Flood Plains (7 page)

“Holy shit!” cried the driver, jamming on the brakes. “Trash must’ve piled up in the storm drains.”

Alan righted himself enough to look out the window and saw in the dim light that the street was completely underwater. A couple of vehicles were wading through it, but a handful were already stopped dead.

“Dispatch, this is Car 717 out here on West Mt. Houston Road near Ella. We’ve got some serious street flooding. Over.”

“Car 717, we’re getting reports like that from all over the city. Suggest you take Veterans Memorial. Over.”

“Will do, thanks.”

The driver hooked the mic back up and spun the wheel.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this bad.”

The deputy in the passenger seat nodded and glanced at Alan in the side view mirror. Seeing him struggling to get back on the bench, the deputy turned his eyes back to the road and went right back to ignoring his prisoner for the rest of the ride.

•  •  •

In a kitted-out emergency services SUV, two police sergeants rolled through the dark, flooded streets of Galveston, windshield wipers whipping back and forth, looking for folks in need of aid. The electrical power grid was holding, but there was barely evidence of this in the downtown district, aside from traffic lights and the occasional street lamp. Eliza was expected to make landfall some time during the night, with the collective wisdom having it hit just before dawn. It seemed to have settled into a holding pattern, content to send waves of rain towards the island while swirling and gaining mass a few dozen miles offshore.

“We got anything on the broken pipeline?” Sergeant Kemp barked into the radio.

“They think it’s out past the breakwater,” came the voice of the dispatcher. “Gonna be a bitch to fix.”

“Jesus.”

Sergeant Burnett, clad in the same thick poncho, police hat complete with shower cap, and rain boots as his partner, let out a low whistle.

“I’ve been saying, oil’s gonna be the death of this place,” Burnett began. “How many derricks we got out there now? All it takes is one major fuck-up and that’s it. Good-bye, fishing. Good-bye, tourists. Got at least half a dozen complaints a day about ‘Little Billy’ or ‘Little Susie’ stepping in tar balls out on the sand.”

“Better that than a jelly fish.”

“Or dog shit.”

“One of Karen’s cousins works out on one of those rigs. Makes great money. Does that for a few months and then comes in and roughnecks out near Midland for the rest of the year.”

“Ain’t Texas without oil.”

Kemp snorted.
Wasn’t Burnett from Arkansas or something?

“Got any more welfare calls off the sea wall?” he called back to the dispatcher.

“Yeah, one,” she replied. “Phil Snyder’s shack door is open and beating with the breeze.”

“Oh, that idiot’s probably passed out drunk,” spat Burnett. He’d picked up Phil on a bunch of drunk-and-disorderly charges through the years. Pain-in-the-ass type who thought he owned the beach.

“We’ll take a look,” replied Kemp. “Any more?”

“That’s it. Once you’re done, you’re on the bridge.”

Kemp grinned. “On the bridge” meant they were off-shift and crossing the Galveston Island Causeway back home. The long, curving bridge was the island’s only connection to the mainland. The northbound lanes had been completely jammed up for much of the day, but Kemp knew they’d be empty by now.

“Thank you, Carla. Keep your head down and stay dry.”

“You, too, sergeant.”

Kemp hung up the mic as Burnett shot him a bemused look.

“We could just hit the bridge. If someone took advantage of the storm to rob Phil, they’re going to be mighty disappointed.”

“Yeah, and maybe disappointed enough to take it out on Phil’s skull. People wait for opportunities like this to do their robbing.”

By the time the SUV made it to the sea wall, its headlights could barely penetrate the sheets of water crashing down around the vehicle, much less illuminate more than a few feet out onto the dark beach. Kemp hit the spotlight and angled it out towards Phil’s shack. Sure enough, the door was swinging back and forth with the wind.

“Shit,” sighed Burnett.

“C’mon, it’s our civic duty. He gave us those trout once, remember? Barbecued it that night?”

The two clambered out of the car and hurried down the sea wall steps to the beach. The rain had so infused the sand with wet that their boots sank deep as if in quicksand.

“This is ridiculous!” yelled Burnett.

Kemp reached Phil’s shack first, grabbing the guard rail as he climbed up. His hand found something sticky on the wood. Looking down, he saw that the stairs and railings both seemed to be covered in a thin sheet of tar.

“Watch it.”

Burnett was about to reply when he saw his partner standing stock-still in Phil’s doorway. Lying on the floor of the living room was whatever was left of Phil. He’d been torn to pieces as if by a wild animal, albeit one that had picked his flesh down to the bones. Only thin strips of sinew covered in blood and oil hung from his splintered skeletons. He looked like a turkey carcass the day after Thanksgiving.

“What the fuh…?” Burnett started to ask, only to find himself yanked backwards and out of the shack with great force.

The sergeant landed clear of the stairs out on the swampy sand, dazed but unhurt. He was just getting to his feet when thick tendrils of sand erupted around him and began to lash at his body like a cat o’ nine tails.

“
Gaaaahh!
”

“Holy shit!” cried Kemp, reaching for his gun even as the fingers of sand dragged Burnett towards the surf, clawing into the man’s skin.

Before Kemp could so much as aim, he was picked up off the stairs and thrown backwards into Phil’s shack with great force. Smashing into the doorframe of Phil’s bathroom, Kemp landed on the tiled floor head—and wrist-first, cracking both.

“Jesus Christ,” he moaned, trying to get to his feet.

His arm throbbed. He felt around his head, and his fingers came back bloody. Dazed and fearful of another attack, the officer pushed himself farther into the bathroom and kicked the door shut. His gun having fallen onto the beach, he looked around for some kind of weapon. It was then that he noticed the bathtub was filled with oily water that had tumbled over the sides and had saturated the tiles. The palm of his non-broken hand was planted in it. When he tried to raise it, a new, searing pain tore through his body. As each finger lifted off the tile, it was leaving most of its attendant flesh behind.

Kemp screamed as the oil crept up both of his pants legs, burned through the cloth, and proceeded to dig into his flesh. He swung his body around to get away and only ended up slipping a disc in his back and tearing his arm out of its socket.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” he whimpered.

It was on the third “oh, God,” that the off-balance police sergeant slid down to the floor, his face pressing against the sticky surface. Immediately, the oily liquid pooled around his nose and ear in welcome before beginning to dissolve away the cartilage.

Chapter 8

“Y
ou good for the fight Saturday?”

Scott was already flipping a cigarette into his mouth as he walked up to Big Time in the parking lot.

“Is it cool if I bring my oldest son? I know he wants to see this one.”

“Of course,” Scott nodded. “See you there.”

Big Time knew that was Scott’s version of checking in on him, and he appreciated it. When he’d first come on at Deltech, he was a stranger amidst cliques that had been working together for years. Then one afternoon, Scott had wandered over, asking him if he wanted to do “fight night” with some of the other day-shifters. For various boxing events, never UFC or Strike Force, Scott would rent a big suite in one of the nicer hotels off the highway, stock it with beer and snacks, and order the bout on pay-per-view. Some folks complained about the ban on mixed martial arts events, but Scott wouldn’t change his mind.

Big Time wondered if Scott would charge him the standard ten dollars for his son Tony even though, at fifteen, he was too young to drink. He had just reached his truck when he saw Dennis coming out of the building.

“He’s not coming back,” Dennis said when he saw Big Time approaching.

“What’s he charged with?”

“Criminal possession of stolen property, grand larceny, and attempted grand larceny,” Dennis replied dolefully. “He’s a first-timer, so it won’t be too bad. Just A: they’re really expensive parts, which is why it’s ‘grand larceny.’ B: he broke them, so it’s conversion on theft.”

“Somebody said there’d been other robberies.”

“They’re not going to hang any of that on him,” Dennis said. “I’ll be moving someone over to pack tomorrow.”

Big Time nodded but found this hard to compute. Alan was like one of his own, having traveled the same road to get to Houston as his family had.

“All right. Thanks,” Big Time said. “You coming in tomorrow?”

“My in-laws are in town. Think I want to be trapped in the house all day with them?”

Big Time snorted.

•  •  •

Once she was in her car, Zakiyah opened her phone and saw that she had six messages. Two were from her grandmother, Sineada, who lived down in Fifth Ward, her one relative in Houston. Another four were from a number she didn’t recognize, which meant Alan calling from County. Part of her knew she’d be consumed by anger the second she heard Alan’s voice and didn’t want to give the universe the satisfaction.

Closing her phone and tossing it on the passenger seat, she started up her car for the rainy drive home.

•  •  •

At the Downtown Harris County Jail, Alan didn’t have his own cell, much less his own chair. In fact, due to overcrowding, he had only a piece of blue tape on the floor of the fifth-floor prisoners’ receiving bullpen, which he was required to stay behind. He could sit or stand, but as there was only about a foot and a half between the tape and the wall, he had little choice but to stay on his feet.

The storm meant that the volume of prisoners was already high. A number of business owners had closed up early to get home. This was too much of a temptation for many. Alan remembered folks sticking around during Katrina with plans of doing some “robbin’ and thievin’,” only to end up watching all their new possessions float out the back of their apartments two days later.

I don’t know why I did it except I had to get rid of that job, get back to training, get you back on your feet, get us going again. This was for all of us. But I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I feel sorry for you.

Alan paused and re-thought his opening line. It was all he’d been focusing on since he’d arrived at booking. Each time the deputy dialed her number, Alan calmed himself, finding the right tone. He had it all laid out. What she’d need to wear to court when he was arraigned, what he wanted Mia to wear, what they both should say.

Why do I feel sorry for you? Because you’re the one who has—had?—to go home and tell our daughter what her daddy did. That should’ve been me.

He’d pause so she’d know exactly where his head and heart had been. Then he’d bring it on home.

The guys in here say that if you plead ‘no contest,’ first offenders get off with probation, as the jails are so crowded. Only, when I get out, I’ll be out of a job. I’ll have more time to train, sure, but that’s where I need your help. I need
you
to help keep me on the straight and narrow. Now, but also when things start to get hectic. With the money, the travel, the fame, all that. You’ve seen how easily my head gets unscrewed. Everything’s better when you’re next to me, and that’s what I want. For now, for always. It all starts tomorrow in that courtroom.

He liked how it sounded. Self-deprecating, a little funny. He thought she’d go for it hook, line, and sinker. He wasn’t saying “marriage,” but she’d know that’s what he meant. That’s what she wanted, right?

“Sir? Could you try my fiancée again?”

The deputy raised an impatient finger.

“Things are starting to get rough out there. You’re going to have to wait a minute.”

•  •  •

By the time Big Time got home, the rain had become absurd. The drops were as big as hail-stones, and the wipers were useless. He could see nothing through his windshield but the water coursing down it like he was in a car wash. As water scoured the undercarriage of his truck, he slowed down even more. He could barely make out the dim red taillights of the Honda he knew was only a few feet in front of him. He also didn’t want to get rear-ended if he decelerated too much.

He’d already gotten a message from Mona saying she was going in early, as her office was offering time-and-a-half that night. That left the boys and Erna at the house. He figured there’d be enough food in the fridge, but that’s when he stopped himself. This was everybody’s first hurricane since Katrina.

When he jumped off the 610 Loop to take the Eastex Freeway down to Fifth Ward, he got off three exits before Crosstimbers. To his surprise, the Popeye’s Chicken on the corner was not only open when he got there, but empty.

“Am I glad to see you!” he announced to the manager as he walked in.

The manager, who’d been mopping water that sluiced under the doors, grinned ruefully.

“It’s not safe out there on the roads. We took a vote, figuring we might as well stay on shift.”

“Well, my family certainly will appreciate it.”

Big Time ordered and bullshitted with the manager while his order was filled.

“We’re going to lose power, no question,” the manager said, indicating around the restaurant. “Another reason to stay on late if we might lose a couple of shifts next week. I just hope it doesn’t get flooded.”

“Yeah, hoping that about my house,” Big Time joked. “My factory floods, they’ll figure it out. My home goes? Shit.”

“Heh, I’m on the fourth floor of my building. I’ve got to worry about the roof!”

When his chicken was ready, the manager offered to wrap the box in a trash bag, which Big Time gratefully accepted. Nodding a thanks, he raced back out to his truck. He drove the rest of the way home on the frontage road.