Slow Burn (Book 5): Torrent (21 page)

The thing
people never think about when they speed up and down the streets and highways is how the road undulates up and down with the terrain. If the road doesn’t slope up and down too steeply, all roads seem flat. Car engines do all the work of climbing low hills at seventy miles an hour, and drivers seldom notice the change in effort. But when those once-a-decade floods come, the low spots make themselves visible by filling or running with water.

Our Humvee
crested one of those undulations in the terrain along a road I’d always thought of as flat. But it wasn’t. Murphy brought the Humvee to a fast stop.

A river flowed a quarter mile wide across the road in front of us.

Without a word, Murphy got out of the Humvee, leaving the door open while he walked out in front. He stood and stared at the water.

I followed.

“You got another way down to the river, professor?”

I looked at a wall of cedars that paralleled the road. To the left, another forest of cedars and oaks bordered the thoroughfare. Water flowed out of the forest on one side and into the forest on the other. In between was no evidence any road lay underneath.

Shaking my head, I said, “There’s no river here to flood. There’s not even a creek bed that I remember.”

Murphy looked around. “What are we
gonna do?”

I shrugged. “It’ll be like this all over town.”

“We made it here just fine.”

“We came this way on purpose, Murphy. All this water is flowing toward the river. We never would have made it across town. We’d have had to
cross rivers like this everywhere there was a creek. You saw Waller Creek. All that rain water has to go somewhere.”

“
The Colorado River.”

“Eventually.”

“How long do you think it’ll keep flowing like this?”

How the hell would I know that? “A couple of hours. A couple of days.”

Murphy looked at the sky to the north. “What are the chances we’ll get more rain, do you think?”

“A hundred percent.”

“I mean, really.”

“I don’t know. I’m sure it’ll rain more. But holy crap, how much longer could it possibly rain like it did this morning and this afternoon?”

“You live in this part of town.” Murphy pointed at the new river flowing over the road. “Does this usually flood?”

“Never.”

“And you’d know, right? You drive this way, right?”

I pointed down the road. “Mansfield Dam is four or five miles that way. This is the way to Lake Travis. I’ve gone this way a thousand times.”

Murphy put his hands on his hips and stared at the water for a while. He turned and looked back up the road. He and I were still the only living things we’d seen since turning on to 620.

While Murphy was coming to a decision about how to proceed, I took the time to take a hard look at the woods on both sides of the road. Nothing was there, nothing with a heartbeat anyway. I took a seat up on the hood of the Humvee and watched the water flow by. I wondered whether it would eventually finish draining off of the land to our north and allow us to pass.

Murphy walked around, silent, looking at the water, looking back up the road. We were stuck and he wasn’t happy about it. In fact, his face was showing more and more worry with each passing minute.

Finally, when he was standing beside the Humvee and looking at the water, I asked, “What are you thinking?”

“With all of this water flowing into the Colorado River, what are the chances it’ll flood below the dam?”

“I honestly don’t know, Murphy.”

“I’m worried.”

“I can see that.”

“I love her, Zed.”

“Say what?”

“Don’t be a dick. I just told you that I love Mandi.”

I wasn’t sure how that fit into the context. “I’m happy for you guys.”

“I’m not used to worrying like this.”

“I hear
ya.”

Murphy looked back up the road, perhaps trying to think of another way to get back to the riverboat.

“You’re thinking they might get in trouble if the river floods?”

Murphy nodded. He was deeply concerned.

“I’ll tell you what. You know as well as I do, every time it floods, you see on the news how some dumbass tries to drive their car across a low water crossing and ends up drowning when the car gets washed down the creek. Right?”

“That’s what worries me, man. I’m thinking about doing the stupid thing and just driving across.”

“You’re that worried?”

Murphy gave me a nod.

“Listen. You get in the Humvee. I’m going to walk out there, you know, see how deep it is. See how strong the current is flowing.”

Murphy shook his head. “You can’t do that.”

“Don’t sweat it. Worst case, I get washed across the road and into the trees. If I’m in the trees, I can hold onto something until the current abates.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“But if you’re really concerned about Mandi…” I looked back at the wide new river. “I can handle myself in that. I’ll take the chance. Who knows, it might be safe enough to drive across. That’s what we need to find out, right?”

“Thanks, man. Wait, I’ve got a better idea.”

One end of the rope was tied to the Humvee’s grill guard. One end was tied around my waist, with maybe fifty feet in between. I waded out into the water and Murphy drove behind, keeping the rope stretched loosely between us.

At a hundred feet across the new river, the water was still only half way up my calves. The current was noticeable, but not strong. I wasn’t in danger of losing my footing, though the current did tend to trip me up when my feet crossed.

To my surprise, the water at the halfway point was only just over my knees. I was having a little trouble keeping my feet under me by then, but the heavy Humvee seemed to be doing okay. I stopped, turned to Murphy, and raised my palms to the sky. “What you think?”

Murphy swung his door open and stuck his head out. “I’ll chance it if you will.”

“You always say I take too many chances.”

“We’ve come this far. Let’s do it.”

I pushed on through the water and hoped. But the thing Murphy and I hadn’t really thought about in our brief conversation was he was nearly fifty feet behind me and in slightly shallower water. That became clear when I heard the Humvee’s engine rev. I turned at the sound, just in time to see the armored vehicle slip to the left as the current got underneath and pushed it across the road.

It was touch and go. It would slip. It would stop. I was frozen in my footsteps, wondering what I should do. Murphy quickly passed the point of wondering what he should do and chose to rev the engine higher. The Humvee accelerated toward me.

With no desire to be run down, I took off at a clumsy run through the knee-deep water, angling to my left to get out of the Humvee’s way, working with little effect at the knotted rope around my waist as I sloshed.

I made it out of the Humvee’s path for the moment, with full faith Murphy wouldn’t run me over. But I also knew he didn’t have full control over the Humvee’s direction. He was accelerating to get through the deepest part of the water—maybe a good idea, maybe not—but that choice was dangerous to me. Hell, even if he did avoid getting me stuck under his tires, at some point those tires would gain full traction on the asphalt. Being tethered to the vehicle might not turn out well for me.

With a sigh of relief, I got the knot untied and dropped the rope.

The Humvee was passing me by then, about twenty feet to my right, and splashing up a heavy wave that hit me and knocked me off of my feet. Weighed down with my equipment, I sank in the shallow water and the current started dragging me across the asphalt. I tried to sit up. I caught a breath, but the current pushed me back over.

Dammit
. I’m not going to drown in twenty inches of water.

Rolling over onto my belly, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The rough asphalt tore at my knees and palms, but the friction brought me to a stop. I breathed deeply and looked up.

The Humvee was back in ankle-deep water again and Murphy was hanging out the door, looking back. It was clear from the look on his face he was only seconds from abandoning the Humvee and coming after me.

I gave him a wave to let him know I was all right and his grin stretched wide.

The worst was behind us.

At the corner of Ranch Road 2222 and Ranch Road 620, the largest intersection for miles in any direction, we had to navigate through the usual maze of abandoned cars. The infected from nearby apartment complexes and shopping centers found their way back outside. After days of being cooped up, staying out of the rain with nothing but the grumbling in their stomachs to keep them occupied, they were ravenous. And, if I dare say, more than a little rude about it.

We picked up four of them by the time we were moving southeast on 2222. One was on the roof, one on the hood, and two were hanging onto the passenger side.

Murphy said, “There’s a big hill up here in a couple of miles.”

“Don’t sweat it. We’re not going down that hill. About a mile ahead, there’s a light. Turn right.”

“How well do you know that road? Do you think we’ll get stuck in some more flood water?”

“The roads we’ll be taking run along the crests of the hills. You know, so the houses on both sides will have those million-dollar views. I’m pretty sure we’ll be good.”

“Did you used to date a girl in this neighborhood, too?”

“Nope. I had a stoner friend who lived out here.”

Murphy started to run through his maneuvers to shake off the four infected clinging to the Humvee.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “With the rain stopping and the Whites starting to come out, we’ll probably pick up some more going through these neighborhoods.”

“Yeah.” Murphy steadied the Humvee in the center of the road.

“We can try and lose them all once we get closer to where we’re going.”

“How close can we get to the river?”

“If we do get through on these roads, there’s a street called Far View. It runs along the crest of a big hill on this side of the river. When you’re driving on that road you can see between the houses. The river is down below.”

“How close do you think that is to the riverboat?”

“I think we’ll be able to see the riverboat from there.” I pointed at the intersection coming up in front of us. “This is the place. Turn right here.”

The intersection was blocked with too many stalled vehicles, so we had to turn around and go back a half-block. A few quick turns later, we were on River Place Boulevard, heading directly toward the Colorado River again.

Murphy gestured toward the backseat. “We got a lot of stuff here. What are you thinking we should do with it? How do we get it to the boat if we’re up on a hill?”

“I think we find a safe place to park, hike down to the river, find a boat of some kind to get home and come back here in a couple of days when things have settled a bit. Heck, maybe we can even drive the Humvee right down to the river once all the roads dry out. I know there are houses close to the river. I just don’t know how to get to them.”

“The infected will be out.”

“Yeah, we’ll figure it out.”

With more than one wrong turn on winding roads—most of my memories of the neighborhood were made when I had at least a few extra chemicals in my blood—we found our way to a narrow, little no-name ribbon of pavement that looked like somebody’s driveway. It cut between Narrow Ridge Drive and
Glenlake Drive. After that, Far View Drive was the first right. By then, we’d driven too fast over too many speed bumps and our friends without pigment had lost their grip and fallen off.

Scanning across the road and looking into the yards on both sides of the street, I said, “I don’t see any infected around right now. What do you say we pull over and jump out while we can?”

“How close are we?”

“I won’t know until we get a clear view of the river.”

Murphy turned the Humvee into the first driveway on the left and followed a long, steep curve down to a courtyard big enough to turn around in. In front of us was a four-car garage. The house on our right had so much glass on the front and back, I could see right through to the low-hanging clouds above the hills on the other side of the river.

Murphy cut the engine and we both took a good look around before getting out.

Coming together at the front of the car, we continued to keep an eye on the dying landscaping while we situated our weapons. I adjusted my sling so my rifle was hanging down my back. In my left hand, I held my pistol, in my right, my new machete. I was ready. “You want to go around back? I’m betting the deck has a view of the whole river.”

“Let’s go straight through.”

I shrugged. Murphy led the way.

At the front door, he knocked with the handle of the hatchet.

We waited.

Knocking was a pretty effective way to bring infected residents out into view. But none obliged us by coming to the front door.

Murphy knocked again. It was a big house, after all.

We waited.

Nobody came.

“One more time?” I asked.

Murphy knocked, waited a few moments and tried the doorknob. It turned and clicked. The front door swung open on silent, well-lubricated hinges. In we went.

The air inside was hot and stale, but didn’t reek of rot. Everything appeared to be in order. Not even the usual clutter of life collected on the counters and tables of most peoples’ houses was anywhere to be seen.

Must be nice to have a maid.

“Hey,” Murphy called up into the towering space above us in the foyer.

I could see all of the main living room, much of the kitchen and down a hall to our left. Above us, a loft opened up to more space on the second floor. “I don’t think anybody was here when the virus hit.”

“Doesn’t look that way.” Murphy was already moving across the living room toward a pair of French doors that led to an outdoor living space with a view to envy. I closed the front door behind us and followed. Sizing the place up for possible refuge
as I went, I quickly came to the conclusion too much glass on the ground floor meant the house was vulnerable.

Murphy swung the back door open and hurried across a wide, stone-covered deck, coming to a stop at the railing a dozen steps ahead of me. He looked downriver, then upriver. He stiffened visibly with tension.

Knowing something was up when I hit the rail, I looked upriver and spotted the riverboat, maybe a mile distant. But that wasn’t all.