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

animals, furniture, and myriad other objects hindered progress. And below all this trash resided a layer of mud that required him to put the truck in compound low. He slowly weaved around what he could, bounced over what he couldn’t, and at times ventured off the once-tidy street and onto mud-caked yards.

“Nice truck,” Jim said, apparently unfazed by the damage around them.

Evarts shrugged. “New to me. Bought it this morning.” His own comment brought Evarts up short. “Wow, has this only been a single day?”

“You bought this today?” O’Brian sounded perplexed. “Do you have off-road experience? I could drive.”

“I think I got this,” Evarts said. “How do we locate survivors?”

“Turn west anytime. No telling where anyone would land. Lower the windows. Stop every fifty feet. We hail and listen and search the terrain.” He pulledtwo club-like pieces of equipment out of the satchel. Evarts recognized them as LED tactical flashlights.

“Do we get out of the truck?”

“Sure,” Jim said. “Can’t expect an injured survivor to climb aboard all by his or herself.”

Evarts looked at O’Brian. Was that SAR humor ... or ridicule? He couldn’t tell from the man’s expression. Evarts took the next perpendicular street and let the truck slide to a stop in the mud. They both lowered their windows. O’Brian made a shush noise and they listened. Evarts heard nothing except rushing water off in the direction of the river. No birds, no children playing, no engines. It sounded like death.

“Okay, we yell,” O’Brian said. “Yell, ‘anybody need help,’ a couple of times, and then listen. Then we do it a few more times. There may be scavengers out here. Leave ’em alone. We’re only concerned with those who need help. Got it?”

“Got it,” Evarts said, burying his irritation at being treated like an underling.

“Good. Turn on the interior lights and your high beams. We want to be seen.”

They yelled and listened, yelled and listened. Nothing. Evarts glanced at O’Brian and saw that his upper body hung out the window, moving side to side as he used one of the flashlights to scan every direction. Evarts tried to do the same, but the steering wheel got in his way. He reconciled himself that he would have to replicate O’Brian’s actions from a seated position. They yelled and listened and swept the terrain with the monster flashlights. Still nothing. They moved down the junk-strewn street and did it all again. Still nothing. When about a half hour passed, Evarts called Sheriff Lopez and reported their lack of success. Then they went through the same routine for another half hour.

If anyone remained alive out there, they would have seen the truck. The super-illuminating LED light bar was designed for off-road work crews to do repairs at night. With the headlights on bright, the light bar, monster flashlights, and interior lights, they were a rolling Aurora Borealis.

After his second report to Lopez, O’Brian asked, “Why do you carry a gun?”

“I’m a cop,” Evarts said. “Didn’t you know that?”

“Nobody told me anything about you … except that you own a big off-road-equipped truck.”

“I’m the chief in Santa Barbara.”

A hmmm was the only response, and they went back to their routine.

After two more cycles, O’Brian asked, “Do you think I should be showing you deference?”

“This is your bailiwick,” Evarts answered, in the flat tone O’Brian used. “Just tell me how to get the job done.”

“Then set the truck in park. We’ll be here a few minutes.”

He pulled a matchbox-sized device from the satchel, along with a roll of duct tape, a red utility flag, and a Tinkertoy rod. He opened the truck door.

“What’s going on? What’s that device?” Evarts asked.

“A real-time GPS tracker in a weatherproof case. The flag is for visual sighting, and the Tinkertoy rod is my innovation. I duct-tape the flimsy utility flagstaff to the Tinkertoy rod to make it sturdy enough to attach the GPS tracker. I’ll only be a minute.”

Evarts craned to see outside the passenger window. “What are you marking?” he asked, afraid that he already knew.

O’Brian’s answer confirmed his suspicion. “A corpse. As soon as I mark it, we can continue to search for survivors.”

Evarts got out as well and used his flashlight to further examine the area on his side of the truck. He also reinitiated the yelling, listening routine. Nothing. He was grateful that he hadn’t spotted any additional corpses. O’Brian didn’t speak when he returned, but Evarts heard the truck door slam. They were soon on their way again.

“One or more?” Evarts asked.

“One. Broken up pretty badly.”

“Identification?”

“No.”

Evarts drove further down the flood path. Then he hit the brakes suddenly and skidded as if ice covered the road. When he came to a stop, he raised his hand to squash any questions from O’Brian.

After a moment, he said, “I heard something.”

“A voice?” O’Brian whispered.

“Yeah. A cry.”

Then they both heard it. Faint, but distinct. Somebody was calling for help. O’Brian pointed, and Evarts cranked the steering wheel and crept forward on a line with the indicated direction. With the truck turned, the lights lit the target area brighter than daylight. Evarts saw only debris, but it became obvious that they were not on the edge, but inside the floodpath. Evidently, the water had spread out when it passed this location.

O’Brian said, “Keep moving toward the edge.”

“Should we yell?”

“No. I want to listen, and the lights announce our presence.”

Evarts felt like he was exploring the moon. He couldn’t believe any life existed in this inhospitable landscape. That wall of water must have killed everything in its path. They heard another cry for help. Neither spoke, confirming their mutual recognition of the plea with a glance. Evarts accelerated to nearly fifteen miles an hour, which seemed fast compared to the creeping progress of the last hour. Soon a scrub oak became visible as it came within the illuminated boundary.

“There,” O’Brian pointed. “That’s a damn weed tree, tougher than crabgrass.”

Evarts zeroed in on the tree but kept his speed down. He didn’t want to run over someone who had