The Directives (44 page)

He set the empty dumpster down, his makeshift flood-bus having just delivered its t
hird load of people to the locomotive. It was his best guess where the Humvee was, only a small ripple of water showing on the surface over the submerged transport.

Down went the forks, diving into the depths of brownish water until he felt them hit the pavement below. He inched forward, estimating where the vehicle went under. His guess was good, the hydraulic rams lifting the biggest fish he’d ever caught.
That’s a keeper
, he mused, the gallows humor having become necessary to retain his sanity. A moment later, the wheels of the Humvee cleared the surface.

Like every other load of victims, he couldn’t think of any other destination but the train.

Three blocks later, he was setting the still-draining Humvee down beside the tracks. Opening his window, he got the attention of a man helping people climb out of a flat bottom boat that had just arrived at high ground. “I’m not sure they’re alive,” he shouted, pointing at his delivery. “I watched them go completely under.”

Saluting, the guy wading through the water below yelled back, “I’ll check them out.”

“I can’t do any more. I’m about out of fuel, and the water’s too deep for this rig in places. I’m heading back. Good luck!”

Bishop slogged through the water, rushing to the Humvee as fast as his waterlogged legs could pump. He opened the driver’s door first, the water gushing out telling him the interior had been completely inundated. The dr
iver was there behind the wheel… pale, grey skin and closed eyes.

Bishop reached to slap the man’s cheeks, the effort causing the victim’s head to roll. The Texan recognized Slim immediately. “Terri!” he shouted, thrusting his head inside the cab to search.

There were bodies everywhere. In the low light, he couldn’t discern any faces, but the sight of a child’s car seat handle made his gut turn to ice.

He flung open t
he rear door, turning to yell to Grim. “These are our people! It’s Terri and Hunter! Get help! Now!”

He pulled Hunter’s car seat out first, the image of his son’s closed eyes and soaked blankets sending bolts of agony through his skull. He unfastened the restraints, pulling the tiny body free and moving to the hood. He tilted his own child’s head back, ready to pinch the tiny nose… remembering his CPR training and how to only blow the smallest “puff” into the babe’s mouth.

He sensed more than saw Grim pull Terri out of the back seat. Other men and women were flying by, racing to get access to the victims. He bent to place his mouth over his son’s, when Hunter’s arms jerked… then a cough. A weak, raspy sound… and then another cough. Ten seconds later, Hunter vomited and began crying. His father did, too.

Handing off the infant to a nearby man, Bishop rushed to find Grim’s ear right above Terri’s mouth. “She’s breathing!” he shouted over the storm, “I can feel her breathing!”

Evacuees, many of them just rescued themselves, were bustling all around the injured Humvee. Bishop saw Butter stand on his own, still projecting the dazed look of a badly confused man. It took a helper under each arm to move the huge fellow toward the train.

The storm raged all around Bishop, but he didn’t notice. Carrying a ragdoll-limp Terri like a baby
laid across his arms, he barreled through the deepening water to the nearest boxcar. Bishop pulled his blowout bag from his vest, tossing the contents onto the floor until he found the emergency blanket.

A miracle of modern science, the small package unfolded into a twin-sized sheet that resembled common kitchen tin foil. After Hunter’s wet clothes had been removed, Bishop wrapped his son and wife in the metal-like material that was supposed to reflect over 90% of their body heat. They were both breathing, as warm as he could
make them. Mental exhaustion consumed him, and he couldn’t fathom any other emergency care for his loved ones.

Working as quickly as he could, Bishop turned to see more of the Humvee’s victims being laid out on
the floor of the boxcar. Grim, carrying Betty, gave the Texan a sad look and shook his head. She hadn’t made it. There were other casualties as well, their bodies laid out at the other end of the car.

And then the door was pushed shut to keep out the wind and rain.

It was completely dark inside. He was so tired, it took a supreme effort to raise his arm and pull the flashlight off his chest-rig. He somehow managed, illuminating the interior with a faint glow.

He looked down to see Terri’s eyes staring up at him. Her lips mo
ved, but he couldn’t understand a word. Bending closer, he heard her ask, “Am I dead? Is this heaven?”

“No, you’re not dead,” he said, brushing back her hair and rubbing her cheek.

“Hunter?” she asked, fear filling her eyes at the potential for bad news as the memories came flooding back.

Bishop lifted their son, turning him enough so that Terri could see his eyes were open and clearly full of life. She tried to reach for her baby, but the blanket and
her own weakness defeated the movement. Bishop unfolded Terri’s cover, placing Hunter in his mother’s embrace, helping her hold him in the nook of her arm.

“Betty?” Terri’s voice cracked with the dreaded question.

“I’m not sure, babe,” Bishop managed over the storm’s wail, not having the heart to tell her the truth.

“And the others? Slim? Butter?”

Bishop shook his head, putting his finger to her lips. “Shhhhh. Rest. Keep Hunter warm. That’s all you can do right now.”

Terri seemed to accept that, closing her eyes and pulling the now sleepy-warm Hunter even closer.

Bishop leaned back, his ears immune to the wailing storm outside of the metal walls of their sanctuary. He closed his eyes, exhausted from fighting with water, wind, and men for the last 16 hours.

The st
orm continued to pound the iron horse, the gale so strong the entire car swayed back and forth. To the exhausted, waterlogged, and shivering people inside, the motion was like the rocking of a baby’s cradle.

Bishop fell asleep.

The sliding freight door flung open, brilliant sunlight flooding the interior of the car. Bishop blinked, lifting his hand to block the obnoxious intrusion.

“What the fuck…”

Grim’s head appeared, peering inside. “There you are. I thought you’d fallen to Neptune’s trident.”

“What?” the still confused Bishop asked.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We’ve got a decision to make.”

Shaking his head, Bishop managed to stand, limping to the opening on shaky legs. The scene outside the boxcar was undoubtedly one of the most unusual he’d ever seen.

The sky was cloudless, a shade of blue unlike any the Texan had ever witnessed. The sheer beauty overhead was in stark contrast to the horizon where a line of midnight dark, swirling clouds was visible in all directions.

“Has the hurricane passed?” Bishop asked, jumping down into the knee-deep water lapping at the iron wheels.

“No,” Grim stated, sweeping a circle with his hand, “we’re in the eye.”

“No shit?” Bishop observed, spinning all around to verify Grim’s claim. “So what’s the decision?”

“The engineer says the back side of the hurricane will reverse the winds. He says when the far wall slams into us, the flooding will be worse. He wants us to get the people out of the cars and take them some place safer.”

Again, Bishop scanned the area. “Where? Everything is flooded. There is no place safer.”

Grim held up both hands, “I’m just the messenger.”

“Come on, let’s go talk to this guy,” Bishop said, pissed, tired and angry.

They found the engineer adjusting Lady Star’s valves and reading her gauges. “When the back side of that storm hits, the wind is going to come from the southwest. The cars almost blew over before; no way will they stay upright with gusts coming from the other direction. That, and I expect the flood waters to rise even more on this side of the island.”

“Then move the train. Get us on the mainland while you can still
cross the causeway,” Bishop instructed, the solution sounding logical enough. “There’s no place here to move all these people.”

“We can’t do that,” the man objected. “We don’t know the condition of the tracks on the other side.”

Bishop wasn’t in the mood for a debate or discussion. “It can’t be any worse over there than it is over here – can it? Move the damn train. The further inland we get, the less we have to worry about flooding. From what you have said, we face certain death if we stay put. What choice do we have anyway?”

A discussion ensued between one of the fireme
n and the engineer, the new participant agreeing with Bishop. The Texan watched and listened for two minutes, his mood growing foul with the inaction. Finally, he flung his rifle around to his chest, chambered a round and demanded, “I am a captain in the Texas Rangers. Move the fucking train. Right now.”

The two stunned railroaders froze, their faces painted in disbelief. Bishop reached inside a pouch on his kit and produced the badge he’d been issued just a few weeks before. “Now move the damn train before we lose this weather.”

Nodding, the engineer began to issue orders, his crew hustling to ready Lady Star.

Bishop turned to check on his family, Grim hustling to catch up. “Sure do hope you’re right about the mainland,” he whispered. “If the track is blocked, or the causeway is impassable, this is going to suck.”

“Thanks for the support, deputy. I appreciate your confidence,” Bishop replied, not in the mood to engage in banter now.

After returning to let a still-sleepy Terri know what was going on, Bishop climbed aboard the first passenger car, intent on monitoring the crew’s progress.

Five minutes later, they began rolling through the floodwater covering the tracks, the white concrete of the distant causeway clearly visible against the coal black sky beyond.

“We have to go slow through standing water,” o
ne of the firemen informed Bishop. “Even a locomotive as heavy as the Lady Star can hydroplane off the tracks.”

To the Texan’s eye, it was a surreal ride, a wake of water passing away from the train just like a boat crossing a glass-smooth lake.

The closer they drew to the causeway, the higher the track’s elevation. Soon, they were climbing up and out of the flood, the entire crew showing relief.

The next potential obstacle in their path, a blocked or washed-out causeway, never materialized. At the apex of the bridge, Bishop looked back over his shoulder, inhaling sharply at how fast the solid black wall of the storm’s eye was catching up with them. “Pour the coal to her, boys,” he whispered. “Let’s see Lady Star kick some ass.”

It was an uphill grade coming off the island, but that was all right with every man aboard. Each mile gave them precious elevation above sea level… reduced the chances of being caught in the flood.

Both sides of the line showed standing water, downed trees and toppled utility poles. As they passed over a small stream, Bishop held his breath. The water was already over the bridge supporting the tracks, and there was no way to know if the supports had been weakened by the flow.

Like a bloodthirsty leviathan, the back wall of the storm chased them across the landscape. Taller and taller the dark, churning wall of clouds grew, eating away at the escapees’ head start with every passing minute.