The Drowning Game (16 page)

“You can't let go of the clutch until I tell you,” Dekker said, with more patience than I would have expected. “Let's try it again.”

We did. I kept the clutch pushed in until he put it in gear. Then I let go too fast and the tractor lurched forward again but kept going.

“The cop's looking this way,” Dekker said.

“Don't look at him,” I said. It was so tight and humid inside that tiny space, sweat ran into my eyes and dripped off my nose. It itched like crazy but I couldn't do anything about it. Not being able to see what was going on was torture, but Dekker narrated for me.

“Okay, I'm heading for the road,” he said. “Oh, no. The cop is walking toward us.”

“Don't look at him!”

“I'm not. I can see him in my peripheral vision.”

“Drive.”

The sound of the rain on the roof changed from a pleasant piano solo to rocks in a cement mixer. The wind outside shrieked. I felt a creeping dread.

“Holy crap,” Dekker said. “Where are the windshield wipers on this thing? I can't see a thing.”

“Just go forward.”

“I am!”

My butt and legs, still sticking out the door, were soaked. I heard a plink, and then another.

“Of course,” Dekker said. “Hail.”

The plinks accelerated and soon my back end was being pelted painfully with hailstones. Dekker kept going.

“Can you see the cop?” I said.

“I can't see anything,” Dekker said grimly. He reached toward the dashboard and switched on the radio. The only sound was the rhythmic buzzing of an emergency broadcast. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

“The National Weather Ser­vice has issued a tornado warning for Pottawatomie County until four-­thirty Central Daylight Time. At three-­thirty, National Weather Ser­vice Doppler radar indicated a severe thunderstorm capable of producing a tornado. This dangerous storm was located ten miles southeast of Wamego moving northeast at thirty miles per hour. Large hail and damaging thunderstorm winds are expected . . .”

Dekker seized me around the waist, dragged me onto his lap, banging my head on the ceiling, and yanked the door shut with some difficulty. The tractor died and Dekker put on the hand brake.

“It's right over us,” he said, squeezing the air out of me, his face in my neck. Anxiety set in, but not because of the storm. It was the close contact that was giving me vertigo and tunnel vision.

“I do solemnly swear,” I whispered, “to uphold the Constitution of the United States . . .”

I heard a tornado siren in the distance, which the wind outscreamed in volume.

“We have to go back,” Dekker shouted.

“Where's back?” I said.

“We have to get in Uncle Curt's shelter.”

All I could see was gray water pouring down the windshield backed by a weird green glow. Thunder sounded all around. Darkness devoured us. The pressure in my ears alternated painfully as the buffeting winds forced the tractor to rock tire to tire. Hail pelting metal sounded like gunfire. Only the continuous lightning broke up the blackness.

“No, no, no, no,” Dekker said, and the terror I felt, the certainty we were about to die painfully, swallowed up my conscious mind and I began screaming.

The air raid siren deepened in pitch until it was no longer a sound but a vibration that could burst eardrums and eyeballs and peel your skin off. The rocking accelerated until it seemed as if the tractor was trying to run away.

Then we rose in the air.

 

Chapter 18

T
HE FIRST THING
I thought when I woke up staring at the sky, a wedge of brownish light at one end and black angry clouds at the other, was that I wanted a cigarette. I reached up to scratch my nose and came away with a handful of glass slivers and cuts. In fact, my hand was covered with blood.

I was trapped beneath a dead weight pinning my pelvis to the ground. I lifted my head. It was Petty, lying crosswise over me, her face in the mud.

With a jolt of terror-­fueled adrenaline, I reached forward and shoved, rolling her across my knees and feet, sending missiles of pain up my legs. She ended up on her back, her face clotted with blood and mud. She gasped a gulp of air and her eyes flew open as she sprang to her feet, looking around wildly.

“Dad?”

“Petty.” I got to my feet just as she charged at me. “Petty, it's me. Dekker.”

She stopped and bent sideways, clutching her side and groaning. “What happened? I feel like I've been hit by a truck.”

“Tornado,” I said. “We gotta get out of here.”

The tornado siren was still blaring in the distance. I turned in a circle and saw that the tornado had moved us a good fifty yards closer to Uncle Curt's house, which was still standing, thank God. No doubt Uncle Curt and Roxanne had herded all the cops down into the tornado shelter. Their cruisers were still parked, undisturbed, in front of the house.

The tractor lay on its side ten yards away, the windshield and windows shattered, the metal twisted and crumpled like tinfoil. Its deformed shape gave me the shivers. Petty and I stared at each other in amazement.

We should be dead.

Petty ran toward the tractor and I ran after her. Now that I was up and moving, I felt specific pains. My ankle was the worst, but my right elbow and my neck hurt too.

“What are you doing?” I said.

She looked in what was left of the tractor. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The laptop.” She ran in ever widening circles. “The laptop!” Her tone was frantic.

“Never mind,” I said. “We've got to get out of here before the cops come out of Uncle Curt's house.”

“I need that laptop!” she screamed.

“Why?”

“Stuff about my mom's on there. I have to—­”

“No you don't! We have to go! Now!” I grabbed her arm and made her walk alongside me, and she only fought me a little bit.

“I'll call Uncle Curt and tell him to go look for it.” Though I knew it was probably destroyed anyway.

I patted my pocket. “Shit,” I said. “My cell phone's gone.”

Petty didn't respond.

We trotted toward the road, me glancing over my shoulder at Uncle Curt's house every few feet. To my heightened senses, everything appeared sharp and vivid, as if I were looking through a magnifying glass. The red of the tractor. The silver edges of the still-­morphing black clouds. The green of the clumpy grass.

I reached into my shirt pocket for a smoke and pulled out the waterlogged and squashed pack. I kept my disappointment to myself, though, because Petty wouldn't be sympathetic at all. I crushed the pack and threw it on the ground.

A silver pickup truck appeared beside us as if by magic. There was nowhere to hide. The driver's side window rolled down.

“You okay? Are you all right?” The man's voice was high and tight, no doubt goosed by adrenaline. “Good God, look at you two. Let's get you to the hospital.”

“We're okay,” I said. “Just a little shook up.”

“Can I give you a ride, then?”

Petty shook her head no, but I squeezed her arm. “Thank you, sir, that would be very helpful.”

I opened the passenger door then shoved Petty toward it. She resisted, and I hissed in her ear, “This is how we're going to get out of here. Get in the fucking truck. And wipe your face off. You look like a goon.”

She did.

“Can I call your ­people for you?” the driver asked once we were inside, his cell phone at the ready. With a large but well-­kept beard, pink cheeks, and glittering blue eyes, he'd be a dead ringer for Santa Claus in another ten years or so.

“No, that's all right,” I said. “If you could drive us down to I-­70, that would be great.”

The driver gave me a strange look. “I-­70?”

“Yes sir,” I said. I couldn't think of any believable reason why we'd want to be let out at the interstate, so I didn't try to give one.

“I'll take you right up to your door if you tell me where it is,” the driver said.

“That's not necessary,” I said, and stared through the windshield, feeling the driver's eyes on me. The silence stretched, and I had to suppress my babbling reflex.

“So what happened to you all?” he asked, putting the truck in gear and accelerating forward.

I exchanged a glance with Petty.

“We were out walking when the storm hit,” I said, “and truthfully, I don't have any idea what happened after that.”

“I'll tell you this—­you're lucky to be alive. Apparently the tornado was on the ground for about a tenth of a mile.”

“Any houses hit?” I said.

“Nope, but a barn was taken out. Haven't heard of any fatalities.”

“That's good,” I said.

“I'm a storm chaser, you know,” the driver said.

“Is that right,” I said.

“Whereabouts did you say you two are from?”

“I didn't say,” I said, then clamped my lips together.

“You doing okay?” the driver said over my head to Petty.

Petty seemed not to have heard anything, just kept glancing out the window at the side mirror.

“She's kind of traumatized, you can imagine,” I said.

“Sure, sure,” the driver said.

I prayed the bearded man wouldn't say anything to Petty to make her draw her gun, if she still had it on her.

We got to I-­70 and two cars were parked under the overpass.

“Thank God, Jenny, look, they're already here,” I said, pointing in the direction of the cars.

Petty glanced over her shoulder, probably looking for “Jenny.” Then her mouth dropped open with realization.

“Those your ­people?” the driver said skeptically. I knew he'd seen the uncomprehending expression on her face.

“Yup,” I said. “Thanks a bunch for the ride. We really appreciate it.”

He pulled over and put the truck in park. Petty opened the door and hopped out. The driver grabbed my arm. I stared at the hand and then at his face.

“You should go get her checked out,” he said. “I think she's in shock. She might have a concussion.”

“I will, sir. Thanks again.”

The driver didn't let go.

I bit my lip. “Thanks again, sir.” I slowly pulled my arm away without looking into the man's face, got out of the truck and closed the door. The truck stayed put.

I took Petty's arm and we ran across the road, my ankle feeling loose and sore.

“Don't look back,” I said.

The truck remained, idling at the side of the road.

I walked up to a silver Nissan and tapped on the driver's side window. I turned my head and waved at the truck. Still, it didn't move.

The window rolled down. “Did you see that?” the woman in the driver's seat asked. She was obviously still shaken by the tornado, her eyes immense. “You musta got hit! Look at you!”

“Any chance we can get a ride?”

“Well, I, uh—­”

I lowered my voice. “Listen. That guy who dropped us off is harassing us. I'd appreciate it if you'd let us get in the car for a minute.”

“Well—­”

“Please. I'll give you fifty dollars.”

The locks popped. I opened the back door, pushed Petty in and got in myself.

“Is he still there?”

The driver looked. “Yes.”

“Give the lady fifty dollars,” I said to Petty.

She pulled a wet wad of bills from her pocket and counted out two twenties and a ten.

“How about now? He still there?”

Petty handed the money wordlessly over the front seat. The lady took it. “He's leaving.”

“Is there any chance you can give us a ride on westbound I-­70?”

“I'm headed east,” the lady said, but I could tell she was lying. I didn't blame her. Here were these two mud monsters, one of them a mute, who were trying to get away from Santa Claus Junior by sitting in her car and ruining the upholstery.

“Okay. We're going to wait another five minutes or so, and then we'll get out.”

The driver never spoke, but kept shooting worried glances at us in the rearview. We sat in silence until I couldn't stand it anymore.

“Thanks,” I said.

We got out of the car and walked to the westbound on ramp.

D
EKKER AND
I stood under that overpass by the on ramp and stuck our thumbs out. My ears were filled with a high, metallic-­cricket chirping backed by a low buzz. I kept moving my jaw and putting my hands over my ears.

“Your ears ringing too?” Dekker said.

“Yes,” I said. “Were we actually in the tornado?”

“I don't know. I can't imagine we were, or we'd be dead. I think it came awfully close though.”

I heard the traffic humming overhead, sparse but steady. I was antsy because I couldn't imagine a police car wasn't about to happen by. The rain began falling again and within five minutes we were mud-­free and drenched.

We stood there for another fifteen minutes before a Peterbilt semi-­trailer truck drove toward the on ramp from the north. It geared down, pulled over behind us and stopped. The door opened and a guy shouted, “Need a ride?”

“How far you going?” Dekker called back.

“Colorado. You're welcome to ride along. Plenty of room.”

“What if he recognizes us?” I said.

“My own grandma wouldn't recognize me like this,” Dekker said. “Let's go.”

I got a good look at the driver's face—­it was round and pink and smooth. He didn't even look like he shaved. He wore jeans and a T-­shirt and a billed cap that said
Bad to the Bone
. He was a smiley, laughy person. I was grateful Dekker got in first and sat in the middle between us.

“Did y'all get caught in the tornado? I saw it from a ways away, but wow. Name's Ray,” he said, holding out his hand to Dekker, who shook it. Ray kind of saluted me, but I turned away.

“I'm Ted,” Dekker said. “And this is Jenny.”

“Jenny. I like that name,” Ray said.

“You don't by chance have any water in here, do you?” Dekker said.

Ray pointed over his shoulder. “There's a cooler behind the seat there. Help yourself.”

Dekker pulled out two bottles of water and handed one to me. I opened it and drank it down without stopping. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was. Ray leaned forward, giving me a smile. I looked away again.

“We appreciate you picking us up,” Dekker said.

“This is the best part of my job, picking up folks like y'all.” He laughed to himself. “Y'all like jokes? What's the hardest part about eating a vegetable? Putting her back in the wheelchair when you're done!”

That one didn't even make any sense. I decided right then I wouldn't talk to Ray or even glance in his direction at all.

“How long you been driving a truck?” Dekker asked him.

­“Couple years now. It was great when I started, but then they put the GPSes in the trucks so you can't make as much money anymore, you know what I'm saying?”

“Sure,” Dekker said. “That's too bad.”

“So what do you call a thirteen-­year-­old girl from Missouri who can run faster than her six brothers? A virgin!” Ray laughed at his own joke.

Dekker smiled politely and rubbed his eyes.

“Does she ever talk?” Ray said, pointing at me.

“It's been a tough day,” Dekker said.

“She don't need to talk, I guess,” Ray said. “That's fine. That's fine. Want to hear a joke about my dick? Never mind, it's too long.” He laughed some more.

I was so sleepy. The gentle vibration of the truck, the comfortable seat, the droning of Ray's voice. I shook my head trying to stay awake, trying to stay vigilant, but my eyes were so heavy, I felt like I could fall asleep with them open. Ray and Dekker chatted, and the last thing I remember is Ray saying, “You know why they call it
PMS
? Because Mad Cow Disease was already taken!”

That was the last thing I remembered before the slowing motion of the truck woke me up, and it was ungodly bright. I figured we must have slept through the night and into the afternoon, but then I saw the blazing fluorescent lights overhead.

I needed something to eat and to go to the bathroom.

Dekker's head was on my shoulder. I shook him. “Wake up,” I said.

His eyes fluttered open and he smiled at me and stretched.

Ray was alternately watching us and out the windshield as the truck rolled to a stop. We were parked between two other semi trucks.

“Just gonna make a little stop,” Ray said. “Just a little stop. Whyn't y'all come inside?”

“What time is it?” Dekker asked him.

“About three
A.M.
,” Ray said.

I opened the door and climbed down, and Dekker followed.

“You fell asleep like immediately,” Dekker said, yawning.

We followed behind Ray, who kept glancing over his shoulder at us, as if he was afraid we weren't going to go in or maybe rob his truck or something. Bright light emanated from a glass door that Ray held open for us.