Asher
Disaster is simply a mediation between damage and growth.
—My Therapist
Something hard hits my house minutes before sunrise, jolting me awake. My hand grasps clumsily for my phone, hoping to find
an update from Jocelyn. Instead, a series of emergency alerts litters my lock screen, and my mom has texted sixteen times,
asking if I’m okay. Even with only a single bar of service, my answering text of reassurance goes through. Thanks, Verizon.
No such luck with my attempt to call Joss. It rings once, then disconnects.
With a sigh and a quick face rub, I rise from the bed and head to the window.
Holy shit.
The world on the other side of the curtain is a hellish landscape of wind, rain and debris.
The sky is a churning mess of terror. I run through the house to my front door and step out onto the porch.
The street is still visible, but the ditches are overflowing.
Neighbors’ houses are dark. Power must be out.
With my minimal service, I prowl the internet for information. News sites won’t load, but Twitter or whatever it’s called
now is going strong. #HurricaneFranklin helps tremendously.
My stomach clenches into knots. Snips of roofs collapsing. Pictures of boats crashing into homes. Video feed of the storm
surge drowning the beaches. Maps of the expected wreckage.
The cone shifted while I was sleeping. It’s making landfall on top of me right now.
Category 5. Wind speed 155 mph. Storm surge twenty feet. Catastrophic damage.
How was the forecast so wrong? Thirty-six hours ago, we weren’t even in the cone. When I fell asleep, a Category 2 storm was
heading two hundred miles east of me.
Woke up to hell on earth.
Each video is worse than the last, but I search for clues about the flooding. Where is it? How far has it spread? Another
attempt to call Joss fails. Send her a text instead.
Are you okay?
No answer.
My dark house is suddenly too dark, so I dive for the wall switches. Light floods the room. Thank god. At some point, the
backup generator must have kicked on.
Jocelyn sneaks back into my thoughts.
At best, she’s terrified. At worst . . .
More videos. More updates. More chilling photos. A search for her cross streets, her neighborhood, anything that might clue
me in yields nothing. No platforms or outlets have the information I need.
Until I open Snap Map.
A single video from the street next to hers was uploaded nearly an hour ago—a panoramic shot of the flooding road, the water
creeping up to old houses that stand mere feet above sea level.
No, no, no.
Call her again. No answer.
Please text me back.
No answer.
My attention travels to the sliders looking out to my backyard. Deathly winds send roof shingles and plant detritus flying
through the air. Would be suicide to go out in this. Truck could wash away. Debris could kill me. Current from the rising
waters could steal my balance and drag me under.
And yet—
One more call. It rings three times before it disconnects, and I hurl the device to the other side of the couch. Bracing my
elbows on my knees, I hide my face in my palms. She’s probably fine. A flooded street isn’t life-threatening if she stays
indoors. She said she’d call if she needed me.
But there’s no service, whispers a fiendish, logical voice in my mind.
What if she needs me and I’m not there? What if I do nothing, and something happens to her?
Beyond the window, devastation reigns. I’m a fool for even contemplating going outside, but I head back to my bedroom with reckless desires. Will lightweight clothes and thick-soled tennis shoes work as rescue gear? She probably doesn’t even need rescuing.
But what if she does?
With no idea what I’ll need, I tear through drawers in my kitchen and laundry room. There isn’t much in the way of Useful
Gear to Survive Outside in a Hurricane, but what would such a list even include?
Utility knife and a flashlight.
All right, then. Good enough. We’ll MacGyver this shit. I yank my keys from the holder in the kitchen and head to my truck
in the garage, ignoring the overbearing sense of idiocy. I’m going to die trying to save her, the girl who doesn’t even want
me.
Fuck. I forgot the Tums.
Can’t go back now.
The garage door opens a portal to Hades.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
The truck roars to life, and I back it into the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. Battered in the wind, I’m imagining one
giant Ty-Foo from Super Mario following my every move. Asshole makes driving a hectic battle for control while the remains of plants, houses, street signs
assail me like missiles.
Under normal circumstances, Joss’s house is a ten-minute drive. Due to flooded roads and downed trees, it takes me half an
hour to reach the road leading into her neighborhood.
Ha. This is madness. The street descends into the floods. It’s practically a boat ramp at this point. I need a fucking pontoon.
I stare at that turbulent water. Am I really doing this?
I’m really fucking doing this.
My hand reaches for the truck’s door handle of its own volition. The gale nearly rips the door off its hinges, but with Herculean effort, I get it shut. Violent gusts of rainy wind assault every part of my body, and I throw an arm up to protect my eyes.
Forget the flashlight. Goggles would have been convenient.
I jog best I can into the flood, then slow once it reaches my thighs.
Whoa. Hell! Don’t fall.
This current is stronger than I imagined. My muscles fight against the more powerful force of nature beneath me. I’m soaked
through. My skin freezes and burns all at once. The rubber soles of my shoes provide a decent grip, but I’m careful not to
slip. One wrong move, and this could carry me away.
In the minutes it takes to wade closer to her house, the water rises, splashing against my stomach. Something gives way beneath
my feet. Before I can stop it, I submerge to my neck. The water carries me several yards downstream before I snag the pole
of a stop sign. Gritty saltwater splashes into my mouth and the metal digs into my arm, opening a gash.
Drawing first blood, Franklin? I see how it is. He’s literally pouring salt into my wounds.
Asshole.
My feet slip again.
Christ! I can’t do this. She’s probably fine! What am I doing out here? Trying to die? They’re going to engrave my headstone
with my supreme foolishness.
He died in a hurricane because he was stupid.
After righting myself, I take stock of my surroundings. Down the street, I get a glimpse of her house—the one with the tree
lying on top of it. Panic claws through my system, lighting it on fire. She could be trapped in there. Drowning.
I could be too late.
A surge of adrenaline helps me battle my way to the house. The door is wide-open. I could swim into her living room.
“Jocelyn!” I yell.
No answer.
I knock aside floating furniture and head toward her bedroom where the tree fell. She’s not here. The relief is tiny, but
it does exist. Means I haven’t lost hope, I suppose. Yay for optimism.
“Jocelyn, are you here?”
Maybe she evacuated when the flood started. Something cold wraps around my bones as I consider that. She evacuated and didn’t
come to me? Didn’t even tell me?
I wade toward the garage to check if her car’s still here, pushing through the hall and living room to reach the kitchen.
The garage door is already open. Her Benz is flooded to the windows.
“Jocelyn?” I call again.
A weak voice behind me answers. “Asher?”
Yes. Yes. She’s here. She’s alive. Coiled fear loosens and I choke out a breath. I spin toward her voice. My gaze darts around and
lands on the hunched body curled on the far edge of the bar top. She’s on her side, shivering, blinking at me.
“Fuck. Jocelyn!” I flounder through the water to reach her, splashing wildly. She tries to sit up, but her shaking arms buckle
and she falls back to the laminate.
Stupid, stupid woman!
My hands clamp onto her clammy fingers, and I pull her toward me. “Are you okay?”
Shallow scratches mar her fair skin. Tear tracks paint her face. But she appears otherwise unharmed. Miracles do happen. Her entire body trembles as I draw her closer to me. Her blank expression doesn’t change. “Am I dead?”
“What? No.” I try to haul her off the counter, but she’s immobile, legs dangling. “Come on, Joss. We have to get out of here.”
“You’re here.” She touches my cheek, head tilting dreamily. “Heaven must be real.”
Is she in some sub-space of terror? Dilated eyes gaze deep into mine. Her quivering body lists toward me. I grip her chin
hard and sharpen my voice. “Jocelyn. Listen to me. We have to get out of here.”
She blinks once, twice, and her spine straightens. “Asher?”
“Yes, it’s me, but we have to go.”
One moment, she’s lethargic and hallucinating. The next, she’s clawing at my neck, gripping so hard that pain shoots through
my muscles. She cuts off my windpipe.
Hnghhh. I’m suffocating. I yank at her arm and suck in a breath.
“You came for me?” she asks.
She’s attached to me—painfully, yes, but attached—so I make my way toward the front door. Every second we stay here, the water
only rises higher. “Of course I came for you. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
She pulls back to look at me. “Did you get my texts?”
“No. Service is down. You’re going to have to walk, Joss, okay?”
She nods and allows me to set her on her feet. At her front porch, I pause.
Hmm. Right. Quite dire, this is. Not sure what to do, honestly. Rushing gray waters. Floating debris.
“This is insanity,” she says.
I can barely hear it above the wind.
Her hand snakes into mine. “We can’t go out in this. People drown in smaller floods than this.”
“My truck is at the entrance to your neighborhood. I made it here. We can make it back.”
“I’m a lot shorter than you.” Her bottom lip pulls between her teeth. “This is how my parents died.”
I turn back to the house, considering our options. A twenty-foot surge will submerge this home. I didn’t come all the way
over here just to drown with her.