“Where in hell are those highway patrol, boys? This fuckin’ water’s getting higher by the minute. Once the flood hits, that bridge won’t hold out.” Sheriff Wade pushed his cap back on his head and spit down onto the muddy ground. “Christ,” he said as he watched the gushing river; “Those fuckin’ goof-offs should’ve been here with those barricades by this, time.”
Bud Bishop, the sheriff’s young deputy, merely shrugged his shoulders. “If I know those highway boys, they’re most likely getting sucked off back in the woods somewhere. Flood or no flood, those guys live only for the joints between their legs.”
Although Sheriff Wade gave Bud a dubious glance, the deputy wasn’t far from wrong. Officers Ram McCord and Vince Miller had the Highway Patrol service wagon parked in front of a run-down shack in the middle of the back woods. The rain was comm’g down in torrents, and that wasn’t all that was cummin’ in torrents.