Page 97 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

“The storm. I think it’s moving away.”

THIRTY-ONE

Jessica woketo find light seeping through the busted bathroom window. Bright light. It took her a moment to realize that there was no wind, no rain. Birds were singing.

She climbed from the bathtub, her stiff, sore limbs protesting with each movement. Her body ached with fatigue, but there was also a sense of relief that she’d survived the night unscathed.

She doubted the building had, though. Opening the bathroom door, she half expected a wave of water to flood the room, but the only thing that came in was a damp breeze.

Venturing out, she took a survey of the house. The living room had fared the worst, with the window and a good amount of the front wall ripped away. She could see patches of blue sky through holes in the roof. The kitchen was a mess too; the cupboards had all been blown open, their scant contents lying shattered in deep puddles on the floor. Broken foliage and bare branches covered every surface and crunched underfoot. The air smelt of pine needles and brine.

She saw Ryan standing on the little porch just outside the door. “You do realize,” she called as she approached him, “if we stay here for much longer without power, that thing in the freezer is going to start coming back to life?—”

She stopped abruptly beside him. Water covered what had once been land. It filled the front yard and lapped at the top of the porch. It stretched all the way to the road and beyond, as far as the eye could see. Things were floating in it: downed pine trees, junk from the yard, dead fish and birds.

She said, “I hope you know I’m not very good at swimming.”

“You should never swim in floodwaters,” he said, looking out over the newly formed lake. “It’s full of all kinds of crap. Not to mention leaches. Water snakes. Gators.”

She glanced back at the house. From out here, the damage looked worse than it did inside. A huge pine tree had embedded itself in the front wall. The flood had taken the roller door and completely submerged the garage. The Charger was up to its windows in saltwater.

She couldn’t get over how quiet it was. She could hear the lap of the water, the light breeze in the trees. It was almost idyllic.

Ryan unclipped his Glock from its holster and held it out to her. “You see anything moving in the water, you go right ahead and shoot if for me, okay?”

She took the gun from him, managing not to drop it. “Wait, what?”

He walked down the porch steps and start wading through the water. It was up to his shins, then his knee, then his hips.

She looked down at the gun. It was heavier than it looked; the rubber was warm in her grip. “Does it have a safety or something?” she called after him.

“Nope. Just pull the trigger.”

“What if I miss and hit you?”

He turned and gave her a wry smile over his shoulder. “Oh, I happen to know you’re a crack shot.”

As he waded deeper, she yelled, “What did you just say about not swimming in floodwaters?”

“I said you shouldn’t,” he called back. “Not me.”

She watched him make it to the safety of the shed without being eaten by anything. He was gone about ten minutes, then she heard a motor starting. It wasn’t the Charger’s.

When he reappeared, it was at the helm of the tiny aluminum boat she’d seen in the shed yesterday.

“Seriously?” she yelled.

“I said I’d get you to Baton Rouge, didn’t I?” he shouted over the sound of the outboard motor. “Come hell or high water.”

* * *

Ryan got dressed in dry clothing for what he hoped would be the last time for a while. Then he went and finished carting all their things onto the porch.

Jessica joined him a little while later, wearing a fresh t-shirt and a denim skirt, her hair piled on top of her head. He couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. Because soon, he knew he would never get to lay eyes on her again. The thought was like a sharp stab right above his kidney.

Together, they packed their things into the Jon boat, in the small space between the bench seats.

She picked up the rifle case, containing a Remington 870 shotgun and an AR-15 patrol rifle. Most field offices kept them in their vehicles, and every marshal was trained to use them.