Page 99 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
The boat zipped north, following the approximate path of a road. A damp breeze ruffled her hair, carrying with it the smell of rotting vegetation and the sour whiff of sea brine.
The further north they went, the shallower the flood waters became, until road markers appeared, then letter boxes, and soon raised patches of dry land. She could feel things start to bump and scrape against the bottom of the hull. When there came a loud, long crunch against the aluminum, Ryan quit the motor, and they came to a halt.
He swung one leg out, then the other. There was still at least half a foot of muddy water on the ground. She stood up too and was about to step down into it when Ryan turned back and scooped her up in his arms.
He carried her to where the asphalt of the road emerged on a slow rise out of the water and set her down on her feet. Then he looked away, raking his hand through his hair. For a second, he seemed like he was going to say something. But without a word, he went back to the boat and started unloading their stuff.
And she knew he had complicated things going on in his head, too.
Before setting off on foot, they drank some water, then distributed their belongings between them. He had his duffel, the rifles and the water bottles; she had her shoulder bag and her battered suitcase. She wheeled it behind her as they picked their way along the road, skirting deep pools of water and tree branches. There was nothing to see on either side of the road except a sodden brown shoulder and the skeletons of pine trees.
They walked in silence. Neither of them was in the mood to make conversation. The sun beat down, making the puddles steam. The road ahead appeared wavy in the heat haze. Her camisole was stuck to her back and Ryan had sweated through his shirt.
They’d been walking about a mile when they saw a vehicle up ahead. It was an old white minivan, parked half on the shoulder and half on the asphalt. It looked abandoned. As they neared it, she saw why. A branch had landed on it, denting the roof and cracking the windshield.
After dropping her suitcase on the road, she jogged up to it, cupping her hands against the driver’s window. There was no one inside, but some smears of blood on the steering wheel and the seat. Apparently, the driver had hit the brakes in a hurry and their face had taken the impact. There wasn’t enough blood, though, to indicate any life-threating injuries.
She peered into the back windows while Ryan tried the driver’s door. It wasn’t locked, but there were no keys in the ignition.
He dropped his duffel off his shoulder and rested the rifle case on the ground next to it. “Check in the back,” he said. “See if there’s a toolkit or something.”
She lifted the rear hatch. The seats had been folded into the floor and a four by eight sheet of plywood took up the entire cargo area. It was probably a last-minute hurricane preparation for someone’s house. Too last minute, in this case.
On top of it was a large dog bed, and some bags filled with groceries. She kept looking around and found a compartment built in the sidewall. She unlatched it and it dropped open. Inside was a tire iron and first aid kit and canvas pouch tied closed with a piece of string. She opened it and found it contained a variety of tools.
She brought it around to the front of the car, where Ryan was busy extricating the branch from the windshield and clearing the hood of broken glass.
He brushed off his hands, opened the bag and rattled around inside until he found a screwdriver. Then he kneeled on the ground and bent down into the driver’s side footwell. Started unscrewing the steering column.
She’d seen someone hot-wire a car before—the gun aficionado had also been a grand theft auto aficionado—but didn’t think that the skill was in Ryan’s wheelhouse.
She leaned against the door, watching him strip the wires and reattach them. The radio turned on, then the windshield wipers started thumping. Then the engine spluttered to life. “They teach you how to do that at Glynco?” she asked.
He looked up at her and gave a quick smile. “Boy Scouts.”
* * *
The Grand Caravan’s engine roaring to life was the sweetest sound Ryan had heard in days. The gas tank was half-full—hopefully enough to get them to civilization.
Jessica had loaded their belongings into the cargo area and climbed into the passenger seat, a bag of salvaged groceries in her lap. As the van idled, she rummaged through it.
“They must’ve been on their way back from getting storm supplies when they crashed,” she said, pulling out batteries, toilet paper, and thank God—a twelve-pack of bottled water. She tore off the plastic and handed him one.
Ryan cracked the seal and drank in greedy gulps, draining it in seconds.
Next, she unpacked a bottle of wine, a bag of apples, a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and a container of yogurt—spoiled. She grimaced and tossed it onto the floor.
She ripped open the bread bag and grabbed a few slices, passing the rest to him.
They ate in silence, tearing hunks of bread and dipping them into peanut butter. The simple act grounded him, settling something raw inside. His mood lifted with each bite. He sank his teeth into an apple, the crisp snap breaking the quiet, while out of the corner of his eye, he watched Jessica prop her feet up on the dash, leaning back in her seat like she belonged there.
Ryan fit the apple between his teeth and slipped the van into gear, easing them off the muddy shoulder. With the windshield shattered, he had to crane his head out the window to see where they were going.
At a four-way intersection, the traffic lights were dead, the road signs long gone. The asphalt was littered with broken branches, twisted metal, and the pieces of debris that hinted at lives upended.
He chose to head north. The destruction lessened in that direction.
Jessica leaned forward and flicked the radio on. A pop song blasted from the speakers.
