can a frustrated single mom and failed big city journalist save her family and salvage her career by returning to a town run by a gang of bungling thugs?


“The Resurrection of Puerto Cielo” is a novella published in serial form, 43 posts.




37


Puerto Cielo had been built on land sloping up from the river, so only its lower part had been inundated and the mangrove jungle between the lagoon and town, with its tangle of tree roots and swamp plants, soaked up most of the flood.

By late afternoon, puffball clouds dotted a quiet blue sky, no hint of the previous drenching downpours. Having retrieved their bench from the debris strewn on the beach, the Bernie brothers had resumed their post. A younger generation was sweeping mud from the sidewalk, but beyond that, Main Street, with its lunar landscape of potholes, was back to normal.

Not so on the far side of the lagoon.

For eons the Rio Serpente had carved its path to the sea. Twisting, angling, eating away at earth and stone, pulled by gravity to rejoin Mother Ocean. Now, the flood surge of  the chocolate river poured into the lagoon and, with no barrier to stop it, swept across the adjoining flat delta land, drowning the Palm Estates.

“Flood!”

Ricky heard the shout and ran to the entry.

Astonished, he and Frank stood on the porch watching muddy water envelop the house. The gray limo in the driveway was already half submerged.

Ricky’s mind flashed.

Maria!

He frantically dialed her phone.

No response.

He thought for a moment, then called the Star office. Lucy answered, Maria was not there. She gave Ricky Espy’s number.

Espy, at Mama G’s with the two girls, assured him that Maria was safe.

Relieved, Ricky considered his situation. Along with Frank and Fernanda, he was stranded in a house that wouldn’t float in a rising tide of murky water.

***

The bow wave splashed on the lagoon’s mirror calm surface as the flatboat crossed to what was left of the Palm Estates. Flotsam passed by, the roof of a farm shed, the carcass of a cow, a section of wood fence. Palm tree islands poked up from what had been the golf course.

Surrounded by brown water instead of green lawns, mansions were now lonely prisons for the people trapped inside. The boat slowed as it approached an isolated house. Someone waved from a balcony.

In the front of the boat, Gabe and Dante waved back. Mitch guided the craft through a maze of submerged vehicles, roofs just above the surface, looking like lurking mechanical monsters.

The boat edged towards the front porch and the door opened.

Ricky’s foot was about to step down when he yelled,

“M-M-M-Mierda!”

He’d nearly walked into the wide open, tooth filled mouth of a crocodile.

The door slammed shut.

Mitch and the boys broke out laughing.

Unbothered, the croc, quite content baking in the warm sun, didn’t move.

The door cracked open.

Mitch thumped the reluctant reptile with an oar. It scuttled into the water and was gone.

The door opened further and Ricky peered out.

“Can’t say I’m impressed with the neighbors, Ricky, “ Mitch quipped, “but we’re here to offer you folks a ride to town.”

The boys helped Fernanda and Frank into the middle of the boat. Ricky climbed onto the rear seat beside Mitch. They were soon skimming over what had once been the ninth fairway, the flag fluttering barely a foot above the water. It would be weeks before the golf course would be seen again. Occasionally, Mitch and the boys waved at other boats ferrying survivors to safety.

It had been an intensely emotional day, bursting over with turmoil. Now, suddenly safe, the boat’s passengers relaxed. Minds melted into the drone of the motor and the soft splash of the bow wave.

Ricky turned to Mitch. Above the noise of the outboard, he asked,

“Why? Why after all I’ve done to your town, are you helping us?”

Mitch looked deep into Ricky’s hollow eyes.

“Because, Ricky, this is what good people do.”

***