Black Tide, page 23
I rip open the Jeep’s door and Natalia spills into my arms.
“I’m sorry!” she sobs. “I’m sorry I’m so so sorry!”
“Don’t be!” I scold. “You did everything perfect.” I plant a quick kiss on her forehead. Her skin is clammy and salty from sweat. I have to peel her away, even though I don’t really want to. I’d happily let her cling to me and be carried around like a baby possum for the next year, but somebody needs to drive this thing.
Natalia doesn’t protest, eyeballing the cloudfish as it whooshes to a stop directly above us. She slides into the safety of the passenger seat. Mike gets in the back without having to be told. I take my place behind the wheel, my heart hammering my ribs. I adjust the seat, force myself to breathe, to steady my hands, then reach for the keys. A quick twist, a few familiar motions of the feet, and we’ll be gone. I must be dreaming. We can’t really be doing this.
“Jake!” Natalia exclaims, so loud I nearly shoot straight through the skylight.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, pressing the clutch and twisting the keys. The engine chokes to life. “We’re going to get him.”
Jake lifts himself into a sitting position, staring at me with accusing brown eyes. You’re going? You’re leaving without me?
Not a chance.
“Hang on,” I say, shifting into reverse, dropping the clutch, and punching the gas. The tires tear through the wet sand, throwing mud across the Subaru’s exposed undercarriage. I slam the Jeep into first and stand on the gas, Natalia sinking back into the seat as the tires find purchase and pull us forward.
Both our heads snap as we come to a very abrupt stop.
“What happened?” Mike demands.
“I don’t know!” I floor it, the engine whining in protest. The tires are spinning, spraying arcs of glittering water toward the sunset.
“Look!” Natalia squeaks. I follow her pointed finger up, just as another tentacle smacks the panel above my head, this time actually causing it to fracture, then curls around the roof rack.
“No!” I stand on the gas, intending to just pull the son of a bitch along with us, like a hellish parade balloon, but it’s already lifting, the tires losing their grip on the sand, flinging water behind us.
The removable top begins to groan. I’m less afraid of being lifted into the air than I am the roof just being torn away above us. I might be able to speed away before it gets a chance to snatch one of us up. I might not. The tentacles are all around, slamming into the Jeep while the tide sprays the windows, like we’re inside some kind of infernal car wash. One smacks the door next to me, those thorny grabbers piercing right through the glass. Another punches at the window above, the powerful acrylic beginning to sag along the crack. I slam the palm of my hand against it, pushing hard the other way.
I hear Mike rustling around, the zip of a bag being opened, and then a breath drawn in surprise. I look back and see a soft case lying across his lap, a shotgun clutched in his hands. He stares at it, then at me, like he’s got no idea what to do next. And then his hand finds the power window button.
“Mike don’t,” I say.
“I need a clear shot,” he insists, the tremor in his voice betraying any confidence he’s trying to project. And he’s right. Even if he managed to fire that thing off inside the Jeep without killing one of us, he’d be blowing out the only thing standing between us and the cloudfish. By opening the window and leaning out, he might get one good burst of buckshot into the tentacle, enough to loosen its hold, to free us—hopefully before it grabs him and pulls him out.
But before he gets a chance, another tentacle smashes into his door, the gripping spikes piercing the metal, covering the window, and the Jeep rises even higher.
“Come on!” I cry at the top of my lungs. Begging the universe to throw us a bone. We’ve worked so hard for this! We deserve a better ending! We earned it.
Jake hears me and cocks his head. I meet his eyes, and I know he recognizes the distress in my voice. Understands the terrible predicament we’re in.
I watch the next few seconds play out in slow motion.
Jake musters up his last reserve of strength and charges through the waves, reaching the Jeep in less than a dozen strides, like he’s running across the surface of the water. He leaps, scrambling up the hood, the windshield, and onto the roof. I watch through the cracked panel above me as he heroically bites and rends the tentacles, alien blood spraying, the cloudfish releasing the Jeep in order to retreat from this unforseen force of nature. There’s just enough time for Mike to jump out and grab him and pull him in as we speed off, leaving the cloudfish in a confusing mist of sand and sea. We suffer no other setbacks as we accelerate up the beach. For once, everything goes exactly as it should, and we make it out of there.
We’re free.
That, of course, is not what happens. That’s just what my masochistic brain decides to show me. A peek, perhaps, into yet another parallel universe where everything does work out in the end. But in this universe, Jake simply does what dogs do.
He barks.
The Jeep sinks back into the sand with an enormous splash. The thorny grippers pull away, leaving tiny holes in the windows through which the ocean breeze cools the sweat on my face. Looking up, I see all those tentacles swinging aside as the cloudfish reorients itself to face this new oddity, which it has already determined will be less of a pain in the ass to get at than breaking through the Jeep’s shell.
Jake barks again, limping backward as he does. Just as I’ve seen him do on our walks together, after earning the attention of a particularly aggressive bull elk and concluding that maybe that wasn’t exactly the outcome he’d envisioned.
Jake looks at me. It’s almost as if he knows I’m having this memory. I also remember what he did next, after landing himself in that mean old elk’s crosshairs, and I can’t help but believe he’s counting on that. Because he’s about to do it again. I can read the message in plain English.
I’m giving you one last shot, Beth. Do not fuck this up.
With a resonant whoooosh, the cloudfish jets toward him, the last tentacle unwrapping from the roof rack as it goes.
Jake runs. In the opposite direction of the access road. Fighting for speed on three legs, and making impressive distance in a short amount of time. Like I said, the dog was born to run.
Natalia screams. I want to join her, but I have something more important to do.
The cloudfish doesn’t react to the revving of the Jeep’s engine. Even if it turned on us, it would be too late. We roar from the water as I shove the shifter into second, cranking the wheel to steer us toward the access road. I can feel the heat of the blaze through those tiny new vent holes as we rocket up the beach parallel with the fire. I turn the wheel again, racing the flames to the access road. We pick up speed as the tires hit the leveled sand, then grooved pavement. I dare to breathe again as we leave the beach and speed into the gathering dusk and smoke. There’s a sob building inside me. It hurts so bad it feels like my heart is going to rupture in my chest. But I choke it down, for now. Keep my hands locked on the wheel, my eyes glued to the road ahead. I will not lose control.
I allow myself one last look up the beach before it disappears from my sight forever. I don’t see Jake. The cloudfish appears to be hovering again, a short distance away. Whether it caught him or gave up the chase, I can’t tell. Whether his journey ended there in the sand or he managed to flee into unburnt dunes for one final romp through the tall grass he loved so much, I’ll never know. But I know which version I’ll tell myself as I fall asleep on the nights to come.
If I ever sleep again.
31
NATALIA
My dad’s street is quieter than I’ve ever seen it. All the houses are dark, and the streetlights are off. A few people left their front doors open. There’s a car parked in the middle of the road that wasn’t there this morning when we left. Nana used to talk about something like this when I was little. About all the good people disappearing, leaving only the bad ones behind. Back then, I thought she was calling it the Raptor, which never made much sense. And it scared me, when she talked about it. I’m not a bad person, but I was still scared of being left here. Dad said scaring me was the point of it, then told Nana to stop.
I don’t think that’s what happened today, though. My dad wasn’t a bad person. I don’t really know Mike or Beth, but I can tell they’re good. So why are we all still here?
“Don’t look,” Beth says as she drives up on the sidewalk to get around the car. The windows are cracked, and one of the doors is open, but I look away before I see anything else. “I haven’t heard any shriekers,” she says to Mike. I really don’t like that name. “Maybe they go into hiding at night.”
“Or maybe something else got them. You said you heard something over the radio. When you were talking to the dispatcher.”
She shudders. “Yeah. Let’s not talk about that.”
“Fine by me.” He leans forward. “Natalia, where is your dad’s house?”
“It’s right there.” I point, and Beth pulls into the driveway.
Dad bought this place as an investment property. He was going to rent it out to vacationers. He also said someday the house would be my inheritance? I don’t really get how that was all supposed to work, but it was important to him. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Dad moved in after he and Mom split up.
The garage door is closed. All the doors are. None of the windows are broken. Mike was worried we wouldn’t be able to get inside without power—at least, not without making a racket and attracting attention. I told him about the solar panels. Dad was always talking about solar panels and the battery that could keep the electricity on even if everybody else lost power. He spent a lot of money on them.
“You’re sure the battery is hooked to the garage door?” Mike asks.
“I don’t know. But I think so? Dad always said he could ‘weather a storm.’ He keeps a lot of canned food and water too. Just in case. I’m sure he’d want to be able to open the garage door, to get the Jeep out.” I look around at the other homes. It’s so spooky here now. Is this the storm he was always talking about? Did he somehow know this was coming, the way Nana seemed to think the Raptor was coming? Why didn’t he say anything?
Mike gets out and quietly goes to the keypad hidden on the side of the house and puts in the four numbers I told him. My birthday in reverse.
The door opens. Quiet as a whisper, as Dad said when he first used it. Mike looks around impatiently, and Beth drums her hands on the steering wheel while we wait. As soon as the door’s high enough, she drives in, and quickly turns off the engine. Mike comes inside and hits the button on the wall by the back door to close up the garage again.
We stay there like that, in the pitch-darkness. I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat. They’re waiting to see if anything moves around inside, but it seems like the house is empty.
There’s no way to know for sure, though. Not until we go in. Mike volunteers, taking the shotgun with him, and before Beth can argue, he pushes open the mudroom door and goes inside.
* * *
“It’s all clear.”
Mike holds the door open, but doesn’t turn on any lights. Beth and I get out of the Jeep, closing the doors as softly as possible, and feel our way through the garage. It smells normal. Like car wax and lawn fertilizer and gasoline. I never really liked the smell until now. It always gave me a headache. But now it smells like home. And anything is better than the smells outside.
Mike leads the way upstairs to my bedroom, which is over the garage and looks out at the street. Dad’s room is across the hall, facing the ocean, though we’re not close enough to see it. But the trees are nice, and there’s a small lake nearby, and in the summer you can hear the frogs. I guess it’s fair that he gets the better view and his own bathroom. It’s his house, after all. Was.
The streetlight outside used to keep me awake whenever I came to stay, unless I pulled the curtains closed. But then I couldn’t have the window open, because the air blew the curtains around and woke me up and I would always think there was somebody standing in my room. It’s stupid, I know. I probably won’t be afraid of little things like that anymore.
Mike kneels by the window and looks out at the street.
Beth joins him. “See something?” she asks.
“No. Not that that means anything.” He slides the window open just a crack and puts his ear to it.
“Mike, what is it?”
“Nothing.”
She must not believe him, because she pushes him aside and looks for herself. I don’t like this. I feel like I need to hide. To crawl beneath the bed and stay there until morning.
“Nothing’s out there,” Mike insists. “I just … I want to keep an eye out.” He pauses, then, more quietly, like he thinks I might not be able to hear him, he asks, “What did it sound like, the thing you heard on the radio?”
“I don’t know. I can’t describe it.”
“Beth—”
“Just trust me, Mike. If you hear it, you’ll know.” She pulls the curtains shut, but keeps the window cracked. They start to billow and dance right away, like two ghosts. “Let’s settle in and get some rest.”
They bring the rest of the guns in from the Jeep. There’s a shiny silver one Beth calls a hand cannon, an older rifle with a big telescope on top, and the shotgun, along with all the bullets Dad took from the safe.
Mike insists we all take showers. There was something they call hellvines in the ocean, and he wants to make sure we wash anything off us that they might have put in the water. They take turns keeping watch. The water is cold by the time Beth takes hers, and she says a lot of nasty things to Mike about it.
It does feel good to be clean. To have the peed-in clothes off and fresh things on. It’s weird seeing Mike in my dad’s clothes, especially since they don’t fit him very well. They really don’t fit Beth, but none of my stuff is big enough. She makes do with an old pair of his shorts and a flannel shirt.
Mike finds enough food in the fridge to make us dinner, then he pushes my dresser in front of the bedroom door. We’re in for the night.
“Great. Sandwiches,” Beth moans. I don’t know what her problem with them is. They’re good. She sucks the carton of apple juice dry in one gulp. “I’ll take your word for it he didn’t have any beer.”
Mike ignores this while he fiddles with the dials on Dad’s radio, but he can only find static. He couldn’t reach anybody on the cell phone, either, but he still plugged it in to charge.
“Do you know the way to Vernonia?” Beth asks him. That name sounds familiar. I think I’ve seen it on road signs, maybe. “Or do we need to find a map?”
“I know the way. Assuming the roads are still intact.”
Something happens right then that shakes the entire house. It makes me scream, and I slap both hands over my mouth. Beth slowly sets down her sandwich and stares at Mike. I hate seeing her that way. Beth is Badass, and Badasses aren’t supposed to look like that. Whatever made that sound, it scares her.
It scares all of us.
“Mike,” Beth whispers. She’s afraid.
He shakes his head, reaching into a pillowcase to turn off the flashlight we’ve been using to see by. The room is so dark without it.
Another boom rattles the pictures on the wall. Something falls and breaks downstairs. There’s a long, low noise outside—a bit like a foghorn, and a bit like a giant cow. It gets into my ears and won’t leave. I wish I could reach in there and pull it out.
“Is that?” he asks, and this time Beth shakes her head.
The third boom is much farther away. Whatever that thing is, it’s moving its way down the coast. It passed right by us.
“Let’s leave the light off for the rest of the night,” Beth says.
“Good idea,” Mike replies.
* * *
I don’t remember closing my eyes, but when I startle awake, Mike and Beth are by the window. The curtains are open, but they’re sitting to the side, so that anything outside won’t see them. She’s holding her arm up for him to look at, and he’s using the light of the moon outside to see. Beth grimaces and sucks air through her teeth as he dabs at her arm with a cotton ball. The bandage she’s had on her wrist is lying on the floor.
“Still clear?” she asks.
“As far as I can tell. Looks nasty, but there’s … nothing growing.” He gently puts on a clean bandage. “I’m so sorry about Jake. If it’s any comfort, he—”
“Don’t say it. I know he was in bad shape. I know he wouldn’t have survived anyway. But still. Please.” She bites her lip. Her cheeks are wet with tears. Maybe Dad was wrong. Maybe Badasses can get scared and cry. I hope so. “We owe him our lives. Owe it to him to get as far as we can. Do whatever we can to survive for as long as we’re able.”
The sky outside lights up. Mike tugs back the curtain. A ball of fire rises into the night, miles away. There are other spots of orange way to the north. It’s hard to tell how far, or just how big they are.
“Is that because of us?” Beth asks.
“Maybe.” Mike rubs his chin thoughtfully. “It kind of looks farther away than that, though. Maybe somebody else had the same idea. Which means we haven’t lost yet.”
“Look who’s suddenly the optimist,” Beth says, and smacks him on the arm.
“You know, speaking of surviving, we have power here. There’s lots of food. Water. If we keep quiet, we could weather this. Assuming the tide turns our way, that is.”
