Hard Rain (8 page)

“Cover your head.” Jesse had to shout above the thunderous fury although he was right next to her. He arched over her, shielding her. Windows blew out, spraying glass across the floors. The storage-room door split, the walls around them cracked. The hurricane had came inside now, pelting the floorboards, their bodies, swirling around them as if to carry them off too, take them away only to discard them, fling them down like garbage, then swoop them back up again until they were beaten and broken and near death.

Amy covered her head with her forearms, trying not to think, waiting it out until it was over, even the slight weight of Jesse’s body not stilling her trembling. She thought of her son, the man above her. She prayed for life.

The wind howled with a banshee’s glee. The chaos peaked. All around her the world cracked apart, and Amy feared they would not survive.

And then the storm subsided—so suddenly Amy thought it an illusion. She didn’t move, not trusting her own senses as she heard the groans soften, the howls hush, the pounding of her own heart again.

Jesse’s sheltering warmth moved away as he stood. She pushed herself up from the floor. All around them lay splintered wood, cracked Sheetrock, mounds of
pink insulation like cotton candy. Jesse was watching her, looking for injury.

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing the dirt off her clothes. He turned to the doorway.

“Wait,” she said. His back was covered with tufts of insulation. “You’ve got stuff all over you.” She brushed his shoulders, across his back. He stood still for a second, then shrugged off her hands and drew his shirt back on.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

He was right, she realized as she followed him out of their narrow shelter. They were alive. That’s all that mattered.

They walked carefully through the kitchen, picking their way through the debris. Parts of the ceiling had fallen and insulation lay on the floor like snow. Miniature tornadoes had come through the building, knocking over stools, chairs, tables, any object that had gotten in the way. The windows had been blown out, the glass glittering amid the damage like buried treasure.

“I heard the trusses crack but I think they held.” Jesse looked up at the second floor. The tar paper beneath the shingles had ripped off, exposing the sky. The stairs had shifted but, remarkably, held.

Amy stepped almost daintily through the destruction, making her way to a wide hole that used to be a window. She looked out. The clouds had parted. Above was a sky so clear, so calm and peaceful it brought tears to her eyes. The moon was a white glow and the brilliant wash of the Milky Way stunned the sky with a light like no other.

Beneath this beauty were the remnants of pure evil. Wind, rains, waves crashing around the edge of the eye. Trees broken, snapped at the trunk or ripped from the ground whole, leaving the landscape bare and ugly. One particularly large tree had gone down, and the Bronco, parked beneath it, had been lifted on its root system and now tilted high above the bombed-out landscape like some crazed symbol of surrender.

Downed power lines crisscrossed the trees. Objects gathered in the storm’s fury and cast off at its whim dotted the broken landscape. Parts of boats, the pier, seaweed, a fish as big as a dog were all part of the scenery like a madcap tableau of modern art.

Amy turned to Jesse. He’d picked up a piece of insulation or two, then stopped, dropped them. He looked at her across the ruin. His gaze circled the room and returned to her once more, desolation in his eyes.

Neither had spoken since they’d left the storage room. Amy looked at the man across from her, solid, alive, seeming unreal in this nightmare of destruction. She thanked God for their survival, but her prayers were not over. She was not fooled by the silver sky above, nor the sacred and wondrous silence after so much rage, or the calm and balmy air. The temperature was rising so fast, she felt the sweat bead on the back of her neck. They were smack dab in the middle of the hurricane’s eye, and the northern wall was the most destructive side of the storm.

Amy looked at Jesse. Neither spoke. They didn’t have to. They knew. The worst was yet to come.

J
ESSE MADE
his way to the window. “Won’t be long before the eye passes. The back end of the storm will bring the sea surge.” He looked at the ocean, now like glass, the storm at its edges. “Flooding is going to be the problem, along with the winds. We’ve got to head upstairs to higher ground.”

Amy nodded but didn’t move.

“Hope we can salvage some of the supplies. The blankets and pillows are still dry. C’mon.” He took her arm lightly.

She did not pull away. She let him lead her from the wreckage outside. The fact that the Jesse Boone who’d left her fourteen years ago was here beside her had become secondary to survival now. Her world had narrowed down to this room, this man and making it through the night. She thought of her son. She looked at Jesse.

“I’ll get the blankets,” he said.

“I’ll check out the supplies.” She found the boxes beneath dust and wood, slightly crushed but with several salvageable items. She discarded the damaged items and combined the two boxes into one. Jesse met
her at the bottom of the stairs. He traded her the bedding for the box. “I’ll go up first to make sure the stairs aren’t damaged. If they can hold my weight, you’ll have no problem.”

He climbed the steps, testing each one before putting his full weight on it. He reached the top, turned to her. “They’ll hold.”

She followed him up. Gaps where the tar paper had ripped off revealed the eerily beautiful sky, but the roof had held. The rain had blown over horizontally. The air was muggy and ripe with the scent of damp plaster and the sea. Jesse went to the gaping windows and looked toward the ocean. Amy joined him. A sudden gentle breeze greeted them. Farther down the beach, it looked clear, but at the eye’s edge, clouds hovered.

Jesse rummaged through the remains of the supplies. He pulled out a package of beef jerky and ripped open the plastic wrapping. He handed her a wide slab.

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Force yourself.” He thrust the dried meat at her. “If the surge comes, bringing the tide inland, the water could take everything. There’ll be no food, no water until help comes and we can get back to town. Eat.”

She took the strip and bit off a chunk of the dehydrated meat. She chewed hard. The dryness of the meat and the dryness of her throat caused the jerky to wad in her mouth. She ground it with her teeth, reached one of the surviving bottles of water and drank. Finally she swallowed the chunk of jerky.

“Eat more,” Jesse advised her.

She gave him a long, unsmiling look, but bit off an
other chunk. He smiled as he peeled another strip from the package. They ate in silence, standing at the window, watching the sea, the moon sliding in and out of the low clouds moving in. They stood as close as they could without touching. The clouds gathered and a sudden gust of cold air caused Amy to tense. She slipped her hand into Jesse’s, finding it warm and strong and scarred. The past did not matter at this moment. All that mattered was right now, and the fact that they were alive and unharmed.

At first Jesse did not respond, uncertain, but gradually his fingers wrapped around hers, held them tight. And she was grateful.

The clouds came together more thickly, and the moon was gone. The air temperature fell as quickly as it had risen. The scent of a storm filled the air.

A powerful gust came through the hole where the window had been, threatening to topple them, but they stood strong. Hand-in-hand, they watched with helplessness and awe as the sea rose up high and came toward the land. What they saw froze them. The water was black as ink, the surf rearing up, heading for landfall like a moving cliff. Behind the first wave came another, rising, getting taller, bigger, stronger as it rushed toward the dunes and destruction. Even from a distance, the power was unmistakable and terrifying. The rains broke through again, the black waves and gray sky rising up monstrous, evil, unstoppable. Easily twenty feet, Amy estimated. The eye had passed. The moment of calm was over.

“It won’t be long before the waters reach us,” Jesse
said. She said nothing, helplessness holding her hostage.

“We’re high enough—we’ll be safe,” he reassured her. “By the time the waters reach here, they’ll have leveled off. They’ll flood the roads, ruin whatever hasn’t yet been ruined, but up here, higher up, we’ll be safe.”

The rains blew, battering their faces. A piece of debris whistled by. The trusses creaked above them. Amy gave a gasp and watched in horror as the wave slammed into a beach house three-quarters of a mile away, rocking it on its stilts and peeling back the roof like a sardine can. The left side of the house fell away. Only the front stood, unsupported, as if caught by surprise before it collapsed in on itself.

“Amy?” Jesse had not let go of her hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Come away from the window.”

She nodded, knowing he was right, and moved with him toward the corner where they had piled supplies. They sat cross-legged on an opened blanket. Jesse unscrewed the top of a peanut butter jar, tore opened a pack of crackers and began smearing them with the spread. He handed her a cracker heavy with peanut butter as if they were on a picnic.

A memory rose up. Another picnic, another time, another life. Two days before her eighteenth birthday Jesse had surprised her by hitchhiking the many miles from Salt Lake City, where his father had gotten a job and moved them both to a few months earlier. He could only stay two days. His father had gotten him work after school on the construction site where he was employed. It was
not enough time. It was never enough time. It was all they had.

They’d rented a boat and rowed to a secluded cove carved into Seattle’s coast. Their own private island, she remembered thinking. The water had been calm, glittering with the day’s sunlight. He’d packed a bottle of sweet, sparkling cider which he’d opened ceremoniously. He’d toasted her. “To you, Amy Sherwood.”

Laughing, she’d kissed him, then raised her own glass. “To us.” She had never been so happy or certain or young as she’d been on that day. She had not known it then, of course. Life had stretched out before her, and her love was as bright as the sun on the sound. Jesse hadn’t needed to ask her wish when she blew out the candles on her favorite chocolate fudge layer cake, which he’d special-ordered from Johnson’s Bakery. She hadn’t needed to tell him as she’d moved into his arms, the cake and sweet cider forgotten for the sweeter taste of Jesse. Her wish had been in her eyes, the urgent touch of her hands, her body pliant against his with a warmth and fever beyond the day’s temperature. She had not known then that even one perfect day such as that was a lot to ask in a lifetime. All she’d known was that she loved Jesse Boone, and to spend the rest of her life with him would not be long enough.

That day was the last time she’d seen him until yesterday morning.

She took the cracker thick with peanut butter. “Do you remember the last time we saw each other? You and your father had moved to Salt Lake a few
months back, but you had come for my eighteenth birthday—”

“I remember everything.” His features were neutral, hiding any emotion underneath.

“Your accident? How long after that day did it happen?”

“Six days.”

“Jesus.”

He raised his eyes, looked her full in the face for a count of five, then lowered them once more. He buttered a cracker, topped it with another to form a sandwich and handed it to her. She ignored it.

“When I hadn’t heard from you for over a month, I called the number you’d given me. The woman at the desk said you and your father had left weeks ago.”

“He was waiting for me when I got back from Washington. Said his buddy had work at a commercial job in New Mexico. Good pay. Work would last months, maybe longer. I was going to call you as soon as we got settled somewhere and I could give you a phone number.”

“But then the accident.”

He said nothing. What was there to say? One perfect day. Then fourteen years of nothing. She knew it was more than many people had in a lifetime. Amy looked at Jesse. It was not enough.

“That day—”

Amy’s words were cut off as lightning flashed, filling the room with an artificial brightness. She saw Jesse in the mocking light, and uncertain, she could not continue. The half hour of calm was over. The storm had ral
lied. It descended again with renewed violence. As the fury returned, the silvery sky had taken on a green tint, as if ill with the destruction it wrought. The building was shaking, struggling to stay upright, as weary as its occupants.

Jesse fished in the box of supplies and took out a thick coil of nylon rope. He handed several loops at one end to her. “Take off your belt. Thread this through your belt loops.”

She did as he instructed, trying to still her hands, which were trembling from fatigue and fear. He removed his belt and snaked the other end of the rope through the loops around his waist. When she finished, he came to her, securing the rope around her waist with a series of intricate knots, then repeated the same on his length. The rope was long, providing several feet for freedom of movement while they waited for whatever the storm had in store for them now. Yet he settled close beside her, and she was glad. She could have easily moved into his arms, but she fought the desire, sitting stiffly upright, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. The roof above them creaked, and any tiles not taken before now popped like gunshots. Jesse had fastened the portable light into his belt. Amy had done the same with the smaller flashlight, although the storm’s light illuminated more than either of them cared to see.

A loud crack came directly overhead. Amy huddled into herself. Jesse’s arms came around her, pulling her tightly to him. If he’d asked permission, she wouldn’t have refused. He didn’t ask. He brought her to him, let
ting her take shelter in the strength of his body. The building trembled. She looked into his face. He kept his grim expression averted, although he saw her study. Finally he looked down at her, careful not to reveal any emotion.

He bent close to her ear. “Whatever happens, hang on to me.”

Forever,
her heart answered. She reached out, her touch tender this time as it found his face, felt the years of pain and healing. She stretched up and placed a light kiss on his mouth. His lips beneath hers responded with a gentle, reverent tentativeness that made her want to weep. It could be a kiss hello or a kiss good-bye. As the wind and sea reared around them, obliterating as much as possible, all bets were off.

A tremendous crack sounded, as if the world were being ripped in two, filling Amy with a desperate fear. The beach house was breaking up all around them. The structure seemed to sway, pitching like a boat at sea.

“She’s not going to hold this time,” she screamed at Jesse.

“Hang on to me,” he yelled. “Hang on to me.”

She was thankful he did not say everything would be all right.

Hang on to me.

It was enough to save her.

Huge squares of the roof were peeling back, leaving grave-sized holes. The rain and the wind pelted Amy and Jesse with a brutal carelessness, the gusts seeking to suck them out through the openings. There
was nothing to grab on to but each other. The shaking around them became violent. Amy fisted her hands into Jesse’s wet shirt and cried his name, although she knew he couldn’t hear her. She heard one final crack, and with an almost detached fascination watched the floor beneath them give way like a trap door. For a second, they seemed suspended in air like characters in a cartoon, then, still clinging to each other, they dropped straight down into the black water.

The strength of the surge slammed into Amy. A wave ripped her from Jesse, held her under, rolled her over, then snatched her up, hurtling her into something unyielding. Her legs and arms flailed as she tried to right herself, but the waves kept breaking over her, disorienting her, holding her underwater. She struggled to find her footing, but felt no solid surface. Objects, hard, wet, scratching, bumped into her. She surfaced once, gasping, only to be sucked under again, pulled by the current. Something hit her in the back, knocking what little breath she had left out of her. She searched for the surface, her hands outstretched, clawing at the current. A new blackness, even darker than the storm or the water washing over her, was wrapping around her, pulling her down into its depths. A soft, womblike darkness so easy to slip into. Her arms and legs were like weights. Her movements became less frenzied. Her body went limp, no longer fighting. All boundaries seemed to dissolve. She felt herself melting into the water.

Something jerked her hard, snapping her head back, pulling her with a fresh strength until she broke the sur
face. She slammed into a wall. She cried out, choking up water as Jesse’s arms wrapped around her.

She clung to him, coughing, heaving deep breaths. The wetness that trickled down her face tasted salty—of the sea, but also with the metallic bite of her own blood.

“You’re cut,” Jesse yelled. He wiped high on her forehead. “It’s a gash but not too deep.” Holding her tight with one arm around her waist, he tried to dog-paddle with the current, but the waters were too strong.

“I’m fine,” she screamed. The irony of what she said hit her. A panicky laugh bubbled up in her chest but was swallowed by a wave that sucked them both under. They surfaced, gasping, the water lifting them, only to suck them under again, rolling them over and over as if hell-bent to wrench them apart. They clung to each other. Fate which seemed calculated to separate them, would not win this time. Survival was dependent on them staying together.

Amy heard an inhuman sound, and was frightened it came from inside her own battered, weary brain. Then she saw a tree float by, a cat high in its branches, screeching its primal rage. Then it was gone, carried away by the water, blending with the ever-changing keys of the wind, shrill as a madwoman’s protest one minute, deep as a subterranean monster next, all adding to Amy’s sense that the world had become a moaning, heaving house of horrors. She clung to Jesse without shame. Pieces of houses, objects of everyday life—dishes, window screens, a garbage can—coasted by. A section of white picket fence passed by as if the
storm gods laughed at the humans’ attempts to live happily ever after. She cleaved to Jesse, her very survival dependent on pressing her heart to his. Hadn’t it always been that way?