The Directives (42 page)

Terri turned away, not wanting to show the men her fear. After reigning in her emotions, she said, “So I guess we leave them on the train until the storm passes? It sounds like they might be better off there anyway.”

“There’s no way to know, ma’am,” Slim began. “They might…”

All four of the gathered security team straightened, as if an
electrical charge had passed through them all at once. Two moved their hands to their ears, pressing in the small speaker attached to the radios. In a blur, Slim unplugged his unit so everyone could hear the broadcast.

“I repeat,” came the static voice, “All stations. All stations. This is the
Morgan City Queen
. Galveston Island is directly in the path of an approaching, Category 3 hurricane. This has been confirmed by radar. The eye of the storm is approximately 60 miles southeast of the island, moving north by northwest at 26 knots. It is projected to make landfall in two hours. All residents should seek shelter on high ground as soon as possible. Move to the upper floors of secure buildings. Avoid low-lying areas. We anticipate the seawall will not hold. Godspeed. Out.”

To everyone gathered inside the coach, the roar of the storm seemed to intensify in the silence that followed the transmission. Terri was the first to move, scooping up Hunter, and holding him close. She was also the first to speak. “Do we stay or do we try and find some
place safer?”

“We can’t move, ma’am. I just don’t see a way. The taller buildings are almost a mile away. The causeway is further than that, even if we drive out. I think we just have to hunker down and ride it out. I don’t see any other option.”

No one had anything else to add. As the meeting broke up, Slim remained behind, waiting on the others to leave. “Please put together the bug-out bags, Miss Terri. One for yourself, the child, and Miss Betty. If things get really, really bad, then I’ll get you out of here, even if I have to drive that Humvee like it’s a submarine.”

Bishop and Grim had both heard the same radio transmission.

Shortly after receiving the bad news, the Lady Star came to a stop at the yard, the area full of a series of side-rails and dozens of empty cars. There was already standing water all around.

The train’s lack of motion soon proved even more unsettling for the occupants, the floor moving underfoot as the gale blasted against the now-leeward side of the cars.

Bishop spied a man and a woman carrying two children in their arms, the couple struggling with the wind and knee-deep water. He watched as they scrambled to climb inside an unused boxcar, the raised rail-bed, and elevation above the track providing shelter. Hands reached out of the dark interior, faces appearing as they were helped aboard. Before the door was closed behind the new arrivals, he could see that several other refugees of the storm were housed inside.

Smart
, Bishop thought.
The cars are heavy, and the steel walls would protect against blowing debris. As long as the water doesn’t get too deep, they should be okay.

Movement from the front of the locomotive drew his attention. He watched the engineer hop down from the cab, the man practically bowled over by a gust. He recovered, hustling back and climbing aboard the car occupied by the security team. Grim opened the door for the soaked fellow, pulling him inside.

“We normally unhook the freight cars here before rolling back into town to pick up passengers for the return trip. I don’t know what to do.”

Bishop informed the engineer what they’d heard over the radio. After recovering from the shock, the train’s captain reminded all present that they still had four cars full of passengers. “We need to get those people off this island,” he insisted. “They’re my responsibility.”

“Where’s the highest point of the rail line?” Bishop asked, an idea forming in his head.

“The grade peaks next to downtown. It’s not much of a difference, maybe a foot higher.”

The statement gave Bishop an idea. “Can you still unhook the freight cars and maybe attach more empty units? Those boxcars over there are already filling up with people. I’ve got a feeling we’re not the only ones who would like to get off this sand bar.”

The man pondered Bishop’s words for a moment. “We’ve got to hurry. If the wind gets much stronger, it can blow us off the track. I can pull her back to downtown… there’s a huge warehouse complex that might shelter us from some of the wind.”

Grim piped in, “Won’t a hurricane blow the whole train to kingdom come? I think I like my odds taking a swim rather than sinking to the bottom of the gulf in one of these steel coffins.”

The engineer responded
, “There’s no way to tell. I was crossed by a tornado once - up in Iowa. Now that was a blow. We kept our entire load on the tracks. But I’ve also seen full cars tossed around like cardboard boxes. You just never know.”

“Does anybody have a better
idea?” Bishop asked, surveying the gathered faces. When no one volunteered an alternative, he said, “Let’s do it.”

The wave crashed into the 16-foot high seawall and rolled over the top, a virtual river of saltwater running across the beachfront street being patrolled by tractor #1.

The driver watched the natural retreat of the water, noting the pavement beginning to crumble from the abuse. The once wide stretch of sand between the road and the gulf was now completely submerged, the ocean’s level up several feet.

He drove hi
s powerful machine over the breach, eyes toward the sea so he wouldn’t get caught broadside by another big one.

Water was already standing for as far as he could see inland. The east end of Galveston Island was now a lake of troubled, churning saltwater, and it was getting deeper by the minute.

He drove another quarter mile before another giant wall of water crashed over the wall. It receded, only to be followed by another. The water levels were rising, now exceeding the protective barrier on a regular basis. If this kept up, every wave would soon be rolling into the homes, businesses, and streets now protected by the seawall. While many of the residences were built on stilts, even that level of protection would eventually succumb to the power of the angry gulf. 

He continued east, watching the distant geysers of water eruptin
g into the dark skies as more and more waves crashed headlong into the manmade wall. It was foreboding, frightening, and yet awe-inspiring at the same time. The power of the ocean was like no other on the planet. 

So enthralled by the sheer magnitude of the scene, he wasn’t paying careful attention to his own position. As the tractor rolled along, the hint of a shadow made his head snap seaward.

Inhaling deeply with an involuntary tightening of every muscle, he braced as a towering leviathan of solid water curled over the top of his cab. He felt his machine physically move, pushed sideways by the tremendous force of the wave.

The cab went dark, a lightless
tomb as the water roared over the top. Thinking he was going to die, his eyes could only find the white and green instruments still glowing on the dash.

And then the grey light of the sky flooded in.

As the water drained away from the cab’s glass, he found his machine had been pushed almost 20 yards further inland. He felt the diesel engine sputter and hesitate, saying a prayer that it would continue to run.

He pumped the gas gently, hoping to milk a recovery from the drenched power source. Again, a hesitation, a surge, a then a sputter.

A series of engine gasps and coughs sounded over the now-constant growl of the wind. Another darkening… and then the road in front of him disappeared in a flash of black water and white foam. That one had just missed.

Finally, the mechanical g
ods smiled upon his chariot. Full power reached all four wheels, and the tractor-lift surged forward, again rolling with authority.

He immediately turned inland, desperately wanting to escape the random ambushes of the high waves. He reached for his radio microphone and pushed to talk.

“Queen, Queen. This is unit one, do you copy?”

For a moment his heart stopped, thinking the storm was blocking his radio’s transmitter. Static filled the cab, empty air and the sound of his own heartbeat overriding the diesel and wind.

Then a voice responded, “We read you, unit one. Status?”

“I can’t stay out here any longer. I almost lost the tractor. There are two to three waves per minute rolling over the seawall. The base ocean level is three feet below the top. It will be completely overwhelmed in the next hour. I’m heading back to the port while I still can.”

“We copy, unit one. Come on back.”

Working his way inland, #1 was happy to put as much distance between the omnipotent gulf and his machine as possible. He plowed through standing water, sometimes over the hood of the relic cars parked here and there. It was difficult to negotiate the streets when houses or
buildings didn’t line the edges; twice he felt himself running up on a curb. Parking meters, where present, were his makeshift channel buoys.

Every now and then, he found himself facing a strong current. One street in particular was a river flowing through a residential neighborhood, some force of hydrodynamics channeling a swift flow of water – but just at that single crossing.

He sat briefly at the intersection, watching a refrigerator float past, almost immediately followed by a horse that had been claimed by the swirling sea. Like a multi-car pile-up during rush hour, his attempt to cross was further delayed by an empty mini-van being carried downstream by the rushing waters.

The scene was so surreal, watching the four-wheeled boat for a few moments. Traveling in a straight line, as if someone were behind the wheel and steering,
the
SS Soccer Mom
sailed past like a ghost ship on a moonless night. “You ran the stop sign,” he grunted.

As he headed to drive across the inland river, movement drew his attention back toward the mini-van. The third house on the left… on top of the garage… there were people. “What the hell are they doing up there?”

Looking for oncoming traffic, he turned into the street-current, the big forklift hardly affected at all. As he pulled in front of the home, all of the folks on the roof began waving their arms, pleading for help. He counted 14 stranded, soaked, miserable-looking refugees.

“They look like a bunch of shipwrecked survivors,” he whispered, unsure of how to get them down, or
what to do with them once he did.

The current here was too
brisk for any but the strongest person to manage. There were young mothers clutching the hands of small children and elderly among the rooftop mix – walking to safety would be impossible.

Looking around for any possible solution, the answer came from the next home down. Someone had evidently been remodeling or renovating the place, a large dumpster used for construction trash on the premises. The unit was now pinned by the
torrent against a fence and a telephone pole.

He unbuttoned the cab’s window, a blast of cold rain blowing into his space. Sticking his arm out the opening, he held up one finger.
I’ll be back in a minute,
he mouthed to the storm’s soaked evacuees.

The dumpster was a light load for #1, the forks sliding under the long, green container and lifting it easily. Once he had raised it above the water line, he reversed course and returned to the castaways.