“Yeah. It’s supposed to be a big one, too. Pack your stuff. We have to go.”
They packed quickly, Brontë far more than Sharon, who had crammed her suitcase full of clothing and shoes and now found it wouldn’t all fit back in since she’d purchased some things in the gift shop. Sharon spent a good twenty minutes deciding which outfits to take with her and which to leave behind, and wailing about all of it. Just when Brontë was about to leap over the bed and take over, Sharon said she was ready. Suitcases in hand, they made their way out of the room.
A sea of people wandered the hallways, tourists with suitcases and small children. People were crying and arguing, and everyone was shoving to get ahead. The line for the elevator stretched down the hall and the bland, too-calm evacuation message played over the loudspeaker over and over again.
“Stairs?” Brontë asked Sharon.
“In heels? Down twenty floors? Are you kidding me? We can wait for the elevator.”
Brontë bit back her retort. “Fine. We’ll wait for the elevator.”
They did, and had to wait nearly half an hour just to get on the stupid thing. They made it down to the lobby only to find that it was packed shoulder to shoulder with guests. It was a complete and utter mess, and Brontë’s stomach sank at the sight of it.
Sharon pushed her way forward, and Brontë followed her. There was a line of buses in the parking lot, barely visible through the relentless rain and the crowd of bodies waiting to get out of the hotel. One harried looking man with a clipboard was trying to keep order—and failing miserably.
As they stood waiting, a man with a Red Cross symbol on his rain slicker headed inside. “All right,” he yelled, and the room quieted. “We’re going to need you to form an orderly line. Have your identification and your passport out and available. We’ll be taking you all to a nearby cruise ship that has agreed to sail back to the mainland and out of the storm’s way. Again, please have your passport and identification ready.”
The crowd murmured, digging into pockets and pulling out wallets. Brontë pulled out her small purse and removed her passport and license.
Sharon got a panicked look on her face and started digging through her purse.
“Sharon?” Brontë said nervously. “What is it?”
“I can’t find my passport,” Sharon said, moving aside as the line of people surged forward to get onto the bus.
Brontë pushed her way to Sharon’s side, trying not to be annoyed. “Is it in your suitcase?”
“I don’t know! It should be in my purse.” Sharon opened her purse and began to dig out a random assortment of makeup and brushes. She dropped a lipstick, and it rolled away under a sea of feet. Sharon stared after it, her gaze full of longing. “Shit. I loved that color.”
“You can buy a new one,” Brontë told her, her patience nearly gone. “Find your passport.”
Sharon’s eyes widened. “Do you think it’s at the bar?”
“Either the bar or the room.” Seeing as how those were the only two places Sharon had been since they’d gotten to the resort.
“Bus number two is loading,” the man called. “Please form an orderly line for the evacuation!”
They ignored him. Sharon clutched a double handful of makeup and was still digging in her purse. “It’s not in here. Can you go back to the room and check?”
Brontë stared at Sharon. “Seriously?”
“Yes!” Sharon snapped, no longer bothering to be friendly. She stuffed the makeup back in and sat down on the floor, unzipping her luggage and ignoring the mob glaring at her. “I’ll check my suitcase here and then go to the bar and see if it’s there. We can save some time if you go double-check the room for me.”
“Line up for bus number three!” the man yelled.
“How many buses do they have?” Brontë asked nervously. “I don’t want to be left behind.”
“I’ll call your cell if I find it,” Sharon said. “Leave your suitcase here, and I’ll watch it for you.”