Page 3 of Currents of Desire

Then, I hear it.

It cuts through the wind noise. It comes from below. It’s a heavy, wet impact against the main support beams.

I open my eyes. The floorboards beneath my boots vibrate with the impact.

Debris. Has to be. The storm surge must be rising faster than I thought. A log, maybe. Or a piece of someone’s dock floating up the estuary, turning into a battering ram.

I take another drink, trying to settle the spike of adrenaline. Ignore it. You boarded up. You’re high and dry. Stay put. Going outside now is suicide. The wind speed is probably pushing 100 mph.

Harder this time, that the whole house jerks. The whiskey bottle clinks against the floor.

“Dammit,” I hiss.

If a massive log is battering the stilts, it could compromise the structural integrity. If I lose a main pile, the house lists. If the house lists in this wind, the roof catches the air, and the whole thing peels open like a sardine can. Then I go into the dark, just like the kid.

I push up from the floor, bracing against the wall as the room shudders. Then the noise shifts. The heavy thudding stops, replaced by a shriek tearing up through the floorboards. It cuts right through the storm with a wet, choking squeal, like an animal getting torn apart.

“No,” I say aloud. “No, I am not doing this.”

The scream comes again, cut short by a gurgling, hacking cough.

It’s right under the kitchen, caught in the pilings.

I stand there, paralyzed between the instinct to hide and the instinct that ruined my life. If it’s an animal, it’s dead anyway. A wallaby, maybe? A dog washed up from town?

Things are washing up, Miller had said. Shapes.

If it’s a person… if some idiot tourist got caught in the surge and washed under my house, and I leave them down there, the surge will crush them against the underside of the floorboards within the hour.

“Fuck.”

I slam the whiskey bottle down on the floor. It splashes, amber liquid staining the wood, but I don’t care.

I move to the utility closet.

I don’t think, I just grab.

The heavy-duty Maglite torch, the one with the solid metal casing that doubles as a club, is heavy in my hand, a comforting weight.

And the machete.

It’s an eighteen-inch cane cutter, the blade pitted with rust but sharp enough to shave with. I use it for clearing mangroves. Tonight, I tell myself it’s for clearing debris. If there’s a net, a rope, or branches trapping whatever is screaming down there, I’ll need it.

I don’t let myself think about why I might need a weapon. I don’t let myself think about the ‘shapes’ Miller saw.

I march to the back door, the one that leads to the external stairs. I can feel the pressure difference sucking at the doorjamb, the door rattling in its frame like it’s desperate to get out.

My hand is sweating again when I grip the handle.

“Don’t be stupid, Jack,” I whisper. “Just look. Just look and see.”

I unlock the deadbolt and brace my shoulder against the wood, then shove the door open. The wind tries to rip the door off its hinges. It catches the timber slab and slams it back against the siding with a crack that sounds like a gunshot.

The noise is instant and overwhelming. The rain is horizontal, stinging my face like buckshot. I’m soaked to the skin in three seconds. The world outside is a chaotic swirl of gray and black, lit only by the strobe-light flashes of distant lightning.

I shine the torch down the stairs. The beam cuts through the driving rain, illuminating millions of falling diamonds.

The water is much higher than it should be. It’s churning around the base of the stairs, a frothy, angry soup of mud and foam. It smells of the swamp, salt, and that strange, metallic ozone scent, stronger now than ever.