“That tree came down right across the bridge,” Charlie Himbermark said excitedly.
“You can sure figure things out, Charlie.”
“Don’t take it out on me.”
“We got to get out of here.” He pushed his door open and got out and looked back. The cars were piled up behind him. He looked at the soft deep ditches on either side of the road. Johnny was thankful that nobody started leaning on the horn. He made his decision quickly. He walked back to the last car in line. A pretty woman was at the wheel. She looked nervous.
“We got to get turned around,” he yelled. “The bridge is out up there. Can you back this to that house back there and get it turned around?”
The woman nodded. Johnny went to each car in turn and got them started backing cautiously. It might be all right after all. Get out of here and go back south to the fork and cut over to 41 and head north again. Not too much delay. Not enough to be critical. He directed the traffic, keeping his heavy body braced against the wind, keeping the other cars from backing too close to the rudimentary driveway at the house until, one by one, they got turned around. He went back to his own car at a heavy-footed panting run. He backed up with fast reckless precision, spun the big car and headed south for not over thirty feet before he came upon the station wagon halted ahead of him.
“Now what?” he demanded and got out again. Some of the others had got out, too. They stood by the convertible and looked at the bridge they had just crossed.
Johnny Flagan saw the trouble and for the first time he felt a light brush of panic. He calmed himself with an effort. The lesser branch of the Waccasassa curved at the point where the bridge was placed. The water was very high and it was moving swiftly. Debris bumped against the bridge. On the far side the water had dug into the bank and the far end of the forty foot bridge had dropped nearly a foot and a half. It must have been ready to drop when they came over it. Flagan noted that, in spite of the heavy rain, the water was coming upriver rather than flowing toward the gulf. The tide must be coming in faster than the runoff.
He opened the car door and said to the woman, “Think you could make it? Get a little start and you maybe could plow up that little bitty hump over there.”
The woman’s face was white, her lips pressed tightly together. She shook her head.
Flagan made another decision. “Get out then and let me try. If it works you can come over in another car.”
Again she shook her head. He felt outraged. The fool woman would keep him from that life and death appointment in Georgia. He took her roughly by the arm and hauled her out of the car. He’d make the far side and holler back that he was going for help. He’d send help back and head for Georgia. It wasn’t like stealing. She could have the Cadillac if he messed up her car. There wasn’t time to explain that to her.
She pulled at him as he got into her car. He pushed her back and the combination of the push and the force of the wind knocked her down. A man was coming toward the car, a big husky man with a look of anger. Johnny Flagan pulled the door shut. The motor was running. He put the automatic transmission into low and headed across the bridge, picking up speed as he went. The far end was under water. Water sprayed up from the tires and was whipped away by the wind. He hit the far bank with an impact that drove him forward against the wheel. The front end bounced up high, came down with front wheels above the edge. He gunned it and felt the back wheels spin. He felt the bridge settle under the car. Now the hood was pointed up at such an angle he could not see the road. Still he raced the motor.
The bridge shuddered and dropped further. Water got a broader grip on the side of the car. The back end began to swing. Johnny Flagan yelled shrilly and got the door open as the car toppled off the bridge, breaking through the cracker-brittle railing. Something caught at him and pulled him under. He fought and ripped free as he sucked brackish water into his lungs. The great fear of his whole life was filling him like an unending scream. The other men of his family had drowned in the Gulf. He would have drowned had he been along. In his secret heart he knew that the fates had meant him to drown. He could not swim. He had never been in a boat since that drowning of long ago. He tried to scream under water. Then he broke through the surface. The current had spun him. He could not tell which bank he had tried to climb. He flapped at the water, coughing and choking. Something caught hold of him and he turned, reaching for it. There was an explosion against his chin. From then on it was like a gray dream. He was aware of being towed to the bank, of being dragged up onto the shore like some exhausted fish, but he could not move.
He was rolled over and hard hands pressed against his thick waist. He coughed the brackish water from his lungs. He twisted away from the punishing hands. After a time they left him alone. He lay with his cheek against the soaked ground, breathing heavily, recovering his strength.
And then he remembered. His right hand, half curled, was close to his eyes — a thick white hand with the curled reddish hair growing thickly on the back and between the knuckles of the fingers. He moved his hand cautiously. He moved it down and turned slightly onto his side so that he could reach into the left inside breast pocket of his suit coat. The envelope was there. It was sodden, but it was there. The ultimate disaster could yet be staved off.
He got laboriously to his feet, weaving under the impact of the wind. They had moved the cars close to the deserted house. The door was open: being in the front of the house, it was shielded from the wind. They were carrying things in from the cars, all of them working. A small boy appeared in the doorway of the house, staring out at the storm. He was quickly snatched back out of sight.
Flagan felt sick at his stomach. If he’d had any sense, he thought, he would have crossed the bridge on foot. He looked at the stream. Bridge and blue and white convertible were utterly gone. He plodded toward the house. He saw Charlie Himbermark come out and look toward him and then start walking toward him. Better come look out for me. Where has he been? He’d better remember who puts the butter on his bread.
Flagan decided to stand and wait for him. They’d go together. Go down the shoreline. Had to be a place to get across somewhere. When Himbermark got beyond the protection of the house, the wind caught at him, hastening him along in a ridiculous trot. Flagan saw some of the other people watching Himbermark, the couple from the foreign car, the big, dark sullen looking guy, the thin man from the station wagon.
And Flagan saw the tree that stood in the side yard of the house. He saw it start to fall. He knew in that moment where and how it would fall, and knew he could do nothing about it. He yelled, but the wind tore the words and flung them behind him. He saw Charlie Himbermark, warned in some unknown way, look back up over his shoulder and stare at the black wet trunk and try to turn and scramble out of the way. But his feet slid on the wet ground and the wind pushed against him and. in the slowest of motion, Flagan saw the black trunk touch the small frail man and, continuing, crush him down against the wet soil and then, shifting slightly, settle more inevitably, irrevocably against the earth.
Flagan turned and pressed his back against the wind and was ill. When he turned back a whirring palm frond struck his face, stem first, cutting him below the eye. He looked at the blood on his fingers and plodded toward the house. He had to clamber over the trunk of the tree. He did not look toward the place where it rested on the crushed body of Himbermark.
The highway patrolman at the north end of the detour had received the same orders as Stark. He was heading north, turning back traffic. The attempt to clear the bridge was suspended. The coastal power and phone lines had begun to go. Driven by hurricane winds, the tides began to hammer the beach resorts. There were last-minute evacuations of exposed keys. Radio stations switched to private generators.