Up ahead, five explosions ripped through the air. Plumes of smoke and debris erupted atop The Dalles Dam. I flinched and fought the urge to cover my face with my hands. Reason overruled instinct, and instead of letting go of Ripper’s waist, I tightened my grip. He braked hard, steering his Harley onto the side of the freeway. Behind us, the jeep carrying Sahdev and Kyle swerved onto the shoulder and skittered to a stop.
My mouth fell open, and my heart thundered in my chest, choking off my breath. How...how could this be happening? I blinked and shook my head, gaping at the spectacle unfolding before us.
Pulverized concrete rained down above the blast sites. The smoke quickly cleared, driven west by a strong gorge wind. The dam cracked like an egg. The spillway spanning the dam crumbled. Enormous chunks of concrete tumbled forward into the river, and water from Lake Celilo cascaded over the wall.
Holy shit. Somebody blew up the freaking dam.
Danger was supposed to lie behind us, not ahead. Pestilence. Fire. Floods. Disasters of a Biblical magnitude.
Did the universe have it in for us?
Ripper shifted into neutral, toed down the kickstand, and jumped off the bike. I jogged after him to the jeep.
Sahdev rolled down the driver’s window and leaned out. “What should we do?” he asked.
“Freeway’s gonna flood,” Ripper said. “We gotta turn around and go west ahead of the water.”
We were sitting ducks on a freeway that hugged the river, trapped between rising water on one side and the impenetrable hills that lined the interstate on the other. If the dam gave way completely, a wall of water would sweep downriver, inundating the land and drowning everyone in its path.
“Why not keep going east?” Kyle called from the passenger seat. “It’s only a mile or two to the exit for 197 south.”
“Too close to the dam.” Ripper’s face was grim. “We wouldn’t make it.”
Kyle opened his mouth to argue—Kyle loved to argue—but Ripper cut him off. “There’s no time for debate. We’ll take the next exit, then make a U-turn and get back on the freeway heading west. Stay close.”
Everything in me rebelled against the notion of rushing toward the crumbling dam, but we had no choice. Panicked drivers had screeched to a halt behind us, blocking any backwards retreat. A tall, concrete barrier divided the highway, preventing both the bike and the jeep from crossing onto the westbound lanes.
Ripper whirled, and we ran back to his bike. He mounted, and I jumped on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. Strong fingers squeezed my thigh, and Ripper glanced over his shoulder. “I got you, Mac.” He kicked the engine into life, and the bike lurched forward.
He didn’t promise we’d be okay. Ripper never made a promise he couldn’t keep, never offered easy assurances, never blew smoke up my ass.
I got you.
No matter what happened, he’d be by my side, using his formidable strength and skills to try to save us.
I clung to Ripper’s waist as we hurtled onto the ramp for exit 85. Ripper veered left onto the overpass, and we caught our first clear view of the river. Directly ahead of us, rising water had swallowed both a riverfront park and a marina. Leafy tree canopies jutted up above the water in the flooded park. Mooring lines that tethered the boats to the docks had snapped, and boats bobbed and crashed against each other in the churning tide. A sharp left turn off the overpass led to the ramp to I-84 west.
A short cement wall separated the ramp from the yacht club’s parking lot. Water had already spilled over the wall and crawled across the road’s surface, the river creeping higher as the seconds ticked by. Crap. We’d have to go through the water to reach the freeway.
Could the bike ride through standing water? Could the jeep? I had no clue. Panic constricted my throat and I shuddered, trying to draw in a breath. Ripper dropped his hand to my knee, his touch offering an immediate reassurance.
I got you, Mac.
Pressing my forehead against his leather cut, I braced myself for whatever happened next. What would we do if the water swamped the bike’s engine and the river overtook us? I’d watched news footage of people washed away by tsunamis, their bodies bobbing in the churning water, while they desperately sought something—anything—that they could climb onto to escape the waves. I could barely swim. Mom always said that swimming lessons were for “rich kids” and not people like us. I could float on my back and do a mean dog paddle, skills that wouldn’t help much if I needed to swim to safety or dodge floating debris.
I swallowed.
I got you, Mac.
If the water took the bike, Ripper would do everything in his power to protect me, even at the risk of his own life.
It wasn’t fair. Against all odds, we’d found each other again, we’d reunited at the last possible moment. I wanted our happily ever after, or whatever passed for a happily ever after in this fucked-up, plague-ridden world. I couldn’t lose him now.
If worse came to worst, if we went in the water, I’d do my best to stay afloat, to keep my wits about me. I couldn’t allow myself to freak out, to climb Ripper like a monkey while he struggled to keep his head above water and to haul me to safety. Ripper insisted that I’m tougher and more capable than I give myself credit for. Time to prove him right.
Beneath my fingers, Ripper’s body was loose and relaxed, with none of the tension that made my shoulders hunch and my fingers curl into claws.
Ripper reduced his speed, the narrow tires of his Harley slicing smoothly through the water covering the freeway entrance. It probably made sense to slow down—the water had to reduce the tires’ grip on the road—but all my instincts screamed to hurry. Ripper kept the bike upright, the speed steady. Spray soaked my jeans and obstructed my vision. We merged onto I-84 west, finally heading away from the dam. Water lapped over the freeway’s shoulder and spilled across the right lane.
Turning my head, I glanced behind us, expecting to see the jeep following close on our heels. Instead of our friends, I spied a pickup and a sedan immediately behind the bike. Shit! Where was the jeep?
Frantic, I scanned the road. Had the jeep stalled in the rising water? Had desperate drivers barreled in front of them? There! I glimpsed the tank-green jeep at the top of the on-ramp, rocking back and forth in the rising water. The tires lost traction, and the jeep slid sideways toward the short guardrail. If it toppled over the rail and rolled onto the freeway below, our friends were screwed.
No, no, no.
Panic-stricken, I tapped Ripper’s thigh, our signal that something was wrong, and he needed to pull over. Instead, he veered onto the dry left lane and gunned the bike’s engine. The freeway curved to the right, and I lost sight of the jeep. I pounded his thigh again and this time, he laid his hand atop mine, acknowledging my signal, but still not stopping the bike.
The freeway climbed above the river, granting us a temporary reprieve from the flood waters. Ripper swerved onto the shoulder and braked.
“The jeep isn’t behind us,” I shouted into Ripper’s ear. “I saw it hydroplane across the on-ramp. I think it might have tipped over the guardrail.”
“Fuck.” Ripper planted one foot on the asphalt and twisted around, scanning the road behind us.
“We have to go back.” I clutched at his arm. “We have to help them.”
Ripper’s gaze flicked to my eyes. For an instant, regret stamped his features, then he clenched his jaw. His expression hardened, and an implacable mask slipped into place. He shook his head once. “Nope.”