Excavation

Chapter 34

He kept thinking of it as Simpson Creeks after the flood, but that was foolish. There was no Simpson Creeks anymore. It had been absorbed, erased, drowned. A new lake nestled here, thirty miles long and almost as wide as the original river valley, winding its way tortuously through the southeast Kentucky hills, always doubling back on itself, always presenting a surprising twist, a brand new turn to the eye. It seemed strange that it was still accessible by road—the old dirt logging system. The flood had leveled off a few yards below its hard-packed, though sometimes overgrown, surface. It was as if Big Andy wanted all to see his new face.

There were bits of the old stream system here and there, reduced to tributaries feeding the enormous lake. In several places waterfalls had formed where the ground had sunk. In one spot a small waterfall emptied out directly onto the road, and the occupants of the old pickup had to grip the seats to keep from screaming when they passed under the thundering waters. He wanted to say something to soothe them, but could not.

There was surprisingly little recognizable debris around the lake—mostly bits of bark, branches, leaves, moss, floating in large masses in the water. As if even the last dregs of memory had been wiped away. Here and there the thick trunks of fallen trees. As they passed it, a large oak standing at drunken attention on the bank suddenly shuddered up its entire height, as if with delayed terror, leaned crazily over, then fell with a series of moans and creaks into the lake. Squirrels and small birds exploded from its branches and rushed for other shelter just before its ragged roots let go completely and it turned over, corpselike in the water. He watched it turn in a slow, graceful circle before drifting away from shore.

Tiny jewels of water glittered over everything: stone and leaf and even the top branches of trees. With this morning’s sunrise, for the first time he could remember, there was no fog in the valley. No fog around Big Andy at all for the sun to burn off in layers. The mountain had been already stripped naked, with nothing left to conceal.

Most of the animals stayed hidden, probably as shocked by this strange land as were the occupants of the pickup. It was as if they had been picked up and transported a thousand miles or so. Nothing looked familiar. The animals, too, must have found it difficult to adjust to the morning’s unaccustomed brilliance. The sun’s heat must seem several hours early this morning. As after many disasters, natural enemies, still in shock, seemed to have made a truce. He saw a wildcat on the bank right beside a small deer.

Periodic winds stirred the water this morning, as if the previous night’s storm were threatening to begin again. But each died fitfully, as if they were Big Andy’s stray thought, his shadowy morning dreams, after a long night awake.

Occasionally he saw snakes lying in the shelter of the trees, snakes lying in the road: copperheads, coral snakes, king snakes, lying right beside the occasional spotted or red-cheeked salamander. Like worms escaping the ground after a heavy rain. He almost went off the road trying to avoid them, not because he was afraid, but because he thought they deserved to live.

At one point, he had to swerve sharply to avoid a Nole Company truck left upside down in the middle of the road. Another time he stopped and pointed out a shady area by the lake to his passengers. There, on the edge of the deep blue water, was the old wood-burning stove from Charlie Simpson’s store, sitting perfectly upright in a cleared area as if it were right where it belonged. He could see shadows under the trees there, and imagined, briefly, the shadows bunching their feet around the fire guard, passing on news and swapping stories, retelling the legend of the last great Simpson Creeks flood, and the giant lake that appeared overnight, again and again. It had been several minutes before he’d been able to pull out again and leave that antique stove behind.

As they traveled farther south toward Four Corners, they saw more and more pieces of water-sculpted, almost shapeless debris. Debris you could read like clouds, imagining anything you wanted. He kept staring at the pieces, wondering what they might be, daring them to move.

The insects, once so prevalent, had been silenced. Here and there, a whisper of circular ripples broke the surface, but he saw nothing that might have caused them. Whatever it might be remained beneath the surface.

They were still uneasy around the water. He wouldn’t drive too closely—he stayed on the far side of the road away from the lake wherever possible—and crossing bridges was a real terror to him. He did it quickly, and would not look into the water below him.

Many animals would have survived, although the toll in deer and rabbit—vulnerable animals—would be high. The trees’ seed crops—berries and nuts and the like—would have been stripped in such a storm. It suddenly occurred to him that a bear wouldn’t find the Big Andy too hospitable a place to its kind at the present time.

But so much still survived here. Hillsides blooming with purple rhododendron. The lake bank was painted with golden ragwort and Indian paintbrush, fairy wand and trumpet honeysuckle, and delicate pink lady’s slipper. Tufts of panic grass clutching sheer rock faces he’d have thought too unfriendly for any kind of life. Big Andy was one persistent devil.

Most of all, it looked to be virgin land here. As if this country had never been mined at all.

Not sure even these thoughts were his own, Ben Taylor drove the old pickup out from under Big Andy’s shadow toward Four Corners. Toward his wife Martha and the kids. He had to resist the urge to speed, to maneuver around these roads too rapidly, dangerously. He’d thought he’d never see them again. Terrible thing… the way people seemed to take family for granted. Big Andy had left the remaining Taylors intact; they’d been lucky. So many had lost everything, including their lives.

His passengers were still shell-shocked; impossibility upon impossibility, the great number of bizarre appearances and deaths had overloaded their brains. No wonder; he’d be surprised if any of them got a good night’s sleep for months to come. Ben could say that they’d actually been through hell and back.

Inez and Joe were in the front seat of the old truck with him. He’d been worried about Inez—she’d been deathly quiet for most of the trip. That thought made him feel like a foolish old man. After all, what did he expect? She’d lost everything. But the last few miles she’d been talking about the flowers they’d passed, and how unusual it was to have flowers like that around here this late in the year. Inez was going to be okay.

They’d picked Joe up on the way, walking down the road by himself. Ben and Joe’d talked excitedly for the space of several minutes… how neither had expected to see the other one ever again, how they both figured they were the only survivors. Then they’d caught the gloom in everyone else’s faces and it made them remember, made them think about where they were. They got back into the truck and headed down the road. Survivors. Now that was a word. Ben started to think about Charlie… that image of him gazing off into the distance before going over the waterfall. Ben would never forget that.

But he had to get a grip on himself; these people depended on him. He was probably the only one in good enough shape to drive; he couldn’t afford to break down now. None of them could.

Survivor. He hoped so. He dearly hoped they were survivors.

Joe was still talking pretty actively, more words than Ben could ever remember hearing out of the man. Gesturing with a queer sort of nervous energy. “Going back to Cincinnati, that I am, Ben,” he said. “Going to find my wife and that pretty little daughter of mine when I get there, yessir. Make a good life for us all. Make a family. Been hanging around down here too long, not being responsible. That’s gonna stop, I can promise you that!” Something had happened to Joe Manors. Ben believed him.

Audra huddled in the bed of the truck, leaned up against the back of the cab behind Ben. She’d been the quietest of the bunch; she hadn’t said a word since they found her, just whimpering occasionally, looking up at you out of those dark-circled, blood red eyes. You couldn’t bear to look into those eyes for very long. Ben was afraid she might never be the same; there was damage in that girl, he could see it.

And she wouldn’t go anywhere near Reed.

Reed sat upright in the truck bed behind Joe Manors. By looking into the rearview mirror Ben could look directly into his nephew’s face. Now the boy was sitting comfortably, staring ahead of him, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Ben had to admit Reed looked better than expected. In fact, he looked healthier, if anything, than the evening he got off the train. His pale complexion was almost ruddy now, as if he’d spent years outdoors. His movements seemed confident, agile. And he seemed to have completely gotten rid of that damn cold.

Reed’s eyes were dark and shadowed, actually pretty handsome, Ben thought. His hair had gotten a little wild, seemed a little longer than Ben remembered it. As if he hadn’t had it cut in years. There was something dark… mud or scum… smeared and dried into his hair, something from the flood, putting reddish highlights into the pitch-black hair.

Reed turned and looked Ben directly in the eye. His nephew’s eyes had odd, sickle-shaped highlights in the upper halves of the pupils.

What you can’t face… it controls you. They’d had the conversation a day ago. It seemed like years.

Reed was smiling. A gleaming tooth on one side of his mouth caught the lower lip and pulled it away from the mouth. He unfolded his hands. The knuckles were worn, the skin stained, dirty. The nails were like digging tools—or, Ben suddenly thought, like claws: long, curved, thick with the years.

For just a moment, Ben closed his eyes.