Flood Plains by Mark Wheaton (best reads txt) 📗

across a bank with shattered windows. When they peered inside, they could see massive patterns of blood splattered across the walls and ceiling.

It was a dramatic sight, looking more like the sight of a shooting than anything storm-related. Dobson immediately radioed the Van Ness.

“Captain? We’ve got signs of casualties. Only, it looks like they may have been evacuated.”

“Explain.”

“We’re looking at the first floor of a bank. Lobby’s flooded, but you can see blood all over the walls and ceiling. I’d guess five people at the very least but possibly more.”

On the bridge of the Van Ness, Arrington looked at Kubena with surprise.

“Possible weapon?” Kubena replied.

“No idea, but there aren’t any visible bullet holes, which would be my obvious choice,” Dobson continued, stepping through the water and listening to the crunch of glass under his boots. “Guess it could’ve been the work of particularly violent looters. But there’s something else.”

“Are you going to keep me guessing, lieutenant?”

“Sorry, ma’am. Just trying to find the right words. With all the windows broken, I’d say the injuries might’ve been caused by broken glass. But these windows were not only boarded up, they were blown outwards as if there was some kind of concussive blast inside the bank. It looks like the kind of thing you’d see if the windows all broke and there was a lot of sudden flying glass. Blood on the ceiling, blood on the walls, furniture all fucked up.”

This gave Kubena pause. She tried to imagine what could’ve caused a scene like that, but nothing popped into his head.

“This was a hurricane, lieutenant,” Kubena replied, trying to sound reassuring. “Pressure can build up. It’s why they tell you to keep a window open during a tornado to equalize it. Any indication as to who might have evacuated the injured and to where?”

“No, ma’am,” Lt. Dobson replied. “We’ll keep looking.”

“All right. Keep in touch. Over and out.”

When Dobson released the button on his throat mic, he wondered if what Kubena had suggested had any basis in reality.

“What’d she say?” asked one of the men, an ensign named Beiler.

“Pressure buildup.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Beiler spat. “You tell her we saw one house where it looked like the boards were kicked out by people trying to escape?”

“That could’ve been cabin fever,” Dobson suggested. “You don’t want to be on the hook for bullshit. We see something real, we’ll back it up.”

The ensign nodded and moved back into position.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Dobson turned to where one of the men was pointing out over the water to the north.

“What’d you see?”

“Something moving in the water. Thought it was a boat, but then it went under.”

“Probably trash. Something bobbing up and down.”

“No, it was moving, sir. Fast. Coming straight at us.”

Dobson couldn’t help it. His mind snapped into combat mode and he reached for his weapon. Then he took a breath and relaxed.

“We have no reason to believe it’s hostile. If it’s a survivor, they’re probably just looking for help.”

•  •  •

The raft swept down the Houston Ship Channel, encountering few obstacles. At first, Big Time tried to keep close to the shore to avoid the rough water at the center of the wide canal and in case an emergency necessitated them bailing out. But too much debris clung to the banks, and the raft eventually returned to open water. The hurricane-swelled current rushed them past La Porte, past Kemah, around the point of San Leon, and down to Texas City. At this speed, poling became redundant and everyone used their makeshift oars as rudders, keeping the raft heading with the grain as best they could.

A couple of times, the raft began to quake as if finally recognizing that it wasn’t built for this task. Everyone crouched down and waited to be dumped into the water. Zakiyah had suggested to Alan that he be tied to the raft, but he declined. If they capsized, he would be drowned. If he was free, he’d at least have a fighting chance.

The seas got worse when they entered the Gulf of Mexico at the meeting of East and Galveston Bays on the north side of the Texas City Dike. Still, the raft held together.

The rain had continued throughout the early afternoon, but Sineada suggested that the hurricane was completely inland now and slowing down.

“This is just the leftovers. No wind to it at all.”

“Where does that place our sludge monster?” Big Time asked, pointing north. “What if it won’t come back down here?”

The thought had certainly occurred to Sineada, but she tried not to think about it. It was true—they might be too late. If the creature’s hunting ground was expanding as floodwaters swept through communities north of Houston like Conroe, Huntsville, or Brenham, she wasn’t sure how to make the case for themselves as bait.

“I’ve considered that possibility, and it scares the hell out of me,” Sineada said. “But I can still feel it, even right now. It’s out here. I’m going to choose to believe we’re not so insignificant as to go unnoticed. By this thing or a higher power.”

Big Time nodded. They were just moving past the Texas City Dike. Once they’d cleared that, the east side of Galveston Island should be directly in their sights. Since they’d been in the water, he hadn’t seen so much as a single sludge worm. While he thanked the Lord for small blessings, it did make him consider that they were on a fool’s errand.

But as if to answer these lingering questions, Mia shot to her feet and pointed out into the Gulf.

“It’s here!” the little girl cried. “Look.”

Through the gray skies, the Coast Guard cutter Van Ness was rocking in the water just off Port Bolivar. Only, the seas were calm. Distant tentacles of black had swarmed the boat and were shaking the thing like a toy.

“Holy shit,” said Big Time. “That thing’s taking apart a ship?”

The closer they drew in, the more the sight became like something out of Jules Verne. The black mass attached to the front of the ship