same kind of tired line: “I pity anyone who’s caught out in this.” My mom’s sitting on my aunt’s couch in Galveston, clutching my dad’s arm. And he pats her hand and leans in close to say, “I’m sure he got out. Eli’s in a shelter somewhere far from the coast.”

  For the life of me, I can’t remember why I didn’t call her when I had the chance. She doesn’t deserve this.

  Those thoughts that floated through my head before about my parents not caring if I never came back … I see them now as part of a screwed-up mind-set I get wrapped up in sometimes. I know they love me. I know they don’t blame me for what happened with Celeste, at least not directly. Same as me, they got rattled by her death, and afterward, nothing was the same for any of us. It’s like we were survivors of some natural disaster, left wondering why we’re still alive when everything around us got destroyed. When you’re faced with destruction on a massive scale, it’s hard to find a good reason to give a damn about anything. Everybody deals with that their own way, and mine I guess was to curl up inside myself, be like a turtle tucked inside its shell. If I somehow live through all this and see them again, maybe we’ll find some way to really talk about me and Celeste and the lighthouse and all that’s happened since.

  When I finally reach the town’s main intersection, all the buildings I can see through the slashing rain—the police station and the library and Zeb’s Gas ’n’ Geaux—are darkened and boarded up. The courthouse is sturdy and a couple stories. But just beyond the edge of my vision, I can imagine the tall spire of the Sportsman’s Castle to the east, nearly at the end of the island. Max mentioned that place earlier, and it’d be as good a place as any to ride out the storm. It’s a long shot, but I head in that direction, crossing Zeb’s parking lot. Something big and bulky floats my way, and at first, I think it’s the hump of a garfish, but it’s just a garbage can on its side getting dragged along by the current.

  The gas sign has been stripped clear of any numbers, so you can only guess the price for regular, premium, or diesel. The whole thing rocks back and forth so much so I don’t know how it hasn’t snapped. Just past it, the phone pole leans and sways even worse, way more than I’d think it could without breaking. Almost like it’s heard my thoughts, the wind rises into what sounds like a freight train bearing down on me, so loud I clap my hands over my ears. With a thunderous snap, the phone pole fractures halfway up, ripping wires loose as it drops down onto Zeb’s roof. There’s a hell of a crash. I look back to the open space where the phone pole used to be, and that’s when I see what’s really making that freight-car scream.

  The funnel of swirling debris is a hundred feet tall and twisting, spinning, whipping like a thing alive. Hurricane Celeste has given birth to a tornado.

  The tornado’s winds reach inside Zeb’s and start looting. The air around me swarms with a flock of magazines. Candy bars and beer cans rocket through the air, shattered glass and bricks, all of it shrapnel. I cross my arms over my face and hightail it for a Dumpster in the back corner of the parking lot. This means I need to charge into the flying crap. Something punches me in the gut, and a quick slice burns across my neck. Luckily, that Dumpster lid’s already opened, so I just heave myself up and drop down into a swampy bed of soaked trash bags. The rotten stink’s enough to make me gag as I slam the lid behind me. The debris from Zeb’s does a chaotic drum solo on the metal walls of my shelter, banging away like mad. Celeste seems pissed indeed. She tries to yank the Dumpster lid free, but at the first rattle, I grab hold with both hands, anchoring it good. There’s a frustrated cry, loud enough to deafen me, and more pounding against the Dumpster’s hull.

  I’m sure it’s not more than a minute or so till that tornado passes, but it feels a lot longer. My aching biceps are grateful when the pressure on the lid eases up. Once I’m sure it’s over, I push into the plastic top and emerge like some submarine commander. My Dumpster’s been shoved twenty feet or so into the middle of the parking lot. Where Zeb’s used to be, there’s just a single brick wall remaining, one with a freezer backed up against it. Scattered junk and debris drifts on the floodwaters. It looks like a bomb went off.

  I lower myself back down into the trash and let the lid close behind me. I’ve got to gather my wits. That tornado nearly took me out. Dying’s a funny thing when you think you’re facing i
t on your own terms, when it’s your idea and you control it. But when it’s some outside force trying to kill you, you can’t help but want to fight against it. Some part of me is glad for the struggle, and it feels good to want to live. If I ever see the Odenkirks again, maybe I ought to thank them.

  Something shifts beneath me in the trash, down under the plastic bags. Something alive and skittering. I scramble over the bags crab-style, kicking in the direction of the movement. The sound that comes back is a hiss and a bitter meow, and I realize one of the island’s stray cats was smart enough to find its way into the Dumpster. I must have spooked it good before, when I invaded its hiding place. “S’okay,” I say into the darkness, and I kiss the air a few times. To my surprise, I feel a light pressure on my legs, and something works its way up to my lap. My fingers find fur, knotted and sticky with grime. But even so, when I scratch a bit, the cat bumps its head into my hand. It does a few circles on my lap and drops down, and I can feel it purring, like a little humming engine. The stench coming off the cat is a mix of sewer and old tuna.

  “Well, Stinky, at least we got each other,” I say, and I instantly hear how crazed I sound. But still, it does give me comfort, having something else here with me. That was another one of Father Arceneaux’s lines, that he knew I felt alone but I wasn’t. He told me some sappy story about a lady walking on a beach with Jesus, something about footprints in the sand.

  Even before what happened with Celeste, I never was one much for deep devotion and prayer, but I know at times like this, the faithful find comfort by asking God for help. If I had any right, I might make such a request. Petting this cat in the pitch black, I try to think what prayer I might offer, which recited words would be right for this situation. What’s strange is that as my mind roams through the things it wants most, I find myself picturing Max and Sabine. Actually finding them is a pipe dream, but I wonder if through some miracle they found someplace safe. It seems too much to ask for the storm to stop or pass us by, but I just wish I knew. I wish I had one of those signs Father Arceneaux told me were all around, just waiting to be noticed.

  These are the thoughts I’m having when I hear the bell. At first, I’m certain it’s my imagination, drumming up the sound from my desire. But even Stinky stirs on my lap, and I say, “You hear that too?”

  St. Jude’s has got to be ten blocks west, and with the wind howling like it is, it doesn’t make sense that the sound could get to us here. Yet when I lift the Dumpster lid and listen, the gonging I’d heard before is even louder. And it doesn’t seem random to me, like the clanging of a buoy tossed on rocky waves. It’s rhythmic and clear. High up in the steeple, somebody’s ringing that bell, like just before mass, when they summon all the true believers.

  I climb out of the Dumpster and hop back down into the black, streaming water. Stinky comes right up to the metal lip, ignoring the dowsing rain and eyeballing me good. “You’ll be safer in here,” I tell her, and I try to decide if I should lower the lid or not. Either way her odds aren’t real good. But even when I bring the lid down close to her head, she doesn’t back down. “Go on,” I say. “Git!”

  In response, she springs forward, launching herself at me with claws outstretched. I catch her as she hits my chest, and I decide maybe Stinky isn’t the right name. Maybe I should go with Crazy. Yeah, well, come join the club.

  Cradling that cat like a child, with her head tucked high on my shoulder, I start slogging west through the rushing floodwaters. The wind spits rain in my face so hard I dip my chin to my chest, not even looking where I’m going. Like back on the iron bridge, I focus on just moving one foot, then the next.

  Celeste would’ve loved this storm. She was always a wild child, and when the summer thunderstorms blew in, she’d go down to the beach to meet them. She always wanted to be out hiking along the waterways in the marsh, beachcombing along the shore, bushwhacking through the forest. She loved Fort Abeniacar and the lighthouse. All she used to read were history books, not dumb novels full of fake love and romance. She read about the Aztecs and Mayans, once-mighty civilizations that disappeared without a trace. Sometimes at night, she’d read me her favorite pages.

  One time we were alone at the lighthouse, about a month before the end, and she was smoking one of her cigarettes and gazing out on the ocean for a long while. This was just after she got suspended from school for about the fiftieth time. Dad had let loose again with the lecture number 7, the one about living under his roof, abiding by his rules, and we’d escaped again to the lighthouse. Up in the crow’s nest, I saw that Celeste had begun to sniffle back tears, and she was never one for crying. I couldn’t help but ask her what was wrong. She swiped her cheeks and said, “Just everything. I love you, Eli, but other than you, there’s nothing right with my life. I don’t think I was supposed to be born here, in this place and time.”

  I thought before I asked, “Well then, when were you supposed to be born?”

  She shook her head. “A long time ago, I think … I try to get along here. So help me, I do. But I’ll never fit in. My whole life, I’ll be a stranger.”

  I knew my sister was sad. I knew she had problems. But till that last night at the lighthouse, I swear I didn’t understand how serious they were. I know now that I should have, that I had the chance to set things right and save her. I know I failed her, and there’s no way I can ever go back and right that wrong. Just got to live with my mistake, try to make up for it. Wait for a chance to get it right.

  This makes me remember something Father Arceneaux said once in a sermon: “There can be no absolution without penance.” He said those words right in the church I’m coming up on. St. Jude’s is a brick building without much ornamentation, just some slim stained-glass windows along the sides, though just now thick plywood protects them. A white steeple caps the slanted roof, and indeed, that bell is clanging away pretty good. “We’re here,” I tell Stinky, and I carry her up the stone steps out of the water. But when I grip the golden doorknob and tug, nothing happens. I try the other door, and it too is locked tight. With my free hand I bang on the door. “I’m here!” I yell. “Max! Sabine! I heard the bell, and I came!”

  Undisturbed, the bell just keeps on ringing. I circle the building once, looking for some other sign of entry or a way to break in, but there’s nothing. No sign of Charity’s ATV either. Back out front, I stand before the statue of St. Jude, arms outstretched, set in an alcove about four feet off the ground. He doesn’t seem especially concerned about the storm. I lift Stinky up next to him and then hoist myself beside her. Together we crawl our way into the space behind the statue, which gives us a little cover from the wind and the rain. At the feet of the patron saint of lost causes, I huddle up with a stray cat and wonder how long I’ll have, if I’ve done enough penance, or if not, just how much more I need to do.

  The wind dies down for a quick spell, just long enough for the bell to settle into silence. The sound nearly drives me to tears.

  Too exhausted to move and too anxious to sleep, for a long while I just watch the floodwaters slowly rise. Before long, they’ve swallowed most of the church bulletin board and its message: “GOD BE WITH US ALL IN THE STORM.” The few cars on the street, abandoned in the rush to evacuate, have water up past their bumpers, and sometime soon, they’ll start to float. The surface of the water bubbles with all kinds of crap—busted-up wood and garbage and whatever folks left behind. At one point, a beach ball floats by, rainbow-colored and inflated to near bursting. It bounces along the waves like it was getting tossed by kids at the beach, moving inland with the flow of the water. I lean out to watch it disappear, and in the far-off darkness, two shining eyes greet me.

  The headlights—for sure and for certain that’s what they are—are distant, maybe a quarter mile off. At first, I’m not even sure they’re moving, but gradually they get larger, and above the wind I can hear a truck engine rattle. When the truck is just a block off, I can see it plowing through the flood, churning the water with its monstrous
wheels. I scoot down from my post, grab Stinky, and wade out into the middle of the street, waving one hand like I’m flagging down a passing boat from some desert island beach. The Humvee stops, the engine idling loud, and I charge around to the passenger side, where I’ve got to step up onto a footrest to pull myself out of the water. I swing the door back and slide onto the seat, out of the rain.

  Gripping the steering wheel, Sweeney says, “Hey, you found a cat.” Stinky crawls over to his lap, and his hand drops down and strokes her automatically. “Just what in the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Waiting to drown,” I say. “How about yourself? Weren’t you headed to Lake Charles?”

  “I been there before,” he says. “I pulled the bullet out of that deer, and it weren’t but a .22. Standard issue, nothing the shadow-government types would use. Funny how your head can play tricks with you.” He looks at me here like I’m supposed to say something, but I don’t, and he goes on, “Anyway, I figured I’d ride this one out. My place is high and dry. All my improvements and renovations running five by five.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “So you just out for a joyride now, enjoying the weather?”

  He taps a walkie-talkie on the dashboard. “Caught a message from somebody who claims to be on the island still, in rough shape. Figured I’m gonna mount me a rescue operation. No chance you know some girl name of Max, huh?”

  INSIDE THE SPORTSMAN’S CASTLE, THE WATER HAS RISEN TO within half a foot of the checkout counter where Max perches. She can’t figure out why Ivory hasn’t lurched up and attacked, instead of just drifting in the waves a few feet away, watching her with those lifeless eyes, patient as death itself. Above her and across the store, Sabine stands at the railing of the second floor. She yells, “What you want I should try next?”