Flood Plains Mark Wheaton (inspirational books for students .TXT) 📖

tears all over again, but in happiness at encountering a living being.

By the time they reached Galveston, the happiness had returned to horror all over again. They had driven out onto the causeway having seen nothing of its collapse from a distance, as it was so dark. Ken hadn’t been going all that fast, but Gloria still screamed when she saw the gap in the road.

“Ken!” she cried, and he hit the brakes.

He stared out the front windshield for a moment, the headlights illuminating the gray-black expanse past the edge of the broken concrete and twisted rebar. He reached for the door handle, but Gloria grabbed his arm.

“We have to get off the bridge! What if it collapses?”

“Good point.”

They reversed down the causeway a little ways, turned the van around, and found a spot that, Ken figured, would give the best angle on the bridge when he switched the camera to night vision.

“Good evening, this is Gloria Osorio reporting from the Galveston Causeway in the wake of Hurricane Eliza,” she began, shakily holding a microphone and lit by the spotlight on top of the camera. “It will be a long time before the extent of the storm’s devastation is known, but the collapse of the lifeline between Galveston Island and the mainland is a good place to start…”

Gloria continued for a few minutes, describing what they’d seen. A few minutes became ten, and Ken had to check the camera’s battery pack. He nodded to Gloria and she continued, pouring it all out for the camera.

“Again, we have not seen a single person the entire afternoon. Is this indicative of substantial loss of life? We certainly hope not. This is Gloria Osorio, KVRA-Austin News.”

Ken stopped recording but kept the spotlight on.

“We have to get this back to the station.”

“I know,” said Gloria. “I’m just not ready to leave yet.”

“I understand.”

Ken headed back into the van and checked the tapes to see if he might need Gloria to re-record anything. He was mentally editing them down into segments to put out online, to syndicate to the major networks but also to hold back for a special. He knew he had the goods, it was just a matter of rolling everything out right while still being first with all the information.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Ken stuck his head out of the van. Gloria was pointing out into Galveston Bay, and he saw what appeared to be some sort of debris floating on the water. Only, the tide was out and this was heading straight for them.

“I think it’s a boat,” cried Gloria.

Ken ran to the edge of the water and waved his hands.

“They might have seen our spotlight,” he said, excitedly. “Hello! Ahoy! Are you all right?”

This time, they saw a hand wave back. As the boat neared, Ken observed that it seemed more like an upside-down roof than a seaworthy vessel and realized that might have been the only thing available. It was almost to the shore when he noticed the two people on the makeshift were children.

“Hey, I’ll help you. Hang on.”

He kicked off his shoes and hurried the short distance through the water to the raft. On board, he saw a little girl and a dog-tired teenager, both looking ready to pass out from exhaustion.

“You kids look like you’ve come a long way.”

•  •  •

Moments later, Mia sat alone in the back of the van. Ken had turned up the heat and given her a blanket, but Tony had wanted to stay outside. He hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten off the raft. She didn’t blame him.

Since she’d found herself whole again, since Tony had brought her out of the pipe, since she’d seen the stars again, a sight she thought she’d never see again, she’d reached out to the other side in her mind. The thunderous presence of the dead within the oil alongside their confused victims was silent. Worse yet, so was everything else. There was no Sineada, no Alan, and no Zakiyah. She’d never felt more alone in her life.

They stayed there until the sun rose; Mia never emerging from the van and Tony refusing to do anything but stare back out at the island where he’d last seen his dad. And that’s when she heard it.

Mia?

Mia closed her eyes and exhaled.

Mark Wheaton is a horror screenwriter (Friday the 13th, The Messengers), graphic novelist (The Cleaners), and video game writer living in Los Angeles. He has self-published a number of bestselling horror novellas and one novel including Sunday Billy Sunday: A Memoir, the Bones trilogy, Disembodied Spider Meat, Adversary, Ascension, and The Impressionist. He was born in Texas.

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