Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (top romance novels txt) 📗

technically drown,” Ashley corrected. “The unlucky ones will be battered to death. In many cases, you can survive rushing water, but not trees, rocks, or other debris that floods throw at people. In 1928, autopsies after the Saint Francis Dam disaster showed that most deaths were caused by blunt force trauma, not drowning.”

“That won’t be what happens here,” Wilson said, sounding a bit miffed at Ashley’s interruption. “The Saint Francis Dam broke apart in minutes, releasing a forty-foot wave crashing down a half-mile-wide canyon. For the most part, I’m talking about flatlands. The water will just keep rising. The flow will be relentless with a strong current, but there won’t be four-story high waves to pulverize people. In the worst case—”

“I beg to differ,” Ashley said. “The rushing water will erode foundations, highway overpasses, and utility towers and poles. All that debris will slam into other structures. It is all coming down, and I for one, do not want to be in the way.”

“For damn sake, Jon, you won’t be!” Baldwin exclaimed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re running away right now. We left those poor sods back there to sink or swim.”

“Most will only suffer discomfort and loss of material things,” Wilson said in a conciliatory tone. “The real danger will be panic. Millions of people trying to escape along the same path. The only way west is the road we’re on … and south … well, Route 99 remains intact for the time being. I-5 is another southbound possibility, but due to that washed-out section, escapees would need to find a rural road to take them west before they reach that point. Plus, things will get real dicey if the convergence of the Sacramento and American rivers takes out one or both interstates south of Sacramento. Then … it’ll be chaos … dog eat dog.”

“Highway 101?” Baldwin asked.

“First, you’ve got to cross I-80 to San Francisco, like we’re doing. Once in the Bay Area, the 101 will be safer than I-5 or Route 99. The 101 hangs along the western edge of the Central Valley, while the other two highways go right down the low-lying center. The washout section you saw won’t be the last piece of highway to disembark for regions unknown.”

“What about north?” Smith asked.

“The Oroville Dam collapse closed off every northern route except I-5, and anyone who goes north on that highway will be driving directly toward Shasta Lake, the largest reservoir in California. Not an escape route I’d want to take.”

“They could cut over to the coast at Willows or Red Bluff,” Smith offered.

Wilson made a hum sound. “Some will. That would be the smart move, but the two-lane surface roads at those exits will clog up quick. Early birds will get through though.”

“East?” Baldwin asked. “Can people drive directly at the runoff from the Sierras?”

“I’d chance it,” Smith said. “Especially if I was late departing. Few would have the guts to drive straight at the rushing water. Probably couldn’t get all the way to Reno, but I’d go up I-80 until I couldn’t go any further, then I’d hike up a ridgeline, set up camp on a high point, and watch the water cascade into the valley below.”

“Before you can climb a ridgeline, you need to drive over seventy miles to get to the foothills,” Wilson said. “That’s putting a lot of faith in highway engineers.”

Smith patted his steering wheel affectionately. “Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need … roads!” Smith did a perfect imitation of Dr. Emmett Brown from Back to the Future, and everyone laughed.

Not everyone. Ashley never surrendered his hold on sullenness.

“Why are we driving slower?” Ashley asked, a worried note in his tone.

Everyone quit laughing and craned around to look at the speedometer. It read just under fifteen miles an hour.

The car became quiet, and then Smith said, “The water got deeper. And it’s rising fast.”

Chapter 13

Evarts sped back to town in less than half the time it had taken him to drive up to the dam. Lopez insisted that the trailer park represented the greatest risk, so he headed there first. As they drove down Alisal Road toward Fjord Drive, they saw that the water had already overrun the banks of the river. Damn. By the time Evarts made the turn on Fjord, which paralleled the river, he was down to ten miles an hour, with water up to his running board. He braked to a stop. A double-wide stream of cars headed straight at him, traveling far too fast for the depth of water. Great waves of brown water sprayed out to either side of the vehicles. When he honked, they showed no indication that they would make room for him to pass. Home side yards and a sidewalk lined the road opposite the river, so he put the truck in compound low, bumped over the curb, and drove onto the nearest soggy lawn.

He stopped. He saw only chaos. Frightened people, intent on getting out.  Leaving with their families, pets, and a few precious belongings.

Lopez grabbed Prentice by his upper arm and hauled him out of the truck. Outside in the rain, Lopez pulled him toward the line of cars. They were soaked in moments.

“Who are these people?” Lopez yelled. “Are they from the trailer park?”

“I don’t know!” Prentice yelled back.

Prentice slogged through knee-deep water to one of the cars and started yelling at them through the glass, but the car didn’t slow, nor did the window lower. The inexperienced driver tried to race to the intersection so he could turn away from the flooding river. The overloaded medium-sized sedan plowed water into the engine compartment, fouling the electronic systems. The car stalled. Then another stalled, and yet another. Feeling useless, the policemen watched as the street became entirely impassable. No one was getting out except on foot.

In frustration, Lopez splashed a handful of water at the closest car.

Evarts cranked his steering wheel, backed up, and edged forward, straight at the first stalled car. Stopping