The car seemed to hesitate just as it reached the steep bank, then went crashing over into the leaping, flaming river. She ran forward and could see it plunging down, leaving behind it a great sheet of flame. It looked to her that it had gone into a furious furnace rather than the river, and she took two steps back with a feeling that it had gone for ever.
It was almost an hour later when she heard a truck coming along the road. She had been walking steadily for that time and she was feeling cold and nervy. The rain had stopped, but her clothes were still wet, clinging to her as she moved. She stood in the middle of the road and waved as the truck rattled towards her. It pulled up with a squeal of brakes and she ran up to it.
A dim outline of a man leant down from the cab and peered at her.
“Fort Pierce?” she asked, trying to see what he looked like. “Can you give me a lift?”
He pushed open the off door of the cab. “Sure,” he said, “come on up.”
She climbed in beside him and he started the cab rolling. He was very big and the shadowy outline of his face gave him the appearance of an ape. He, too, was regarding her under the broken peak of his cap.
“Where you come from, baby?” he asked in a hoarse, snuffling voice.
“Daytona Beach,” Gerda returned, rubbing her arms and shivering. “Got caught in the hurricane, sheltered for some time and then decided to walk on.”
“Huh,” the man said, spitting out of the cab. “Saw a house on fire way back. I guess it must have been the lightning.”
Gerda didn’t say anything. She was feeling tired and would have liked to have gone to sleep.
“Ain’t you scared being around in a spot like this on your own?” he asked her.
Gerda stiffened. “I don’t scare easily,” she said coldly. “The last guy who tried to get fresh with me is still wondering what hit him.”
“Sorta tough, huh?” the driver said with a hoarse laugh. “Well, I like a dame to be tough.”
“That’s nice for me, isn’t it?” Gerda rejoined sarcastically.
The driver laughed again. “I guess before we go any further I’ll collect your fare,” he said, stopping the truck with a jerk. “Let’s get in the back for a while.”
Gerda shook her head. “Get goin’,” she said sharply. “I don’t wear that sort of thing. I’ll give you a fin when we reach Fort Pierce. That’s all you’ll get.”
The driver screwed round in his seat. “Yeah?” he said, his voice suddenly menacing. “I ain’t used to that sort of yappin’ from a dame. Get into the back of the truck quick, before I get rough. You’re taking what I’m goin’ to give you, an’ you goin’ to like it.”
Gerda opened the door. “If that’s the way you feel about it,” she said, her eyes hard and calculating. She slid into the road. The moment her feet touched the wet tarmac she made a dart towards the thick citrus groves. Before she reached them a terrific jar struck her just above her knees and she went down in a heap. Her breath was knocked out of her body, and for several she minutes was powerless to move. She felt herself being picked up, carried a few steps and then banged down again.
“How do you like that?” the driver asked, kneeling over her.
She realized that she was in the back of the truck and she lay very still, waiting to recover her breath.
“Now, baby, do you play or must I rough you around until you do?” the driver asked.
Gerda said breathlessly: “O.K., you big caveman, let me get up an’ fix myself.”
The driver moved away from her with his back to the entrance of the truck, so that she couldn’t pass him. “Not so tough, huh?” he said. “I tell you, baby, I’ve gotta way with dames.”
Gerda got slowly to her feet. Her body ached from her fall. She poised herself, and then with all her strength she swung over a punch aimed at the driver’s jaw.
The driver had been expecting it and shifted his head a trifle. Gerda’s fist scraped his ear and he countered with a heavy slap across her face with his open hand. The blow stunned her and she fell on her knees, suddenly frightened. She knew that this guy was too strong and smart for her.
The driver knelt down beside her and smacked her face several times. The pain made tears run down her face and she tried to protect herself with upraised arms. All he did was to poke her with his forefinger very hard in her belly which brought her hands down quickly, and then he went on slapping her.
“Had enough?” he asked after a while.
Gerda was too dazed to speak. She lay limply waiting, shudderingly, for him to take her. She felt his hands on her clothes, but she hadn’t the strength to resist him. A red haze hung before her eyes and her face and head seemed to be on fire.
She was suddenly conscious that something awful for her had happened. She heard the driver suck in his breath sharply and she heard him mutter, “For Pete’s sake,” and she realized with a dreadful sinking feeling that he had found the roll of money.
She struggled up and tried to snatch it from him, but he was too quick for her. He shoved her away roughly and stood up.
“Where did you get this?” he shouted, holding the roll in a trembling hand.
“Give it to me—it’s mine.”
“Yeah? Well, prove it’s yours.”
“I tell you it’s mine,” Gerda said, nearly sobbing with fury. “Give it to me!”
The roll disappeared into the driver’s pocket. “You pinched it,” he said. “Maybe you got it from the house that was on fire way back. A tramp like you wouldn’t have so much dough.”
Gerda threw herself on him, her fingers clawing for his eyes. He hit her between her eyes as she came in, sending her in a heap on the floor-boards, then he stepped over her and booted her out of the truck. She landed in the wet mud of the road with a thud that shook the breath out of her.
He said, as he dropped to the road beside her: “If you want the dough, come along to Fort Pierce an’ ask the cops for it. Maybe they’ll have it for you.” He gave a little snigger. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll know much about it,” and he ran back to the truck and drove away.
MORNING VISIT
The Lieutenant stopped and held up his hand. Over to his right he had seen the farm, half hidden by a clump of coconut palms.
The four negro soldiers shuffled to a standstill, grounding their rifles and leaning on them.
Overhead the sun beat down on the little group. The Lieutenant, the sweat oozing out of his fat hide, wriggled his body inside his uniform which stuck to him uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the great patches of damp that stained his white uniform; and he cursed the heat, the President and, above all, the A.B.C. terrorists.
Contemptuously he regarded the four negroes, who stood staring with vacant eyes on the ground, like emasculated cattle. “This is the place,” he said, thrusting forward his bullet head. “Two of you to the right; two to the left. No noise. No shooting—use your bayonets if there’s trouble.”
He drew his sword. The steel blade flashed in the sunlight.
The soldiers opened out and advanced towards the farm at a trot. They held their heads down, and their rifles hung loosely in their hands. As they shambled over the uneven ground they looked like bloodhounds picking up a scent.
The Lieutenant moved forward at a slower pace. He walked gingerly, as if he were treading on egg-shells. Inside his once beautiful uniform, his fat body cringed at the thought of a bullet smashing into him. He took the precaution of keeping the coconut palms between him and the farm. When he could no longer shelter himself behind the slender trunks he broke into a run. The heat waves coiled round him like a rope as he lumbered over the rough ground.