by Mark Wheaton
Smoke billowed from the darkness. The stench of burning oil was so heavy he almost passed out. Still, he knew where he had to go.
Covering his mouth and nose with strips torn from his wet shirt, he climbed over the lip of the hatch and began descending the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he began to head down the pipe. His journey was lit only by the occasional smoldering ember, its tiny flickering firelight casting the scorched pipe in eerie orange and yellow.
Tony found Mia a quarter of a mile down the pipe, lying unconscious. She’d managed to climb up several hundred rungs of the ladder, only to succumb to the fumes and her own exhaustion. She was slicked with oil from head to toe, including in her mouth and nose, but she was alive.
“Come on, Mia,” Tony said, gently gathering her into his arms. “We’ve got a little ways to go.”
It wasn’t easy, carrying her up the ladders on his back, but Tony made it work. Mia was conscious enough to hold on, but the angle grade helped immensely. Tony leaned as far forward as he could and allowed the little girl to drape over his back and shoulders.
When they finally reached the ladder that led up to the hatch, Mia was awake.
“Go ahead of me and I’ll make sure you don’t fall,” Tony said.
Mia did what was asked of her. A few minutes later, they were on top of the pipeline. Mia breathed in the night air and stared up at the stars.
“It’s cold,” she said.
Tony nodded. He’d told himself he’d wait until they were out of the pipe to ask his question.
“My dad?”
Mia fell silent. Tony looked away, not wanting her to see his tears.
• • •
It wasn’t possible. This was the only thought that rang through Ken’s head as he stared out at the ruined Galveston Island Causeway from Old Highway 75/Virginia Point Road. The night had been madness. He and Gloria had never seen such destruction. They’d successfully circumnavigated the storm in order to become the first press to reach Galveston, but everything they found in the hurricane’s path had been destroyed. Buildings had been flattened, roads and bridges were washed out, telephones poles had come down on fences and homes, and vehicles that had been picked up by the floodwaters had subsequently been deposited in haphazard piles. The sides of highways looked like junkyards, there were so many cars and trucks dumped off to the side.
But what really terrified them was the complete absence of people. They had seen no one. Not a single human being. It was as lonely as being on the moon but worse because the signs of civilization were all still there, albeit ruined. Every town had its homes, street signs, churches, schools, town squares, trees, and sidewalks.
Just no people.
At a certain point, Gloria broke down and cried. Ken feared they’d have to turn back if it became too much for her. When they stopped to refill the gas tank, Gloria wouldn’t leave the van. It was dark by then, and the silence outside was terrifying.
But then they’d heard a dog barking somewhere in the middle of the night. It wasn’t a terrified bark, just some hound sounding off to cut the quiet. Gloria burst into tears all over again, but in happiness at encountering a living being.
By the time they reached Galveston, the happiness had returned to horror all over again. They had driven out onto the causeway having seen nothing of its collapse from a distance, as it was so dark. Ken hadn’t been going all that fast, but Gloria still screamed when she saw the gap in the road.
“Ken!” she cried, and he hit the brakes.
He stared out the front windshield for a moment, the headlights illuminating the gray-black expanse past the edge of the broken concrete and twisted rebar. He reached for the door handle, but Gloria grabbed his arm.
“We have to get off the bridge! What if it collapses?”
“Good point.”
They reversed down the causeway a little ways, turned the van around, and found a spot that, Ken figured, would give the best angle on the bridge when he switched the camera to night vision.
“Good evening, this is Gloria Osorio reporting from the Galveston Causeway in the wake of Hurricane Eliza,” she began, shakily holding a microphone and lit by the spotlight on top of the camera. “It will be a long time before the extent of the storm’s devastation is known, but the collapse of the lifeline between Galveston Island and the mainland is a good place to start…”
Gloria continued for a few minutes, describing what they’d seen. A few minutes became ten, and Ken had to check the camera’s battery pack. He nodded to Gloria and she continued, pouring it all out for the camera.
“Again, we have not seen a single person the entire afternoon. Is this indicative of substantial loss of life? We certainly hope not. This is Gloria Osorio, KVRA-Austin News.”
Ken stopped recording but kept the spotlight on.
“We have to get this back to the station.”
“I know,” said Gloria. “I’m just not ready to leave yet.”
“I understand.”
Ken headed back into the van and checked the tapes to see if he might need Gloria to re-record anything. He was mentally editing them down into segments to put out online, to syndicate to the major networks but also to hold back for a special. He knew he had the goods, it was just a matter of rolling everything out right while still being first with all the information.
“Hey, what’s that?”
Ken stuck his head out of the van. Gloria was pointing out into Galveston Bay, and he saw what appeared to be some sort of debris floating on the water. Only, the tide was out and this was heading straight for them.
“I think it’s a boat,” cried Gloria.
Ken ran to the edge of the water and waved his hands.
“They might have seen our spotlight,” he said, excitedly. “Hello! Ahoy! Are you all right?”
This time, they saw a hand wave back. As the boat neared, Ken observed that it seemed more like an upside-down roof than a seaworthy vessel and realized that might have been the only thing available. It was almost to the shore when he noticed the two people on the makeshift were children.
“Hey, I’ll help you. Hang on.”
He kicked off his shoes and hurried the short distance through the water to the raft. On board, he saw a little girl and a dog-tired teenager, both looking ready to pass out from exhaustion.
“You kids look like you’ve come a long way.”
• • •
Moments later, Mia sat alone in the back of the van. Ken had turned up the heat and given her a blanket, but Tony had wanted to stay outside. He hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten off the raft. She didn’t blame him.
Since she’d found herself whole again, since Tony had brought her out of the pipe, since she’d seen the stars again, a sight she thought she’d never see again, she’d reached out to the other side in her mind. The thunderous presence of the dead within the oil alongside their confused victims was silent. Worse yet, so was everything else. There was no Sineada, no Alan, and no Zakiyah. She’d never felt more alone in her life.
They stayed there until the sun rose; Mia never emerging from the van and Tony refusing to do anything but stare back out at the island where he’d last seen his dad. And that’s when she heard it.
Mia?
Mia closed her eyes and exhaled.
Mark Wheaton is a horror screenwriter (Friday the 13th, The Messengers), graphic novelist (The Cleaners), and video game writer living in Los Angeles. He has self-published a number of bestselling horror novellas and one novel including Sunday Billy Sunday: A Memoir, the Bones trilogy, Disembodied Spider Meat, Adversary, Ascension, and The Impressionist. He was born in Texas.
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