Surviving the storm, p.1
Surviving the Storm, page 1
ALSO BY I.J. MILLER
Seesaw
Whipped
Sex and Love
Climbing the Stairs
Wuthering Nights
Immaculate Conception
Promise Fulfilled
Blank Slate Press
Harrisonville, MO 64701
Copyright © 2024 I.J. Miller
All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical or contemporary accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.
For information, contact:
Blank Slate Press
www.amphoraepublishing.com
Blank Slate Press is an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
www.amphoraepublishing.com
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi
Cover photo: Shutterstock
Set in Adobe Caslon Pro and Gravesend Sans
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024932709
PRINT ISBN: 9781943075874
EBOOK ISBN: 9781943075881
FOR KATHRYN
Every time I tried to tell you
The words seemed undercooked
So I’ll have to say “I love you” with a book
SEPTEMBER 17, 1989
The first hint of trouble arrived through the speakers of Yankee’s portable radio. His large frame filled the narrow, wood security shack that faced the front gate of Long Beach Bluff resort. A Rasta knit cap with stripes of red, green, gold, and black bunched his heavy dreadlocks into a thick ball on top of his head while the brim hid his eyes so no one could tell if he was napping. He sat in a wood chair, legs propped on a small stool. Yankee was forty years old, had been the security guard at Long Beach Bluff for twenty-one years, and lived just down the road in Old Hill Village. He was napping. But woke in a start when Peter Tosh’s soulful reggae was cut off by a loud, forceful, radio voice:
“Attention! All people of Antigua! Hurricane comin. Batten down! NOW! The name Hugo and looks like the worst in a decade. Full force in three hours.”
Through the shack’s windowless opening, Yankee surveyed nearby Full Moon Bay. The early morning sun disappeared behind dark clouds, the wind picked up, and the normally tranquil aquablue water dissolved into a murky grey. He reached for the phone, pounded three digits.
Manager John answered just as he finished his morning shave. He was in his late twenties, gangly tall, from Seattle, Washington, recently promoted from assistant manager, married two years to his ultra-thin wife, Becca.
“Hugo headin this way in three hours,” Yankee said. “Possibly Cat Four.”
“Must have made a leeward turn. We need to start the Hurricane Emergency Plan now!”
John hung up. He tried anxiously to reach Alvin, the assistant manager, a local, dialing first his house in Old Hill Village, then his office. No answer. Alvin rarely got to work this early, and rarely spent the night in his own bed.
John rushed to the bedroom, shook Becca awake. “Hurricane’s coming! Winds could be over 100. Monitor the ham radio and keep me updated. We’re shutting this place down!”
Becca leaped out of bed, sprinted to the bathroom. John knew it was to brush her teeth. Becca never did anything before brushing her teeth. He grabbed the phone, jabbed the numbers for the owner’s house next door. Ned picked up, about to snarl over being woken up, when John snapped, “Hugo’s on his way!” Then hung up.
He exited the house, dashed down the hill, and alerted every staff person he met to start the Hurricane Emergency Plan, something rehearsed at least once a year, and was soon at full throttle. Next, he banged on the doors of the occupied resort rooms and urged a quick evacuation. The resort was only half full, since it was, in fact, hurricane season.
Taxis soon waited in line along the entrance road as guests hustled towards them with hastily packed luggage. Drivers stowed suitcases, stuffed patrons into their vehicles, swiftly accelerated off the property, towards the airport, to catch the first flight out…to anywhere.
When the last guests departed, Yankee closed the two halves of the resort entrance gate, made up of long pointy spikes, each side decorated with a half metal seashell that made one whole shell when he locked them together. Then he sprinted up the paved entrance road that led towards the offices, shops, and main dining room. To the right was the Full Moon Bay waterfront. To the left was a large swimming pool. The six waterfront staff towed Sunfish sailboats and windsurfers to shore, up to the high sand, then shackled them to the ground with a heavy tarp. With extra weight, they anchored down the one motorboat used for water skiing and fishing, then hustled to gather the beach and pool lounge chairs, piled one on top of the other, and dragged the tall stacks to the large cement warehouse behind a group of thick palm trees.
Rob-O, the waterfront director, and his girlfriend Kate, the yoga/aerobics instructor, scrambled to shutter the open beach bar and stow liquor bottles and glasses in the back room. They were in their mid-thirties. He was a bleached blond beach bum with scraggly long hair, always in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. She wore close-fitting leggings shaped against her taut, lean body like a second skin, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun.
The waiters, cooks, and dining staff raced to carry chairs and tables from the open-air dining room to the warehouse, along with the island paintings that dotted the walls. The housekeepers helped the facilities staff board up the glass on the resort room sliding doors that faced the Atlantic, as waves crashed hard and grey onto shore.
Long Beach Bluff had four two-story guest buildings on the beach, each with five rooms on the first floor and five on the second. It was a small but exclusive vacation spot. There was not enough plywood to board all the beachside sliding doors, so the staff left several open, along with the landside entrance doors, so the wind could pass through without shattering glass. They stuffed what they could—mattresses, lamps, furniture—into large closets.
Up the bluff road sat two identical, modest-sized houses. Rob-O and Kate lived in the first one, John and Becca in the second. At the top of the bluff, overlooking the ocean to the west, the bay to the east, was the grand house. Ned lived there with his wife, Twiggy. They were a childless couple, he in his late fifties, she in her forties. Ned was a short, round, pale-skinned man with puffy red cheeks from too much drinking. He inherited Long Beach Bluff from his father and had been on the property when Claudette hit ten years ago and it had taken months to refurbish the resort. Tee shirt untucked, belt still unbuckled, he burst out the front door, waddled down the hill, and snarled at any staff person he encountered to work harder! Twiggy—a tall, leggy blond, far too pretty for Ned, who earned her nickname from her early modeling days—raced from room to room of their house, hid artwork and lamps in closets, stowed kitchen items, put X’s of masking tape along the smaller windows that dotted the walls.
“The full hit’s less than an hour away!” blasted Becca’s voice through the speaker of John’s walkie-talkie.
But he didn’t need the heads up. The wind whipped across the resort property, forced the palm trees from a sway to a bend, while the air filled with debris lifted from an open trash bin somewhere behind the buildings. There was more to do, but John advised everyone by the resort rooms, the main dining hall, and the offices to go home. He then blew an air horn so the staff at the bay knew it was time to depart. Most of the workers lived in Old Hill and needed to secure their own houses.
Ned located John at the center circle roundabout, where the entrance road circled back towards the main gate, and a large, heavy metal bell attached to a thick wood base rested on an island of grass opposite the steps up to the check-in desk.
“Why the fuck are you sending everyone home?” Ned shouted.
“They need to get out of here before they get stuck.” John stood so the wind carried his words towards Ned. “We need to hunker down before Hugo hits full force!”
Ned was about to protest again when a powerful gust slammed an empty soda can into his chest and knocked him back.
John guided him up the steps, towards the open lobby.
Becca and Twiggy, arms linked, maneuvered down the hill, staggered by the barrels of wind that blasted their bodies. They were smart enough not to wear hats but pressed a hand to their heads as if to keep their hair from blowing off.
Rob-O and Kate fought their way up the entrance road, head-on into the wind, which billowed their shirts, and buffeted them as they made slow but steady progress.
They all met at the gated side door near the main kitchen and waited nervously for Yankee. Though it was midday, they watched the sky darken to an early dusk. Then Yankee burst through the trees. One hand gripped his Rasta hat flat against his head, the other proudly displayed numerous keys on a ring dwarfed by his meaty palm. “Found em.”
He unlocked a metal gate, then the wood door, ducked in to pull a string that turned on a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. Below them was a steep flight of stairs that led straight down to another door at the bottom. Yankee popped back outside. The three women and Rob-O inched inside. Ned and John hovered by the entrance.
“Do you need to get home?” John asked Yankee.
“Secured the house last n ight. Sent my wife, new baby, and the boys to her mother’s inland place in All Saints.”
John turned towards Ned, who gave no sign of inviting Yankee in.
John grabbed Yankee by the arm, pulled him inside, and said, “Close the door behind you.”
All seven descended the stairs. Yankee unlocked the heavy wood door at the bottom. They entered a small concrete room. Yankee brushed past them, found a dangling string, turned on the light. Wine bottles—placed delicately, at just a slight downward incline, corks facing out, floor to ceiling, on wooden racks—surrounded them. In the center of the cement floor was a large, screened drain. All but Yankee let out a collective breath, feeling safe inside this tight, wine-filled cellar. Becca displayed a bag of snacks and fruit, with mini seltzer bottles.
Yankee said to John, “I don’t have a good feelin bout this one.”
An explosion pounded their ears, walls trembled, bits of concrete dropped from the ceiling, and wine bottles rattled as an H-bomb of wind and rain crashed through the resort above their heads. The light bulb went out and the three couples, along with one security guard, crouched down, and huddled so close in the pitch black they could feel the other’s tremble.
“Damn,” Yankee said. “I forgot the flashlight.”
“Me, too,” John added.
“We’ll never get this place in shape for Christmas,” Ned declared.
The fury continued to rage overhead, but the walls held and there was no immediate flooding.
“I hope everyone in Old Hill makes it through,” John said. “I’ve no idea where Alvin is.”
“Dude.” Rob-O rewrapped the rubber band around his ponytail. “There’s no way the beach bar survives.”
“Anyone want a mango?” Becca asked.
Yankee accepted the handout.
“You’ve been quiet, Twiggy,” Kate remarked.
“Just trying to wrap my head around Ned’s concern for the resort while 50,000 Antiguans are at risk.”
“You’re so predictable,” Ned said.
“No, you’re so predictable,” Twiggy retorted.
After several hours, the sudden quiet startled them as much as the storm noise had. No constant wail of wind. No pounding rain bullets. The wine bottles settled.
“Over?” Becca asked as she picked up her bag of goodies.
“The eye,” Rob-O answered.
“What eye?” Kate asked.
“We’re probably in the dead center right now, complete calm, but it’s still around us.”
Ned said, “Yankee, why don’t you go up and—”
“Let’s see if it stays quiet.” John’s voice was firm.
“I’ll do it then.” Ned stood.
“No.” John touched his arm.
“Let him go,” Twiggy said.
John held tight.
“The storm will pass soon.” The group listened to the authority in Yankee’s tone, the one person born on the island. “The winds may break a record. But we still have another few hours. At least.”
The explosive roar of wind and rain arrived again with renewed intensity, causing an even louder vibration of wine bottles.
“Fuck this, bro’,” Rob-O said. “There won’t even be a waterfront.”
“Just breathe, everyone.” Kate’s calm yoga voice resonated in the dark. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
“Too bad we don’t have a corkscrew.” John ran a hand along the wine rack.
Yankee dangled his keys in the dark. “Got one right here, brudah.”
John blindly selected wine from the expensive shelf. Yankee opened it. They passed the bottle and everyone partook, except Becca, not quite ready to share germs.
Several bottles later there was, indeed, a second silence, a prolonged one this time. The group staggered up the stairs, followed Yankee, each with a pressed palm against the side wall for balance in the dark.
Outside was nearly as black as the wine cellar. A stiff wind and scattered rain lingered. No electricity anywhere. The faint, hollow clang of the bell broke the bleak silence as it swayed aimlessly with the remaining gusts.
“Wait here,” Yankee said.
He cautiously maneuvered towards the front desk. He knew exactly where the main patio was, centered by a flamboyant tree with blazing orange leaves. If it was still there. But he had to be careful. Debris and pieces of in-ground lamps dotted the patio. Sections of wicker gazebo walls spread across the lawn like unmarked graves. A cow could’ve been blown onto the property, the winds had been that strong.
He fumbled along a shelf below the front desk and fished out two flashlights. He turned one on.
“Muddah of God,” Yankee gasped. He flashed the light across the open lobby. A palm tree had smashed through the women’s boutique store. Brown-soaked sand had washed up to the patio. Deep puddles of water pooled everywhere.
He made his way back to the group, extended the second flashlight towards John, but Ned grabbed it. The couples zigged and zagged their way across the patio, sidestepped shaggy palm fronds, waded through ankle-deep water, glad the flamboyant made it, though it was partially stripped of leaves and had lost several branches.
“Let’s go up the bluff to our houses,” John offered. “We’ll deal with it in the morning. Hopefully, our generator will work. The food in the storage freezer will hold until daylight.”
“I’ll file a claim tomorrow,” Ned said. “If I can get through by phone or fax.”
“Good luck with that,” Rob-O smirked.
They made it to the center roundabout.
Yankee and Ned circled their lights across the property. A war zone. The dozens of palm trees that dotted the open lawns were either uprooted, snapped in half, or had lost all of their fronds and were just long, thick sticks in the ground. Shingles from building roofs spilled everywhere. The ocean had come ashore.
“This couldn’t be worse,” Ned groaned.
“We’re alive,” Twiggy countered.
“Keep the flashlight to guide you home, Yankee,” John said. “Ned can lead us up the bluff. I hope your house is still standing.”
“Thank you, sir.” Yankee slogged down the entrance road through the heavy flooding.
As the group trekked up the bluff road, Ned zoomed his light around the property one more time, let out a loud moan when it landed on the open roof of Building One.
From down the road, they heard Yankee shout, “Muddahfuckah!”
“What is it?” John yelled.
“Muddah-fuckah!” Yankee repeated even louder.
John grabbed the flashlight from Ned. The group followed his beam back down the road.
On the grass, just to the left, near the front gate, stood Yankee, hovered over something, as he peered towards the ground.
The group circled him. Yankee directed his light straight down and it reflected off a man’s body soaked in a large puddle, face down, head pointed towards the gate. Yankee handed his flashlight to Twiggy, reached underneath the chest and turned the body over. The group gasped. Everyone recognized the assistant manager… Alvin…bulky, sturdy frame with deep, handsome lines etched along his cheeks, a head of thick, bristly, black hair, and the most remarkable blue eyes framed by his flawless dark skin, as he stared blankly back at them, his body entrenched in the mud, cold and stiff.
“He must have tried making it to the wine cellar,” Becca said, her voice heavy with emotion.
“But got here too late,” Kate whispered sadly.
“Debris…may have…slammed against him,” Twiggy stuttered. The beam from her flashlight trailed along Alvin’s body, but halted abruptly at a bloody wound across his neck. She clicked off the light.
Twiggy looked over at Ned, who quickly turned away.
John glanced at Becca, who couldn’t hide her pained expression.
Rob-O’s gaze settled on Kate, who in turn stared back at him.
“Or murda,” declared Yankee.
TWELVE MONTHS BEFORE THE STORM
JOHN & BECCA
It was early Sunday morning when John exited his house through the front door, clad in skimpy nylon running shorts and a tee shirt with a silkscreen of Full Moon Bay on the front and the words LONG BEACH BLUFF RESORT on the back. He stretched on the front lawn. On his feet were orange Nike running shoes, the swoosh in white. These sneakers were not for sale anywhere on the island, but he’d picked them up on his last trip to Miami.
