Chapter 8 #3
Something solid slams into the corner of the tent, shaking the yellow material and folding it in toward them.
Iggy shrieks and clutches at Malcolm, who twists so he’s in the path of whatever’s just run into them.
Water oozes right through the tent’s side and floor, rising like something Malcolm’s never seen before.
The tent shudders and shifts again as more solid objects hit.
“Oh shit, flash flood,” Malcolm shouts, the words taking his breath away faster than the icy water soaking through his jeans. “We gotta move, now!”
Tree branches and debris hit the side of the tent with enough force to dislodge the top poles, and it collapses in a rush of water and panic.
Malcolm reaches for his backpack and Iggy, and he somehow grabs both, but they’re trapped inside the collapsed tent, being pushed forward by the force of the water and the still-pelting rain.
The lantern falls over and goes out. He’s cold, wet, disoriented, and fear is starting to overtake his good sense.
All he knows to do is keep hold of Iggy and try to get out of the tent before they both drown in six inches of water.
Another solid wall of water shoves their entire situation forward, and Malcolm hollers when something hard, maybe a branch, slams into his back.
He falls into Iggy, who’s struggling to pull them both forward with the motion of the nylon ball they’re trapped in.
Darkness and chaos overtake Malcolm’s senses.
Water rises. Space inside the tent seems to shrink.
Iggy releases a sob, and that unleashes a new desperation inside Malcolm.
He screams for help with every breath in his lungs, while continuing to fight with the tent’s zipper.
If they don’t get out of this fucking thing, they could be dragged right into the rushing, snow-swollen creek, and then they really could drown.
Could end up miles down the creek before their bodies are ever found, probably not until morning.
Maybe not until midday, if no one thinks to look before Howie finds their deserted, washed-away campsite.
No.
No, he’s not going out like that, and neither is Iggy.
They slam into something solid, and Malcolm screams from a sharp pain in his knee.
“It’s a rock or boulder,” Iggy shouts. “We stopped. You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” No, not really, but he can’t worry about his knee. He feels around until he’s pretty sure he’s found the zipper again. “We gotta get out of this fucker.”
Iggy’s there, helping him, but the force of the water is still crushing them against whatever boulder is impeding their progress, and more debris is piling up.
It’s worse than the first time Malcolm ever played tackle football.
He caught the ball, and three other kids piled on top of him.
Smothering him. Keeping him pinned, unable to fight or control anything.
He hates this feeling, being out of control.
They can’t fight the pressure or the cold.
Malcolm’s fingers are numb, unable to work the zipper.
His teeth chatter hard enough to hurt his jaw.
Iggy clings to him, breathing hard through panicked sobs, and Malcolm wants to cry, too.
He doesn’t know what to do except keep the tent fabric away from their faces and hold on tight to Iggy.
The flood can’t last forever. Flash means something, right?
The pressure against the tent subsides almost as suddenly as it began, and the water level soaking through lowers.
Rain still pelts from above, and the creek still roars too close for comfort, but the worst seems to be subsiding.
Malcolm releases a chaotic laugh and hugs Iggy tight, both of them shaking.
“It’s over, we’re okay,” Malcolm gasps.
Iggy shudders hard then throws back his head and releases a piercing, “Fuuuuuuck!” to the universe.
Yeah, that about sums it up for Malcolm, too. He doesn’t know how far downstream the flood washed them, and he doesn’t care. All his exhausted, freezing body wants to do is curl up and sleep until he’s warm again, and that won’t happen until they find shelter.
“Monte, did you hear that?” Iggy asks.
“No, what?” He can’t hear much of anything over the rain hitting the tent, and their combined ragged breathing.
“I swear I heard a—”
A piercing noise like a referee’s whistle startles Malcolm so badly he jams his sore knee against a rock, and he hollers. Who’s blowing a whistle in this storm?
Iggy starts shouting for help. The whistling gets louder, closer. Then a deep voice outside the tent is telling them to hold on, he’ll get them out, and Malcolm chokes on a sob he refuses to release. Someone’s out there, and he can’t cry in front of a stranger.
The tent rips, and then a yellow-ish glare of light briefly blinds him. Malcolm yells and lashes out, desperate to protect Iggy from whatever this is.
“Whoa dere, son, no need fer dat.”
He doesn’t know the voice but it orients him enough to realize there’s a man holding a flashlight, and he’s just ripped them free of the soggy tent. Who the heck is wandering around in a monsoon with a whistle?
“C’mon, let’s git you to mah truck. Got the heat on.”
Malcolm doesn’t care who the stranger is, not when he’s offering refuge from the rain and a break from the endless chill. “Iggs?”
“Get me out of here,” Iggy whines. “I’m never sleeping in a tent again.”