Iggy shudders hard then throws back his head and releases a piercing, “Fuuuuuuck!” to the universe.
Yeah, that about sums it up for Malcolm, too. He doesn’t know how far downstream the flood washed them, and he doesn’t care. All his exhausted, freezing body wants to do is curl up and sleep until he’s warm again, and that won’t happen until they find shelter.
“Monte, did you hear that?” Iggy asks.
“No, what?” He can’t hear much of anything over the rain hitting the tent, and their combined ragged breathing.
“I swear I heard a?—”
A piercing noise like a referee’s whistle startles Malcolm so badly he jams his sore knee against a rock, and he hollers. Who’s blowing a whistle in this storm?
Iggy starts shouting for help. The whistling gets louder, closer. Then a deep voice outside the tent is telling them to hold on, he’ll get them out, and Malcolm chokes on a sob he refuses to release. Someone’s out there, and he can’t cry in front of a stranger.
The tent rips, and then a yellow-ish glare of light briefly blinds him. Malcolm yells and lashes out, desperate to protect Iggy from whatever this is.
“Whoa dere, son, no need fer dat.”
He doesn’t know the voice but it orients him enough to realize there’s a man holding a flashlight, and he’s just ripped them free of the soggy tent. Who the heck is wandering around in a monsoon with a whistle?
“C’mon, let’s git you to mah truck. Got the heat on.”
Malcolm doesn’t care who the stranger is, not when he’s offering refuge from the rain and a break from the endless chill. “Iggs?”
“Get me out of here,” Iggy whines. “I’m never sleeping in a tent again.”
Their rescuer laughs, deep and rusty, and helps them untangle themselves from the flaps of tent and broken guylinesand soaked sleeping bags. Malcolm snags his backpack, since it’s got their wallets in it, but the rest can wait until morning. It’s all ruined anyway. Iggy’s gripe about pneumonia rings in his head as they stumble over muddy ground toward the distant headlights of a running pickup.
He doesn’t recognize the gravel road or the truck, and any thought that they’re about to be kidnapped dies when he catches a glimpse of the truck owner’s face in the approaching light. Old McRainey is the town hermit, rumored to live off the land and only come into town twice a year for things like ammunition and kerosene.
How far down the creek did the water push them?
McRainey yanks open the passenger door. Malcolm helps Iggy climb inside first then joins him on the wide, worn bench seat. He takes a few seconds to feel bad about dripping rainwater and mud all over the truck’s insides, until Iggy starts coughing. McRainey drags a wool blanket out from under the seat and thrusts it at them, then shuts the door.
Malcolm does his best to wrap Iggy up in the blanket. He doesn’t give a shit what McRainey thinks about him holding Iggy tight, willing every bit of body heat he has left into his boyfriend. McRainey clambers in the driver’s side and cranks the heat up. Instead of peppering them with questions, he just drives. Bumps and ruts that jar down Malcolm’s spine combine with the crash of rain against the truck’s metal roof, and it’s almost too much noise.
The rain isn’t sheeting down as hard when the truck stops, but the noise of the rushing creek is just as loud. McRainey hustles them inside a cozy cabin and straight toward the cast iron stove in the far left corner.
“Git dose wet clothes off, boys. I got more blankets. Git warm.”
Malcolm does his best to comply, first making sure Iggy gets out of his soaked jeans and sweatshirt, and he’s wrapped in a dry blanket by the fire before Malcolm works on his own clothes. By the time they’re both settled, McRainey’s got mugs of steaming broth for them to sip. It’s hot and salty and kind of stale, but it heats up Malcolm’s insides like a kid in after a snow day.
McRainey settles in an old willow branch rocking chair nearby with his own mug. “You boys sure picked a piss-poor day tah camp.”
“No kidding,” Malcolm replies. “Didn’t expect a flash flood along the creek bed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Iggy says, face barely visible from his cocoon of blankets. “I’ve never been in something like that.”
“Can be scary, f’sure,” McRainey replies with a nod. “Been on this creek m’whole life. Been in a few. Jus’ glad I was out.”
So is Malcolm. “We’ve never met before, sir. I’m Malcolm Montgomery. This is Iggy Donohue.”
“Good t’meet you boys. Rich McRainey. You g’on’n enjoy that fire right good. No phone t’call yer folks, though. Tell ‘em yer okay.”
“My uncle’s out of town tonight,” Iggy says, “so I doubt he’ll suspect anything’s going on with the creek.”
“It’s Friday, so my parents are just glad I’m not at home,” Malcolm adds, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. He doesn’t really care anymore that his parents would rather him be gone than around, but sometimes…it hurts a tiny bit. Especially when his body hurts, like his sore knee. It reminds him his soul hurts, too.
McRainey grunts. “Then y’can stay here ‘til mornin’. Floor ain’t soft but’s dry.”
