Wave Read online

  They’ll all be out of work in a few hours anyway, she thought with a nasty smile. Then it occurred to her that she’d very likely be out of work, too, and the smile vanished. Everyone would be looking for work. She shivered at the thought of having to go on interviews—dressing up, kissing ass, pretending you really wanted the job.

  When the smoke first appeared, creeping over the hood like a ghost, she thought it was exhaust from the Dodge Dart’s tailpipe. She perked her head up like a little kid trying to see what was on a tabletop. Her first impulse was to roll down the window and squawk something about the car being a pile of crap, though she was fully aware that she wasn’t exactly driving a Rolls Royce herself.

  Then a red light flashed on the dashboard. She didn’t know one indicator light from the other, but she figured out the meaning of this one quickly enough—it had a little thermometer graphic on it. That could only mean one thing….

  “You’re kidding me!”

  She pulled violently to the shoulder and got out, slamming the door ferociously. Her face was as pink as a boiled ham, her jaw tight like a fist. She didn’t notice the other cars that had joined the line on the road. People watched her from behind their closed windows, the screens that shielded them from the increasingly surreal day that was unfolding outside.

  Amid the smoke and the snake-like hissing, she found the safety catch with her trembling hands and pulled the hood up, releasing a giant ball of steam. It reeked of antifreeze and whatever industrial coating had been slow-cooking on the inside of the radiator for the last half hour. She gagged and waved it away.

  When the air cleared, she took one long, labored look at the smorgasbord of wires, tubes, cables, plugs, cylinders, caps, rotors, and other alien shapes, and wanted to scream. She knew enough about car basics to realize the problem in this case was the radiator, that it probably didn’t have enough water or whatever. But she had never actually done any work on a car, so she wasn’t even sure where to begin.

  She followed the trail of smoke—she still thought of it as smoke rather than steam—and located the radiator. Right smack in the center, inches below her sizeable gut, was an aluminum cap with the legend “REMOVE TO ADD FLUID.”

  I can do that.

  If she’d possessed the patience to read on, what followed would never have happened. In her I-just-learned-something-new enthusiasm, she pressed the flat of her palm on the cap to turn it, and blades of pain shot through her like lightning bolts.

  She pulled away with a shriek. A red circle about the size of an Eisenhower dollar formed in seconds, and she knew from past stove accidents that it would transform into a giant blister before the end of the day.

  She looked at the car angrily and gave it a kick in the fender. That hurt—her, not the car—but she went out of her way not to show it so as not to give the vehicle any further satisfaction.

  When the pain subsided she tried again. This time she covered the cap with the end of her shirt and used the other hand. As soon as it came free, a groan emanated from the radiator. It sounded like an old man on his deathbed. She leaned down for a look inside—the radiator was bone dry. She knew it needed one of two things—antifreeze or water; either would suffice. This was something she’d learned from her ex-husband, though she told herself she’d picked it up somewhere else.

  She knew she didn’t have either fluid, but she went through the act anyway, opening the trunk and looking under the large vinyl flap that covered the spare tire (which had lost so much air it was useless). Then she felt around under the seats. For a moment she considered asking someone who was driving by if they could help, but this violated a rule she had followed all her life: Don’t ask anyone for anything.

  She quickly evaluated her surroundings. No convenience stores, no nearby gas stations. No place she could get a quick gallon of water.

  Then she realized every home had water, including those that surrounded her right now. There were literally hundreds of them, and that meant all the goddamn water she needed was readily available.

  Just to her right was a two-story Cape, white with maroon shutters. A coat hanger was on the front door, an indication that everyone was out (a quick appraisal down the row of neighboring homes told her pretty much everyone had left, and a voice in her mind said, Better get your butt moving, girl). She hurried up the steps, hoping beyond hope the door wasn’t locked.

  It was.

  “Why lock the door? What’s the fucking point?” She gave it a sharp kick, marking it with a small black smear.

  She hustled back down the steps and went to the next house. It, too, was locked tight. So was the next, and the next. She had to try nine houses before she found one that permitted entry—a one-time beach shack that had been glorified by aluminum siding, a large bay window that would allow passersby to see pretty much everything in the front room, and a colorful bed of geraniums. She would’ve bet her life it was owned by retirees on a fixed income.

  Opening the door, she was almost knocked over by the acrid stench of pipe tobacco. The smell had seeped into the ’70s-style shag carpeting, the tweed furniture, the paneled walls…it would be impossible to remove. Impossible. The only way to—

  Better get your butt moving, girl.

  She passed through the living room and found the kitchen easily enough. There was an intersecting area not much bigger than a phone booth to which all four rooms connected—living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.

  The kitchen, like the living room, was a journey back in time—the linoleum floor, the floral wallpaper, the porcelain sink. It was all in remarkably good condition, a flashback to the ’70s.

  She tried the faucet, half-expecting nothing to happen the way things were going, and was genuinely surprised when cold water streamed out without complaint.

  She needed a container and found one in the ancient but immaculate fridge—a gallon of nonfat milk, nearly full. She poured it down the drain—blurpblurpblurp—and filled it from the faucet. On her way back out, she noticed a jewelry box in the center of the bedroom dresser. It was covered with black felt, torn and dusty. She went through it quickly, disappointed to find only cheap costume stuff, all of it reeking of mothballs. She took nothing and didn’t bother closing the lid.

  Back at the car, she poured the water into the radiator carefully. It sizzled like a hot fry pan dunked in a wash basin. When the container was empty, she realized she’d need more, so she went back. She considered investing another minute or two in search of something worth taking, but dismissed the idea. This wasn’t a good time to screw around. Besides, people who lived in houses like this didn’t have anything of value.

  She made four trips before the radiator was filled to the top and began to overflow. She tossed the plastic container aside and pressed/turned the cap into place. Then she slammed the hood and squirmed back behind the wheel. The stress of the situation had made her hungry, so she ripped open a bag of Doritos. (When she realized she’d forgotten cheese sauce, all thoughts of the oncoming tidal wave left her in a momentary flash of irritation.) The car started on the first try, and she inched her way back into the crawl. She checked her watch and was satisfied she’d be okay. She smiled broadly, proud of her automotive skills.

  It never occurred to her that the reason the radiator had gone empty in the first place was because it had a leak.

  Brian waited by the cars—waited for Jennifer and Mark to appear over one of the sandy rises, running hand-in-hand and ready to get the hell out of there; waited for a cop to show up with a bullhorn. His nerves were dissolving like sugar cubes. He paced; he chewed his fingernails. He wondered if he’d made a mistake by offering to help in the first place. It had seemed like such a noble idea at the time, but he’d been punished for doing the “right thing” before, plenty of times, in fact. So why did he keep doing it? Why did he bother?

  He realized it was in fact one of two major mistakes he’d made that day—the other was calling for the cop in the first place. Of course he had to—but
now he was glued to this spot, forced to remain here until someone finally came. If he left, the cop might get the wrong idea—he might think they’d already gone. He also wouldn’t know what was going on; Brian had to be there to explain the situation. So basically he had trapped himself.

  He checked his watch. Not so much because he wanted to know the time, but because he always checked his watch when he felt disoriented and disorganized. It was a way of getting everything back to square one—he’d run his fingers through his hair to straighten it, adjust his shirt and pants until he found that perfect “comfort zone,” then check his watch. He’d been practicing this sequence for so long that he could do it in one smooth, fluid motion, and it took all of about five seconds. The hair always came first, then the clothes, then the watch. When he saw the latter this time, his heart stopped.

  “Oh Christ….”

  Less than an hour left. Maybe fifty minutes…. He did a quick estimation—If I took off right now, right this minute, I’d have to cover about eight miles to get to the bridge. There’ll be a million cars, and they’ll be crawling like snails.

  It was the first thought of self-preservation he’d had since leaving the supermarket. And with it came the desperate question: Have I already passed the point of no return?

  Brian was a decent human being, but even that only went so far. He was scared now—truly and honestly terrified. For the first time in his life, he had to consider his own fragile mortality.

  A string of peculiar thoughts came from some unknown place in his mind.

  I am standing here now, feeling the wind on my face and the solid ground beneath my feet. But later I may not be here at all. There may be nothing left of me but a bloated body with water-clogged lungs. I will be floating in space, in a dark and starless chasm with no beginning and no end. I will drift, on and on, forever and ever….

  His stomach tightened. This wasn’t time for damn poetry. The first half of the bizarre ramble was true enough—he was alive right now, taking in oxygen as blood surged through his veins. He had to keep it that way. No one would fault him for that. (Well, maybe Mrs. King would, but there wasn’t time to worry about her.) The correct thing to do at this point would be to make one last-ditch attempt to track them down, then start making his way to safety. Surely the local government has set up some contingencies. We haven’t simply been left here to die. The Feds are probably involved by now. The National Guard at least.

  He climbed onto the roof of his car and surveyed the area, holding his hand up to shade his eyes.

  “JENNIFER! MARK!”

  He screamed it so loud that his throat burned.

  “JEN-NI-FERRRRRR!”

  He waited. Precious seconds slipped away. He could almost hear the ticks of a giant clock—a clock that was getting louder all the time.

  Back in the real world, he heard nothing—no response from either of them. Some birds twittered in the shrubbery (they’d probably survive, he thought bitterly), and the ocean made its usual calm-but-powerful sound somewhere in the distance.

  “MARK! JENNIFER! WE HAVE TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW!”

  He tried to emphasize the last two words with increased pitch and volume, but it didn’t really work. His voice, not particularly strong to begin with, was almost shot now.

  He scanned the area one last time, and when he received no evidence of them, he began crying.

  “Aw, come on you two,” he said to himself, the words breaking up.

  He got down slowly, climbed behind the wheel of his tired little car, and started the engine.

  A note. Leave a note.

  “Good idea,” he said out loud. He dug through the glove compartment and found an old Chinese-food menu that had been left under his windshield wiper. It was printed on pink paper, crudely designed and loaded with typos. But the back was blank, so it was perfect. He took his trusty silver pen from his shirt pocket, held the paper against the dashboard, and wrote:

  Jennifer and Mark,

  I waited as long as I could. I hope you are both able to get out of here in time. I called the LBI Police and asked them to send someone.

  I really did wait as long as I could.

  Good luck.

  Brian

  It wasn’t enough, obviously. It didn’t say anything close to what he really wanted to say. But then how could it? He’d have to be here for hours to say it all; even then it wouldn’t be enough. This was like breaking up with someone who still liked you; there simply wasn’t a right way to do it.

  He got out, barely able to keep the tears under control, and put the note under Mark’s windshield wiper. He tried to imagine the two of them out there, young and scared and together. He identified his third major error of the day: letting Jennifer take off like she did. He should have known, should have realized she’d do that. She was normally such a calm and level-headed girl, but she wasn’t in her right mind. And her parents had shielded her too much, shielded her from all of life’s ugliness, so much so that she had no idea how to deal with a crisis. In her perfect little world the greatest crisis involved something that went wrong at the store. Brian knew all too well that nothing at Acme could ever truly be that traumatic. No, Jennifer King was as sheltered as you could be in this day and age. If she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have done what she did. Because of her inexperience, she had made a very bad situation a hundred times worse.

  He got back in his car, shaking his head and gritting his teeth, infuriated by all of it. In years to come, he would wonder if he’d really made the right decision this day. He slammed the door and gunned the engine, dropping it into reverse. The tires dug into the hard-packed surface of the bulldozed lot. As he drove out he checked the rearview mirror repeatedly, hoping beyond hope that one of them would appear.

  It didn’t happen.

  Mark was certain there’d been a mistake. He’d never received so many messages in his voice mail box—he didn’t even know it was possible to fill a voice mail box.

  Under the clear blue sky, standing in the middle of nowhere on one of the nicest days he could remember, he entered his four-digit code and waited.

  “First message…” the pleasant woman’s voice said.

  “Mark, it’s Jay. Hey, there’s a tidal wave coming. I’m serious. Get out of there as fast as you can. Call me back if you get the chance. Hurry.”

  Mark’s first thought upon hearing the words tidal wave was that it was a joke. Of course it was—how could it not be?

  But, then, his photo editor at the SandPaper wasn’t the type to joke. He had a sense of humor, but not of this nature. He wasn’t a practical joker.

  Also, what about the remaining forty-nine messages. Forty-nine.

  That can’t be right. There must be some mistake.

  He went to the next one.

  “Mark, oh my God…” It was Jennifer. His stomach sank. “Mark, there’s a tidal wave coming. You’ve got to get out of there!” She was crying. This is for real. Holy Jesus. “Call me as soon as you get this message. I love you.” Her voice rose to a strangled squeal at the end.

  He kept the phone to his ear to hear all the messages, but he also knew it was time to get moving. He tried to call Jen back but was unable to penetrate the overloaded network. He grabbed the camera bag off the ground and slung it over his shoulder. Then he broke into a slow jog—first heading to his left, then right, then back again….

  “Oh shit,” he said aloud as it occurred to him: I don’t even know where I am.

  He tried to remember the way he’d come in. He found his way back to the main trail, but it forked into two other trails, and they forked into others still. It was a maze, a goddamn maze.

  I’m going to die, he thought, suddenly feeling sick. I’m going to die simply because I can’t find my way out of here.

  It was so depressing it was almost paralyzing. He had always been careful not to appear self-pitying to Jennifer, or to anyone else for that matter. He knew he lived in a world where self-pity found few sympathizers. But t
hat didn’t change the fact that he often couldn’t help feeling sorry for himself—for having such a pathetic mother, losing his father at such a young age, and ending up with a scumbag for a stepfather. There were other problems, too, problems that weren’t of his own making, strokes of bad luck that had kept him on the lower rungs of life’s ladder. He didn’t whine about them because he thought doing something about them was a more productive approach. But there were days when he just felt overwhelmed, when—even though he knew it sounded irrational and even a little ridiculous—he felt like there were unseen forces in the universe working against him, working to hold him down. That really seemed like the only way to explain it.

  And here again was an example—the one day when he decided to wander aimlessly around the refuge, the one day when he almost purposely let himself get lost, was also the one day in a billion that Long Beach Island, New Jersey, was due to be struck by a goddamn tidal wave. What were the odds of that happening?

  The immediate urge was to give up—drop to the ground, cry, and wait for the end. He was tired of fighting. He’d clawed and scratched for everything he had, and it still didn’t amount to much. What would he be giving up? Did his life amount to anything? Would the future hold anything besides more struggling? Struggling to get nowhere?

  But then he thought of Jen—his beloved Jen. The singular bright light in his life. She was so much more than just a girlfriend, she was the future. She represented everything he wanted—the stable home life, the pure and unaffected mind, the seemingly bottomless well of cheer and good nature. He was at a turning point, the transition from one chapter to another. Slowly, but surely, he was leaving the myriad old miseries behind and working his way toward a much better existence. All thanks to her.