White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

Chapter 17

A sound woke me, a dull thumping, but without any particular rhythm or cadence. Early morning light filtered through the blinds, and I sat up, blinking away the remnants of uneasy sleep. The thumping sound repeated, and I looked down at the floor.

Water. Water everywhere. For a few precious seconds I thought that a water pipe had busted in the house. When I was about ten the pipe leading to the water heater had finally rotted through, and the entire back of the house ended up with an inch of water until my dad could shut it off.

But this was way more than an inch. At least a half foot of water covered the floor, lifting anything that could float. A shoebox rocked on its surface, bumping repeatedly into the dresser with a hollow thud.

Fear slashed through me as the implications sunk in. I jumped up out of bed and splashed through the ankle-deep water, then ran down the hall. “Dad! DAD!” Oh, please don’t let him be sleeping off a bender, I silently prayed. He’d be damn near impossible to wake up. “Dad!” I yelled. I shoved his door open, sending a wave rolling across the floor.

He jerked, blinked muzzily at me. “Wha…?”

“Wake up!” I slogged to the bed, grabbed his arm. “The house is flooding!” The water was halfway up my shin now.

He came fully awake in an instant, jerked upright. “Shit!”

“It’s rising fast,” I told him, still tugging at him. “Something must’ve happened to the spillway.”

“Hold on,” he said. “Keep your head together now. Go grab anything you can’t stand to lose.”

“That would be you,” I snarled.

He met my eyes, gaze clear and focused. Not sleeping off a bender at all, I realized. “I’m good, Angelkins.” He stood and began to paw through his nightstand. “Gimme a minute. I gotta get some stuff.”

I wanted to scream at him that we needed to go now, but I realized there was some stuff I needed to get, too. I splashed back to my bedroom, water up to my knees and halfway up the side of the mini-fridge in my room. Willing my hands not to shake, I spun the lock and put the combination in. Dad had been cool the past few months, but after the one horrible experience of him destroying my stash, I’d kept a lock on the fridge, just in case. But, damn, I hated it now.

On the second try I got the damn thing open, grabbed the five bottles of brain smoothie and tossed them onto the bed. Still at least a foot to go before that was underwater. My cargo pants were in the top drawer of my dresser, thankfully. Trying to pull on wet pants would’ve been a nightmare, and I didn’t really want to try and escape the flood in my pink underwear. I snagged a pair of pants out of the drawer, jumped onto the bed to tug them on, then shoved two bottles into each side pocket and zipped them shut. The fifth I slugged down as fast as I could. Best place to store brains right now was inside of me. Shoes were a lost cause though. I always dropped them on the floor, so who the hell knew where they were now. And the water had risen another half-foot at least in the two minutes I’d spent getting pants and brains. My phone was on top of the dresser, to my relief. I dumped out the contents of a Walmart bag and wrapped my phone in it as best I could, then shoved it in a front pocket. Finally I pulled on a jacket and headed out into the hallway.

“Dad!” I shoved my way through the now-thigh-high water. “We need to go!”

He was already by the door, pants on and also wearing a thin jacket. “C’mon,” he said, motioning me toward him and the door, urgency thick in his voice. “Maybe we can—”

“Dad,” I choked out, cutting him off, my eyes locked on the view out the window. He followed my gaze and sucked in a breath. The front yard and street beyond was a turbulent rush of water. If we went out there we’d be at the mercy of the vicious current. I was an okay swimmer and could most certainly survive drowning, but not my dad. No zombie parasite to get him through it, and he wasn’t a good swimmer at all.

I seized his hand. “Attic,” I told him, pulse racing a mile a minute. “We need to get to the roof.”

We shoved through the still-rising water, and then he had to boost me up to reach the broken cord for the attic access. The fold-down ladder was a scary and rickety thing, and, after a brief screaming match about who should go first, my dad made it almost to the top before it gave way on one side. He managed to get up the rest of the way, then I used a bit of zombie power to haul myself up the broken ladder and into the attic.

I expected it to be pitch dark up there, but my dad had a flashlight he now shone around.

“There was a flashlight up here?” I asked.

“Grabbed it from the kitchen,” he said. “Glad I did, but now I’m wishing I’d grabbed a crowbar or hatchet.”

“Only crowbar is in the shed out back,” I reminded him. Which was probably completely underwater at this point.

He scowled, but deep lines of worry framed his eyes. The water was still rising, steadily creeping up the ladder, and we both knew stories of people who’d drowned because they fled into their attics during Hurricane Katrina only to find themselves trapped. I knew people who lived in flood-prone areas who kept hatchets or axes in their attics so they could cut their way through the roof in a worst case scenario, but we’d never bothered to do anything like that. Why the hell would we? That sort of thing happened to other people. Not us.

Right.

My dad continued to sweep the flashlight beam around as if hoping a crowbar or hatchet would magically appear. “Damn flood coulda waited another couple of hours so I could get some damn sleep,” he grumbled.

I snorted in agreement, then moved to the slope of the roof and rapped my knuckles against the wood. The house was at least fifty years old, and hadn’t been reroofed within my memory, so maybe there was some nice convenient weak spot I could bust through.

I moved a bit farther down the attic, then flicked a quick glance back at my dad. He was crouched, pawing through boxes that had probably been up here for decades. While his back was turned, I took a deep breath, braced myself with a grip on a rafter, and kicked the plywood of the roof as hard as I could.

I felt a snap in my foot, and pain flared, but I managed to make a splintery dent in the plywood. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I kicked again, and succeeded in breaking through enough to see daylight, though I had to stop and take several deep breaths while I waited for the pain to dull. The third kick didn’t hurt nearly as much, though I felt something else break in my foot. Yet now a definite hole rewarded my efforts. I gave a feral smile of triumph and grabbed at the edge of the slight gap, pushing and ripping plywood and tar paper away. The sound of rushing water filtered through the hole, and a glance back at the attic entrance showed me that the water was almost to the top of the ladder.

It also showed my dad staring at me in shock. “Angel,” he said with a distinct tremor in his voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

For a brief moment I considered coming up with a lie. There was a hole in the roof already. Or It was a weak spot, super easy to get through. Aren’t we lucky? But instead I simply turned back to the hole. “Getting us out of here,” I said. I took hold of the edge of the plywood, ripped a long section away and tossed it aside. Light streamed into the attic, and now I saw blood smeared along the wood.

“Your hands,” he choked out.

I looked down. They were shredded and bleeding. A three-inch long splinter protruded from the edge of my left palm, and with a calm air I didn’t really feel, I pulled it out and dropped it to the attic floor while I tried to ignore the fact that it had been embedded well over an inch deep.

“What the hell’s going on, Angel?” he asked me, eyes meeting mine, silently pleading for a reasonable, sensible answer. Too bad I didn’t have one for him.

“It’s sort of a medical condition,” I said. That was almost the truth, right? I unzipped a side pocket of my pants and pulled a bottle out, slugged the contents down. I didn’t look at my dad, but I felt his eyes on me, watching, wary.

“That’s the shit you keep locked up in your room,” he stated. “What is it? Some kinda steroids?”

I tossed the empty bottle aside, then looked down at my hands. “I guess you could say it’s a nutritional supplement,” I said quietly, watching as the cuts closed up and the flesh became whole again.

My dad’s flashlight clattered to the floor of the attic. “I…what…?” He stared at me, confusion and shock battling it out on his face.

I gave him a sad look. “It’s tough to explain.” The fresh influx of brains sang within me. I reached for the plywood, ripped a large piece away as easily as tearing paper. “Come on,” I said, hearing the catch in my voice. “We need to get out onto the roof.”

“Christ,” he breathed. He shot a look back at the attic opening and the rising water, then swallowed hard and moved toward me. I held a hand out to him. He paused before taking it, eyes on the blood that still clung to my hand even though the wounds were healed. Uncertainty filled his eyes as he lifted them to mine.

“Are you still…my Angelkins?”

I gave him an exasperated look. “Who the hell else would put up with your whiny bullshit?” I thrust my hand toward him. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get on the damn roof already!”

To my intense relief, he reached out and took hold of my hand. I gave his a squeeze, flashed him as reassuring a smile as I could manage, then clambered out the hole I’d made and onto the roof. I used the grip on my dad’s hand to steady him as much as myself as we scrabbled up to the peak of the roof and sat, straddling it.

For the first time I got a good look around. Water littered with plastic bottles, trash bags, branches, and other debris swirled a foot below the eaves. The familiar landscape of trees and houses and roads had been replaced by a seething unknown torrent.

I dug my fingers into the shingles. “Dad, we need to tie ourselves together somehow.”

He stared, aghast, at the ongoing destruction. “All I got is my belt.”

“Don’t know how much good that’ll do,” I said. No way his belt was long enough to go around both of us. I fumbled another bottle of brains out of my pants pocket, gulped it down while I struggled to come up with a solution to our current situation. Whatever happened, I knew staying tanked up was a good idea.

“What are we gonna do?” he asked. “Current’s too strong for us to do much of anything.”

I took an unsteady breath and fought for calm. “Wait for help as long as we can.” I abruptly sucked in a breath and slapped my hand over my front pocket. My phone! I pulled it out, carefully unwrapping it from the plastic. It appeared to be still dry, and miracle of miracles, I even had a signal.

I quickly dialed 911, then did my best to not sound as if I was completely freaked out and panicked, as I told the dispatcher that my dad and I were trapped on the roof of our house in the Sweet Bayou area.

“Rescue boats are being mobilized, ma’am,” the woman told me, sounding frazzled. I had no doubt I wasn’t the first person to beg for rescue. “They’re having trouble with the current, though. The spillway collapsed, and I don’t know how long it will take for them to get to you.” I heard the apology in her voice, the knowledge that there was nothing more she could do for us. She was our lifeline, and all she could do was tell us to hold on and hope for the best. I almost felt sorry for her.

Numb, I thanked her, clinging to the niceties out of habit even as I clung to the roof, and then hung up and stared down at the phone. Now what? There were no boats in sight, no imminent rescue on the horizon. I should call Marcus. Especially after how our conversation ended last night. But then I looked over at my dad. His arms trembled as he gripped the shingles along the rooftop. As much as a make up call with my not-quite boyfriend might help my emotional state, Marcus wasn’t the one who had the best chance of sending the help my dad needed.

“What did they say?” My dad asked.

I didn’t try lying to him. He’d know. “Spillway collapsed,” I told him. “May be a while before they can get boats to us.” A shudder went through the house, a sensation so scarily unnatural that it set my heart pounding anew. There was only one option I could think of. I punched in Pietro’s number, inwardly yelling at him to pick up the damn phone as it rang.

On the fourth ring he picked up. “Angel?”

“Pietro!” I had to shout a bit to be heard over the rushing water. It was up over the eaves now. “I need help, please. There’s a flood, and I’m on the roof with my dad…and I know I’m okay but I’m real worried about him, and nine-one-one says they don’t know when rescue boats can get to us, and the house keeps shaking.”

“Hang on, Angel,” he said. Like I have a fucking choice right now? I wanted to shriek, but I kept silent and waited. I heard a rustling and the beeps of another phone being dialed, then, Brian, I’ve got an emergency. Angel and her father are on the roof of her house and…hold on. “Angel? You’re at your house, right? How high is the water?”

“Yes. My house. Water is over the eaves,” I told him, then let out a small cry as the house shifted slightly beneath us. “Oh, man,” I continued, voice shaking. “I don’t think we have much time before it goes.”

Pay whatever bonuses you need to get it up right now, I heard. A few seconds later Pietro said, “Angel, we’re getting a helicopter to you.” He had such absolute confidence and control in his tone that it was impossible not to feel reassured.

Of course then I looked at the raging water around us and went right back to being in Oh shit! mode.

“I’m going to connect you to Brian and leave the line open,” he went on. “You let him know if anything changes. And hang on to your dad.” I heard some clicks on the line.

“Angel?” That was Brian, calm and cool. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah,” I said, pulse slamming as the house trembled beneath me.

“I have a helicopter headed your way very shortly,” he stated. “Should get to you in ten minutes, max. Has anything changed for you?”

“W-water’s higher.” Then I let out a squeal as the house shifted with a hard jerk. “I gotta go…house….” I hung up and shoved the phone into the bag. I didn’t expect it to survive this experience, but I had to at least try. Only lifeline I had at the moment.

“Dad! Put this in your jacket pocket.” I thrust my phone at him, and as soon as he took it, I stripped off my windbreaker, then unbuttoned my pants and shimmied them off as quickly as I could.

He shoved the bagged phone into his pocket and zipped it again, then gave me a baffled look. “Angel, what the hell you doin’?”

“I need to tie us together!” I told him as I knotted a leg of the cargo pants to an arm of the jacket. “Turn around!” I waited for him to cautiously shift position, then I scooched as close as I could, wrapped the pants and jacket around the both of us and tied a double knot in the other arm and leg.

I put my arms around him, locked my hands together. God, he felt so damn frail. “Hold onto my arms tight, okay?” My breath caught as the house shifted again. No way was it going to hold for another ten minutes, or however long it would take to get a helicopter here. At this point I simply hoped it would stay upright. And maybe a flock of seagulls will swoop down and pluck us off the roof and carry us to safety, my cynical side snarled.

But right now, I felt my dad’s heart hammering beneath my arms. He was as scared as I was, but he was doing his damndest not to show it, trying to be strong for me, doing what he could to protect me.

Dad’s hands tightened over mine. “You hang on, you hear me?” he ordered. “You’re gonna be okay, Angelkins.”

I rested my head against his back, closed my eyes, and breathed in everything about him. The stubborn streak a mile wide, the prickly attitude, the times he’d come through for me when it really mattered.

“I love you, Dad.”

I felt the vibration of a response, but his words were lost in a sudden loud snap and a horrible groaning creak as the house jerked hard to the right.

I clutched at him. “Here goes. Hold on!”

“What the hell d’ya think I’m doing?” he snapped back, and I damned near laughed with delight at his ornery spirit.

And then there was no more time for talk. With a final groan the house slid fully off its pilings, then tilted like a capsizing yacht. My dad reflexively scrabbled for purchase as we began to slide, but I kept my grip clamped around him. As we slid toward the water I tried to kick us away from the roof, suddenly filled with the image of us getting sucked under by the sinking house. Didn’t make a difference. The roiling current snatched us and threw us right into the thick of the maelstrom. Water closed over our heads, and I kicked frantically, but I couldn’t even tell which way was up. Something hard and heavy smacked into us, and I briefly lost my grip on my dad. Only the pants and jacket tied around us kept me from losing him entirely.

I got an arm around him again, broke the surface, coughing and sputtering. “Dad,” I gasped. “Dad!”

His arms hung limp in the water, but he gave a weak cough and moan, reassuring me that he was still breathing at least. I clung to him with one arm while I fought to keep both our heads above water by kicking my feet and desperately paddling with my free arm. A grey-toned world, its sounds oddly flat, told me that my senses had faded—meaning I was either hurt or tired as all hell. Damn good chance it was both. The current flung us about, and I whimpered in barely controlled terror.

Something hit me hard in the back, driving the breath from me. I faltered in my frantic treading but somehow managed to get us back to the surface after only a couple of seconds. The raging water swept us past houses, light poles, trees, and who-the-hell-knew what else. I had absolutely no way to tell where we were or how far the flood had carried us.

I made a flailing grab at a tree as we swept by and managed to get my arm hooked around a branch. A thup-thup sound penetrated my dulled senses and the roar of the water. The helicopter! But how the hell would they find us? We were nowhere near where my house used to be. Though I thought I could see the chopper approaching, I didn’t dare let go of my dad to wave for help. I didn’t trust our makeshift safety belt to hold him, and I needed every ounce of strength to keep his head above water.

“An…gel…kins?” I barely heard the moan.

“Here, Dad!” I gasped out. “I…hear a helicopter. Can you wave your arms…or something?”

He floundered an arm out of the water in a weak wave. “If I…die…”

“You’re not gonna die!” I yelled at him, though it came out as more of a strangled croak. Shit, my voice was going all raspy. I was going to start falling apart soon.

Without any warning, the branch I held gave way. I let out a startled shout as the current sucked us away, but only a second later something punched me in the back, and I jerked to a hard stop. Oddly, I didn’t have any problem staying afloat, but when I fumbled my free hand behind me to see what I was stuck on I realized why. I was wedged in the fork of a tree branch right below the surface. Except that one side of the fork was, well, in me.

Hunger flared hot and bright, telling me quite clearly that the branch had done some serious damage. Sudden worry gripped me, and I dragged a hand along the front of my torso, shuddering in relief once I confirmed that the branch hadn’t penetrated and hurt my dad as well.

He still struggled to wave the approaching helicopter down. I tried to lift the arm that wasn’t clamped around his waist, but my movements were too sluggish to be worth much. Instead I wrapped my legs around him and fought the intense rising hunger. I still had two bottles of brains in the side pocket of my pants, but there was zero way to get them out now without risking losing them or my grip on my dad.

The helicopter swept low toward us…and then over and past while I stifled a scream of frustration. They didn’t see us!

My dad let his arm flop back into the water. “Now what?” he asked, voice weak and barely audible. Blood seeped through his hair on the back of his head, and I took in the scent of the brain beneath it.

Now what? I echoed, then inhaled deeply. Everything slowed down. The roaring rush of the water receded to a murmur. Peripheral vision dimmed as though all light gathered into that single mouthwatering focal point in front of me. Dad? Brains. My breath hissed as I looked for something to bash the head against. Branch. I snarled in deep satisfaction, shifted my grip to hold my meal between my hands. Rushing water tried to pull it from me, steal it, and I held tighter, twisted toward the branch.

“Angel?” The sound vibrated against my chest. “Angel, what—?” Stopped me. The smell called me. That voice…I screamed in frustration. An annoying thup-thup thundered overhead, wind whipping, water thrashing. I raked my gaze upward, ready to scream my defiance. Focused. Helicopter? Helicopter. I clung to the bizarre concept like a lifeline and expanded on it. Flood. Dad. Hands on my dad’s head. No! I released it and wrapped my arms around his waist, breath whistling through my teeth with my conscious effort to hold off biting at the base of his skull.

I love you dad I love you dad I love you dad helicopter here I love you just a minute I can hold on just a minute I love you dad I love you dad I love you I love you I love you I love you

Someone tried to take my dad my meal my dad from me. I grabbed for what he cut, pants jacket brain bottles mine, wrapped it around my numb fist. Mine. I clawed at the man as he ripped my dad away, rose impossibly in the air. I screamed, reached for him. Nothing. Nothing.

I sank back, breath gurgling. Going still. Going quiet. Conserving. Waiting. An irresistible scent filling my senses, getting closer. Brains. I squinted against the wind as my prey descended toward me, my lips pulled back from my teeth in an eager snarl. I scrabbled against the tree branch, struggled to lunge and attack, rend and feast. He leaned toward me, and I threw my arm up, grabbed his ankle, pulled. Snapped at him. He reached, clamped my jaw in his hand, forced something between my teeth. My cry of rage died away as the leathery lump registered.

Brains. Chewy hunk of brains yes yes yes. My hand went to my mouth, held the chunk in place. Gnawed. Brains. Better, yes. Oh god. Yes. I’m…Me. I’m Me.

By the time I chewed and chewed and swallowed the brain-lump down, a hint of coherent thought returned to let me know I was almost up the cable with my rescuer. The desperate urge to rip his brain from his skull had eased to Gee, He Sure Smells Yummy, but…

Oh my god. Dad? Nausea and worry swept through me. Dad.

As soon as I neared the open side door of the helicopter, strong hands grabbed me and hauled me the rest of the way in. Someone else wrapped a blanket around me and shoved an already-opened packet of brains into my free hand. I greedily sucked it down and as soon as I finished that one, the empty was yanked from my grasp and replaced with a fresh one. My gut did a strange lurch, and I realized that my innards were still in the process of healing from the serious damage caused by the tree branch.

After finishing the second packet, I regained the ability to actually pay attention to something besides my own hunger. My left hand was locked in a death-grip around my pants with its two bottles of brains. Good ole parasite survival instinct must’ve kicked in to grab them when the rescuer cut the jacket sleeve to free my dad. I unclenched my fingers and finally took a look around.

I didn’t know crap about helicopters, but this one looked military: utilitarian grey, with two seats for crew members up near the cabin; I was buckled into one of four fold-down seats at the back, though I didn’t remember any of that happening. My dad was in the seat right beside me. He had a blanket around him and held a towel to the back of his head. He met my eyes, gave me a tremulous smile. I did my best to return it. I didn’t know how much of my out-of-controlness he’d seen, but I sure as hell hoped not much. Thankfully, he’d been kinda out of it for the worst of the monster-mode. For that matter, so had I.

But I had been the monster for a while. If the helicopter hadn’t returned, would I have been able to control myself? Would I have killed and eaten my own father? A shiver wracked me. I knew the truth, and it was a punch in the gut.

I almost ate my dad. The memory went through me like a knife. The scent, the drive to do whatever I had to do to get those brains—my dad’s brains. No way could I have kept on living if I’d given in to the hunger and killed him. Or was suicide even an option? I had a feeling the survival responses of the parasite wouldn’t make it easy.

But I didn’t hurt him, I reminded myself. Yeah, the helicopter had returned in the nick of time, but I’d managed to hold on for those precious few minutes, even with a goddamn tree stuck through my back. Props to stubborn-bitch-willpower for saving the day.

I hugged the blanket around myself and accepted a third packet from the rescuer. Might as well eat their supply of brains instead of going into the two bottles in my pants, especially since I had no idea how long I’d need those bottles to last. Whoever these people were, they sure as hell knew how to deal with hungry zombies, right down to having chewy brain-cakes on hand to keep the hunger distracted.

Shifting, I moved to sit closer to my dad. The thwupping roar of the chopper made it impossible to have a conversation, but I mouthed You okay? and he nodded in response. He pulled the towel away from his head, looked at the blood staining it. Scowling, I turned his head so I could look at the wound. I saw his lips move, and I had no doubt he was cussing me, but he didn’t resist. To my relief it didn’t look too bad. Probably wouldn’t need stitches, but I still intended to get someone with actual medical training to look at it once we got wherever we were going.

I released his head, gave him a quick hug, then made a comical effort to get my wet pants back on. I gave up after half a minute of contortions and simply tied the legs around my waist, wrapped the blanket around me best I could, and sighed. Looked like I was getting rescued in my undies after all. Thank god I wasn’t in the habit of wearing a thong to bed.

My dad and I huddled close together for warmth and comfort as the helicopter circled the area. Two more times it descended to pluck people from the still-raging waters. The neighbors from across the street who’d called the cops on us more than once for domestic disputes. A single mom who lived nearby and her fourteen-year-old son who I suspected was responsible for the disappearance of tools from our shed. Petty neighborhood squabbles were forgotten as we helped each other get settled and offered comfort as we could.

Finally the pilot seemed to feel that either there were no others needing rescue, or there wasn’t enough room for more. The doors closed, and I felt us gain altitude. I wrapped an arm around my dad, shut my eyes, and tried not to think of this as the end of our world.

I opened my eyes when we touched down with little more than a light jostling. Whoever the pilot was, he was damn good. The engines wound down, and the silence when they stopped seemed unnatural after the din of before.

When the doors opened, our rescuers efficiently off-loaded us and passed us into the care of waiting emergency workers and Red Cross personnel. It took a few minutes for my surroundings to sink in, and then I registered that we were in a parking lot at Tucker Point High School. About twenty yards from the helicopter, several Red Cross vehicles clustered, one marked Disaster Relief. Tucker Point High was always used as a shelter during hurricanes, so it made sense for it to be used for this as well. A vague and misplaced worry wound through me about how the movie people would do their filming with flood victims sheltering here and getting in their way, but then I decided that the school was no doubt more than big enough to accommodate everyone, and I surely had more important things to worry about. But I didn’t want to worry about the more important things. Not yet.

I kept the blanket wrapped around my waist and an arm around my dad, demanded that someone check out his head and snarled that I was fine. No one seemed to take any offense, and I dimly realized that I probably had an eyes-wide-in-shock look about me.

After asking a few pointed questions, I managed to learn that, earlier in the morning, engineers attempted to partially open the spillway in order to carefully bleed-off the overflowing Kreeger River down Cole Bayou and, eventually, out into the swamp. That would have been fine and dandy and would have caused a few extra feet of water at the most, except that minutes after the first bay opened, the entire aged structure gave way. In one gigantic rush, pretty much all the excess water in the Kreeger River diverted down Cole Bayou. The Army Corps of Engineers was already at work, though the general consensus seemed to be that, at this point, there wasn’t much to do except wait for the river to drop below flood stage.

I hovered near my dad as a medic checked his head, and I listened to a relief worker comment in hushed tones about how the flooding had wiped out a small trailer park. I knew the place—a collection of six or seven trailers with almost exclusively elderly residents. I figured there had to be other casualties as well, but no one had any hard numbers. The only possible bright side was that the worst of the flooding had been on our side of the road since the bayou ran behind our property, which meant that, apart from the unfortunately located trailer park, probably less than a dozen houses had been affected. Moreover, at least half of those were fishing camps that weren’t usually occupied during the week.

“You don’t need stitches,” the medic told my dad, and I yanked my attention back to him. “You probably have a mild concussion, though,” he added.

“I ain’t goin’ to no fucking hospital,” Dad snarled before the medic could even get the suggestion out.

The young man flicked his eyes up to me. I gave him a very slight shrug and shake of my head to let him know that arguing would get him nowhere.

“All right,” he said to my dad. “But be sure to get as much rest as possible. And if you have any dizziness, headache, or blurred vision, let one of the volunteers know as soon as possible.”

Dad grumbled something that sounded like an “Okay,” and with that the medic moved on to treat the tool-stealing teen, who looked like a scared rabbit as he cradled his left arm to his chest.

The sun broke through thinning clouds for the first time in a week as another volunteer took us gently in hand and guided us toward the gym entrance.

Looked like it was going to be a damn beautiful day for the end of the world.