Galveston Between Wind and Water - By Rachel Cartwright Page 0,102

remember . . . Gabrielle was still with me when the raft hit then she was gone . . . somehow I managed to crawl up on the dormitory roof.”

“How fortunate for you, sir.” Sister Constance yanked her arm away. “The Lord’s old stone walls saved many souls last night.”

“And Gabrielle?”

“A gentleman came for her when she was still unconscious. Her fiancé, he said, a doctor. He had been searching for hours. He said he would take care of her at his home. It must be one of the few still standing.”

Bret closed his eyes, overwhelmed by death’s clammy vapor all around him. His knees buckled for a moment and he steadied himself against the dormitory wall. He shuddered and steadied himself against the wall, breathing in short, erratic gasps.

“Sir? Perhaps you should sit down. If there’s water left after the children I can—”

Bret balled his hand into a fist. A fresh craving clawed at his heart and soul, and together with the old hunger, drove him on—vengeful and unforgiving in their pitiless longing. Bret brushed by Sister Constance toward the demolished front gates.

“Sir? Sir! Don’t you want to know his name?”

Bret hurried away from Sister Constance and the suffering toward the Gulf where one building might yet be standing.

CHAPTER 28

Sunday, September 9, 5:00 p.m.

Along the streets, flames from the cremation pyres crackled and popped, stoking the furnace of the late afternoon sun. Dense, black curling ribbons of kerosene smoke spread out against the endless destruction that was everywhere within Bret’s sight.

Sometimes the burning stench of flesh was too strong and he would take a different route, but every way seemed no better than the last, obstructed by the same debris, livestock, and bodies.

Shattered wood building frames lay drying on top of the muddy earth like stalks of straw. Cinder blocks and bricks were piled in crumbling heaps with the partially concealed limbs of the crushed and mangled sticking out from underneath.

The groans of the dying were sometimes drowned out by wild shrieks of terror—the horror of discovery or the dread of not knowing—it didn’t matter.

Every nerve and fiber of his body trembled as if the blood in his veins had stopped flowing. Each survivor’s face that he chanced upon gave mute witness to the worst fears of all.

Bret rested on a battered shipping trunk to catch his breath and get his bearings. There would only be one place for that bastard to take her. Glancing back in the direction of the cremation fires he saw another broken and mangled body jutting out of a pile of shattered timber. Oh sweet Jesus, Liam. I’m sorry.

How many of his friends had died? It might be days before he knew and there was nothing he could do for them now except say a final prayer. All that Bret had left to give was for the living . . . for Gabrielle.

He looked away toward the Gulf; approximately two blocks away on his left stood the partially demolished tower of St. Patrick’s Church. The remains of the attached nave and sanctuary resembled nothing more than the rib cage of some great, extinct beast.

A curl of smoke twisted its way above the rubble. Too small for a cremation fire but enough to warm the bones of a few survivors before the night’s chill was sure to set in. Broadway and 35th. Eight blocks south to Mechanic.

If anything remained of Caden’s building on 33rd, he would be able to see it. Bret took a few deep breaths and swallowed. He stood and continued his slow journey through the land of the dead.

Bret trudged up the debris-strewn steps and stood under the front arch of the Theogenesis Society Hall. Badly damaged by the whirling havoc, its doors and windows smashed apart, the hall still retained its brick foundation and walls.

He looked down 33rd Street toward the beach. The sweeping wind and water had not been merciful to anything else as far as he could see.

Dank, putrid air wafted up from the wet street in a sickening vapor that tainted his breath and consciousness with the revulsion of death’s decay.

He cupped a hand over his mouth and stepped over the smashed door into the dim foyer of the main building, maneuvering and twisting his way over the broken furniture and smashed statues. “This is Bret McGowan. Is anyone—” He stopped and turned away, gagging.

The severed head of Edward Wallace was impaled on a broken post from Rebecca’s brass bed, his blank, white eyes—like those of a broken