I. Am. A filthy pig. Then I work to wipe my mind of that. It won’t help.
K-e-e-p g-o-i-n-g.
I say it over and over to drive the mantra into my brain.
Block everything and keep going. I do until I’m shaken out of self-hypnosis by a deep ache in my ankle. To make it worse, the wind is now sending me sideways, moving like a crab. I lean against a tree by the side of the road, my legs sinking, unable to support me anymore.
I slip down to the ground, landing in a mud puddle. It feels so good to stop, to rest. I lean my head back. How insane to run when I never trained.
“What?” River says, stopping next to me, his face in a hard line.
“I’m … dead.”
His face darkens. “It’s not much farther, you can make it.”
I shake my head back and forth. “I can’t.” I turn away so he won’t see the tears. Is this heatstroke?
My dad tried to run the marathon one year. He never made it because at mile twenty he hit the wall, his legs turned to jelly. They wouldn’t support him anymore. That’s what this is. The breaking point. My absolute limit. All I care about is sleeping, every part of me aching for rest, crying for help.
“You can,” River insists, his face hardening.
“Just go, OK? Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not going.”
“Why do you even care?”
He stares back at me and doesn’t answer, a muscle in his jaw pulsing.
“Go, River. Just go! Leave me alone.” He turns his back on me, but stands there, a hand on his hip.
I close my eyes and feel myself drifting.
“C’mon,” he says, waking me, his voice softer.
I shake my head.
“Jillian!”
“I can’t.”
He kneels down in front of me. “C’mon, we’re losing time.”
It takes too much energy to answer.
“Jillian,” he says, again.
I close my eyes.
“You can,” he hisses. He slaps me hard across the face. “Move. Now!” Smack! He slaps me again.
“Stop it,” I scream, reaching out to grab his hand, but he pulls it back then slaps me again, harder this time, my skin stinging from the blows.
“Get up, get up now!”
“No!” I try to cover my face and head with my hands, fury rising up in me. He is crazy. Aidan tried to warn me, why didn’t I listen? Maybe that’s why he got locked up, for beating people up and bullying them.
“You’re coming,” he says, his teeth clenched. “Just decide you want to.” He pulls my arm roughly and tries to pull me up. “Let’s go.”
I refuse to budge. I can’t.
“Jillian,” he says, like a warning.
“Why don’t you take out your knife and cut my throat? You probably killed someone before, right? Maybe you’re used to that now.”
“Christ!” he says, looking away, shaking his head. He shifts, as if he’s about to go, then turns back to me.
“I never killed anyone,” he says, looking at me coldly. “But I probably should have.” He grabs my arm. “Up, now.”
I wipe my burning eyes with the back of my filthy hands and start walking again, working at catching my breath, feeling it travel down my scorched throat and lungs. I try to focus on each individual step, every one a triumph. One. Another. Then another. Not how far to go, but the distance growing shorter with every step.
Shorter, shorter, shorter, shorter. I keep saying the words over and over in my head. Shorter, shorter, shorter, obsessed by the repetitive sounds, blocking distraction—heat, sweat, the drawing pain in my feet and legs, every diverting thought … shorter, shorter, shorter. Shorter, shorter, shorter.
Before I can say anything, River turns down a side street and starts to try the doors of one car after another. I run after him. “What are you doing?” He looks at me and looks away. “Stealing a car?” No answer.
I don’t want to get in trouble. But to get us moving faster … and not to have to run anymore. On his fifth try, he finds an old dented Chevy just outside a body shop.
“Bingo.” He laughs. “And the key is in the ignition. Perfect. Get in,” he says, climbing into the driver’s seat.
I’m on autopilot, locking my seat belt and staring ahead. He drives down the empty street as the rain suddenly starts to hit harder, pounding on the roof. I’ve seen these flash floods before in Texas. In minutes the streets turn into wading pools.
River finally gets onto the entrance ramp down to the freeway. So few cars. Everyone is already gone now, and if they’re not, they’re at home, staying put.
Except us.
Then I look up and see waterfalls. I scream.
They’re cascading down the high barriers on both sides of the freeway, pouring down like Niagara. But by then we’re already on an exit ramp going into a shallow lake. We plunge in and begin to float. The water level around us rises and within seconds it reaches the tops of our tires and laps at the hood of the car as we move.
“We have to get out of here.” My voice comes out strained, pleading.
River looks around him, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll power through,” he says. “It’s still moving, we’re not flooded out yet.”
Somehow the car keeps churning ahead, only I’m not sure if the water is carrying us or it’s the engine that’s taking us forward. The water sloshes over the windshield, again and again.
“Jesus,” he mutters as we continue to go forward. Then suddenly I lose my bearings, I don’t even remember where we are and I freak, hypnotized by the red rosary beads hanging off the windshield mirror, swinging back and forth violently as the wind shoves the car around roughly. I reach out to grab the beads and they break, spilling down over the floor of the car.
“Oh my God, River, what did you do? What’s happening?”
“I didn’t do anything!” he says. “It’s a goddamned hurricane! Stay calm, OK? Just stay calm. We’re almost there.”
“Almost there? We’re going to drown in this, Jesus, why did we do this?”
“Calm down, OK?”
My heart feels like it’s going to break through my chest. River concentrates on driving, his face as taut and expressionless as his dad’s was.
The wind-driven water wallops the car from side to side as the rain hits the roof as hard as golf ball–sized hail. If the car tips, we could get stuck inside. River grips the wheel with both hands, trying to steady it.
Somehow we emerge from the lake. “Pray the motor isn’t totally flooded out,” he says. “C’mon babe,” he whispers to the car. The water around us starts to recede. Miraculously, the car keeps going.
He laughs, almost to himself. “Can’t believe this old heap is still working. See?”
I bite my lip to keep from telling him to go to hell.
Then a rush of water surrounds us as if a dam broke. It starts to fill the car. Within seconds, it’s over our knees.
“Omigod, we’re going to drown!”
“Unbuckle your seat belt, quick!” River yells.
“What?”
“C’mon,” he yells, pushing out his door, despite the wall of water pressing back against it, like it’s trying to drown us. He manages to get it open and I slide over. Waist-high water surrounds us.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ll swim up to the exit ramp,” he says, out of breath. “And walk from there.”
With my heavy wet bag on my back nearly weighing me down, I swim after him, stroke by heavy stroke, the water smacking my face like I’m swimming against the tide. I’m sucking air, water splashing up into my face, every stroke an effort against the force of the water against us. You’re saving someone’s life, I keep repeating, pretending I have to reach a drowning kid.
River swims
ahead of me, every so often glancing back to look at me.
You bitch, Danielle, you bitch, I keep repeating to myself, anger fueling me, keeping me going, stroke after stroke until I’m closer. We make our way toward the side of the road, and finally we’re at the ramp going up. The water is only as high as our ankles as we finally get out.
“Holy shit,” he says, breathless.
I’m breathing so hard I can’t answer.
“We’re not far now,” River says. “Just a block or two.”
My sneakers are waterlogged, like weights on my exhausted legs. Just a block or two. If I can make it.
RIVER
I have to pull her along, but we get to the school. The wind’s blowing crazy hard, the whipping rain flooding the streets, nearly knee-high now, gusts slapping our faces, but finally we’re at the back door of the school.
I never thought I’d be here again.
I flash back to the late day practices. It was dark out, we weren’t supposed to be there, but we had keys and let ourselves in. We went out to the field and practiced, then we came in and talked strategy. If it went well Briggs ordered pizzas. If not, we stayed hungry.
The strangest thing was that every day at exactly 6:15, Briggs would stop practice. Without a word, he’d walk back into the building for five minutes. We wondered what the hell he was doing.
Then one day one of the guys went to the bathroom, passing Briggs’s office during that five-minute break and the mystery came clear. Briggs went inside to feed the canary. Something about the rigidity of that schedule freaked me out.
After practice I’d drive home at eight or nine, stopping for fast food. Then there was homework. I crashed for five or six hours and the next day it started all over again.
“Hope they didn’t change the lock.” Jillian stares at me in disbelief.
I fish for the loose keys in my soaking hip pocket. Finally I slide one out. I reach for the handle. “Start praying.”
“That should help.”
“I got you here, didn’t I?” She’s finally quiet. “You’re free to run back to my dad’s car at any time, OK? Don’t worry, I won’t stop you now. You won’t be stuck here with me.” I take a deep breath, and insert the key.
It doesn’t fit.
She’s breathing hard. I look over at her. Don’t say it.
I jiggle it and then struggle to pull it out, finally. I turn it over and try again. I know what she’s thinking. I’m not crazy. And no, it’s not the goddamn pills.
It still doesn’t fit.
“Crap.” I pull the key away and search my pocket for the right one. I used to know it by the grooves, but my mind is dead now. I flatline. I forget things. Everyday things. I take out another one and as I’m about to insert it, it slips from my wet, shaking hand, sinking into the pool of swirling mud covering my sneakers.
“Omigod,” she says.
We drop to our knees searching.
Things don’t just disappear, where the hell could the damn key have gone? The rain is pelting our backs, dripping over our heads like we’re under faucets. In seconds, it could have floated ten feet away. Tree branches snapping from the live oaks are airborne, smacking our backs. And this isn’t even Danielle yet, it’s just a hint of what’s to come.
JILLIAN
I sift the mud through my fingers. A key doesn’t disappear. It’s here somewhere. I rake through the dirt again and again.
“We’ll find it,” River says, almost to himself.
I look up at the building with its brick façade and red steel doors. The wind gusts are smacking the American flag, pushing it back and forth. Shouldn’t they have taken it down to protect it? Where was the custodian?
This isn’t my school now, it’s a refuge. I look at the overhang above the door and the covered walkway. Where would we hide if we couldn’t get inside? In the giant stinking metal trash containers they use for garbage after renovation work? An unlocked car somewhere? A house that someone forgot to lock? We left his dad because the freeway wasn’t safe.
Some of the houses across the street are boarded up. Is anybody home in any of them? Would they open their doors to us if they were? If we can’t get into the school we’ll have to break in somewhere, but how, with our bare hands? It’s not like people are hiding in their basements to protect themselves here. There are no basements in Houston, except for the buildings downtown and some of the houses in River Oaks, one of the wealthiest parts of the city. The ground is too marshy. I look at my watch. Nearly six o’clock About two more hours until it gets dark.
“Ow!” A thick branch flies by and whips my arm, scraping it, leaving me bleeding.
River doesn’t even look up. He keeps searching through the mud, fixated, oblivious, picking up clumps of it and letting it run through his fingers. I go back to doing the same thing. Five minutes go by, and then ten, and we can’t find it anywhere. The only things I sift out of the mud are stones and bloated, gelatinous worms that I fling away.
We’re on our knees in filthy, soaking wet clothes, sweat mixed with rain dripping down our faces. Yard garbage is now airborne as we search, hands buried in mud that draws us in like quicksand.
“We have to get inside somewhere.”
River ignores me.
“It can’t end this way, it can’t,” I say. I might as well be talking to myself because he doesn’t answer. “After we left the car and came all the way back here.”
I look all around. What do we do? Where do we go? I get up to start looking for someplace, anyplace to hide.
“Got it,” he says, finally, pushing a wet tangle of hair away from his eyes with the back of his hand. He gets to his feet and tries the key again.
It doesn’t work.
“River …”
“Be quiet, just be quiet, OK?”
I bite my lip. He inhales deeply as he struggles to work the key out of the lock. Is it jammed in now? He gets it out then flips it over, trying it again.
A heavy click. The key turns over. Finally.
“Yes!” His face relaxes. He pushes, but the door doesn’t give. Nothing. Why? What’s wrong? He tries again, pushing with the heel of his hand. Still nothing.
How can that be?
He presses his shoulder against it and pushes harder. It doesn’t budge.
“What …?”
“Stand back!” He steps away and then runs up, hurling his entire weight against it. There’s a frightening creak as though wood is being split apart, but the door gives way.
He heads into total darkness, and I follow him.
Chapter 14
8 HOURS TO LANDFALL
JILLIAN
We’ve entered a tomb. Hot, stagnant air envelops us in the darkness. It’s hard to breathe. River slams the door and grimaces, nearly pitching to the floor.
“What, what is it?”
He leans over, bracing himself with his hands on his knees, his mouth open. He takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. “Just … dizzy.” When he finally stands up again he rubs his shoulder and tries to move it. “Ow, God,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut, but he manages to stay upright. He takes a deep breath and keeps walking.
Is it broken? Fractured? It has to be bad, considering the way he threw himself against the door. How can I help him? What can I do? I follow him along the dark hallway to the gym, our mud-soaked sneakers squishing with every step, as if an invisible tribe of ghouls were trailing us.
I’m struck by the absolute silence. The surround-sound conversations, laughter, shrieking voices, band rehearsal music, locker doors slamming—all of the cacophony of everyday school sounds—are absent now.
“Back in school.”
River’s voice startles me. The bitter edge. His eyes search the corridor like a cop ready for whatever might come at him from behind a closed door. I follow him into the gym
and then behind it into the locker room. He flicks a light switch. The neon lights go on with a low buzzing sound.
“Still power,” he says. “Unreal.”
He walks along the rows of blood red lockers, and then stops and falls silent, staring at one in front of him with no lock.
“Was that yours?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. A moment later he kicks the door and then kicks it again, harder, cursing under his breath.
“River, stop! You’re scaring me.”
He turns to me abruptly, as if he realizes for the first time that I’m there.
“Let’s get out of here. We can go to the gym and get mats,” he says. “We need to sleep.”
But first we stop at the water cooler, taking cup after cup of water until we can’t drink any more. The water cooler is nearly empty when we stop. River stares ahead for a few seconds, lost in thought, before turning away. As he’s about to shut the lights, he gives the locker room a last glance over his shoulder.
We stop in the bathrooms and then go to the gym. Shafts of gray late-afternoon light filter through the gym windows. They reach almost to the ceiling, maybe fifteen feet high, protected by metal gates. Even if the glass shatters, only splinters can get through.
River pulls two blue plastic mats from the top of a pile against the wall and tosses them on the wooden floor near the wall farthest from the window.
“I’m wiped,” he says, dropping his backpack. He kicks off his sneakers and slides his wet T-shirt over his head, then unbuttons his muddy jeans, yanking them down and stepping out of them. His shoulder is already streaked red and purple like a tattoo gone wrong. I look away. He leaves on his shorts, and then spreads his clothes on the floor to dry. “When we get up we can hunt for food.”
River eases down and stretches out on the mat. He turns away from me, groaning when his shoulder touches the mat. He needs ice, painkillers, but we have nothing, and we’re too exhausted now to search anyhow. I peel off my wet, mud-caked shorts, but leave my tank top on. Every muscle inside me is quivering, too stressed and exhausted to relax. I turn one way and then the other, my hip bone jabbing into the hard mat, skin sticking to the plastic. My deodorant gave up hours ago.
Hurricane Kiss Page 8
