Shrill, the sound cut through the steady drum of rain on tin. One of those Amber Alerts, Bethany thought, yanked out of deep sleep. She picked up her phone to silence it and saw a flash flood warning from the National Weather Service. It was four in the morning, and despite being on the charger, the phone’s battery was at 2 percent. She reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it twice before realizing the power was out.
Rain lashed sideways against the window and she sat up straighter. There was a whoosh, a humming noise in the air, as if the wind outside were frothing the water into something more solid. She pulled her husband’s old college sweatshirt on over her tank top and pajama shorts and walked out into the hallway. Lightning lit the A-frame in flashes. Water rushed in through the seams in the back door. She froze, not quite believing what she’d seen. Jesus, the cabin was up on pilings twenty feet high—how, even? Legs shaking, she stumbled to the bedroom for the big hunting flashlight John David had thrown in the bag and stumbled back out again. It was hard to tell, but Bethany figured the water on the first floor was three to four inches deep, as little waves lapped the bottom rung of the dining room chairs. Without the air conditioner or fans, the humidity had crept up. Condensation fogged the windows, and already, the smell was strong—like wet soil, mildew. Her bare feet felt sticky against the hardwood as she descended the slatted stairs. She stopped two steps up from the first floor and leaned over the rail to bang on the door to the other couple’s room.
“Y’all awake? Michael? Kendall?”
She looked down at the rising water, mesmerized, halfway wondering if this was a bad dream. Oh, God, they would hate her for this! It had been Bethany’s idea to rent a cabin by the river Friday and Saturday for the four of them not even an hour’s drive away. Just something different, fun—that is, if John David had actually been able to step away from church duties for once. The cabins on the Geronimo River were tiny, old and bare-bones, maintained by the state park. The green linoleum counters and seventies-style paisley curtains were exactly the same as they had been when she’d stayed here as a kid, some of the few times she remembered her mother and stepfather ever laughing together. She’d felt buoyed this afternoon, stupid now. Had known the river was too high for swimming, had seen it might come a storm, but had simply wanted to be here this weekend, somewhere that felt—what, nostalgic? It was clear to Bethany from the moment the others stepped foot inside the cabin that they were disappointed, only going along because that Sunday was her birthday. It was even more awkward without John David here. God, she could’ve killed him just then for leaving, but mostly she wished he were here to handle this mess. John David always knew what to do.
Thunder boomed and ricocheted off the windowpanes.
Bethany ran back upstairs, slid into her sandals, and walked out onto the small balcony off her bedroom. Rain hit her face so hard it stung, and the beam of the flashlight made the rain look white like ice pellets. Brown river water rushed between the trees and swept over the hood of the truck in the driveway. Maybe she should call 911. But, nearly dropping the phone—her hands were so wet and shaking so bad—she saw it had died. None of them had had much reception anyway and there was no landline. The river sounded like a freight train. She waved the flashlight in front of her, flicking it off and on, then yelled out into the darkness, a pitiful cry for help that died in her throat. And quieter, she tried to shush the dread in her heart, that voice telling her they were certainly fucked, but she’d heard it now and she couldn’t not hear it. She wiped her eyes and smoothed her hair back. They still had the kayaks. Could they paddle out? Should they try and climb the roof?
It sounded like a bullwhip hit the house. Then, splintering.
* * *
The rest happened so quickly. All Bethany remembers is being lifted off her feet and the wind knocked out of her. She spun, muddy water filling her mouth and nose. No way to tell which way was up or down. She briefly surfaced—not because she swam up, more that she happened to land that way—coughed and struggled to fill her lungs with air. The river roared in her ears and rain kept coming down hard, blinding her. She kicked and pumped her limbs, but was pulled under again.
Lungs searing, heartbeat slowing, she stopped struggling.
But the river spat her out. Slammed her hard on her back. She wasn’t moving anymore, and her head was above water. She’d hit some kind of barrier. With a surge of adrenaline and one handhold on the side of what she thought was a big rock, she spun and reached behind her. It was a slab of broken concrete, part of a road or bridge maybe, and a bent piece of rebar jutted out above her head. She grabbed the rebar and pulled herself up so only her legs were submerged, and then shimmied up so she could perch on top of the concrete, waves beating just below her feet. Coughing, gasping, she vomited up what seemed like a gallon of floodwater followed by the taste of blood in her mouth—her lip was split, her face cut and throbbing. Her sandals were knocked off, cell phone gone, Michael and Kendall God knows where, but all she could think about was the flashlight. Damn it, she’d lost John David’s expensive flashlight. Her mind churned with static while her eyes scanned the pitch dark for a light.
* * *
The rain stopped, and eventually, the rising sun pinkened the cloud-dense sky.
Bethany felt calmer now—numb, maybe—and her teeth had finally stopped chattering. Yet, she noticed her perch had begun to shift. The pale brown water, though slowed, was steadily rising. She remembered once being a very small child, her mother distracted at bath time, leaving Bethany alone with the tap running. Not knowing she could turn the knob herself, she had sat scared and frozen while bathwater seeped over the sides. Now she shivered and sucked in her breath. Gripped the rebar and raised herself up again. She had no idea how far downriver she’d traveled, no idea where the Geronimo ended and land began. Water went as far as her eyes could see, only interrupted by the tops of a few trees and a tin roof up a hill in the distance.
She swallowed hard, a sinking feeling in her stomach, when she thought she heard a man’s voice.
Was that Michael? No.
Was she hallucinating?
No—someone called to her, she was certain. She carefully turned herself around and saw a man on a tree branch hanging over the swirling water. She stared open-mouthed—had he been there in the dark this whole time? He was maybe twenty feet away, asking her to swim to him.
“The tree! Get to the tree,” he called. “Lady, you’ll be swept off if you don’t!”
They stared at each other for a moment. He wore jeans and a red T-shirt, sopping wet and stuck to a thin body corded with muscle. He had a narrow face, strong brow, shoulder-length honey-blond hair, and a short beard. The biggest, roundest blue eyes she’d ever seen. He looked to Bethany in that moment like Jesus.
“You have to swim! Launch yourself off it! Swim to me and I’ll catch you,” he called.
“I can’t,” she screamed, but as she did, most of the concrete submerged.
Cold water drew up to her neck. The current pulsed against her, grit and debris stung the cuts on her skin, but she was able to position her feet against the concrete. She took a deep breath and let go, her fingers curled and sore from gripping the rebar so hard for so long, propelling herself off the concrete with her legs. She stroked her arms as hard as she could, so close to the man that he leaned out of the tree and reached for her. Focused on only his outstretched arm, ignoring her fear and the rough sweep of unknown objects against her bare legs.
A whirlpool formed around her, pulling her below the surface.
He was in the water. He flung her backward by the sleeve of her sweatshirt and she was out of the whirlpool, surfacing, reaching for the branch overhead. She hoisted herself up and hooked her legs around the jagged bark of the tree and inched forward, hugging the branch, summoning what felt like the last of her strength to turn upright.
He wasn’t there.
She yelled out for the man, but only the rushing of the water called back. Scanning the horizon, she briefly spotted the top of his head bobbing downriver, swiftly out of reach. He was gone, gone—the current carried him until he was gone from her sight—and she sobbed, knowing it should’ve been her out on the river dead drowned.
Copyright © 2023 by Samantha Jayne Allen
