Storm’s a Brewin’

“We interrupt this program to bring you this important update,” said the voiceover as a loud alert sounded, which woke Walter up. He had fallen asleep watching a late-afternoon rerun of his favourite police drama.

“Geez, what the hell’s going on?” he said as he sat up, looking for his glasses. “Where did I put the damn things?” he said as he finally found them on top of his head.

A live radar map of southern Florida showed a giant hurricane was about to make landfall. “That wasn’t supposed to hit us. What the hell happened?”

The weather team appeared saying that the storm had taken an unexpected turn because of a rare change in the jet stream. It was turning into a category four storm as it approached the coast. The storm would hit his rural area in about five hours, and residents needed to evacuate.

Walter hated the notification sounds on his phone, so he kept it on mute most of the time. He had missed four calls from his daughter, Julie, who lived in California. She had texted him: I know you won’t evacuate, so please stay safe.

He replied: Sorry I missed your calls. I’ll be fine, just need to get the windows boarded.

A delayed, severe weather alert popped up on his phone. Walter jumped from his seat and put on his shoes. “Another damn storm. I’ve got work to do,” he said as he went outside. He could see the clouds were darkening, and the wind was picking up.

Walter always kept a stash of plywood in the garage, so he rolled up the door and found a box of nails. He had lived on the rural property for twenty of his seventy-five years. He had evacuated once, but he didn’t have any friends or family to stay with, so he spent several days living out of his car in Georgia. By the time he made it back home, looters had stolen half his house. He vowed never to evacuate again. He learned to hammer the plywood over the windows himself and would shelter inside until the storm passed.

As he opened the garage door, a large coral snake came slithering toward him. Walter yelped and ran onto his porch until the snake disappeared into the field by the house. “Why did I have to pick this place to retire?” Nature always seemed to be against him here.

The tool box was in the back of the garage, so he shuffled through mounds of junk to get there. Opening the drawers of his toolbox, he got into a huff. “Now where the hell is that hammer?”

Walter looked in the kitchen, the bedroom, and even in the fridge as he muttered to himself about losing his marbles as he got older. He found nothing in the trunk of his car except a crowbar. Sitting on the edge of his porch, he couldn’t work out what he had done with it. He had nothing else he could use in place of the hammer. Rocks would crumble, and he knew he’d break the windows if he tried using the crowbar.

Had he given it to someone? He didn’t have many friends except Orson, and he lived a ten-minute drive away. He was a grumpier old man than Walter. They had gotten into another heated argument. This one was about The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and why he thought they should ban it in schools, and Orson stormed out of his house.

Walter gave in and rang Orson, knowing he wouldn’t be evacuating either. The phone rang five times, and he finally picked up. “Orson, Walter here.”

“Who?”

“Walter.”

“I don’t know any Walter.”

“Ah, for Pete’s sake, you old bastard. Where’s my hammer?”

“What hammer?”

“My hammer. The one you took.”

“I’ve got my own hammer. I don’t need any of your cheap tools. Your tools are cheaper than the women you hang around with.”

“Ha ha. Listen, I can’t find the damn thing. I need to board up the windows,” he said.

“Don’t you have another one?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, who the hell only has one hammer in hurricane country?”

Walter sighed. “I’m not a handyman like you are. I think you put it in your toolbox when you helped me with the fence a couple of months ago.”

His toolbox rattled. “No, nothing in my toolbox. Gotta go. Storm’s a brewin’,” Orson said as he hung up.

Walter had to get started nailing the boards up. From experience, he knew the shops in the nearby small town would be boarded up. It was Sunday, so they wouldn’t be open, anyway. 

He jumped in his car to see if he could find a neighbour who didn’t evacuate to borrow a hammer from. Putting the key in the ignition, he gave it a turn. Nothing happened. He pumped the gas pedal and tried again. Nothing, not even the lights. The battery must be dead. He hopped out and looked under the hood. Knowing nothing about cars, he put it back down again. 

Looking toward the garage, he could see an old bike. His wife had died years ago, but he held onto the bike as a memento. Nobody had ridden it in years.

He brought it out and hopped on. The tires needed some air, but he had nothing to fill them with. It was an hour from dusk, so he needed to get on with things.

As he turned onto the road, the wind hit him, making it even harder to pedal. Since he lived rural area, there weren’t many houses around. He stopped at the Richardson house, but they were gone. He tried breaking into the garage, but he stopped as barking came from inside it. The owners must have left their dog behind to guard the house. 

He texted Orson that he would see him in twenty minutes. Orson texted him back; Stay put, you old codger.

Walter was replying when he heard a growl. It got louder as Walter peered over his shoulder. The head of an old Rottweiler came out of the garage’s pet door. Walter panicked and hopped on the bike, trying to get his foot on the pedal.

“Stay back, you old bastard,” he said as he wobbled along the drive. As he hit a big pothole of water, he lost his grip on the phone, and it fell into the puddle. He knew he couldn’t stop, so he kept on pedalling. Thankfully, the old dog couldn’t keep up with him as he turned back onto the road.

He pedalled faster since dusk was approaching. Walter knew Orson had his damn hammer. He had to have it. Where else could it be? There was no sense stopping anywhere else since the other houses looked abandoned, too.

As he approached the bridge over the swamp, he noticed something blocking the way. Two cows had broken out of a nearby pasture and blocked the road.

Walter tried the hand brakes, but they failed. Walter was afraid the cows would attack him if he hit them, so he swerved into the ditch. He yelled as the bike flew into the dark waters of the swamp. 

The bike came to an abrupt halt, stuck in the mud. He tried backing out, but his feet also got stuck. The more he struggled, the deeper his feet went. He freed one foot, so he brought it over the bike. His balance became wonky, and he fell backwards into the water, twisting his ankle. 

“Dammit, Orson. You’re going to pay for this!”

He saw something move on the bank on the other side of the water. The tail of an alligator disappeared into the water. 

“Oh crap,” he said as he made it back up on his feet. He used the bike as leverage to get his other foot out of the mud, but it kept his shoe. He stepped onto the grassy bank and couldn’t see anything moving on top of the water, but he knew the gator would be there. 

The wind was picking up and small drops of water starting coming down. He needed the bike to get back home, and his other shoe. His adrenaline was pumping, and he freed the front tire. As he started working on the back tire, the alligator came flying out of the water toward him. He shoved the front wheel toward the gator’s open mouth. It bit down on it, deflating the tire and dragging the bike underwater. He let the mud keep his shoe.

“Ah hell. What have I gotten myself into?” he said as he made his way back onto the road. He had no flashlight, one shoe, a twisted ankle, and his phone was in a puddle at the Richardson’s place. The two cows were still blocking the bridge.

“What are you even doing? There’s no grass there. Go somewhere else,” he said as he walked to the edge of the road and sat down.

What the hell was he going to do now? He and Orson always had spats in the past, but they always made things right. He had no choice but to walk back home. It should only take him about thirty minutes.

He stood and limped toward his house, hoping to get back before the storm hit. His windows weren’t covered, but he could take shelter in his garage. He only made it a few steps in before he heard a noise. A noise everyone that goes into nature in America knows to avoid. There were rattlesnakes on the road. Not one, but three of them. His bike must have brought them out of the grass. 

Cows, gators, and now, snakes. He sat down in the middle of the road, trapped. All this for a damn hammer. Knowing his luck, when he finally makes it out of this, he’d go home and find it laying somewhere obvious, like the kitchen counter under an empty bread bag.

Headlights approached from across the bridge. He stood, not knowing which way the cows were going to escape. The horn blared, and the cows ran toward him. He flinched and covered his head as they ran past him, scaring the snakes back into the grass.

The familiar old Buick stopped in front of him. Walter peered into the windshield. A sudden toot made him jump, almost emptying his bladder. He heard a familiar giggle coming from the driver’s seat.

“Orson?”

Orson got out of the car and walked up to him, putting his hand on his shoulder. “What the hell you been doing, Walter? Looks like you’ve been to hell and back.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, you old bastard,” said Walter. 

“Come on, let’s get you home and get your windows boarded up. Not much time left,” Orson said as he chuckled. He reached into the back, grabbing an old blanket, and handed it to him. “Put this on the seat. I don’t want you getting my car all muddy.”

As they got in, Walter saw his hammer in the middle of the bench seat. He picked it up and looked at Orson.

“We’ll, look at that. Guess I had it all along,” said Orson. “Hey, you’ve been on an adventure like ol’ Huck Finn, haven’t you?”

Walter dropped the hammer back on the seat. “Shut up and take me home, you old bastard,” he said, grinding his muddy shoe into Orson’s car mat.