Storm Shelter
by Kenny Soward
Chapter 1
Claire sat quietly in her above-ground storm shelter with the wind and rain raging outside. Pieces of debris fluttered against the sides of the reinforced concrete structure, brushing past the narrow window in its thick opaque glass that let in a bit of gray light. It was her grandfather's old shelter, her first time using it after inheriting his place. She'd just started making repairs. Good thing, because another hurricane was bearing down on Louisiana.
A drip from the back corner caught her attention, and she walked over between the shelving units stocked with supplies and moved a bucket into place to catch the drips. As she stood and backed up, checking out the hole she'd have to fix, knocks rang out on her door.
She turned and cocked her head curiously, walking over, calling, "Who is it?"
"A wayward traveler," a man called back. "Looking for shelter in the storm."
She slipped over to the door and opened the viewing slit, looking through to see a gruff face with a beard riding high up on his cheeks. Friendly blue eyes stared back at her. "It's brutal out here," he laughed good-naturedly.
"Can you let me in until the storm passes?"
"I wish I could, mister," Claire said with a slow shake of her head, "but I can't." She narrowed her eyes. "Hey, aren't you the guy I saw in town the other day? You got kicked out of Happy Tom's Bar. I thought Deputy Lawry told you to leave town."
The man's gaze turned steely in a flash, crimson flooding his face. An arm thrust through the opening, digits grasping at her. Claire's stomach lurched as she retreated cautiously, then lunged for the peephole cover, attempting to force it closed. His forearm blocked it, so she seized a pair of his flailing fingers and wrenched them back, eliciting a howl and the abrupt withdrawal of his limb. She swiftly slammed the panel and pressed against the entrance, leaning in and panting.
Claire listened for the man to walk away, expecting to hear the telltale signs of his boots crunching across her gravel driveway. Instead, something heavy slammed against the door, sending her skittering back several steps at the ominous boom. Another heavy weight crashed against the door, rattling it in its frame.
"You'll never get through!" she called hesitantly. "It's a reinforced frame and-"
The doorjamb cracked as the object struck it a third time, and Claire remembered the old log sitting just outside beneath the oak tree. Plenty of branchlets for the man to grab onto and swing the whole thing like a battering ram. The fourth hit struck a booming blow that shook the shelter. The door flew in with a crack, flying back against the wall, leaving the man standing there, dripping wet, holding the heavy log by thick shoot. Wind and rain rushed in, whistling through the room like a banshee released.
Claire was ready with the old Louisville Slugger she'd found behind the door when she'd first started clearing the cobwebs from the place. In a two-handed grip, she swung it at the man, cracking him in the forearm and drawing a pained shout. He rushed forward, jamming his palm into her face like a football running back giving a stiff arm, sending her sailing backward with ridiculous ease, the bat flying as she landed on her backside. The man tried to kick her, but fell off balance, staggering in a wash of alcohol breath, tripping over her as he tried to kick her again, and Claire, not knowing what else to do, latched onto his leg and clung for dear life. His pants smelled old, wet, and musty like they'd seen a lot of road and not much washing.
"Let go!" He screamed, punching her head. "Get off me, girl!"
When he popped his knuckles ineffectively against the top of her head, he squeezed his fist with a wince and stooped to swing in from the side, catching Claire in the cheek and the temple before she turned the other way and wrapped her face around the backside of his leg. He shifted and used his other fist to pound at her head, probing to get at the soft, delicate parts of her face.
Ears ringing, teeth clenched against the throbbing dizziness that was beginning to take hold, Claire realized it was just a matter of time before he knocked her flat out. Leveraging herself against the floor while being half-dragged across the shelter, Claire got her knees beneath her, clenched his leg harder, and lifted. Thrown off balance, the man stumbled into a shelf, sending a clatter of canned goods to the floor. Something big and heavy struck the back of Claire's leg, and she switched to the other cheek and squinted through his continuing blows. It was her flashlight, one of those big, heavy ones that weighed about six pounds... one her grandpa might say was good enough to use as a weapon.
"Get off me!" he screamed again, "you stupid bitch!" Snatching her by the hair, he leveled a couple more punches to the side of her face, striking her ear to send bells ringing through her brain.
The man threw his weight back the other way just as Claire reached for the flashlight, her fingers brushing the cool, heavy metal but unable to grab it. Then he was tripping drunkenly over her again, crashing into a different shelf, sending tools spilling to the floor. He was half-sitting by then, leaning back against the shelves with a handful of her hair. Pain shot through her scalp as strands ripped out. Two shelves came loose and crashed on their heads, along with more canned goods, tools, and a first aid kit, adding to her lumps.
But it gave Claire just the moment she needed.
Claire released his leg, dove for the flashlight, and got her hand around the shaft with its slightly rough handgrip. Every instinct told her to take the opportunity and try to get away, to go running through the door and out into the screaming wind. But his fingers curled tightly in her hair told her she didn't have a chance. Instinct took hold, and she lifted the flashlight, half-rolling and ripping hair out of her scalp, swinging upward with a grunt, thrusting the heavy flashlight head as hard as she could toward his face. She cracked something hard, and the aggressive tension in his body froze and withered just a bit. Claire threw her face up so she could see, glaring through the blood dripping down her face, cocking the flashlight back and swinging again. He almost caught her wrist, didn't quite get it before the heavy bell end of the flashlight caught him in the middle of his face with a crunch. His nose burst like a cherry, blood gushing down his face in a red wave. The hand in her hair tried to thrust her away while the other reached to block her from doing more damage. He caught her wrist on her wrist the third swing, but the heavy end of the flashlight whipped forward and cracked against his sloping forehead. And then he was shoving, kicking, and thrusting her away, bucking so hard that she flew off him and rolled across the floor.
The bat was there, the Louisville Slugger she'd dropped, and she grabbed it and rose, swinging it two-handed as she came up. The end of the bat snapped two of his fingers as he tried to block it, bringing a raspy, gurgling scream from his throat. Claire couldn't afford to give the larger man a chance to get up, so she swung again and again, forcing him to curl against the shelving, one arm up in desperate defense.
She swung once, twice, and then a third time, each with a resounding crunch of wood against bone, something in his skull giving way just before the shaft of the bat cracked down the middle. She clenched her whole body, throwing every bit of weight into one final swing... and when it came, the man collapsed back and ceased moving. Claire stood there, panting, chest heaving, body thrumming, the bloody bat end drooping in her grip.
***
Claire had the man by his feet, lifting his heavy legs. His clothes were soaked with rainwater, only adding to his weight. She tugged backward with all her might, moving him about six inches, then again moving him six inches more. Bit by bit, she pulled him out of the shelter as the wind whipped in from the side to blast stinging rain against her bruised cheeks. Once she'd gotten him across the gravel and into the garden, she let his legs drop and staggered back to the shelter, almost blown off balance once or twice. She didn't bother to check if he was breathing because she was pretty sure he wasn't. She shuffled back inside, put her shoulder against the door to shut it, and reached for her chair, flipping it around and placing it under the door latch to hold it shut. She staggered back, looking around the shelter her grandfather had built. Canned goods were scattered across the floor, and one shelf in the back was almost completely broken down, spatters of blood everywhere.
She started cleaning up then numbly reached into her pocket to take out her phone, dialing nine-one-one. At first, she was certain no one would answer; they'd be too caught up in storm emergencies. But someone did answer, a soft female voice on the other end.
"This is 911. What's the emergency?"
Claire started to tell her but finally broke down in a flood of emotion, shoulders trembling, tears streaming down her face. And after a full minute of the 911 operator trying to calm her down, she told her what happened.
Chapter 2
Claire exited the police cruiser without any assistance, her hands cuffed in front of her. Deputy Lawry held the door open, observing her with cautious blue eyes framed by a freckled face. His bright red hair was neatly combed back in a perfect side part.
"You okay?" Lawry asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Claire reported, stepping away from the cruiser.
"It's just up there," Lawry said, softly closing the door and motioning towards the police station doors.
"I know where it is… I've just never been inside."
"Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. Try to relax if you can."
Claire nodded and followed Deputy Lawry towards the glass doors, cringing beneath the burning stares of the townsfolk. Dozens were out in the street, collecting debris that had been blown off their houses or stores, pausing to watch her and the deputy as they spoke in hushed whispers.
"Once we get in, just keep walking," Lawry instructed, getting out in front of Claire and holding the door.
A stout officer with a firm jaw and a grim expression held open the second set of doors, and Claire moved past him into the main area where a single dispatcher sat in a cubicle on the far side. She tossed her long black braids over her shoulder as she turned, gifting Claire with a sympathetic smile. Along with two larger desks taking up most of the center of the room, leaky buckets were strategically placed throughout the room, collecting water from a stained, tiled ceiling.
"Keep going, Claire," Lawry urged, catching up to her and gesturing for her to keep moving. "Right down that hallway there."
Claire went on toward a pair of raised voices two doors down. She glanced left into a small interrogation room where a disheveled man in wet clothes was being interrogated by a female officer with short, black hair. Claire recognized the woman from around town, but she still didn't know her name.
"When did you get into town?" the officer was saying.
The man scoffed, practically spitting the words. "We got here a couple of days ago. We were supposed to stay with some friends out on the beach, but we had a falling out and my brother just took off. He never came back—"
The man's gaze lifted to Claire, turning cold and hostile with a sudden dawning light. The black-haired officer got up from her seat and softly closed the door.
"Please continue, Claire," Lawry said, gently coaxing her forward.
"Sorry," Claire replied, shuffling the rest of the way down the hall, her soaked shoes making squelching sounds on the tile floor, slowing as she reached the dimly lit doorway at the end of the hall.
"The first room on the right," Lawry directed, stopping at the doorway as Claire stepped into the middle of the small, plain room. Like the interview room she passed before, it had a table resting against the far wall and a chair on either side.
"Sorry about the flickering lights," Lawry said, nodding at the ceiling. "The emergency power is a little wonky. Just take a seat in the far chair over there. Would you like something to drink? A soda or coffee…"
"Coffee, please," Claire replied as she shuffled over, turned, and sat. She fixed Lawry with a questioning look. "Is that the man's brother?"
Lawry glanced back with a wince and nodded. "Yeah, that's him. But you don't need to be afraid, all right?"
"I'm not afraid," Claire said softly, placing her hands on the desk with a rattle of handcuffs.
Lawry nodded after a long moment before closing the door, leaving Claire alone in the chilly room with the flickering emergency lights. A little while later, he returned with a foam cup filled with black coffee. Along with a creamer and packet of sugar, he placed it in front of her and took the seat opposite.
"The coffee's old, but we've been busy," he said, running his hand through his wet, red hair. "This weather has been absolutely insane."
"Tell me about it," Claire replied, adding one creamer to her coffee while pushing the sugar aside.
The deputy placed a notepad on the table, tapped it with the end of his pen, and fixed her with a serious look. "Again, I apologize for the lights, but the generators are about as old as this building."
"The storm has been rough on everyone," Claire said, taking a sip. The coffee was so bitter, even with the creamer, it curled her lip.
"Unfortunately, it seems like there's another storm on its way."
"Why are we here, Deputy? Did I do something wrong? Am I under arrest?"
"No, not at all. It's standard procedure to clear the area until the coroner is done, and I needed to get some information from you… a statement and all"
"Okay."
"Can you explain what happened?"
"I told you back at the house."
"Right, but let's go over it again before Miss Mays speaks with you."
"She's the investigator?"
"That's right. Just... tell me what happened in your own words."
Claire recounted the story once more, how the man had broken down her shelter door and forced entry, and how she'd defended herself using deadly force. Lawry listened attentively, taking notes and wincing when she mentioned striking him with the bat.
"And you didn't think about stopping?"
"Stopping?" Claire shook her head. "What do you mean?"
"After he was down, you didn't think about backing off?"
A wave of uncertainty washed over her as her mind replayed those last, brutal moments. How she'd held the bat firmly in a two-handed grip, swinging with her hips just like her father had taught her to hit a softball — the sound of wood cracking bone with a wet crunch. She'd been shaking her head slowly throughout her story, but the motion grew more emphatic, her breathing ragged as the events replayed like a movie in her mind.
"I don't think so, Deputy Lawry." Claire paused, tears welling up again, a persistent shudder running through her regardless of her efforts to stop it. "He was coming at me aggressively, and he was drunk too. I could smell it on him." She looked up plaintively. "I was in my own shelter, minding my own business, waiting out the storm like everyone else. He broke the door down with a log… a log. There was no… backing off."
Lawry studied Claire for a moment before tapping his notepad one last time. "I believe you, Claire. Truly, I do. And you can call me Sean if you want."
Claire nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "All right, Sean. What happens now?"
"In a little while, you'll need to speak with Lieutenant Mays, but I assure you it won't take long."
"Sounds like I'm in trouble?"
"Look, I think you acted in self-defense, which is well within your rights here in Louisiana. Speaking to Lieutenant Mays is just another part of the process."
Clair's eyes slipped to aside. "What about the guy's brother? Is he angry?"
Lawry glanced briefly at the closed door behind him. "Well, he's not happy. It seems there was a misunderstanding at the place they were staying, and the man you fought with left and went on a bender. I actually had to throw him out of the bar a few days ago."
"I heard about that when I was in town yesterday. Didn't think much of it until I saw him stumbling down the sidewalk."
"There were plenty of witnesses to that, too. Plenty of people to corroborate his attitude prior to showing up at your place. You should be in the clear."
"Good," Claire said with a strained smile. "That's good to know, Sean."
***
Claire stepped outside into a somber gray sky with angry clouds swirling above the town. People were scuttling about with packages in their arms, rushing to and from the hardware store and corner grocery back to their vehicles, leaning into the wind and drizzle. The curbs were still overflowing with dirty water from the last dump of rain that poured into the sewer grates in a rush. A few birds fluttered along the blocks of quaint shops—fishing gear, antiques, and a myriad of rustic businesses that had convinced Claire to keep her grandparents' place and try to carve out a life there in Louisiana. Deputy Lawry had promised Claire a ride home after she picked up some supplies, so she turned toward the hardware store, aiming to pick up some wood to repair her broken door.
A figure emerged from the hedgerow to Claire's right, a towering shape that seemed to flow out of nowhere and rush toward her. Claire leaped back with a soft cry, her left fist raised defensively, her right fist cocked back in a reflexive strike posture. It was the man from earlier, the brother of the man she'd killed, approaching in a long, torn trench coat that engulfed his tall and haggard frame. His gloved hand, with the fingers cut out, extended towards her throat, his eyes thrumming with an intensity that shook her into action. She swatted at his arm, but it was like hitting a piece of steel. With a desperate lunge backward, she managed to evade his grasp, although he snatched a few strands of her hair in his grubby fingers, ripping them clean from her scalp.
"Hey!" Claire barked. "Leave me alone!"
"You killed my brother," the man growled, pausing with his hands clenched in front of him. "You didn't have to do that."
"He broke into my shelter!"
"He was just drunk," the man spat, taking two more menacing steps towards her.
Claire continued to retreat, her fight-or-flight response clashing in her veins. "Get away!" she said low through clenched teeth. "Leave me alone! I'm warning you!"
"You're gonna regret what you've done," he said in a flash of crazed clarity, the anger in his eyes shifting to flat resolve. "I'll make you pay!"
"No—"
A strong arm swept in, slapping against the man's chest, two hands appearing to shove him straight back. Deputy Lawry, his face contorted in a grimace, got between them. Despite being smaller than his assailant, he effortlessly pushed him in the opposite direction, down the sidewalk and towards the bushes.
"Backup, Trevor," Lawry commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. "Just back right up."
Across the street, a small crowd of townsfolk had stopped what they were doing and gathered, watching the confrontation with narrow, curious eyes.
"She needs to pay for what happened," Trevor growled.
"Is that a threat, Trevor?" Lawry responded sternly, "If it is, I can escort you straight into the station and put you in a cell until you settle down."
Trevor's anger dissipated, his labored breathing subsiding as he meekly admitted defeat. "No, I'm not threatening her, but it's not like you're going to do anything about it. Look at her, walking free—"
"You have two options," Lawry said, holding his ground. "Go to your friend's place or leave town. It's up to you. Just don't let me catch sight of you in town or around Claire again, got it?"
"Yeah, I got it," Trevor said, shuffling backwards slowly. He cast a final harsh glare in Claire's direction, the promise of revenge flashing there before he hurried away and disappeared around the corner.
Lawry watched him go before turning to Claire with a half-smile. "Are you alright?"
"I'm okay. Just a little shaken up."
"I don't blame you. It's been a long day."
"Can't you do something about him? Maybe keep him in a cell overnight until he calms down or something?"
"I wish I could. He's understandably upset about his brother, but he hasn't committed any crimes. Regardless, it's not your concern. Do you still want to get those supplies you were after?"
"Yeah… I need to fix the door on my shelter."
"Want me to come with you?"
"No, I'll be fine. Can you still take me home when I'm done?"
"Absolutely. Just let me know when you're ready."
Claire kept her eyes fixed on the corner where Trevor had vanished before sidestepping towards the street. She nodded at Lawry. "Thank you, Deputy... I mean, Sean. I appreciate it. I'll be back in a jiffy."
Claire crossed the street with purposeful strides, her shoulders tense and eyes fixed ahead on the crooked hardware store sign, weathered and beaten from the storm, her only wish to get her supplies and get home before the next storm hit.
Chapter 3
Lightning flashed brightly across the desolate gray sky, tearing through the turbulent clouds and their various shades of gray. The second major storm in just a few days was raging through the Gulf of Mexico, ready to pummel the Louisiana Gulf Coast with a powerful punch. Appropriately named Hurricane Igor, this new storm threatened to bring even stronger winds and pressure systems than Hurricane Dora, which had passed through thirty-six hours earlier.
Claire glanced up from where she knelt in the doorway of her grandfather's storm shelter, squinting through the cold drizzle that gently kissed her cheeks. The wind picked up, rustling her grandfather's garden and causing the old, withered tomato plants and cornstalks to sway. Claire had moved there less than a month ago and hadn't had the chance to replant anything, let alone make something grow. But as she looked at the homemade raised beds her grandfather had built, adorned with faded painted designs of turtles, rabbits, and kittens, a wave of nostalgic memories washed over her with a deep pang of longing and sad regret. She shook off the emotions and focused on the task at hand — fixing the door.
Each swing of the hammer was like fortifying a wall against the terrifying encounter she'd faced when Vernon Cross had broken in almost two days ago. The unexpected kindness of the townsfolk, especially Deputy Lawry, had helped put her mind at ease—at least her hands had stopped shaking. Before she lost herself in the cold memory of that encounter, Claire resumed hammering, finally fixing the broken frame with one last strike from her hammer. Satisfied with its sturdiness, she began screwing in the new striker plate she'd purchased from the store.
The radio played in the background, tuned to a weather station where a professional male voice cut through the static, delivering updates. "… severe winds are currently hitting the Louisiana Gulf Coast, and residents should anticipate even stronger winds as the night progresses. Atmospheric and oceanic conditions are favorable for record-breaking winds and flooding, although the levees are expected to hold. It is advised to stay indoors, preferably in a well-built storm shelter or the lowest point of your home."
Claire's eyes darted to where she'd left Vernon to die, vividly recalling the moment she'd stepped outside after Hurricane Dora had dissipated. Deputy Lawry had been standing there, hands on his hips, by Vernon's lifeless body, his skin cold and clammy, clothes torn by the storm. The winds had pushed him onto his stomach, leaving blood stains on the gravel, a memory Clair would not soon forget.
Shuddering, she finished with the striker plate, testing the door a few times to ensure it shut properly. The rain intensified, a sideways drizzle cutting across her left cheek, and she pulled her poncho hood over her head and tightly fastened the strings. Dropping her tools into her work bucket, she closed the shelter door and turned towards her grandparents' backyard. A flash of lightning illuminated the shadows, revealing the gardens and the large two-story house that sat on a wide, flat plot of land. To the southeast lay swamps, while to the north stretched an expanse of an old commercial crop field that hadn't been worked in a decade. The house, an old plantation-style structure, was weathered and beaten, its white paint worn away from years of neglect and storms. Claire's eyes followed the grand columns that supported the porch roof, some of them newer, having been replaced by her grandfather before ill health had taken its toll on him. The front porch stretched the length of the house and curved slightly around the side where a pair of rockers faced the swamp.
Claire strode down the gravel lane towards the house, a chill on her shoulders as she checked the bottom floor storm shutters, ensuring the hardware was okay and there were no gaps or flaws. One of the shutters outside her bedroom window had come loose, so she closed and locked it, using her flashlight to check for any gaps. She made her way to the front of the house and climbed the wide porch steps to go inside to check the windows and shutters upstairs. Anxiety lodged in her stomach like a stone, giving her the sensation of being pursued or watched. She stood on the porch, looking around at the trees and gardens in the front yard, her eyes slowly moving down the driveway to the road, but seeing nothing.
Heading in, she went upstairs and opened the windows, checking the storm shutters from the inside and finding almost everything in good shape except for one shutter in her grandparents' old bedroom. Claire put reinforcement screws in to secure it, then turned to glance at the old nightstands, drawers, and bureau her grandparents had since their wedding day. She'd put out feelers to the rest of the family, asking if anyone wanted the bedroom set, but she hadn't heard anything back yet. With a sigh, Claire left the room and headed downstairs through the kitchen.
By the time she reached the back deck, Igor was howling loudly, tossing lighter branches into the air and sending leaves and debris floating through the sky. Branchlets on the large oak tree in the front yard were being blown off, Spanish moss flying off with the leaves. A high-pitched howl echoed from her grandfather's old, rusty Ford parked at the edge of the field as the wind blew through the empty shell like a brass instrument. Claire quickly checked that the deck furniture was secure and locked the plastic storage bin, placing cinderblocks on its lid for extra weight. The wind swept around the house, causing her poncho to flutter around her bare legs stuck in jean shorts and shin-high galoshes. Claire jumped off the porch and moved to the side of the house, inspecting the woodshed door and the other small outbuildings on the property, deeming them about as secure as they could possibly be.
Igor squalled and sent hardline winds in from the side, causing the surface of the swamp to ripple. The big bald cypresses rocked back and forth like swaying drunkards unable to find their balance. Standing at the edge of the murky water near the back porch, Claire hugged her poncho tightly around her shoulders, peering into the murky darkness of the impenetrable swamp.
A burst of lightning cracked across the sky, followed by a heavy downpour that drenched the ground instantly. The raindrops were thick and heavy, creating a torrent of splashes and transforming the yard into a swamp. With a yelp, Claire took off, splashing across the yard toward the shelter's front door. She turned the doorknob and paused, glancing around the yard. The landscape, from the fields to the house and beyond, was obscured by a wall of mist covered in a gray blanket. Her visibility was limited to the end of the driveway and across the main road to the next property where trees were bent low, their branches waving like ghoulish arms, causing Claire's heart to race. She flung the shelter door open, entered, and quickly locked it, throwing a two-by-four into the braces she'd installed, barring the door completely.
Dripping wet, she unzipped her poncho and hung it on a hook by the door. Turning towards the cozy shelter, illuminated by a soft electric lantern, she paused to frown at the spot on the concrete floor where she'd cleaned up Vernon's blood, the bleach having left strange marks in front of the shelves they'd crashed into during their struggles. She'd repaired the shelves and restacked all the canned food, flashlights, and boxes of batteries, then disposed of the bloody Louisville Slugger in the garbage can, unable to bear the sight of the hair clumps and blood stuck to it. Claire walked into the back room and checked the small but powerful solar-powered battery she'd been using for the past few days. It was still at seventy-five percent power, more than enough to charge her phone, a couple of lights, and a small television and DVD player she could use to watch a movie or two.
After lighting a couple of candles and retrieving some old blankets from a wooden bin, Claire was looking forward to a cozy night despite Igor's wailing and howling outside. The rain pelted against the side of the shelter, forcefully attacking the roof and walls, but the repairs she'd made earlier in the day held up, and she couldn't help but give a hesitant grin at how things had worked out. Settling into a soft reclining lawn chair in the back room, she pulled the blanket up to her chin and took a deep, steady breath. The storm sounds and radio voice provided a soothing soundtrack, whispering her to sleep like a trusted confidant. Claire was teetering on the edge of slumber, about to be enveloped in a blissful and intoxicating dream world where the events of the previous thirty-six hours could be briefly forgotten, when her phone abruptly buzzed in her pocket. Wearily shifting to her left, she reached into her pants pocket and retrieved it.
With a deep furrow in her brow, she reluctantly answered the call and pressed the phone to her ear. "Sean?"
"Hey, Claire," Lawry's voice blared through the static, fluctuating in volume with each word. "I, uh, just wanted to give you a call... more like a heads up, really."
An uneasy sensation stirred in Claire's stomach, snapping her awake and pulling her away from the drowsiness that had almost claimed her. "A heads up about what?"
"Well, after everything that went down earlier at the police station, I decided to dig into Vernon and Trevor Cross. I'd actually been trying to do that before, but with the phones being out then and just coming back..."
"I understand, Sean. Are you saying you've found something concerning about them?"
"Yeah, actually. Turns out these two guys are wanted by the Florida police in connection to some really heinous acts over there."
Claire bolted upright, her gaze fixed on the flickering candle resting on a plastic cooler nearby where she had her supplies and snacks. "What kind of trouble are we talking about?" she asked.
Lawry cleared his throat, the hesitation in his voice evident. "There have been a couple of murders in Destin, and the Cross brothers are the suspects. The authorities have been searching for them for two weeks. They thought they might've made it to Texas by now, but it seems like they never got that far."
Claire's attention shifted to the door as Igor knocked with shrieking winds. "Is Trevor coming after me? What should I do?"
"I would've… you up… not a good idea," Lawry said, his voice crackling through a stretch of static that lasted several seconds.
"Sorry, Sean. Say that again? I didn't catch that."
"I would pick you up," Lawry said, speaking louder and more forcefully, "but I don't think it's a good idea in this storm. But you should be safe where you are."
"Are you sure? Should I try to come into town?"
"No, don't risk it. It's too dangerous outside."
"But what about Terrance?"
"We don't even know if he's still in town. Chances are, he fled. But even if he's not, he's still got to deal with the storm. I bet he's already hunkered down somewhere. Don't worry, we'll find him."
Claire stared at the door, her chin beginning to tremble.
"Are you still there?"
"Yes, I'm here. I just... don't know what to do."
"Where are you now?"
"In my shelter, staying low."
"Stay put and call me if you need anything."
"What if we lose cell service?"
"Do you have a radio?"
"I think Grandpa has one in a cabinet in here."
"Well, if you find it, tune it to channel 16. You should be able to reach me there. If not, I'll come by in the morning to check on you."
"Okay."
"Hey, Claire, I won't lie and say everything's fine, not after what you've been through. Find yourself a weapon and stay vigilant. If anything happens—"
"Call you."
"That's right. You good?"
"I don't have a choice but to be good, Sean. Thanks for calling and letting me know."
"No problem. Stay safe, and we'll talk soon."
Claire hung up and let the phone fall into her lap, unable to look away from the door, her ears straining to hear any sign of approaching danger over Igor's cries, like the sound of boots on gravel or a whisper of menacing laughter. After what felt like an eternity of just the storm, she stood up and began to search the shelter for something she could use to defend herself.
Chapter 4
Water drip-dripped across the broken, battered yard with scatterings of stripped branchlets, thick limbs, and leaves strewn across the soggy grass. The big cypresses out back by the swamp hung low, branches swaying in melancholic silence above waters rippling with movement. Smaller adolescent trees along the edges of the swamp had been completely uprooted, their branches shorn off and tossed haphazardly to the wind, creating a canvas of debris. Downspouts hung off the old plantation house, and several storm shutters on both floors hung crooked. Puddles soaked the yard and driveway, and a slow drizzle of rain tapped on the beat-up husk of the broken-down car that remained entrenched in its muddy grave, unmoved by Hurricane Igor's abrasive winds. Out on the road, pieces of shingles and siding lay scattered in the road, and power cables lay limp and sparking on the wet pavement.
A sound emanated from the storm shelter where leaves and grass clung to the front, and a gnarled limb lay across the roof with its branchlets drooping over the side like a tired traveler after an exhaustive journey. The storm shelter's door bar slid up with a scrape of wood on wood, a lock clicked, and the knob turned. The door opened inward slowly, hesitantly, revealing Claire as she stepped out in her shorts and galoshes, her poncho on but with the hood pushed back. Her face in the shadows was pale, her hair greasy and unwashed, tired eyes searching the yard with darting looks. In her right hand, she clutched an old steel pipe, something her grandfather might've used to make repairs on the property, its weight heavy as she hefted it in plain view.
In the aftermath of the storm, the world seemed quiet and calm, so Claire walked slowly to the driveway, then turned toward the house, doing a full turn to assess the damage Hurricane Igor had done. Her heart beat steadily, her breath shallow but calm as she stood in the aftermath of Nature's fury. There were no people, no rescue crews or survivors, no one lying in wait to hurt her. It was just storm damage everywhere she looked. And if she wanted to stay in town and live on her grandparents' property, she'd have to get used to temperamental weather sweeping in across the Gulf. There'd be more repairs, more precautions, and always with the looming knowledge that a real big one could blow through and take all that she'd worked for away in the blink of an eye. But if it meant keeping the house in the family and having a piece of property she could call her own, Claire would embrace the prospect.
She walked through the front yard, stooping to pick up loose branches and toss them into small piles, putting garbage in separate ones, and pieces of shingles and construction wood in another. Working her way around the side of the house, she came to the back where the yard was filled with leaves and debris ripped from the heads of the swamp trees and hurled across the deck rails and in the flower gardens. Pieces of loose, wet moss and leaves stuck to the back of the house, and one section of the eave was drooping more than the rest, indicating a major repair would be needed. Claire was up for it, gathering strength and determination as she used the steel bar to herd loose pieces into more piles, working her way to the deck stairs and leaping up them two at a time to check on the deck furniture and bins.
Claire froze at the top of the stairs, a cold chill settling in her spine as she stared at the back door, which stood wide open. She tried to remember if she'd shut and locked the door, and she was certain she had, but the wind had been unpredictable, and the hardware on the door questionable. It made perfect sense that a high hurricane wind might've blown it open.
Claire swallowed, unable to shake the sense of uneasiness that gripped her stomach. She hefted the metal bar and moved closer, standing at the threshold of the kitchen. An inch-deep puddle of water sat just inside the doorway, stretching three feet into the kitchen. Claire leaned in, looking down the aisle between the sink and refrigerator, unable to make out much in the dim light with the storm shutters closed. She backed out and sidestepped along the deck, loosening the storm shutters above the kitchen window and throwing them wide. Back at the doorway, Claire stepped farther in, her feet in the puddle, blinking at the cups and dishes that had been swept off their shelves, leaving glass shards scattered across the kitchen floor. A cat calendar and most of her reminders and notes had been blown off the refrigerator, ripped from their securing magnets and left strewn across the counters and plastered to the walls, wet from the in-blown rain.
Her eyes roamed the room, searching for the shadows beneath the arch leading to the dining room. They shifted back across the tiled kitchen floor toward her, resting on a blueprint made of mud and moisture, a big man-sized boot imprint as plain as day. The massive, heavy prints seemed to mock her on the stained tile as they marched off into the dining room and disappeared.
Claire's heart froze in her chest, her limbs locking up, her jaw popping open slightly as she stood in the strange, dripping silence of the post-storm world. With her free hand, she pulled up her poncho, put her hand into her pocket, and brought out her cell phone, starting to press the nine but pausing when she realized there was no connection, no cellular service. The towers must still be down! Panic tightened around her chest, a firm grip that arrested her breathing even as she listened for any sound that might give away the intruder. Deep down, though, she knew who it was.
From the hallway straight ahead, a dark figure loomed, hulking and blocking any ray of light creeping through the storm windows on that side of the house. The figure moved forward with the rustling of a long coat, heavy boots on the old, creaking hardwood, hands outstretched as he slipped along the hallway walls where old pictures of her family hung. Claire was frozen to the spot, her grip on the steel pipe sweaty and weak, only able to watch as the shape reached the edge of the light. Old, grubby pant legs half tucked into boots. Heavy belly and chest parting the trench coat. A grizzled face with a scraggly beard and piercing cold eyes beneath a head of damp, curly hair. A wash of alcohol wafted off him, and a slow smile crawled across his face.
"I was hoping to catch you home," Trevor said, his voice just above a low growl, laced with a note of pleasure. "I think it's time we settle up for what you did, don't you?"
Claire's throat had gone dry, the muscles of her neck constricting tight. The sheer size of Trevor, standing in the hallway, forced her to take a step back. "Get out of my house," she said, her tone matching his if not for the slight tremor, the sprig of uncertainty.
Trevor advanced into the kitchen, his flexing fists dangling at his sides, his jaw tightening, eyes taking on an intense focus. "Is this where you killed him? Did my brother die in your kitchen?"
Claire stepped back slowly, shaking her head, feeling strangely obligated to answer his question. "Out there, on the driveway. That's where I left him… after he attacked me, after he broke into my place and—"
Trevor gathered himself with the spring action of a cat, stooping and then flying forward, launching himself at Claire with outstretched hands, his fingers clenched into claws. She raised the metal bar and swung it downward with a cry, but the tip of the bar caught the top of the doorframe, stopping her swing cold. And then his hands were on her, grabbing fistfuls of her poncho while thrusting her backward. Claire was kicking, crying out, slipping on the wet decking, then slithering from his grip. She tumbled backward off the top step, bent backward, and hung suspended in the air for a long stretch of time, staring into his snarling face. The sky came into view, gray clouds filling her vision, a pair of birds weaving back and forth in the mist. Down she went, hitting the grass with a thud that shocked her entire body. Lightning pain raced up her back as the air was knocked from her lungs in a whoosh, leaving her lying there coughing and gasping for air.
Trevor stood at the top of the stairs, grinning like a ghoul, gripping both sides of the rail as he started down after her. Claire rolled to the side, willing her body to get up and run, forcing it to crawl through the waterlogged yard, cold water filling the sleeves of her poncho, soaking down her sides and splashing in her face. As Trevor's boots thudded on the old wooden steps, Claire tried getting to her knees only to collapse again. Gasping, straining, forcing her body to do more. She got up and kept moving, half-crawling, half-staggering several feet away from Trevor's splashing shuffle through the grass. She could sense his grasping hands as he reached for her, and if she let him catch her, he'd never let her go.
Adrenaline raced through her system, electrifying her with the sudden urge to fear-flight. Springing to her feet, Claire lunged just out of Trevor's sweeping grasp, staggering across the yard toward the driveway and listening as his boots splashed faster through the water-soaked yard. His low growl reverberated in the storm-soaked air, the sound a tiger made when it all but caught its prey and looked forward to a bloody meal. Claire got the brief notion to run straight ahead through the field with its cracked and broken cornrows, the mud and old farm implements out there sitting unused and rusted. But Trevor would be on her before she could get too far, his longer strides catching her easily. At the last second, Clair broke to the right and made Trevor miss again, leaving him staggering forward and falling to one knee as she raced for the swamps.
"You can't get away, Claire!" Trevor bellowed, his deep rasp reverberating across the water.
Claire raced toward the embrace of sweeping magnolias, ducking beneath a cascade of willow branches that enveloped her like a blanket, gently brushing her shoulders. She glanced down at her phone as she skirted the edge of the swamp, leaping into the grimy water and lunging ahead with bold, gigantic, sweeping steps. Cell phone held high and out of the sloshing waves, she pressed through the brackish marsh into the deep swamp where Trevor couldn't possibly follow.
Chapter 5
Claire swatted branches and twigs out of her face as she ran, headfirst, through the dense, murky swamp. Swamp plants clung to her legs, her galoshes splashing through the muddy water. Her breath came in gasps as she raced to get away from Trevor's booming calls as they echoed off the swamp waters and through the gnarled treetops.
"Claire! Claire! I'm coming for you, Claire!"
Her pulse synchronized with the sound of Trevor's shouts, his voice echoing like a dead promise behind her. With a massive exhalation, she burst through the underbrush, heart pounding, all sense of direction gone. Her only thought was to get away. The air was thick with humidity. An oppressive grayness hung overhead, leftover from Hurricane Igor, the light barely visible between breaks in the swamp trees. Being smaller and faster than her pursuer, Claire thought she could get away easily. Her scrambling feet, sweeping arms, and frantic movements should've been more than enough to put Trevor well behind her, but the foliage was too thick, the ground too squishy, every step sucking way more energy out of her legs than it should have. When she finally found a stable trail of mud and knee-high grass cutting through the swamp, she put her head down and ran harder.
Entering a thick part of the swamp with bald cypress trees and sweet-smelling magnolias with drooping branches, Claire kept to the muddy path that wound between them. Her hand outstretched, she staggered from tree to tree, her fingers trailing over the rough bark as she went. She avoided the gnarled cypress knees and the dead-water smell that might indicate deeper water, though most of the time she couldn't tell if the ground was actually moss-covered stagnation or just patches of mud and grass. She brushed past hanging Spanish moss, the oily tendrils brushing her skin like ghostly fingers. Frogs croaked in the brackish water, and the rustle of unseen creatures sluiced across the surface then splashed when she passed by.
She paused for a moment, resting her right hand on a tall, straight tree trunk that jutted forty feet into the sky, its sparse, slender branches spreading out horizontally above her head with small, leathery leaves. There was a cluster of similar trees holding together a mound of firm mud and clay with bushels of grass sprouting up and funny flowers she used to know the names of. She waited, breathing hard, leaning against the firm tree trunk, slightly alarmed at how shaky her legs were. Claire had once been an athletic girl, going out for various sports teams in high school, though she'd never been a star athlete. She preferred hikes and climbs but seldom broke into a dead run, never like this before.
"Claire!" Trevor shouted, followed by his big body crashing through the brush somewhere close behind her, closer than before, closer than Claire would've thought possible. "I can't see you, Claire, but I know you're there. I know I'm getting closer. Why don't you just give up and we can go back to your place, share a nice cup of coffee, and talk things through?"
I'm leaving too easy a trail to follow, Claire thought, lips pressed into a thin line.
She took a deep breath to re-energize herself, sucking in the moist, swampy smells and that strange, rotten aroma from the gases, moss, and dead things. Claire moved at a slower but steadier pace through the clutch of cedars, her breathing much better, keeping her feet beneath her and working her way through the chaotic waterways branching out around her. She avoided the water and did her best not to leave muddy boot prints, broken grass, or cracked limbs, moving as quietly as she could.
The highway must be around there somewhere.
It should've been just south of the house, with the edge of the swamp crowding up against it like a dense wall of relentless vegetation. She'd walked it more than once and ridden her bike along it into town on at least three occasions. Her plan had been to take some of the money her grandparents had left her and buy a pickup from someone in the area, nothing fancy, just something to get around and haul building supplies from the hardware store. And while she'd seen plenty of farmsteads and plantation homes on the south side of the highway, there wasn't much on the north side where her grandparents' property sat. She hadn't even had time to walk the entire length of the property yet. The last time had been when she was a small child, adventuring through the swampy woods so many years ago. Times when she and her grandfather had built a little campsite, complete with a wooden clubhouse Claire pretended was her castle. Her grandfather would pretend to be an evil monster stalking her through the swamp, always creeping around her castle but never able to get inside. But her grandfather was no longer the monster. It was Trevor now, crashing through the brush after her, and no castle to save her this time.
The swamp had changed too drastically since then, with long, winding stretches of murky waterways and stagnant ponds of rippling waters. The canopy above sagged with moisture, the dampness infused with Igor's rains and winds. Claire quelled a sense of panic growing inside her gut, a niggling feeling that if she didn't find the highway soon, she'd be trapped in the swamp at night, chased by a murderous shadow.
"Is that you, Claire!" Trevor shouted, followed by something heavy being shoved aside, a log or branch breaking, the wet crackle ripping through the quiet bog sounds. "Just stay where you are, and I'll be right there."
With a brisk shake of her head, her fists flexing at her sides, Claire broke into a run, sweeping through the wet foliage as things slithered beneath her feet. Her eyes darted left and right, absorbing every inch of the path even as she attempted to navigate it… too fast. Claire stumbled on weak knees, and she veered left to avoid a patch of slick mud that sloped downward and to the left, the slight incline peppered with bushes and wet, sluicing dirt. Gasping, reaching for swampy vegetation, she tried to keep from slipping, but her boot went out from under her, the rubbery, knobby treads slipping to send her crashing onto her right knee. The handful of vines she'd grabbed came apart with rotting ease, sending her slipping sideways for three or four feet. With a yelp, she flipped onto her back and went crashing and sliding through the foliage, dragging everything along with her. The ground felt like butter, conducting her downward like an avalanche of mud, greenery, and flailing limbs. She slammed into a root, the old, gnarled wood digging into her back, flipping her feet-over-head into the air, sending her into a blurry tumble. She glimpsed a round patch of grass that might break her fall, but the thick layer of rugged moss and fallen debris masquerading as a forest floor gave way beneath her.
She plunged into the cold, murky depths of swamp water with a cry, sinking deep into the mirk, turning and twisting to right herself in the shockingly deep water. Mouth pressed tight to avoid swallowing the bacteria-ridden liquid, she splashed and kicked, getting her feet beneath her despite all the water trapped in her galoshes. Kicking at the rocks and rotted deadfall on the swamp bottom, Clair sent herself rocketing upward, breaking the surface with a gasp. Spitting and sputtering, her palms smacked on the water's surface with another noisy splash. Cold water soaked her clothes beneath her poncho, seeped into her boots, and drenched her socks. The cold clenched her body in its icy grip, sending an uncomfortable shiver through her body, making her long for anything dry and warm.
Sloshing through the dark waters toward the first stable patch of earth she could see, Claire climbed over and around twisted roots, clambering for purchase. A sound from above - Trevor making noise on the rise she'd fallen from - froze her to the spot. She stood there for a long moment, water dripping from her nose and chin, her hair soaked and tangled in its ponytail holder. The world was quiet, but for the slow drip of water, croaking frogs, and the murderer rustling around in the brush. If he decided to follow her down, it would be dangerous, but he could do it… slide right down into the water with her.
The revelation got Claire moving again, only much quieter. She sank into the water so that only her face was visible, backing away from the long trail of mud and crushed debris she'd slid down. She ducked beneath gnarled roods as thick as her arm, staying hidden until the water started to recede, forcing her to rise above the surface, turn, and climb up the muddy bank.
Fully emerged from the depths, Claire found what must have been an animal trail through the swamp, a thin patch of moist dirt running through knee-high grasses and woody brush. She kept crawling until the vegetation formed a tunnel above her, so thick she couldn't rise to her feet if she wanted to. After twenty yards of crawling, face pressed to the mud, Claire emerged from the thickets' wiry branches, climbing to her feet and shivering in the cool swamp breeze. Her teeth were chattering, and her chin trembled as she searched for a place to run. Behind her, Trevor had fallen silent, a state that frightened Claire even more; at least before she could sense his progress.
Claire closed her eyes and tried to get her bearings. As far as she knew, she'd been heading due east, even angling a little south to meet the road. Slowly, she started in what she thought was the right direction, cutting through the cavorting layers of unsolid earth. and picking her way carefully through the woods. Claire kept to the tighter places, the clusters of green and brown blurs that would hide her from her pursuer. A hundred yards of creeping and skulking got her absolutely nowhere, and soon, every direction she looked appeared the same.
"The road's got to be around here somewhere," she hissed, stepping briskly in her squelching galoshes, feeling like she was standing in two inches of water, the slimy dampness disgusting every time she wiggled her toes or moved.
Fifteen minutes passed, then an hour, and Claire found herself walking on the edge of despair. No road in sight, nothing familiar for her to cling to, and no way to go back. The cold had seeped deep into her muscles and bones by then, and when she pulled her waterlogged phone from her pocket, the screen flickered and went out, causing her to shiver even more as her lifeline to civilization died.
Claire glared up at the sky in sheer desperation, unable to hold back any longer. "Help me! Can someone please help me?!?!"
Trevor's ominous laughter reverberated through the swamp, a jovial sound tinged with a note of seductive victory. Her only consolation was that he sounded farther away than he'd been before, not right on top of her anymore, almost like he was off her trail and heading in the wrong direction.
The fear that had threatened to strangle her loosened, and Claire angled to the left, soaked and shivering in the dampness. Her surroundings blurred as darkness set in, turning everything into gloomy, breathless shadows. Claire set her jaw, steeling herself against what she knew she had to do… survive.
Chapter 6
Claire drifted in a restless dream, her eyes darting behind her eyelids as the swamp sounds surrounded her. Frogs croaked, and a symphony of insects spoke in chitters and creaks. Soft splashes resounded on the swamp waters, and bigger things shifted through the brush and over the dank, rotted deadfall that formed a sort of smelly mulch. She slept on a soft bed of leaves between the outstretched roots of a cypress tree, covered by alder branches and sweet-smelling swamp rose flowers. Her head rested on a pillow of Virginia creepers she'd stripped off the tree and rolled into a bunch. With her poncho pulled up over her face, she hugged herself throughout the deep night in the company of biting bugs and slithery things.
Claire was dreaming about a sunnier day in the backyard of the plantation house. Grandma Evelyn was attending to her flowerbeds, garden gloves on her hands as she moved dirt and packed it. Evelyn hummed a tune while Grandpa Henry was hunched over the hood of his old Ford parked in front of the garage where the storm shelter now sat. A single shop lamp in an oval cage hung from the hood frame, the power cord sweeping off to one side and out of the way. Henry had a row of tools lined up on the fender and radiator, and he was leaning in his tall form, clothed in a T-shirt and pair of overalls that smelled stale and oil-stained with the faintest hint of pipe smoke. But he'd been at it all day and tended to get that way when he had his mind set on finishing a job.
"This the one you wanted, Grandpa?" Claire asked as she bounded up in a matching set of overalls, the pant legs rolled up to show her brown boots with the striped shoelaces. She held out a small plastic bin of loose ratchet sockets. "These?"
Henry banged on something deep on the inside of the engine block, gave a soft curse, kissed his finger, and turned to greet Claire with a pained smile. His hard, steel eyes looked at her lovingly before dropping to the sockets. "That's exactly what I needed, Claire. Thank you."
He took the box from Claire and placed it down with his other tools, grabbing his ratchet and exchanging one socket for another before bending back inside and turning something with repeated clickety-clack ratchet sounds.
"What are you doing, Grandpa?" she asked, leaning on the opposite fender with both arms, lifting herself, and trying to see.
"Well, I'm working on this cylinder head," Henry said. "Trying to get the darn thing to quit leaking. It feels like she's on good and tight so it must be something with the seal."
"How can you tell?"
He pointed to stripes of oil running down the engine block and dripping on the gravel driveway. "See how she's leaking?"
"Yeah."
"That's a sure sign. Plus, she smokes from her exhaust when I start her up." He leaned back and rested his fist on his hip with the rachet still in hand, using the back of his other arm to wipe his sweaty forehead. "I thought maybe I could get her running, but she might be a lost cause."
"Can I help?"
"If you're interested in cleaning all the engine parts once I get all this taken apart again, sure."
"I'd love to do that, grandpa. Maybe we can get it done before dinner."
Henry laughed heartily, shaking his head at Claire and reaching to rustle her hair. "It's not as easy as that, young lady. We're talking a weeklong job. I don't think that's something you'd be interested in."
"Heck yeah, I would!" Claire hooted enthusiastically.
"You'd spend your whole spring vacation working on an old car?"
"If it was with you, Grandpa, sure."
"It's a tough job, you know."
"How so?"
Henry lifted his eyes past Claire to where the swamp lay in its quiet solitude, full of secrets and puzzles without end. "Working on an old car like this is a lot like surviving out there in the swamp. You need a lot of patience, knowledge, and sometimes a little help."
Claire crossed her arms and stuck out her chest. "That's what I'm here for, Grandpa." Her eyebrows raised hopefully. "Can we take breaks sometimes?"
"Well, sure."
"Then we can wander the swamp, and you can teach me about it too."
Henry seemed to remember himself and winced a little before shifting to look at Evelyn, who was watching from the flower garden. "Sure you wouldn't want to spend time with your grandmother instead? She was hoping you'd help her get things planted."
"I want to do that too!" Claire looked longingly at her grandmother kneeling in the dirt, the girl torn between both activities.
Evelyn shook her head and waved them off. "Go ahead and work on the car. I don't mind watching you two goof around with that old thing while I do the serious work."
Claire beamed, put both hands on the fender, and raised herself up off her feet. "Thanks Grandma, I'll come and help you too sometimes."
"Just remember," Evelyn said, "when you start something, you had best finish it. I don't want you sulking to me the first time you stub a finger."
"I won't Grandma, I promise."
Claire was jolted awake by a violent shiver, a chill coursing so cold up her spine that her teeth clacked for a good twenty seconds before she got the shaking under control. Memories of that maniac Trevor surged back, sending her bolt upright, swallowing a gasp as her heart raced. She recalled her urgent escape through the swamp, the twists and turns, plunging into the pond and its murky dark waters. After that, she'd navigated the unforgiving fingers of swamp stretching all around her, never able to get her bearings until she'd finally tuckered out and found a hollow nook between the cypress roots to rest in. She'd torn off some soft branches and flowers to cover herself and fallen asleep. Now, she blinked at the swamp, alive with sound, a symphony of belches, croaks, and bird whistles. Somewhere nearby, a woodpecker knocked incessantly, and a big fat bug zipped by her head, buzzing so loudly that she jerked back and knocked her head against the rough tree bark.
"Ow," Claire complained softly, rubbing the back of her head.
Shifting slightly brought a chorus of aches and pains - her restless legs and sore hips, scratches stinging her thighs and calves. She'd been sitting crooked, causing a sharp pain to pinch at the base of her neck, and she reached up to rub it as she cleared the brush and flowers she'd been laying under.
A slight rustle near her right foot froze her to the spot. A long, slender, leathery shape moved beneath the dead leaves near her feet. An elongated body, hard, snout, green with mottled yellow spots that blended in perfectly with its surroundings. Claire's eyes roamed from the wide nostrils up the length of the snout, following its long slender body over the muddy bank, fat and green with stubby legs and claws dug into the muck. The tail wound down into the water, where it disappeared beneath the green surface, moving slowly, languidly, in powerful, sweeping strokes. Yellow, reptilian eyes blinked at her, and the end of the snout shifted slightly toward her foot. It chuffed and sniffed, trying to find her scent. If she hadn't been so dirty, so covered in mud and filth, it might have found her outright, but a night in the swamp had left Claire camouflaged against the backdrop of weaving vines and drooping branches.
Heart striking the inside of her chest like a fist, heavy blows she could hear in her ears, Claire cautiously edged backwards, avoiding any sudden movements that might provoke it. The alligator shifted again, made a deep throaty bellow, and opened its maw to reveal gnarly, over-protruding teeth like pointed hammers, ready to grip her foot, twist it into a thousand pieces, and drag her deep into the swamp waters where she'd drown to death.
With a surge of adrenaline and a sharp cry, Claire sprang backward, slamming her shoulders against the tree trunk and rolling to her right as the alligator lunged with a loud snap of its jaws, barely missing her foot where it had been a second ago. She ran square into a jutting cypress root, striking it with her thighs and almost rolling right over it. She backed up, put one boot on it, and launched herself over, just as another sharp snap ripped the air behind her. She could smell the thing now, coming up out of the mud, rising from a world of bottom-feeder catfish and crawdads, stagnant waters bursting with mosquito eggs and floating dead things.
She was up and over the root, dancing through the swampy tangle as branches whipped her in a barrage of slaps and scratches, but it was nothing like the creature hissing and wiggle-sliding beneath the roots Claire was leaping over, moving far faster than she ever could. When she plunged into a waist-high pool of murky water, she thought she was done for. She slogged a few feet to the other side and climbed a bank covered in rocks and sand, scrambling up it and plunging through a wall of sharp branches, coming out on the other side of the trail she'd been on the previous night. Standing there, panting with her hands on her thighs, Claire looked around at all the same endless green, surrounded by the same croaks and rustles. She whirled at the sound of something coming up the bank behind her, but there was nothing there, just the tiny ripples she'd made climbing out of the water. All signs of the alligator were gone, though she had to be careful because she didn't want to meet it again.
By then, she was wide awake, seeing the swampy woods in the first rays of dawn light. The sun shined down through gaps in the trees, casting long golden rays against the gloomy scenery. She swallowed hard, wiped her face with her hand, and was enveloped by a ravishing thirst. She walked a few steps in what she thought might be south, but everything looked the same. Thick trees draped in moss, murky waters glistening in the bold sunlight, the thick humidity pressing in on her lungs with every breath. Panic crept in when she realized she had become hopelessly lost, going far deeper into the swamp than she'd ever intended, with no idea which way was south toward the highway or west back toward home. At least Trevor hadn't gotten her, and it didn't sound like he was around anywhere close, at least not that she could hear or see. For all she knew, he was lost, too, or had found his way back to the house. A hot flash overcame her, beads of sweat breaking out on her brow when she thought about Trevor back at her grandparents, going through their pantry, eating all the food Claire had just purchased. He'd probably go up and sleep in Henry and Evelyn's bed, getting it dirty with his grossness and… evil.
She spun and started walking back the other way, her boots crunching on soft, wet leaves and twigs. In a burst of energy, she picked up her pace and jogged, bouncing from one foot to the other over rocks and dead logs, bending to shove reaching branches out of the way, the forest's skeletal fingers swiping at her, swatting at her face and upraised hands.
Out there in the swamp, you need a lot of patience, knowledge, and sometimes a little help.
Her grandfather's words came back to her, forcing Claire to stop her running and to take a pause on the trail, hands on her hips and breathing heavily, getting thirstier by the second. She was most definitely lost and would get more lost if she didn't stop and take stock of her situation, thinking hard about how to navigate the seemingly endless maze of swamp foliage, how to unlock its secrets... how to survive. Claire closed her eyes, inhaling deeply to calm her racing heart, recalling one of Grandpa's first lessons.
Look for the sun. Follow the moss on the trees because it grows on the north side.
With a sprig of hope, she turned a full circle, peering up through the branches to find the sun's direction through the canopy above. She walked over to a cluster of cedar trees, big fat ones as round as her torso, others mere saplings sprouting up from the moist earth, dripping with vines. She circled them, touching each one, marveling at the soft green moss growing up mostly on one side. Sure, trails of it ran around the tree trunk on the other sides, but it was mostly clustered in big patches on the one, and that had to be north.
Her confidence grew as she stepped back to the trail, putting the clues together and concluding that she must be south of the trees and that the highway would likely be directly behind her. It couldn't be but a mile or two, less probably, and it wouldn't take her long to find her way back. With a wide smile, she turned her face up to the sun, capturing its warmth on her right cheek as the thirst returned tenfold. She couldn't drink straight swamp water. It teemed with bacteria and insect eggs, lots of things she would never want to swallow. But she'd been running through the swamp, bursting through rain-swept branches and getting wet all over again - the leaves... they were still wet from the storm.
She walked over to a couple of fat oak trees, reaching for a low branch and carefully tearing off a single leaf, narrow and ridged and beaded with water droplets. She swept her tongue along its surface, picking up the moisture and smacking her lips. She found another big one and formed it into a tiny cup in her palm, then started reaching for more leaves, breaking them off carefully and shaking the droplets into her hand. After several minutes of that, she had about a tablespoon of water, and she leaned in and slurped it gleefully. The flavor was fresh and green, soothing her throat as it went down. Suddenly, the swamp didn't seem so dark, as long as she had Grandpa Henry to help her through it.
With a spreading smile, Claire went to work gathering more leaves.
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