At any moment the people of Country Homes Drive could be buried under a mudslide and Travis was stuck in traffic. Dispatch continued to shout emergency codes through the scanner now resting on his dashboard but the team leader, Travis’s boss, instructed differently.
“False alarm, Pates. Country Homes is in good shape, no need to respond.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Travis said, hesitantly, but he did not release the transmitter from his hand. He peered up and out through the fogging windshield as the rain bulleted to earth. Winds rocked the truck. “You know what, it’s really coming down over here still. I’m already in my truck and my gear’s all packed up. Least I can swing around, see how it’s lookin’ over there.”
The reply was immediate.
“No need. Got the reports from the station, this should all blow over in a few minutes. Why don’t you have a look around your area—report any obstructions over the road—down power lines or trees, whatever you got. McFarlane lost some of his cattle in your area so keep a close eye out.”
“Roger that.”
Then Captain Danko added: “When you’re done come down to the station.”
“Sure thing,” Travis replied. He sat the radio transmitter on top of his duffel bag that sat in the passenger seat. As he put the truck in gear he couldn’t help wonder why he would be needed down at the station today. Something in Danko’s tone filled him with anxiety, like a child being called to the principal’s office.
Was it possible the captain knew Travis had been drinking? Had Travis’s words come out slurred and frivolous? He hadn’t had that much to drink. Not any more than usual at least. Though he managed to convince himself that it was impossible for his boss to know, the feeling of dread remained with him long after he pulled his little truck out on the highway.
Bridgeport was a small town, or some would consider it small, with a population just under 8,000 people, most of whom lived in the rural mountainsides, thirty and even forty miles from the city limits.
Towns were hours apart in the Olympic Peninsula, so if you ever drove through on your way to visit Forks or Hurricane Ridge you’ll want to gas up at the first opportunity.
Nestled approximately 1,000 feet above sea level, Bridgeport was one of the largest towns just off the coast enclosed by enormous silvery mountains with jagged peaks that remain snow-capped nine months out of the year. The town was barely a mile and a half in length and just under a mile wide with only stop light at the Main and Third intersection around the corner from the police station. Inside the two-story cement building was about a dozen offices. The local police worked downstairs and Travis along with the other C.E.R.T. members worked in their own special forces office upstairs. On a normal day some officers would be at their desks, rustling paperwork, discussing sports or rolling their eyes about some drunken misconduct issue from the weekend, but today the office was silent except for the receptionist’s clicking on the keyboard.
The receptionist’s age was impossible to tell. She could’ve been seventeen or thirty-seven and spoke in a nasal voice. A friendly girl, she would’ve appealed to more men if she hadn’t always donned bulky sweaters and unflattering dresses from the late 1980’s. Although kind and delightfully simple, she had the misfortunate of being named Fannie Wetter and had most likely suffered terribly for it. Though how anyone could be mean to a woman like her, Travis didn’t know.
“Lots of weather we’re having today, Travis. I made a thermos of hot cocoa in the break room. I even got little marshmallows.” Fannie rose to her feet when Travis approached. Truth was, he hadn’t had a sip of cocoa since before Rebecca’s death. Fannie continued, “I like the big marshmallows too but they take up too much room in the mug and it makes it hard to drink out of, but then if you wait too long you’ll have to eat it with a spoon because it melts, so I thought the little marshmallows would be better.” She smiled more with her eyes than her mouth.
“Sounds delicious, Fannie, thank you.” Travis wondered if he could sneak in some rum. He was coming down off his buzz and it would’ve made for a softer landing. He gestured to the empty office desks behind him. “Am I late for a meeting?”
Fannie gave him a curious look. “Didn’t you hear? Appleseed Creek flooded this morning so Captain Danko dispatched the team.”
“I thought Danko called off the alert. Said it was a false alarm.”
“Why would he tell you that?” Fannie asked.
Travis tapped his keys twice on the counter and said, “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
The clouds had grown darker, black in the distance, and cloaking the mountains in rain and fog. Directly above a break opened wide enough let the sunlight through. Travis slipped on his sunglasses as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed up Main Street. A strong glare on the road reflected into the cab until he turned right on Country Homes Drive. The houses on this street were mostly 1930’s American Bungalow style each as similar in color and décor of littlest variation. Around the first corner, and a swerve to the left, he spotted the other C.E.R.T. vehicles parked horizontally across the street acting as a barricade from outside traffic. The water level had risen high enough that it spilled over the road by a foot and filled the ditch on the other side which ran past the school and entered a drain pipe.
The man standing amidst the hustling response team was Captain Danko, a former marine, chiseled and clean-cut man in his early fifties, shorter than Travis by nearly a head and powerful arms that could snap a beast in half, and possessed frighteningly intelligent eyes. He was pointing to one of the Charlie members carrying a sandbag and instructed him to drop it at his feet. The response team worked in syncopation, moving like cogs in a machine. Travis approached Captain Danko.
“I thought I told you to stay in your area,” Danko snapped.
“Everything was fine out there, you knew it was. Why’d you tell me this was a false alarm?” Travis knew the answer, but he wanted Danko to come out and say it. Tell him he didn’t want Travis there.
“We’ll talk about it later in my office. Until then go home.”
“These people need help; the creek is rising. Those sandbags are going to do a damn thing but give false hope to those families in those homes.” Water dripped from Travis’s face and he trembled unsure if it was from the cold, frustration, or withdraws.
“Pates, we got it. Rain won’t keep much longer and that hill isn’t going anywhere. Martha’s complaining that her new carpets got a little wet and Randy, you know the guy who owns that wood shop place on 3rd, got an apple tree across the hood of his beater truck but that’s about it.”
Travis shot him a look that told him he wasn’t going anywhere until he got some answers.
“Alright,” Danko finally said after some time. The sunlight was breaking through the clouds and, facing Travis, Danko squinted. “Some of the guys are worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you and I know you can take care of yourself. You’re one stubborn ass, I’ll give you that. But going through the shit you’re going through now, it’s no wonder you’ve been a little off at work. No one expected you to come back so soon.”
“Is that what this is about? You guys think I don’t got your backs? I’ll tell you what I could protect this town a hell of a lot better than any of these guys. I’ve lived here my whole life—these people, they’re my babysitters, my teachers, my first fuck. These people I knew my whole life and no one on this team cares about this town like I do.” The strain in his voice caught the attention of the other team members. Some had been watching over their shoulders as they piled up sandbags and shoveled away mud. Danko was quick to respond with equal bravado.
“Jesus Christ, Pates, you lost your wife. Hell, if it were me I probably would’ve put a Glock to my head by now. We all loved Rebecca, she was a wonderful lady, but you need time to get yourself sorted out. She wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”
“I don’t need a break,” Travis quietly growled, trying to appear calm. Others were blatantly staring no
w. Losing composure in front of them would give them further reason to distrust him.
Danko took a step closer, nose-to-nose now. Well, Travis’s nose to Danko’s forehead since he was nearly a head taller. Danko had to peer up to look at him when they spoke, but that didn’t make the man any less threatening. It was power that made a man intimidating, not height.
“You’re drinking. You’ve been showing up to work shit faced. I can’t risk putting my men or this town’s safety in your hands while you’re drinking your life away.”
“I’m not shit f—”
Danko cut him off. “There’s bourbon on your breath and it smells cheap. Go home, take a few days off, get yourself cleaned up, talk to one of our counselors if you need to." He took a deep breath. "The fact is I’m not going to be around forever, I got retirement coming up in a few years and these guys are going to need a new captain. I want to see you in that desk, but if you don’t pull yourself together it’ll belong to someone else.”
“You think I could be captain?”
“You’ll never know until you get your shit together. Listen here, Pate. I’m worried about ya, we all are. You’ve been like a brother to me and I don’t want to see you piss your life away. What would Rebecca think?”
Danko placed a caring hand on Travis’s shoulder, but Travis yanked it away. Danko expressed the slightest offense in the squinting of his eyes. “Go home, Travis. Take a few days off.”
“I told you I don’t need a break,” Travis replied.
“And I told you, you do. That’s an order.”
Travis glared at Danko. No use arguing any longer. Not at the risk of getting fired. In his peripheral vision, he noticed his team members had stopped hauling sandbags and were now standing at the tailgate of the nearest C.E.R.T. truck. Defeated, Travis went back to his Toyota and after a brief stop at the liquor store, he headed home to grieve.
Chapter 4