Flood Plains by Mark Wheaton (best reads txt) 📗

his youngest, Bobby, was already up and sitting in the kitchen with Erna.

“Dad, the Petersons left,” Bobby had said, pointing across the street.

“Is that right?”

“They’ve got people up in Dallas,” Erna said. “Talked to the oldest daughter yesterday. They got scared when the storm got bumped up to a Category 5.”

“We’re going to be fine.”

By the time Big Time made it through the morning’s downpour up to the highway exit to Deltech, he wasn’t so sure. At the bottom of the ramp, what appeared to be a good foot to foot and a half of water had pooled. Big Time knew his truck could take standing water, but this looked like it was on the move.

Currents could play tricks.

“Shit,” Big Time whispered as he saw a car coming off the highway behind him, forcing his hand.

He eased his foot off the brake and rolled the pickup down into the water. He wanted the inertia to carry it as far as possible to avoid gunning the engine and likely vacuuming water up into the undercarriage. The vehicle entered the water slowly, as if delicately lowering itself into a too-hot bath, and Big Time realized his foot-and-a-half estimate was off by at least another twelve inches. Once all four wheels were completely immersed in the water, he goaded the accelerator, pushing the vehicle through the water like a kid softly shoving a toy sailboat into a fountain but trying hard not to sink the thing.

It was only a couple of seconds before Big Time was out of the deepest part of the water and onto the main drag that led to the Deltech campus. The streets were flooded along the way, but no more than a few inches.

There were no jungle drums sounding when Big Time entered Building Four a couple of minutes after parking in a mostly empty garage. Only two lines had been up the night before, and, just glancing at the boards, Big Time could tell that they didn’t move many units.

With the terrifying clatter of wind and rain filling the factory building, Big Time didn’t blame them. When the buzzer sounded for the changeover, the night-shifters nervously came off the line.

“Guess they didn’t think they’d be leaving right when the ‘cane hit,” Elmer said, sidling up to Big Time.

Big Time nodded to one of the men who walked by in a “Fuck Katrina” T-shirt and had to agree. A number of the other night-shifters were wearing similar New Orleans-themed gear—Saints jerseys, Mardi Gras beads, a hat from Jazz Fest, etc. It was the first hurricane “after” for a lot of them.

Big Time eavesdropped and heard that some were planning to head over to the twenty-four-hour Super Wal-Mart across the street to ride out the outer rain bands there. Others discussed carpooling with whoever had the best four-wheel-drive vehicle and leaving their cars in the parking garage.

“Think we’ll be towed?” someone asked.

“We’re not calling anybody, and there’s not a truck out on the street,” Big Time called after them.

The night-shifter nodded idly and headed out.

“All right,” Dennis said, glancing up to the lines. “I’m not expecting you guys to go crazy, but if you kick out a couple hundred units per line, I don’t think anyone will complain.”

“What if the power goes?” Beverly, who had showed up despite suggesting she absolutely would not, asked.

“Deltech is on its own grid, and it has back-up generators. For this place to go out would require some kind of disaster.”

“Like a Category 5 hurricane?” Big Time asked.

Dennis blanched.

“Just kidding,” Big Time quickly added. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

A couple of people nodded, but most just looked scared. The pounding of the rain, amplified by the absence of bodies or spinning assembly lines, made many believe it could be only moments before the roof itself was torn away, leaving them to the mercy of the elements.

•  •  •

It had been lying dormant for a century, spread out under the sea floor.

The storm did two things: aroused it from its slumber and drove it inland with the rising tide. So many things could have prevented this from happening. It was truly a one-in-a-million chance. To say it was taking its revenge would be to ascribe human emotion and motivation to something that hadn’t been human for a very long time.

Except for that one thing that, at one time, made it most human on a cellular level. The need to reproduce, the need to grow and replace, the need to pass on its most evolved form continued on even in its current state, as did the need to consume and convert raw organic material to keep going.

An almost magnetic-like attraction to these materials—in this case, live human flesh—sent it in thousands of different directions at once. It had the ability to send out as many tentacles as necessary to accomplish its goal, these tendrils splitting off further and further as they advanced ahead of the hurricane. That which was consumed merely became part of the new whole.

With every attack, it grew larger and more powerful. A perfect killing machine cloaked by a monstrous storm that had just reached the heart of the city.

Chapter 12

Breakfast was a joke that morning at County. Two of the ten cooks showed up, so a handful of prisoners were pressed into service. Naturally, they just goofed off in the kitchen. By the time Alan claimed his tray, he received only a heaping tablespoon of inedible scrambled eggs and two semi-frozen pancakes.

“Are we supposed to eat this?” one of the prisoners barked at a guard.

“It’s all you’re going to get.”

Alan was starving, so he wolfed down what was given him and would’ve gone back for more if they had allowed it.

Fifteen minutes later, his group was being walked back to the cells when their enforced silence was broken by the squawk of a radio in a nearby office.

“We’re looking at bodies, lots of them,” came a frantic voice. “We’ve got a lot of partials, too. A foot here,