Bug Man Suspense Bundle (3, 4, 5) by Tim Downs Page A

headlong, and each time he struggled to his feet again the water was even deeper.
    He could feel his heart in his throat, pounding like a fist on a steel drum.
    Maybe Mandy was right, maybe he was a fool to stay. The storm would be a big one, everybody said so—but that’s what they always said, and he’d always come through it before. He had made it through Camille as a boy back in ’69—and Betsy four years before that, sitting right here in this very room. Why should this one be different? It was his house now, and a man doesn’t just up and leave his house in the middle of the night—not in this neighborhood. That’s what some folks wanted you to do—that’s what they were waiting for. If he headed off with Mandy to the Superdome, what would he find when he came back the next day? Nothing, that’s what—no TV, no liquor cabinet—and what about the stuff ? What if they found that too? The stuff was worth a lot more than any TV. No, sir, it would take more than a hurricane to make him leave.
    He was a fool. He knew it now—but now it was too late.
    It would be dawn soon, but he looked out the window and saw nothing but blackness; he could hear the wind shrieking and howling, stripping the house apart piece by piece. The rain was no longer liquid; it blasted the roof and walls like handfuls of nails. When the lightning flashed he could catch a fleeting glimpse of his living room—a room he no longer recognized, half submerged in debris-covered water.
    And it was rising fast.
    He needed a chair, a step stool, anything—but everything was underwater. He remembered the dresser at the end of the hall, not more than twenty feet away. He started toward it in the darkness, but his left leg bumped something large and heavy drifting just above the floor like a sunken log. He fell forward with both arms extended, crashing into the water and sending a wave splashing out ahead of him. He struggled to his feet, grabbed the top of the dresser, and tried to wrench it away from the wall—but the sheets and blankets that filled the drawers were sodden and heavy, and the piece was impossible to move.
    He turned and felt his way back down the hallway to the living room. There was another flash of lightning, and he saw the silhouette of an upholstered armchair bobbing like a slab of salt pork in a vat of beans. He grabbed the chair and pulled, but the waterlogged fabric ripped away in his hands; he grabbed the wooden frame instead and dragged the chair backward, positioning it under the dangling cord. He tried to climb onto the chair, but it threw him off, turning and sinking under his weight.
    He looked at the window—the lightning flashed again, but not as brightly as before. The water was just a foot from the top of the window now, and he knew that once the water covered the window, the room would go completely black. When the water reached the ceiling, the whole world would go black—forever.
    The room grew quieter. His breathing sounded tinny and thin.
    He shoved the heavy chair aside. He took a deep breath and squatted in the water, gathering all his strength; he could feel bits of debris tapping and touching him everywhere like little strands of seaweed. He shot up again, using the water’s buoyancy to propel him toward the ceiling. It worked—he could touch the ceiling with the palms of both hands, and he used the split second to grope furiously for the nylon cord. He did not find it, but he could feel the wooden frame that surrounded the door. He dropped back into the water and tried again; he found the frame again, and this time he tried to quickly wedge his fingertips into the narrow opening.
    He couldn’t do it.
    He stood in the darkness, panting; the water was up to his chin now. He wiped his face; he tasted salt. The water was hot, wrapping around him like a rubber raincoat, sucking out the last of his strength.
    Behind him, he could hear the water lapping at the top of the window frame. He stared up into the