Chapter 5

Day 53: The Flood

We hit the road early, the minivan groaning under the weight of our fishing gear, sleeping bags, a couple crates of non-perishables, and a toolbox just in case. The sky was hazy, the kind of washed-out blue that never lasts long in Florida. Amara rode shotgun, flipping through one of our laminated street maps, her finger tracing the roads toward Pompano Beach.

“I’m betting we find something just inland from the pier,” she said. “Two stories would be ideal. High enough to avoid floodwater, close enough to haul in a day’s catch.”

“And maybe a decent roof,” I added, “so we don’t get soaked when it starts doing what it looks like it’s about to do.”

She glanced up at the horizon and made a face. “Yeah. That’s moving in fast.”

We made it halfway there before the fuel gauge dipped low enough to make me nervous. At a small intersection near an abandoned strip mall, we found a dusty SUV with a full tank and cracked windows. The gas siphon tube went in easy, and I worked the fuel into a couple of jerrycans while Amara stood watch, eyes scanning the empty street.

“I’ll never stop hating the taste of this hose,” I muttered, spitting to the side.

“Yet you keep volunteering,” she said, smirking.

“Chivalry’s not dead,” I coughed. “Just slightly petroleum-flavored.”

The last few blocks near the beach were tighter, narrower. Side streets choked with abandoned vehicles, drifted sand, and fallen palm fronds. We turned a corner and stopped short—some kind of delivery van sat crooked across the road, its hazard lights long since dead.

“Great,” I muttered.

We both got out. I looked around for a tow truck but didn’t see one in the area. Pushing a two-ton van out of the way isn’t easy, but between the two of us, with a little coordinated grunting and creative use of a tire iron for leverage, we got it in neutral and rolled it just far enough to squeeze the minivan past.

By the time we reached the pier, the clouds had thickened into something serious. Gray-green and low, promising one of those tropical downpours that hits like a wall.

“We need to move,” Amara said, squinting up at the sky. “Like right now.”

The first house we tried had some issues—small pieces of the roof missing, water damage already blooming through the walls. One hell of a storm must have blown through at some point. With the sky continuing to darken, it felt ominous.

The second house we checked held more promise. Two stories, intact windows, a backyard overrun with weeds but not impassable. The inside smelled musty but dry, and the garage—bless it—held two barely-used mountain bikes hanging from the wall, although it was too full to store the van right now.

“We’ve hit the lottery,” I said, lifting one bike down to check the tires. Still firm.

“We can stash the van,” Amara said. “Parking deck half a block away. Let’s move.”

We drove the van into the covered deck, parked it on the second level, and hustled the fishing gear to the house in two frantic trips. I could feel the pressure drop as the storm rolled in, the air charged and heavy. We were just closing the front door when the rain hit—thick sheets, hammering down all at once like someone up there had pulled a lever.

We stood there in the dim entryway, dripping sweat but dry, watching the storm hammer the street outside.

“Well,” Amara said, “I guess we’re staying the night.”

“Darn,” I said. “What a shame.”

She gave me a tired smile, and I felt it settle into something warmer. Outside, the storm raged. But in here, for now, it felt like we’d done something right.

The storm let up just before dusk, leaving behind a heavy silence and the lingering smell of wet asphalt and salt air. The streets glistened, dark rivers winding along the curbs, and the air hung damp and still. Clouds still loomed overhead, thick and low like bruises, but the worst of it had passed.

We stood at the upstairs window of the house, watching puddles form in the cracked driveway.

“I left the small tackle box and the lantern in the van,” I said. “Might as well grab them while we’ve got a break in the rain.”

“You sure?” Amara asked, not looking away from the window. “We could just get them tomorrow.”

I shrugged. “Better now than when it’s pitch dark. I’ll be five minutes.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t look thrilled either. I made my way down the stairs, stepping carefully—everything slick from the humidity—and jogged across the block to the parking deck. The metal stairs up to the second level were wet but seemed manageable. The real surprise came when I reached the ground floor.

Water. A lot of it. Knee-deep and murky, filling the lower level like a grim indoor pool. I stepped carefully, holding my flashlight high, trying to make out the van’s silhouette up above. I figured I’d cut through, take the central stairwell. Big mistake.

One second I was walking. The next, my left foot dropped into an invisible depression, and I felt my ankle twist with a sickening pop. Before I could even yell, my shin slammed against a sharp edge—two broken slabs of concrete, displaced just enough to trap me between them.

Pain shot up my leg, blinding and hot. “Shit! Dammit!” I cursed, trying to shift my weight and only making it worse. “Amara!”

My voice echoed against the soaked walls. For a horrible moment, I thought she wouldn’t hear. Then—thank God—I saw her silhouette appear at the far end of the deck.

“Charlie!” Her voice carried, sharp and panicked. “Where are you?”

“Here! Ground level—watch the water!”

She splashed toward me, eyes wide as her flashlight beam found my trapped leg. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Stepped in a hole or something—my ankle’s stuck between the slabs.”

She knelt beside me without hesitation, water soaking her pants as she examined the trap. “All right, don’t move. Let me see if I can shift this chunk.”

I braced myself. She got her shoulder under one edge and heaved with a grunt. The slab shifted—just enough—and I yanked my leg free with a sharp gasp. The moment my foot hit solid ground, pain flared again and I collapsed against her.