by Andrew Allan
Duct tape was crossed over the windows. The window shifted back and forth in its frame. The tape held strong against the larger gusts. For now. The cypress wood walls filled the air with rich scent. There was no sign of power. It was warm and humid.
More creaking.
How long would this shack hold?
The larger concern was trees. It would take just one to smash this shack to bits. Then what? We’d be stuck on a small island in the center of the St. Johns River, in the middle of a hurricane. Would make for a fine adventure tale if we lived to tell it.
They say a tornado sounds like a locomotive approaching. I heard wood splinter. A slow rip then—thud! A tree had fallen somewhere close. Trees could fall and smash the boat…and then what?
Strangely enough, this was the safest I’d felt in days. I doubted anyone would bother us during the storm.
“There’s food in the fridge. Might as well eat before it spoils.”
Ilsa sat up on the couch. She kept the blanket up around her shoulders. Light revealed a small sheen of perspiration across her brow.
“Thanks,” I said.
The fridge had cheese, deli meats, a few plates of left overs. I made a sandwich. “Want one?”
“I’ll have a bite of yours.”
DG didn’t stir.
I plated the food, grabbed a seltzer, and joined Ilsa on the couch.
We sat shoulder-to-shoulder, snug and warm. We leaned in and kissed each other. Our bodies had performed the same routine countless times on our couch at home. This almost felt normal. It was wonderful.
“Bite?” I said, holding up the sandwich. She craned her neck down and took an obnoxiously large bite. Meat and bread stuck out of her mouth. She looked at me and smiled like a goofball teenager. I laughed.
“I told you I’d make you a sandwich.”
She shook her head, chomped the food, and struggled to say, “Tastes better when it’s yours.”
“Happy to accommodate.”
I pressed my lips against hers before she could get all the food into her mouth. She yelped and laughed. Bread and mustard pressed against our lips, and it was ridiculous and delightful. When the kiss broke, I took my own bite of what was left of the sandwich, and we didn’t say another word until it was gone and we had both rinsed our mouths with seltzer. She, of course, drank three-quarters of it before I had a single sip.
“I’ll make us more,” I said.
She shook her head and rested against my shoulder.
I set the bottle down and allowed myself to relax against her, just what I needed. This was us. This is what I risked losing forever if I didn’t take care of the Kith. Or, if I couldn’t convince her to stay with me despite how crazy things were.
DG snored. His face pressed over the wood table and his arm formed a cup that created natural amplification and boosted the sound. We laughed.
What a treasure to see Ilsa smile.
DG ripped another long run. I stretched my leg over to give him a tap. It was enough to upset his snore groove, but not wake him. When he shifted his body to the side, a large puddle of drool was revealed on the table.
Ilsa broke the quiet with, “What are we going to do, Walt?”
“What do you mean? Here? Now?”
“You know.” She waved at the bigger picture.
“Whatever it takes,” I said.
She nodded, said nothing.
“What do you mean ‘we’?” I said. “Does that mean we are in this together?”
She gave it a thought, started to say something but stopped.
“It’s okay,” I said.
Not really, but I understood her position. Who chooses to willingly dive into a situation where you could get killed? That went beyond the call of ‘in sickness and in health’.
“Yes,” she said. We locked eyes. “We are in this together.”
I studied her face. She was serious. She meant it. But, she didn’t really know what she was getting into. And, I had a responsibility to keep her out of it. As painful as it was for me, I couldn’t let her get involved.
I rubbed her leg. My expression must have betrayed my thoughts.
“What?” she said.
“Ilsa. I thought I needed you in this. But…I just need you alive. In case I make it out. You know, something to hope for.” The words came out before I had much time to think about them. But, they rang true.
“I can help you come out alive.”
This was true. She had saved my life.
“You know what happened last time,” I said. “That was too close a call.”
She shook her head and got teary.
“We have a plan. We get off this island, get that blueprint, and send it to Detective Stokely. You can work with him directly.”
She sniffled, her eyes glistening and rheumy. “And, then?”
I didn’t know. But, I said, “We go away. Far. Wherever you want.”
She looked at her hands, one wringing the other under the heavy blanket, two shapes morphing and twisting under the yarn. I knew she was thinking “but they can find us anywhere.”
“It will buy us time while the police look into the Kith.”
She shook her head.
“They will buy the police,” she said.
It was certainly possible. What if he flipped and all this effort was worthless?
What if the Governor Hoyt thing stuck? What if the Kith got their Rebatina? What if.…
DG grunted at the table. His eyes opened. He looked dazed.
“Good morning,” I said.
He belched.
We didn’t laugh this time.
The shack window shattered.
45
A PINE HAD fallen, and its gangly, needle-covered branches raked their way down the side of the shack. They were big enough, thick enough, and moving fast enough to punch through the window, sending glass fragments into the room.
Next came the whip of the storm, swirling about the small house, pumping in humidity, rain, and the earthy aroma of the soaked environment.
DG and I scrambled to cover the window with the table. I held it in place while he dug out a hammer and nails. He pounded two-inch nails into the thick tabletop. It was enough to keep it up on the wall. But against a strong gust, it probably wouldn’t hold. And, if we couldn’t keep the window closed, odds were good the roof would get torn right off.
“Any other shelter on this island?” I said.
“Nope,” he said as he pounded the last nail into the wall.
“What about the boat?”
He shrugged. “Not much we can do about that.” He stood there, breathing hard from the effort and scramble.
Another tree fell outside. The wind whistled. The table hammered to the wall shook.
“What’s our plan?” Ilsa said from the couch.
DG said, “Roof goes, we run. Boat’s gone, we swim. About all we can—“
A corner of the roof caved in and ripped the shack wall all the way to the ground. Big exposure. Water and wind shot in, stinging our faces.
“Shit,” said DG.
“We going?” I said.
He looked to Ilsa. I looked to Ilsa.
“Let’s go for it.”
We couldn’t get the shack door open. We had to climb out through the breach in the wall. DG, Ilsa, me. By the time I was out, the shack interior was drenched. So were DG and Ilsa. He was smiling. Danger be damned—this was adventure!
It was also deadly.
“Come on,” he said, waving us towards the woods. We followed fast, ducking branches. When our feet didn’t sink into the mud, they slipped across the wet pine needles. Down and around the twisting trail. This wasn’t the path we’d taken to the shack. However, it brought us to the boat dock, which was littered with dirt and branches and leaves.
DG kicked a path clear on the dock. He jumped into the boat. He was shin deep in water.
“Start shoveling.” He pointed to a bucket at the stern of the boat. I grabbed it, knee
led on the dock, and scooped water. Seemed pointless with all the rain. A wind gust nearly pushed me off the dock.
“Forget it,” said DG. “We gotta go.”
I went to help Ilsa into the boat. She waved me off and hopped in.
DG ignited the motor.
The boat separated from the dock, two feet and drifting.
“Come on, Walt,” said DG.
I jumped and splashed into the middle of the boat.
“I got wheels up river.” DG worked the motor, guiding us away from the island and into the channel.
The chop was harsh. Ilsa scooped water out. The rain was so dense I could barely see the shore. Debris whorled—leaves, branches, a metal channel marker sign.
And, the worst of the storm hadn’t even arrived. It was warm and humid. That meant we were still on the front side of the hurricane. We needed to find shelter fast.
I leaned forward to ask DG where he was going. The boat rocked. I braced myself against rail edge. Wind knocked me over and into the water.
“Walt!”
Ilsa’s voice was the last thing I heard before my head went under water. I re-emerged. I bobbed on the waves. I felt the current pushing me downstream, away from the boat.
DG pulled the motor and the boat turned back. As it passed, I grabbed the sides and held on. Ilsa grabbed my wrist. I was too heavy for her to lift. DG let go of the motor and tried. The boat almost tipped. He and Ilsa jumped back to balance it out.
I tried to pull myself up but was too soaked, too slippery. “Forget it,” I said. “Just go.”
DG didn’t hesitate. He revved the engine, and we cruised.
I pulled my chest up to the edge of the boat and held on best I could. Each wave chop brought a hard hit against my chest. I was going to have a bruise on my sternum if it didn’t outright crack.
No animals in sight. They were smarter than us. They weren’t out in the middle of a hurricane.
The storm was too big to get a sense of its shape and dimension from the ground. DG had said it was going to be at least a Category 3. We had a date with demolition.
DG twisted the motor handle. The boat sped up. Ilsa braced low and tucked her face into her shoulder to avoid sea spray. She kept a hand on mine. I tucked my head and held tight.
It seemed like an eternity to get there. But, we arrived at a tree debris covered boat ramp on the west side of the river.
DG drove the boat onto the ramp, scratching and scraping to a stop. I let go just in time.
He was the first one out. He helped Ilsa out while I walked from the water.
We were on land, but we weren’t safe. The wind was howling and shit was flying.
“Come on,” said DG with a wave.
The ramp ascended to a parking lot. We were in a state park. I recognized DG’s truck. It had a boat pull on the back, which he removed from the hitch. I helped, hoisting up the trailer, and together we pushed it back on its wheels.
“You just leaving it here?” I said.
“It’ll be fine. Can’t have it on there in the storm,” he said.
He fished for his keys out of a wheel well. They were dry.
We hit the road.
46
OUT OF THE river and into the woods.
Riding in the truck wasn’t much safer than floating in the boat; the storm was still in full effect, the world swirled around us. DG fought the wheel to prevent gusts of wind from pushing the truck off course.
Green Cove Springs was a ghost town. Not even the cops were out. No idiotic weathermen trying to get the scoop before the heavens scooped them up.
Now, we were driving west along Highway 16, I presumed towards Dunnellon. Back to the Rainbow River to fish for Ilsa’s phone. Close to the house that was no longer my home.
“How are we gonna handle things when we get to Dunnellon?” I said.
DG shrugged. “Take it as it comes.”
I figured he’d say that. I also figured I didn’t need to go all the way to Dunnellon. It was too dangerous. Too many people were looking for me there, the Kith and the cops. I’d walk into the middle of a manhunt.
That was only going to be a problem if we reached Dunnellon. In a hurricane, the cops are usually out in full force. They secured the roads, closed the roads, steered people clear of debris. Last thing they needed were people ignoring the storm warnings. They’d flag us down....
DG slowed the truck. No cops in sight. No getting through.
Nature blocked the road. It was a two lane highway with three large, supine pines running edge to edge underneath a tangle of snapped power lines.
“Shit,” said DG.
“There is a road we passed that heads South,” said Ilsa. “I can’t remember the name.”
“Runs down to Hawthorne, I think,” I said.
DG drove the truck into the depressed median. The wheels slogged through the grass and almost got stuck. DG shifted gears. The tires got enough traction to rip through. We took the highway back, cut south and aimed for that road Ilsa had mentioned.
Cell service was lousy. Forget the map and the GPS. Time to do it old-school, driving down roads, hoping they had an outlet.
We turned south at the Clay County Fairgrounds. The road continued for miles and eventually worked its way into a densely wooded area. Dirty, metal signs announced the area as property of the St. James Paper Company. Every few miles the chain-link fence parted at a wide gate meant to allow tractor-trailers hauling logs out. Peppered along the road were crummy trailers owned by the men who likely worked for the paper company and had few other prospects.
“Long as there are no trees blocking, we’re good for a while,” said DG.
“You know this area?”
“Well enough,” he said.
The rain picked up. DG concentrated on the road. Ilsa directed my attention up at the swaying trees. It was eerie.
I glanced at the gas gauge—half a tank. In this truck, we’d be lucky if the gas lasted two hours. How many hours to Dunnellon? Every gas station we had already passed was closed for the storm.
DG slammed the brakes. The truck slid to a stop in the road slop.
The road was blocked.
“Another dead end,” he said.
“It is going to be a long drive,” said Ilsa.
I couldn’t disagree.
DG shifted the truck into reverse. It required a five-point turn just to get the massive vehicle pointing north again. Two minutes later, we stopped again. Another, massive pine had fallen after we’d passed.
“Now, what?” said Ilsa.
“Now, nothing.” DG turned off the truck. “We’re stuck.”
Wind howled. Trees rocked.
DG said, “Friends, we’re in the middle of a hurricane. And, we’re not gonna be safe in this truck.”
Ilsa said, “We can’t stay here?”
“Only if you want to risk having a tree crush this roof and your head,” said DG. He was subtle like that.
“Let’s try that place,” I said.
A house stood deep amongst the trees. The sides were coated in mold.
Ilsa hesitated. “But, what about you?”
“What do you mean?”
She looked worried. “What if they know who you are?”
“Nobody’s turning anybody in in this weather,” I said.
“I reckon people ‘round here aren’t apt to call the cops anyway,” said DG. Another good point.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We got out and ran. It wasn’t easy.
The wind propelled us forward. The trick was to prevent getting knocked over. Then it swirled around and hit our chests and about stopped us in our tracks. We had to lean into our walk, like staggering in a snowstorm. We caught our breath behind trees that blocked the gusts. All the while, leaves whipped around and branches cracked.
“Can’t stay out here,” said DG. He had to yell it to be heard and waved us along.
I held Ilsa’s hand as we stepped over a cockeyed tangle of
broken branches.
The house was not a house but a trailer, a mobile home, the non-official animal of Florida. And, the last place you’d want to be in a hurricane.
Sure, they have a building code these days that makes you tie them down with metal straps and whatnot. But, nothing about this place looked up to code. And here, in the middle of the woods, I wasn’t worried about it being swept away; I was worried about getting crush inside that tin can. Was this really better than the truck?
47
DG HOPPED THE waist-high chain-link fence, slipped on wet leaves, and landed on his ass.
Ilsa nailed her landing.
I nailed mine.
We walked towards the house.
The yard was littered. Tree parts, scrap metal, old lawn equipment, tossed mulch, and crushed beer cans plentiful as the pine cones were scattered about. There was a tipped over, toddlers bounce horse on the grass next to a rusted riding mower. An F-150 from the Seventies was parked in the drive. It looked to be in fine condition. A large, residential propane tank was mounted next to the house. A clothesline sagged between two rusty poles. Clothes dripped.
We walked up the steps to the door. DG knocked on an egret-adorned screen door. The rain spray was constant.
An elderly man answered. He was frail and wore the bitter expression of someone not looking for company. “Yeah?”
“Sorry to bother you, old man. Our truck just got trapped down the road. No way in or out,” said DG.
The man gave us each suspicious looks.
“We’re hoping you might be kind enough to provide some shelter while the storm passes.”
“Don’t have room,” said the old man.
He pushed the door to close it.
DG put a hand on it.
“We don’t mean to bother you, but…” He pointed to the swirling and twirling and twisting going on in the air behind us. “clearly, it’s not safe to be out here.”
“Hoof it back to your truck,” said the old man. “Nothing for ya here.”
“Please, we have nowhere else to go,” said Ilsa.
Persuasion time.
“If the power goes out or something happens, we’ll be here to help you,” I said. I’d be scared to death to be his age out here, in the boonies, in the middle of a storm. If something did happen, he’d be a goner.
