Storm

  Storm

  Love Versus World

  Book Two

  K.R. Alexander

  Copyright © 2020 by K.R. Alexander.

  All rights reserved.

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  Chapter 1

  Trent wrapped his arms around me in the back seat as we drove away from North Bend. I’d thought I could suck it up, stay grounded, focus on what was ahead. I would look out the window, be cool, be grateful, think of Mom and Jamie and Kimberly—not Seattle and Bellevue, earthquakes and tsunamis that we left behind. Then Trent had to go and hug me.

  I turned my face into his chest, biting my lip, tears silently soaking into cotton, so mixed up and consumed with guilt over what we were doing, I ached to tell Jackson to turn the old car around—that saving ourselves wasn’t good enough. Exactly what we could do for our neighbors if we did turn back, I didn’t know. Hundreds of other survivors were probably doing as we had already: striking out east when no rescue seemed imminent. They didn’t need us to tell them how to find I-90. On the other hand, they might already be receiving water and medical supplies by air, safe as they could be under the circumstances. So many sides to look at, yet none of them helped this sick feeling.

  Jackson drove slowly, careful since there were splits in the road from the Megaquake, passable but rough going. Besides this, there were occasional abandoned cars and creepy debris, like a child’s stuffed animal and a duffel bag, making me wonder again about the people who had gone before us.

  No one spoke. Ramak sat in the passenger seat beside Jackson, looking south through rain. Trent held on, motionless as I tried to be. There’d been a few distant rumbles of thunder. Or was it something else?

  Remembering how we’d all distracted one another on the days of hiking to North Bend, I thought of funny monkey videos for Jamie, getting my hair done with Kimberly, and Mom’s famous Mississippi mud pie.

  We were committed now. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe we were cowards, or worse, for running like this. But the time for decisions was over. Right or wrong, we were in this together, and blubbering over uncertainty never helped anyone.

  I took long breaths, sat up straighter, and leaned my head on Trent’s shoulder. He kissed my head, keeping his face there, breathing through my hair, which made me smile. I hadn’t known this guy six days ago, yet this was so intimate, so sweet, it seemed we’d been holding each other up for years. Even Ramak, though we’d never even had a real conversation together, felt closer now than all my classmates in all the months we’d worked together.

  I snuggled in tighter, eyes shut, glad I didn’t have to drive, that no volcano had erupted, that we might make it out of this alive. There was that overflowing cup: brimming saucer, at least enough for a sip.

  Ten minutes, twenty, slow driving, soothed by Trent’s warmth, desperate for closeness after all the months in near-prison, with the virus raging and the human world locked down, holding its breath. Climbing gradually toward the 3,000-foot elevation that is Snoqualmie Pass, we cruised past Twin Falls and a dozen stunning trailheads in a world of evergreen mountains, thick rain and deep gray skies, creeping up on the clouds, so grateful for this new mobility, I took another metaphorical sip. Then another for each of these three men, Trent, Jackson, and Ramak. I couldn’t have asked for better road-trip buddies.

  Windshield wipers made a faint squeak on each pass: squeak-swat-squeak-swat. The fan hummed with heating that didn’t seem to be doing much. We’d speculated the car, which reeked of mold, was significantly older than most of us. No wonder it had been left behind.

  Squeak-swat.

  Soft sounds of Trent’s breathing in my ear.

  “What the fuck…?” Not exactly breaking news, Jackson swearing, nor did he sound alarmed. I didn’t even open my eyes.

  The car slowed. Trent shifted to see ahead.

  Ramak said something in a language that I guessed was Persian, though really couldn’t say. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound happy.

  I had to give in and look out the window.

  Slow, slower… Nothing but green and rain. I leaned more into Trent to see out the windshield. The interstate ahead was crowded with debris, blurred through rain and flashing windshield wipers.

  “Are those cars?” I sat up.

  “Hang on…” Jackson was contemplating the wide median.

  “The ground will be wet—” Ramak said, spotting the plan before I did.

  Jackson gunned it for momentum just past pine trees on our left, swerved that way, and we bounced and jolted through the median, sprayed water and mud, caught for a moment in a boggy patch, then the little Acura proved itself by crawling out on the other side.

  Trent and I were thrown about like corks, grabbing each other.

  Jackson laughed, slapping the steering wheel. “They’ll have to do better than a few abandoned cars to stop us.”

  Ramak seized his door and glared at Jackson. “‘They?’ Do you think this is some sort of government conspiracy? Knocking the West Coast into the ocean?”

  “You know what I mean.” Jackson was exhilarated. “Not any particular fuckers. Just a karmic thing, man. Life throws you punches and you dodge and roll. You don’t sit back and take it. That’s all I’m saying.” As he spoke, he lifted a hand, ready to bop Ramak on the shoulder.

  He lowered his fist back to the wheel without doing so. I’d been learning that Jackson was better with people than he was often inclined to let on. He’d have bopped Trent. Not Ramak.

  Ramak was ignoring him anyway, gazing out his right-side window. So were we. Trent and I glanced at each other.

  “Uh,” I said—with great wit and charisma. “Guys? That’s not a cluster of cars. They’re stretching all the way up the road. And they’re all empty.”

  “The passengers got out to walk,” Ramak said. “Which means the road isn’t open after all. Or not anymore.”

  “No problem,” Jackson said, casting a look back to us. “We’ve got this side to ourselves. Carpool lane all the way.”

  “No,” Ramak said flatly, frowning ahead.

  “Sheesh…” Looking to Ramak with an eye roll. “I know, man, there’s not really a carpool—”

  “No, look,” Ramak said more sharply.

  Jackson faced the three lanes of emptiness ahead. Except they weren’t so empty anymore. A car or SUV here or there, a couple of tractor trailers that we flashed past, then another wall of dark bumpers. Traffic on both sides of the interstate, all six lanes going east. All silent, dark, lifeless.

  “Well, shit…” Jackson rubbed the back of his neck as we slowed, then stopped.

  We sat still, gazing out the windshield while wipers squeaked and the wheezy engine rumbled.

  “Did you really think you were the first to have this idea?” Ramak asked coldly.

  “Give me a break, man.” Jackson thumped his palm on the wheel again. “It was worth a try.”

  “Now we know why no rescue crews got in on 90,” I said. “Do we turn around? Go north after all?” A dash of hope was met at once with a flutter of horror through my chest. North meant floods, broken roads, no way out. It might as well be turning back west.

  At last, I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t coming in this direction with reservations. Regrets, yes. But not even one percent of me wished to be with Jeff, Christine, and Nazia. We had to get out of here. Out before one more disaster became our last. Only, now…

  Jackson blew out a breath, uncertain, but Ramak never wavered. “No.” He unbuckled his seatbelt. “We do what they did. We walk.”

  “Walk?” Trent’s eyes widened. “Walk to where?”

  “To safety. And safety is east, as far as we
can get from Mount Rainier, back to civilization.”

  “What’s even out there?” I asked. “I’ve never been through the Pass. How far is it to the next city?”

  Jackson laughed. “Let’s set our sights on towns. Next good-sized city is Spokane.”

  “That’s where your family is, isn’t it?” Even as I said it, I knew it was a stupid point. Spokane was on the other side of the state.

  “Sure they are, and hopefully okay, but it’s a day’s drive. That’s like three hundred miles from here. We’ll hike to Cle Elum, see what’s what. If that’s no good, we’ll go on to Ellensburg. Got to be people there. That’s finally starting to move away from the mountain.”

  I’d learned in recent years that in Seattle parlance “the mountain” means Mount Rainier, no matter that the whole area is a flood of mountains and majestic ranges. People will say, “The mountain is out,” and you know it’s a clear day, no hiding behind cloud cover.

  “Okay,” I said. “That sounds doable. How far is Ellensburg?”

  “Now you’re asking…” Jackson shook his head, looking around in the door and console in case of a map. He leaned over Ramak to look in the glove compartment, then shrugged. “Fifty miles? A hundred miles? Somewhere in between that.”

  “That’s a big difference,” Trent said.

  “Especially for people who’ve been sedentary for months,” I said. “Carrying all this gear.”

  “Oh, the distance is nothing. It’s the elevation that totals your lungs.” Jackson still sounded happy. “We’ve hardly started climbing. There’s at least another thousand feet, maybe a lot more in pure height to reach the Pass. Pretty epic to get to walk it, really.”

  “Yeah, it’s a treat,” Trent said. “Really going to turn this disaster drama into a rom-com.”

  “That was pretty funny at least,” I said, not feeling at all like laughing but giving him a weak smile.

  “Getting into my part,” Trent said.

  “You know what would be even better?” Jackson asked.

  “I shudder to think…” I actually did shiver a bit.

  “An alien invasion?” Trent asked. “Zombies?”

  “A few boards,” Jackson said. “If we got up there in the white we could board down the other side.”

  “You mean … snowboards?” I caught my breath. “Wait, there’s snow up there still?”

  “Only the tops. But it would still make up time.”

  Ramak climbed out into pouring rain. “Open the trunk. We’ve got to organize this gear if we’re going to carry it on our backs.”

  I squeezed Trent’s hand. “We can do this.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Then I really did laugh.

  Chapter 2

  Abandoned vehicles stretched on like rain over the interstate as we plodded uphill. Mile after mile, step after step, while fears of the volcano and regrets at our path faded compared to immediate discomfort of rain, cold, and the weight and bulk of gear we’d brought along from our unfortunate looting spree in North Bend.

  Even Jackson, who was at least fit and strong, was hurt, unable to carry a backpack at all and took a duffel instead, along with sleeping bag under an arm. He was also unused to the elevation with his snowboard career years behind him. We must have been past 2,000 feet when it started getting noticeable. You couldn’t tell just standing around. But for people accustomed to living at sea-level, 2,000 feet on a long, long hike, with heavy packs, starts to make your lungs feel like flaming tissue paper. And we were climbing with each step.

  I’d always been an active person. Horseback riding through my teens, dabbled in soccer, loved summer camps, but the timing couldn’t have been worse: starting out tired and bruised, with questionable feet and new shoes, coming off the heels of the longest couch-potato phase of my life… Nor was I the only one.

  I did have one advantage over the guys. Okay, two. One was that I wasn’t carrying as much weight. They’d been noble about this, taking the water bottles and canned soup, along with our limited camp gear, while I’d insisted I wasn’t all that delicate. Of greater impact, though, was the pride thing. I puffed and leaned in, hands under shoulder straps at times, shifting the weight, pausing often for a sip of water, constantly trying to catch my breath. All this kept me going, sure I could do this—don’t think about the race against the volcano, only push on.

  Men on trail hikes, though, are like men asking for directions. They can manage. They don’t need help. They don’t show weakness. Need a drink? Of course not. Pass out from lack of oxygen because you’re not taking breaks? Please, this isn’t Everest—eye roll. Real men can climb the Pass on foot, with heavy packs, in the rain, under duress, while hurt, and make it look easy.

  Which is why, in many ways, I had a much more pleasant climb than my stronger trail pals.

  I don’t know how many miles shy we were to start, but it took hours to reach the Pass. After the first two, I took pity on them and asked them to take breaks with me—for my sake, of course—and everyone made it all right.

  The rain gradually slowed, then stopped, much to my relief as I’d been fearing we were walking into snowfall. Still a bit too warm for it, and beginning to clear, as we reached all 3,000 of those feet to Snoqualmie Pass summit. We’d had only breakfast and sips of water and rain, careful since we didn’t know how long the food had to last.

  Jackson, familiar with the area, led us past ski slopes, smooth and white, to the Summit Inn, where we were disappointed to find the scope of the Megaquake had reached right up here, glass shattered, buildings badly damaged. We found no one, only those cars still endlessly stretching away, and a welcome place to shelter.

  It must have been late afternoon when we stopped at the inn for dinner and a break. We waisted no time in getting a fire going in the inn’s lobby hearth, but could find nothing else useful unless besides beds. Others had already been through, clearing out food in their own flights east. Nor would the water turn on.

  Over Ramak’s protests that we were being wasteful, we heated two cans of soup for the four of us, following it with chocolates and English toffee. Jackson brought in snow to boil on the fire to save our bottled water and we made hot chocolate with truffles.

  Ramak was impatient while the rest of us basked around the huge stone mantel, chairs and coffee table pulled close, outer layers, shoes, and socks propped close to the fire with our bags.

  I didn’t want to argue with Ramak, or any of them, for so many reasons. But we were wiped out, all of us, Jackson’s short breaths bearing witness to the pain from his bruises and cougar scratches that he didn’t mention after the hard day, all of us exhausted.

  I slipped away from Trent and Jackson, who shifted things to dry, and went to Ramak at the shattered mess that once had been rows of glass doors for the inn’s entrance. The glass had been haphazardly swept up. Ramak stood just beyond, in evening light as skies cleared.

  “Hey?” I spoke softly. “Ramak? Do you think it might be—?”

  “We have to get moving.”

  Well, there went that question.

  I had to think of an alternative approach, though Ramak interpreted my pause differently.

  He looked around to meet my eyes. “Sorry, Brook. I interrupted you. What were you going to say?”

  “Oh…” More taken aback by this than the interruption. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s disrespectful.” He glared at me.

  Damn, it was an intense glare. I’m a big believer in eye contact, plus the world’s worst liar. But I couldn’t hold the gaze, swallowing and looking away to white slopes. For someone blaming himself for something, it was crazy how he made it feel like an accusation. I bet he’s awesome at his job. If anyone ever wronged me, I’d sure want to send this guy after them.

  “Go ahead,” he prompted me, like an order, like everything he said, focused and, You will do this right now, tone. He was tall as Jackson, six feet plus hiking boots, then that carved jaw and those black e
yes shooting laser beams.

  “Uhm… Ramak? You’re very intimidating. Maybe that doesn’t have an on/off switch, so that’s cool. Live and let live.” I shrugged a little. “But, if you have different settings, this conversation isn’t, uh, taking place in a courtroom.”

  We looked at each other. He turned away, took a step on the sidewalk, glass crunching below boots.

  All right then. This sucked.

  I was easing a step back, face hot, wishing I hadn’t left the others, when Ramak turned back to me. Chin tipped down, hand going to the back of his head to rub through short, wavy hair, lips parted in a wide grin.

  As shocked as if he’d thrown a snowball at me, I stared.

  “I’m sorry,” Ramak repeated, tone dramatically changed, actually laughing a little. “My mistake.” He looked up. “You’re very honest.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” God, he was gorgeous when he smiled like that. This was a first.

  “So have I,” he said.

  “Worse than honest?”

  “Than intimidating.”

  “Oh. Well … you probably like that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?” Why was holding eye contact with this man just as tough now? Face and whole body feeling more and more flushed, not less.

  He dropped his hand, still smiling a little. “Not many people call me on bullshit.”

  “Well, yeah … because they’re too intimidated.”

  Another chuckle. “You’re pretty intimidating yourself.”

  “Please—” Sputtering. “As if. I’m the student next door, brewing coffee and hating the rules of sentence structure almost as much as this whole virus and isolation crap—that is saving millions of lives but still totally sucks. Don’t you tear people apart for a living?”

  “Honesty is intimidating.”

  I hesitated, looking back into his smiling eyes, momentarily at a loss. I’d had the lectures, mostly from my big sister, about hurting people’s feelings or making them uncomfortable by being overly forthright, but actually scaring anyone by telling them they have bad breath or blurting out, “Sorry I’m late because I had to run back home for a tampon!” had never crossed my mind.