Flood Plains by Mark Wheaton (best ereader under 100 .TXT) 📕

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

“You 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