Flood Plains

by Mark Wheaton

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, Captain.”

  • • •

  The collective was on the move. Just as the storm began to slow, it discovered the Rio Grande River, which could take it west; the Brazos, which it could take north; the Colorado, which it could follow to the northwest; the Sabine, which would arc east; and the Red River, which it could take all the way to the Mississippi.

  An embarrassment of riches.

  But beyond being an eating machine, the creature had a highly developed hunting instinct. Within a second of detecting prey, a series of calculations began. The distance to the prey was contrasted with the allocations of resources required to retrieve it. Also, if there was more than one, this number was brought into the equation as well. If this was resolved with a positive assessment, the appropriate-sized tendril would be launched in the direction of the human prey. The computing and reaction happened so quickly and seamlessly that to the human eye, it would appear like a reflex.

  The moment the twelve members of the Coast Guard detachment landed on the beach at Galveston, the collective detected the number and the decision was made. It wasn’t so far away, and twelve was a good number.

  A tendril was dispatched to follow the waterways back down south.

  • • •

  Big Time stared into the water as the raft slipped along. The rain was heavy now, like standing in a shower, but he’d stopped noticing it. He was freezing cold, bone tired, and, along with his son, had just heard the craziest story he’d ever been told. He’d wished Scott had lived to hear it as, the king of bullshit, he would’ve enjoyed such a yarn.

  “You’re saying it’s haunted?” he asked Sineada. “Not some kind of fucked-up mutated animal, but ghosts—spirits of dead people—physically inhabiting oil?”

  “Not ‘physically.’ A spirit is amorphous. There’s no matter to it, only force and direction that can be easily dissipated. Normally, if there’s a vengeful spirit, it stays close to where it was in life. A single house, the cemetery where the body was laid to rest, tied to an important object. In this case, it was something that allowed for locomotion.”

  “But oil?”

  “Oil is organic material,” Sineada countered. “It’s made up the dead already, just not humans. Still, there’s a connection on a biological level. Not something you see Shell Oil slapping on the side of their service stations, but it is what it is.”

  “So what can we do about it?”

  Sineada went quiet. Mia was sitting with her mother on the far side of the raft, ducked under a piece of tarp. Alan, mostly covered with a tarp himself, shot Big Time and Tony a gallows smile.

  “Mia seems to be able to communicate with it. Sineada seems to think she’s the key to putting it back under the ground.”

  “Deep under the ground,” Sineada added. “So far down it’ll never come back.”

  She went on to explain how Mia had been able to stop it from attacking Alan. She’d succeeded again by moving it away from Big Time and the others in the dump truck, just not in time to save Scott.

  “Galveston has all those oil wells off the coast,” Sineada explained. “We send it down one of those wells and seal it in. The spirits stay buried this time.”

  Sineada hadn’t been sure how much to tell the newcomers of what she knew, figuring they’d think she was crazy. But what had originally been a theory was now clear to her as fact. When they’d gotten close to the creature’s collective mass downtown, Sineada did some reaching out of her own. They were the ghosts of the unburied dead of 1900, but worse, many of them seemed to think they were in the same hurricane that took their lives. Their hell was an everlasting maelstrom.

  The anger seemed to come from a different place altogether. There was a sense of fury towards being kept in stasis under the ocean floor for a century and disallowed from leaving the mortal plane. This madness was everywhere, hardly married to one spirit or another. Just as prevalent, however, was a sense that many simply moved with the herd. This hierarchy of spirit motivation baffled Sineada.

  This led to Sineada’s most horrifying realization, one that she hadn’t spoken of aloud yet as she didn’t want to admit what she knew to be true. The thing was no more capable of understanding its hunger than knowing how to satiate it. It might stop after killing every human being on the planet, an action that might spark a new result or evolution. But until then, it was absorbing the dead of Houston to replicate what had happened to itself so many years ago. In fact, the killing part of it was almost an afterthought. The important part of its mission was to trap the souls of the newly dead within the very oil that had so long been their prison.

  Only then would it count as revenge.

  Zakiyah emerged from the tarp she was sharing with Mia and sat next to Sineada.

  “Hey, Abuela.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good as I’m going to be, I guess,” Zakiyah sighed. “You?”

  “Getting there. Day’s not over yet. How’s Mia?”

  “Fine. Guess that’s a lot because of you.”

  “She had a lot to do with it herself,” Sineada suggested. “She’s a tough cookie. What’s on your mind?”

  But Sineada knew. She’d noticed it in Zakiyah’s countenance from the moment she’d gotten on the raft and heard about the plan from Alan. Sure, there was a part of her rejoicing in finding her family alive, but there was another part that didn’t understand why they had to be the ones to fix it for everybody else. Now, she was ready to let her feelings be known.

  “So, I talked to Alan…”

  Alan. Naturally.

  “…and, I already lost my daughter today. It was unimaginable the pain I was in. Now, you’re talking about putting her in harm’s way all over again? And on purpose? I don’t want to watch her die. That’d kill me, too. But Alan said that’s what the plan is, right? We get to Galveston, Mia turns off whatever mental block you guys are using to cloak us, and then we’re bait? How’s that gonna work?”

  “Well, we’re going to try and talk to it,” Sineada said evenly. “Draw it away from the others.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Very serious.”

  “What if it won’t listen? What if it just kills us all?”

  Sineada gently took Zakiyah’s hands into her own.

  “I’m not saying this is the greatest, the safest, or the most likely to succeed course of action, because it might not be. What I am saying is that Alan’s wrong about this one. He still thinks this will go away like the storm. What I’m saying is that the storm opened the door and let it in, that’s all. It’s here now, and there are going to be very few things that can stop it, especially as it gets bigger. I wish we could bury our heads in the sand and save ourselves, but it’d get to every one of us eventually.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I know that,” Sineada replied. “And I’m not going to wait around to give it the chance.”

  Chapter 33

  “Elmer?”

  “Yep.”

  “Beverly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Mandy? Girl from Zakiyah’s line. You know who I’m talking about, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit, she was a piece of ass,” Alan croaked, shaking his head.

  Big Time sighed.

  “Like I said, everybody except me, Scott, Zakiyah, and Muhammad didn’t make it out of there.”

  “Still can’t believe Dennis showed up.”

  The raft was just leaving the bayou and entering the waters of the Houston Ship Channel. Big Time had been surprised by how quickly they’d made it from the heart of the city to the port. The fast-moving bayou had presented several challenges, particularly in dealing with obstacles that suddenly appeared directly in front of the raft. But with everyone pulling their weight, they’d just managed to angle the boat around each one. Their success gave them something to feel good about and momentarily pushed the horrors of the day out of the
ir minds. When they’d seen the cranes and warehouses of the Port of Houston approach, they cheered. The realization that it meant they were that much closer to confronting the creature again soon muted their celebration.

  The rain was still steady as Big Time and Alan angled the raft south towards the Gulf, but the wind had died down considerably. Big Time had considered taking off his shoes, as his feet were swollen and itchy from the wet, but there was nowhere to dry them. He kept moving to keep up his body temperature, but it wasn’t particularly cold out even with the rain. Houston was Houston, and the humidity didn’t let something so minor as a hurricane keep itself from cooling too much.

  “Poor Scott, man,” Alan muttered. “Living just long enough to know he lost his whole family, only to then die himself.”

  “He didn’t want to live,” Big Time surmised. “I don’t think Muhammad did, either.”

  “Did you?”

  Big Time thought about this. Tony was poling the raft beside Mia, looking after her the way he’d done his younger brothers.

  “The moment I found out my family was dead for sure was a moment after I’d seen the resurrection of my son, who I’d assumed was gone,” Big Time said. “That’s who I’m living for now. It’s not about me.”

  “I hear you,” Alan nodded.

  Alan’s eyes traveled down to his ruined legs for the umpteenth time. Though the rain would wash it away each time, thin rivulets of blood would occasionally swim out past the makeshift bandages and join puddles under his stumps. Devoid of blood, his flesh had gone from green-gray to ashy white over the hours. The ragged flesh looked like meat left on a bone to rot. Worse, he was losing feeling in what was left of his legs, a general numbness traveling up past his waist.

  “Big Time?”

  “Yep?”

  “I’m hoping to stick around, but we both know I’m not going to make it out of here alive,” Alan began. “So, I want to ask you a favor.”

  “Come on, Alan,” Big Time scoffed, though his heart wasn’t in it. “You’ve seen those boys coming back from the Middle East. Some are in a lot worse shape than you. You’ve got a chance.”

  “Big Time. I’m asking you something here.”

  Big Time fell silent.

  “I don’t think Sineada’s going to make it, either,” Alan continued. “In fact, I think that’s her plan. It’ll be you, Tony, Zakiyah, and Mia. That’s it. I know it’s not perfect, but I need to know they’re going to have somebody to rely on. Whatever all this looks like when everything’s said and done, well, it ain’t gonna be easy.”

  Big Time put his hand on Alan’s shoulder and nodded.

  “You don’t have to ask. We were a bit like an accidental family even before this. Bon temps.”

  Alan smiled, but was choking up. Big Time put his arms around his friend and brought his forehead up to his own.

  “But we’re going to get through this, so banish those thoughts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But as he said this, Alan saw that his daughter was looking back at him and realized that around her there was no “banishing.” Her face, reacting to Alan’s thoughts, was pale. It took Alan a moment to realize that it wasn’t that she didn’t know how bad off he was. Rather, she hadn’t wanted him to know.

  It’s okay, he thought. It’ll work itself out whatever way it’s meant to.

  She nodded. I know.

  • • •

  Lt. Dobson and the other sailors had covered a lot of ground by the time they encountered the first sign of violence they couldn’t immediately ascribe to the storm. They’d gone from house to house in the outskirts of town, only to find most of them boarded up, rental properties left to face the storm uninhabited. When they moved a few blocks into town, however, they came 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 took on the appearance of a giant squid, its dozens of tendrils inserted into every portal, watertight hatch, and ventilation louver on the ship’s deck. Big Time thought he could see at least a couple of men go off the back of the ship into the ocean, but it was hard to tell at this distance.