by Mark Wheaton
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.
When he turned onto Crosstimbers, he was amazed to see the Louisiana-hating gas station owner still had the lights on. He could even make out the guy inside watching the news.
Pulling onto his driveway a couple of minutes later, Big Time got a shock when he saw his mother, Erna, sitting on the porch. Though the porch had a good, strong ceiling and she was sitting a ways back in her metal rocker, Big Time knew the wind must be blowing a cold, steady spray of rain in her face.
He parked in the garage and hurried around the sidewalk to join his mom.
“How’s it going?”
“Gettin’ cold. I need my red coat.”
Big Time considered suggesting she simply come inside but then realized who he was dealing with.
“I’ll get it. In the closet?”
“That’s my camel coat. I need the red one. It’s on my bed.”
Big Time came back with it and slipped it over her shoulders.
“You want some chicken?”
“Maybe so.”
Big Time knew what this answer meant.
“Something on your mind?”
“Your brother called to see how we were. Said he was looking forward to my ‘visit.’”
Oops. Big Time had known delaying this talk would eventually bite him the ass.
“We’re seven in a house built for three,” Big Time began. “He’s got twice as much room…”
“I ain’t livin’ by the water anymore. Learned that lesson.”
“They’re eight miles inland. And that’s Mississippi, not Louisiana. High ground. Also, most everything we saved from your house is already over there in his garage. You just have to go through it.”
As soon as he said that, Big Time realized that was t
he wrong tack. Her house had been completely destroyed when the levees broke. Anything they salvaged would only point towards all that now missing.
“I told you, I don’t want none of it,” Erna retorted. “Throw it away. Give it to somebody who needs it or wants it because that’s not me.”
“Mama,” Big Time sighed.
But Erna had already ended the conversation by turning her back on her son to look out towards the driving rain.
Chapter 9
Johnson Space Center, twenty-five miles inland from Galveston, had been battered all evening by strong winds and heavy rain. All non-essential personnel were sent home, which meant a cancellation of training, tours, a pair of scheduled lectures, and maintenance work. Scientists and engineers, some accustomed to camping out in their offices for a couple of hours of sleep in between marathon laboratory sessions, were incredulous to find security officers directing them out of the buildings. Some had no idea a hurricane was approaching.
At nearby Ellington Field, the familiar T-38 Talon trainer planes were taxied into their hangars. Delicate meteorological equipment was brought inside, while tanks were drained and vehicles parked underground.
Though the storm was now being categorized as a Category 5, the administrators at both facilities were mostly concerned with the financial hit the destruction of the sites’ landscaping would entail. Primary communications with the International Space Station had already been transferred to the back-up facility at Cape Canaveral despite Johnson maintaining its own electrical grid that was backed up deep underground.
Mission Control had been designed to withstand a lot. Few thought Eliza would fit into that category.
“How’re we looking up there?” Flight Director Chuck Bartiromo, one of four members of the flight control team still at the Mission Control Center at midnight, radioed up to the International Space Station on a line bounced through Canaveral.
“Can’t even see the Gulf, much less Galveston Bay,” came the voice of James Foster, a longtime friend of Bartiromo’s who was the ISS’s current science officer. “Thought we saw a piece of Anahuac, but not even that. Looks like the eye is going to cover everything from Port Arthur all the way down to Matagorda. You bring in your dogs?”
Bartiromo chuckled.
“Would you believe they’re up in Oklahoma with Susan and the girls? They’d been planning to be away this week for months..”
“Lucky break. Pretty sure my pool’s going to be a total loss. Hope the roof doesn’t leak.”
“Yeah, heard that. Want me to swing by tomorrow?”
“Could you?”
Bartiromo was about to reply in the affirmative when he heard the new FAO (flight activities director), a recent transfer from the air force named Simon, exhale in surprise.
“Are you going to elaborate?” Bartiromo asked after the man kept staring at his monitor.
“Something happened in Galveston,” Simon said. “We picked up a distress transmission from the tower at Scholes Airport. Either some kind of collapse or a crash. They’ve got casualties. Sounds like a lot of them.”
“Any specifics?”
“No, the transmission fuzzed out. It sounds like their relays are getting pounded anyway. Cell towers are down, phone lines, causeway’s fucked. Galveston’s cut off.”
Bartiromo nodded. If the causeway was damaged, he knew repairs were hours away, particularly as first responders started dealing with the storm as it moved north. By the time it got past La Marque and up to Texas City, Galveston would be back-burnered. When Eliza reached Houston, anyone still needing assistance down on the island might be out of luck.
Bartiromo was wondering if NASA had any resources he could divert to Galveston when the door to the MCC burst open. Two contractors hurried in, only to be caught up short when they recognized where they were.
Bartiromo suppressed a smile. He loved the effect the control room had on civilians. Somebody had once compared it to stepping onto the pitcher’s mound at Fenway or walking into the Oval Office. The flight director, who had the rare privilege of having done the latter, felt the comparison apt.
“You guys lost?”
“Um, no, sir. We’ve got a crew working on the tank. We were heading home when we got a frantic call. They said to find you, find emergency services, security, some major catastrophe or break. They were panicked.”
“At the tank?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bartiromo sighed.
The tank referred to the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory, an underwater training lab where astronauts grew accustomed to working in a near-zero gravity environment. Bartiromo reached over to the phone and dialed the front office there. When there was no answer, he dialed the extension inside the tank room itself. As the room was notoriously loud, the ringer on that phone was all the way up. He’d been in there a couple of times when it had rung, making even the most steely-nerved astronaut jump out of his skin.
When no one answered, Bartiromo leaped to his feet and nodded to Simon.
“Have security and EMS meet me in the Buoyancy Lab.”
The flight director hurried out of the MCC with the two contractors in tow and made a bee line for the tank. Johnson Space Center was laid out like a college campus, so Bartiromo and the contractors had to exit the MCC building and brave the lacerating rain. The wind blew so hard it was akin to walking through an ice storm. Making it worse, the exterior lights flickered and then faltered. The emergency generators instantly kicked on, but the lights were all dimmed to half-power.
The group finally found their way to the tank building, aka the Sonny Carter Training Facility, and, upon entering, heard a loud alarm ringing out like a battleship’s klaxon.
“Oh, shit,” Bartiromo grimaced. An alarm meant some kind of physical breach.
He led the contractors down a short, dark corridor to the massive tank room at the center of the building. The lights here were at near-full brightness, showing off a space about the size and shape of an Olympic swimming arena, just without the bleachers or high dive boards. At the center of this was, technically speaking, the largest indoor pool on the planet. Only, instead of gazing into the clear blue water to the training mock-ups below (currently, a solar panel array off the International Space Station), it looked as if the pool had been filled with oil, the surface shimmering black.
“Crap, the roof must’ve gone,” Bartiromo cursed as he looked up. He radioed the security office. “Major leak at the Buoyancy Lab. We’re going to need some kind of patch.”
When no one responded, he cursed again.
“Didn’t you say you had a crew down here?”
“Four guys.”
“Where are they?”
The contractors looked around, their gazes finally settling on a couple of tool boxes on the far side of the pool. Everyone had the same terrible thought and peered into the black of the underwater lab.
“Is that oil?”
“Could be,” Bartiromo said. “Something off the hydraulics, something backed up out of the filters. Who knows?”
Somewhere, someone shut off the alarm and the lab was cast into an eerie silence. Bartiromo tried to determine if something was leaking down from the ceiling, but the stillness of the pool’s oily surface made him reconsider his theory.
As he took a couple of curious steps closer to the pool, however, the hairs on the back his neck rose as if something had walked up behind him. He shook it off and squatted next to the edge. He gingerly touched the liquid, collecting a little on the tip of his finger. It had the consistency of oil, but where it should’ve been smudged brown-black, it was streaked with red.
Like blood.
“Oh, shi…”
Before he could finish his thought, he was hit from behind by a great force that knocked all the wind out of his lungs. He was still trying to catch his breath when it carried him up over the pool and held him in mid-air for a moment before dropping him. He hit the water with a slap, the thick oil giving it the consistency of y
ogurt. Sinking quickly, Bartiromo was paddling back up to the surface when he felt the impact of the two contractors landing in the pool as well
His head had just broken through to fresh air when he heard the screams of one of the contractors.
“Something’s got my foot’s caught on something!”
The contractor was flailing his arms, desperately trying to get to the edge of the pool even as he was being pulled backwards. Suddenly, an unseen force yanked him straight down, and he disappeared from view.
Bartiromo looked around for the other contractor, but the fellow was nowhere to be seen. The flight director didn’t need to be told twice that he needed to get out of the pool immediately. He began paddling towards the edge when sharp pains began coursing through his body. It was as if he’d been doused in flames.
In agony, he reached out to the tank’s concrete lip and dragged himself onto dry ground. This did nothing to arrest the burning. When he looked back towards the pool, he saw that the streak of black he’d trailed onto the flooring contained chunks of his skin and drizzles of blood.
Gasping for air as his body sent him into shock, Bartiromo saw a security team fast-walking into the pool area, their eyes widening the moment they saw him. He raised a partially skeletonized arm and tried to wave them away, but they interpreted it as a summons.
“Goooo…,” he whispered, his throat constricting.
A second later, the security team was aloft. Some were smashed against the ceiling, some had their bones broken in midair, while others were simply dropped into the tank, where the oil tore the flesh from their bones. These men drowned as blood and water filled their lungs.
Bartiromo looked down as best he could and watched as the rest of his body was eaten away. He felt himself fading away but then heard a noise and saw another group of security guards arriving, trailed by maintenance workers.