Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) James Best (best e book reader .TXT) 📖

they were apart. Neither had the other’s back. She didn’t want him to profess how much he cared for her well-being—she wanted him at her side. She wanted him as a partner, not a cell phone buddy.

Returning her attention to the road, she saw that traffic had slowed to a crawl and snugged up bumper-to-bumper. The next time they stopped, she opened her door to check the water level outside. It looked to be several inches deep, but well below the doors. Then she examined the car next to her. Water had risen above the bottom of the minivan’s doors and had to be seeping into the vehicle. As she shut the door, she realized they had transitioned to the right lane. She hadn’t noticed Smith moving over.

“Are you thinking about getting off?” she asked.

“Not yet … but I want an exit path, just in case. Stalled cars or a fender bender could bring this whole highway to a standstill.”

“Would a surface street be better?” Ashley asked.

Smith shook his head. “Not necessarily. Thoroughfares are built above or below grade level. That way, they pass over or under traffic on surface streets, that is, streets built on the surface of the terrain. In metropolitan areas, interstates normally alternate between being elevated or subsurface. At the moment, we’re subsurface, thus the water sitting on the highway. We’ve had too much rain for the drainage system to accommodate. There’s a local street passing overhead on that bridge ahead of us. Now, the good news. After we pass under that bridge, we’ll gradually ascend until we’re traveling on elevated highway. Water will flow away, and hopefully, traffic will pick up speed.”

“What happens after Davis?” Baldwin asked.

“An uncomfortable question,” Smith said. “I-80 becomes a surface street … right through the Delta. We’ll be well north of the Sacramento River, but it could get dicey. I think we’re less than a hundred feet above the river.”

“Less than fifty,” Wilson corrected from the backseat. “And we may be in trouble prior to the highway returning to surface level.”

“What do you mean?” Ashley asked plaintively.

“I drive this stretch of highway all the time,” Wilson said. “After a couple of elevated miles, the highway goes back below grade. We might encounter flooding when we descend the other side.”

“Damn, hurry then,” Ashley squealed.

“Yeah, right,” Smith said. “Perhaps you should drive.”

“I am not the macho man who overcomes every obstacle,” Ashley said. “That is your métier.”

“Then sit quiet. I’ll tell you when it’s time to panic,” Smith said with an edge.

They started a gradual ascent a couple of hundred yards later, and traffic moved closer to twenty miles an hour. Then in typical California fashion, it was nothing but glaring red brake lights as far as the eye could see. Smith pulled the car to a dead stop.

“What’s this about?” Baldwin asked. “I thought we were supposed to go faster now.”

“I don’t—”

“Flooding ahead,” Wilson interrupted. “Dammit. It’s just what I feared. It’s two to three feet deep when the highway dips below grade again. Traffic’s backed up all the way to here. There’s no escape. We’re stuck.”

“How do you know this?” Smith asked.

“I’m using my phone’s hot spot to get internet on my laptop,” Wilson said. “Right now, I’m looking at the highway from a news helicopter.”

She handed her computer forward. Smith held it on the center console, and he and Baldwin examined the screen. Complete gridlock. The news station chyron read: I-80 flooded, CHP recommends alternates.

“How are we supposed to get to an alternate?” Baldwin asked.

“We can’t,” Smith said. “Not until the cars in front of us inch forward enough for us to exit.”

“They are not moving at all!” Ashley yelled. “Honk! Do something.”

“Shut up, Jon,” Baldwin said. “We’re safe. We have water, food, and we’re elevated above the flood plain. These are not bad circumstances, considering.” She looked over at the minivan beside them. “Lots of people are worse off.”

“Like those stuck in the flooded portion of the highway,” Wilson added.

“Or those we left behind in Sacramento,” Baldwin said.

“We are not better off than them,” Ashley whined. “Darn! We should have stayed in the hotel. Hot food, dry beds, bathrooms, even—”

“Patricia told you to shut up, now I’m telling you,” Smith said. “Get some damn backbone for god’s sake. Let me tell you what will happen at that high-rise hotel. Refugees will pack into it by the thousands. Public spaces will flood, so loads of people will be assigned to each and every room. The hotel restaurants serve fresh food, so it will spoil in the humidity, or run out, with thousands of extra mouths to feed; and that’s if they remember to take it upstairs before it gets washed away. Laundry is done in the basement, so no clean linens … or clothes, for that matter. Due to street runoff into the rivers and aqueducts, the public water supply will soon be contaminated from dog poop, dead critters, chemicals, and a host of other stuff you never want to drink. The next food delivery will be by Red Cross, and it won’t be any tastier than what I have in the back of this truck. Believe me, you don’t want to be in that hotel.”

“I still think we should have stayed,” Ashley said in a small voice.

Baldwin shifted around in her seat to look Ashley in the eyes. She felt angry. “I wanted to stay, dammit! You nearly dragged me out the front door. Sometimes life gets tough, and you need to deal with it … and take responsibility for your decisions.”

Ashley did not relent. “There are four of us. That food cannot last long.”

Smith gave a long, exasperated sigh. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough fat on you to live on short rations.”

“Yes, but what about water?” Ashley asked. “Those food packets are dehydrated. That jug of water might run out.”

“Oh hell, there’s nothing but fresh water out there, you idiot,” Smith said. He grabbed his parka and opened the car door. “I’m going to walk