Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

by dynamite. Instead, ten feet of water had pushed it off its foundation and carried it away in pieces. Then horrors. As the news copter moved with the torrent, people could be seen running away from the onslaught, some carrying children, but the wall of water pursued them relentlessly. They weren’t going to make it. Just before the water reached the runners, the program switched back to the studio. Clearly, a producer had realized their feed was about to become gruesome and inescapably sad. Unalerted talking heads stammered as they tried to fill the unexpected dead air.

The newspeople regained coherence only after changing the topic. “We have a new report that all transportation out of San Francisco is stymied. Every aircraft is oversold, Amtrak is booked solid, and even pleasure cruise ships have sold every cabin. Highway 1 remains blocked due to a years-old landslide at Big Sur, and I-5 has numerous washouts. Unless you’re already ticketed by air, sea, or rail, the only way in or out of San Francisco is US 101, going north or south. Both directions are highly congested. The mayor recommends that everyone stay put. Electricity is being redistributed throughout the state. Brownouts may become frequent, but we have been assured that blackouts have been guarded against. Citizens are encouraged to capture rainfall in barrels, buckets, pans, or whatever is handy. The city is working on a plan to truck in water to strategic spots in the city, similarly to how they handle water distribution in parts of Cairo.”

The reporter shook her head, as if to dispel a bad dream.

The picture switched to an empty podium at City Hall, where the newscaster announced that they were awaiting a press conference with the mayor and city department heads. Smith hit mute on the remote control.

“This is a mess,” Smith said.

“What are we going to do?” Ashley asked.

“Collect water,” Smith answered, opening the few cupboard doors. “The entire city doesn’t have enough water trucks to satisfy the minimum needs of a few thousand people. That leaves three million thirsty … and dirty.”

Baldwin bolted for the door. “I’m going upstairs to buy water.”

“Get deodorant too,” Smith said with a laugh. “I’ll help put out water collectors.”

When Baldwin opened the door, she discovered a line of people trying to get into the tiny neighborhood market. Twenty minutes earlier, she and Smith had been the only two in the store. Baldwin made a point of slamming the door before yelling, “Excuse me! This line will move faster if you let me get to the register.”

People made way for her. She felt fleeting guilt but pushed on into the market. Inside she dropped the pretext and went down the aisle stocked with cleaning supplies. Everyone jostled their way toward the coolers to grab anything liquid. At the back, on the floor, she found gallon jugs of distilled water. By using both hands and lacing her fingers through two handles, she clutched four gallons and got in the pay line. When others saw her with the plastic jugs, they demanded to know where she had found them. She said in back, casting her head in the general direction. A stampede ensued, and she clutched the bottles harder, realizing that the remainder would be gone in seconds. As she waited, she braced the bottom of the bottles against her waist to relieve the pain in her hands. She cursed herself for not buying water when the woman had first pointed out the news on the muted television. It occurred to her that in a crisis, a person needed to think fast to survive.

When she got to the front of the line, the woman recognized her and first asked if she liked the wine. Small talk? What the hell? She just wanted out of the claustrophobic store. Then the lady demanded forty dollars. Ten dollars per gallon. Hell, she didn’t care. She threw two twenties on the counter and elbowed her way out of the store, avoiding eye contact with the people still in line who’d remember the ruse she’d used to get into the store.

When she opened the gate and went down the steps to Wilson’s flat, she couldn’t get to the door because pans and waste baskets filled every square inch of the tiny patio. Thankfully, Smith stood just inside the open door, and she handed the jugs across to him. She looked down. The inside of the containers were barely wet. Then she looked up. She felt only a drizzle from the nearly black sky. Where was the downpour from earlier in the day that had forced them to run across town? Then she looked across the street. The rain was so thick, it was like looking through a dense fog. She saw surface water rippling in undulating waves as sheets of rain blew back and forth in the wind. Few people walked on the opposite side, and those that did leaned heavily into the wind. Drat. The front of Wilson’s apartment stood on the sheltered side of the street, protected from wind and most of the cloudburst. Normally, that would be a good thing, but they needed to collect water.

“Does the apartment have a back patio?” she asked Smith.

“Nope. This is it. And I bet her neighbors across the street won’t share their open sky.” He looked up and down the street. “People have switched to survivor mode. It’s every man and woman for themselves.”

She held out her hand, and Smith took it as she tiptoed through the menagerie of pots and pans and trash baskets. She noticed that thankfully someone had disposed of the human waste in the corner. When she got to the portal, Smith lingered a few seconds too long in holding her hand. She avoided eye contact and stepped around him to get into the apartment.

Wilson immediately asked, “What’s it like in the store?”

“Chockablock people,” Baldwin said. “Empty by now, I suppose. She charged me ten dollars for each jug of water. If she can get