Dark Water Rising by Marian Hale Page A

would be much easier and safer if we waited just a while longer.
    When Mr. Mason got back, faces turned toward him, eager for news of what he’d seen. He handed Mrs. Mason a tin of sardines and a bottle of beer.
    “They were in the only corner left standing of our brick storeroom, sitting on a shelf like God himself had put his hand over them.” He laughed at the absurdity of it. “Imagine that, Virginia. Sardines and beer.”
    Mrs. Mason reached for her husband’s hand and waited to hear the rest.
    “It’s all gone,” he whispered, “like Captain Munn said. Everything, Virginia. Just gone.”
    She slowly shook her head. “Not everything, Kearny. We’re all still here.” She pulled the key off the sardine can. “And now we’ve got sardines and beer, too.”
    Uneasy laughter skittered around the hallway while she opened the tin and the bottle of beer and passed them to what was left of our group. I took a small portion, just enough to make me realize how hungry and thirsty I really was.
    “The water in the cistern is salty,” Mr. Mason said. “We’ll have to do without until we can get back to town.”
    Heads nodded around me, but worry showed in every face. I couldn’t even guess what we might find as we headed toward town. Every cistern left standing could very well be ruined.
    When the darkness over the east bedrooms had brightened, we eased back down the stairs and sloshed through the stinking mud to see for ourselves what the storm had done.
    Under a soft Sunday-morning sky, I stood in knee-deep water, staring. The Vedder house, swept off its foundation and listing to the north, was one of only three houses left standing. I looked toward Avenue R where our rental had been and saw only more debris and muddy water.
    Wreckage spread in every direction. I saw piles of broken chairs and cooking pots, baby buggies and shredded bedding, soaked books and photographs, and all of it lay half-buried in the foulest mud I’d ever smelled. A sickening sludge, churned up from the bowels of the gulf, had painted most everything dark gray. I turned slowly, trying to take in the dismal landscape, already yearning for something green, but not a leaf or a blade of grass could be seen anywhere.
    “Papa!” Jacob called. “Where are the Peeks?”
    We all looked to the west where the Peeks’ house had been, but there was nothing left, not even the foundation. Mr. and Mrs. Peek, six children, and two servants were gone.
    Just gone.
    “And it was to their house,” Mr. Vedder whispered, “that I would’ve taken you all for refuge.”
    The staggering truth of what might’ve been hit us all.
    I saw Josiah staring past me, a wretched look on his face, and turned, trying to see what had caught his attention. A big black retriever lay almost buried in mud. Flies buzzed around his eyes and gaping mouth, but it appeared to be the piece of blue gingham floating next to the dog that had carved the painful look on Josiah’s face. Puzzled, I looked closer, and finally understood. A battered, muddy arm protruded from a sleeve. What once must’ve been sunshine hair now lay matted and strewn across a porcelain face, partially concealing glassy blue eyes and pale lips.
    Josiah stepped back, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop staring at that tangled, yellow hair.
    “It ain’t her,” Josiah whispered.
    I pulled in a ragged breath. I knew it wasn’t, even if my heart didn’t, but having seen one body, now I saw them everywhere. I counted three more, and while others checked them, trying to figure out who they were, Josiah pulled me back into the house.
    “We needs to wait a bit longer,” he said softly, “for the water to go on down.”
    I nodded again, too sick to speak, and crawled up the stairs, out of the greasy dark mud to wait. We could do nothing else. It was impossible to bury a single soul with so much muddy water around.
    With each hour that passed, the day grew warmer and the smell grew worse. The mud pushed