Bullets of Rain by David J. Schow Read Free Book Online Page B

"storm surge" coupled with "storm tide" (a wind-and storm-powered adrenalation of the natural tide) that inundated the town in breakers nearly nine feet taller than the highest elevation on the island. That, plus the 140 mph winds, basically kicked Galveston 's butt. The storm was still a record holder, a century later.
        On the internet, Art found out about something called the Saffir-Simpson scale, a severity chart for hurricanes that reminded him of a preview card for a motion picture, with five categories: Minimal, Moderate, Extensive, Extreme, and Catastrophic. Category Five included Hurricane Camille, which had destroyed substantial portions of Louisiana and Missouri in 1969 with "sustained winds" over 155 miles per hour. That was long before Art's mother had moved to New Orleans. There was no category listing Galveston; Art thought "Apocalyptic'' might make a good Number Six.
        The National Weather Service had just upgraded their shortterm watch for the Bay Area and environs south, warning of possible flooding in terms of rainfall inches and throwing up a red flag for high winds. Storm watches specified the possibilities within a thirty-six-hour window. In the time it took Art to check, the report bumped from "watch'' to "warning." That reduced the window to twenty-four hours, and advised that hurricane conditions were to be expected, a general batten-down was nearly mandatory, and the less prepared should start thinking about evacuation.
        This was the condition Art had been waiting for, to stress-test the design of his beach house. If it reacted as blueprinted, the winds would shear away, deflected by the structure. If a ten-foot wave crashed straight down on it from the heavens, the aluminum braces would act as shock absorbers and slough off the impact in a sort of lightning rod effect-most of the force would be detoured straight into the ground. If the polymer windows bowed under pressure, the metal shutters could be dropped. If the "display areas" of the house succumbed, the garage was as secure as a bank vault in a submarine, with backup CB and NOAA radios, gas, fuel, supplies, even waste management and a power generator. Art thought of that concrete bunker as his own little Mars outpost, but it was a fallback, necessary only if his house design did not respond defensively, like a martial arts master who never hits you, yet never lets you land a blow: At its best, the effect would seem to be a confluence of physics and magic, the secret ingredient that pushed all the best designs into the spotlight.
        Dish reception on the big Proton monitor was disrupted by occasional digital frazzing, but nothing critical. The phones were still live and the cable lifeline to the internet displayed no ominous quirks. The power was on; there was still "fire in the wire," as electricians say. Computers did what satellites told them and subtly rearranged the disk network on the roof to snare more power. The barometer was dropping steadily but slowly, like a pearl descending through molasses. Art ran a power supply check on the shutter system and pronounced it sassy. His home was his castle, his literal Bastille.
        Derek's postcard was an excuse for him to lay in some guest stock before the weather worsened. He whistled Blitz to the kitchen. Their mission: Drop the drawbridge and sally forth into the enchanted faerie wood to procure supplies. The Jaguar XLS had been garaged for so long that its last wash-and-polish was membraned in a perfectly even layer of undisturbed dust. He really should have spread the car cover over it. For a steed, Art chose the Jeep-a muscular indulgence fully armed with padded roll bars and high-intensity lights, more equal to inclement turns of nature. Blitz assumed his accustomed sprawl in the suicide seat and Art remote-keyed the garage door shut. It seemed to crush the light from inside, cutting them off life support, leaving them in a world of blue-gray