and desolate. Rows upon rows of neat whitewashed houses slowly submerging, trees and flagpoles and high fences jutting forth like the masts and prows of ships sinking into some great stagnant sea. And farther down, all those closely-crowded tall and narrow brick buildings lining Cobb were going under, too. Being three- and four-story structures, it would take time, but Mitch could see it happening inch by inch. Even now, storefronts advertising videos and dry cleaning and fried chicken were washed by a dark lake of rising water.
It looked deserted down there and it was for the most part, but people were still living in the upper stories, a few lone rowboats moored to roof overhangs and canopies. He could even see a few people standing on roofs. Some smartass had nailed a couple of signs to the newel posts of his porch. HOUSE FOR SALE, CHEAP, one read and the other said, INDOOR POOL, NO XTRA CHARGE.
Even in the face of catastrophe, people still had a sense of humor.
This made Mitch smile, but the actual flooded neighborhoods wiped that smile away real fast.
Curious and knowing none of this was getting him any closer to tracking down Chrissy-who was probably at the West Town Mall on the other side of the city, no doubt, sampling some stuffed pizza at Sbarro’s or trying on skimpy tops at Pac-Sun while her mother chewed what remained of her fingernails to the very nubs-he started down the hill towards the rising water. Its surface was scummed with leaves and garbage and grass clippings, the bloated bodies of a few dead cats and dogs bobbing in the swill along with shingles and sections of vinyl siding stripped from houses by the wind. Now and again, he saw a few snapped-off tree limbs floating along with an odd assortment of junk: car tires, plastic garbage bags, a pink flamingo or two, a child’s plastic swimming pool…dozens of other unknown, leaf-caked items.
If and when the water did recede, it was going to be a real mess.
Cobb Street led away underwater into River Town, being the oldest part of the city and one of its most low- lying. All those quaint Victorians put up by the pulp and mining barons back in the 19^th century had been turned into trendy restaurants, high-end apartment buildings, and museums. Now they crouched in an oily sea of black, stinking water, slowly rotting away. The seagulls-which usually clustered along the riverbanks and held court at the town dump-crowded for space on rooftops with pigeons, liking the rotten smell of that water and all the dead things coming to the surface. In the far distance where the land dipped towards the Black River, Mitch could see the gables, weather vanes, and sooty chimneys of structures completely sunken in the mire.
And seeing this, he had to wonder how many bodies were out there.
The bodies of those lost in the flooding and all the bodies disinterred from Hillside Cemetery. Christ, it was like some floating graveyard down there from what he was hearing.
And how many of those submerged rooms were peopled by swollen, waterlogged corpses which circled sightlessly in the darkness and bumped along ceilings or pressed white fish-nibbled faces up to sunken windows? And how many would there be before this ended?
He stared out at that rank tidal pool which was a secret, foul ocean filled with secret, foul things dredged up from the river bottoms and cellars and dark places. He had an ugly feeling that there were going to be things in that water that people were not going to want to see. Things left stranded by the receding waters that were not going to be pleasant to look upon.
Something shifted beneath the floating carpet of leaves about ten feet out like a log rolling over. The leaves piled up, but would not part to reveal what it was. Slowly then, the hidden shape began to move in Mitch’s direction, gliding along just beneath the surface, leaves rising in a swell with its motion.
Mitch did not wait to see what it was.
He climbed back up the hill and jumped behind the wheel of the Jeep, hitting the gas and fish-tailing in the slick streets, almost hitting a parked car. But he did not slow down until he was well away from the flooding. And only then did he realize how hard he was breathing or that his heart was hammering.
What was moving under those leaves?
He didn’t know, but he had an ugly feeling in his belly that he was going to find out. Sooner or later.
4
Two hours later, Mitch had not tracked down Chrissy.
He cruised the lots of the West Town Mall and the chic shops and game emporiums near the University, but saw no sign of Heather Sale’s little VW Bug. Despite the rain and wind, people were still out, still shopping and still spending money. But Mitch reminded himself that these were people from Wisconsin, the sort that rode out the blizzards and subzero chills of January and February. As children, they’d grown up as he had with ice skates in one hand and a sled in the other, shoveling paths through hip-deep snow just to make the street. They were a tough and healthy lot that did not fold-up very easily. And if you could survive winter in the far north, rain sure as hell wasn’t going to stop you.
Mitch almost felt like some kind of stranger as he toured the neighborhoods. The city he had known his entire life just, well, it simply felt different. Try as he might, he could not dismiss that rather absurd idea from his head. The city did not feel inviting, did not feel familiar, it felt tense somehow, as if its hackles were raised and its muscles were bunched. Like it was expecting something, bracing for the worst case scenario.
He could not shake the feeling.
The sense that something bad was about to happen, that the engine of catastrophe was even then idling, waiting to crank up to full rev when the time was right.
Even though he had not smoked in nearly three years, Mitch found himself reaching for his cigarettes. Wanting something, needing something that would put his nerves back in orderly rows.
Whiskey, a voice told him. A taste is what you need.
He began to feel a little better when he got back into Crandon, saw all the houses lined up on the streets, Chatterly Park and the water tower, Franklin High and the rain-swept football field behind. In the distance, he could see the stacks and chimneys of the mills and foundries that kept Crandon and much of Witcham alive.
On a whim, he hung a right on Michigan Avenue and cruised The Strip, the local designation for Crandon’s business district. Bowling alleys and hamburger joints, furniture stores and office buildings. Lots of little neighborhood bars tucked in-between with Pabst Blue Ribbon signs hanging out front.
He pulled to a stop in front of Sadler Brothers Army/Navy Surplus and mainly because he saw a familiar vehicle parked out front-a green Dodge Ram pickup with a bumper sticker that read I BRAKE FOR
STRIPPERS.
Mitch covered his head, running through the rain and into the long sheet metal Quonset that housed Sadler Brothers.
5
Inside it was warm, smelled of wood smoke from the massive wood boiler in the back which Chum and Hubb Sadler had burned long as Mitch could recall and mainly because they were too cheap to pay for gas. There were canoes and little duck boats dangling from the walls, racks upon racks of hunting clothes, fatigues, raingear, winter boots set in-between. Portable ice shanties crowded next to ice augers and racks of fishing poles, glass cases filled with everything from Israeli flags to Russian canteens and paperweights made from. 50 caliber shells.
Sadler Brothers had been sort of a landmark in Crandon since long before Mitch was born and being that was forty-four years before, that was saying something. There was something about the place he’d always liked. It made him feel calm, helped him get his feet under him. He supposed it had something to do with all the hours he’d spent there with his old man when he was a kid. Sadler’s was always the first place they went when they were planning a camping trip or getting ready for deer season or the annual guys-only fishing trip up in the cabin on the
