Chapter 6
The storm raged for two full days. On the third morning, the wind dropped to an eerie whisper, and a pale gray light filtered through the edges of the steel shutters.
Mom and I crept upstairs like two cautious animals leaving a burrow.
The farmhouse had held. A few roof tiles were missing, and the front porch railing was gone completely, ripped away and flung into the field. The old oak tree had lost half its branches. The yard was carpeted with debris—shingles, tree limbs, a twisted stop sign from God knows where.
But the walls stood. The shutters held. The generator hummed.
I climbed to the roof to check the garden. The cold frame was battered but intact. A few pots had tipped over, soil spilling across the concrete. But the tomato seedlings were alive, and the herb planter had barely moved.
"Tough little plants," Mom said, righting a pot of basil.
"They get it from their gardener."
Mom smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. We both knew what came next.
I went back to the basement and powered up the monitors.
Our property cameras came back online one by one—six of eight survived. The perimeter looked rough but secure. No people. No movement.
Then I switched to the feed from Derek's house.
Static. Both cameras were dead.
"Well," Mom said, standing behind me. "That's that."
But I wasn't satisfied. I needed to know.
I pulled up social media on my phone. Cell service was spotty—the towers were damaged—but I managed to load a few pages.
My stomach dropped.
A local news drone had captured aerial footage of the coastal neighborhoods. The beach house district was unrecognizable. Houses reduced to foundations. Cars flipped and stacked like toys. The storm surge had reached the second floor of most buildings.
Derek's street was underwater. The house—our old house—was missing its entire front wall. The second floor was partially collapsed, roof peeled back like a tin can.
A rescue helicopter hovered nearby, and the camera zoomed in.
Two figures on what remained of the second-floor balcony.
Derek and Megan. Alive.
Mom and I stared at the screen.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mom muttered.
They were both soaked, filthy, wrapped in curtains. Megan looked like a ghost—pale, shivering, one arm cradling her belly. Derek was waving frantically at the helicopter.
The rescue crew lowered a basket. Derek shoved Megan aside and climbed in first.
The drone footage caught everything—Megan's face as she watched him leave her behind. The same expression I must have worn when the water took me in my past life.
The helicopter lifted Derek up, then lowered the basket again for Megan.
They were airlifted to the emergency shelter at the convention center downtown.
Alive. Both of them.
I closed my phone and let out a long breath.
"They're alive," I told Mom.
She was quiet for a moment. "I'm not surprised. Cockroaches always survive."
Part of me—a tiny, dark part—had hoped the storm would finish what karma started. But the universe wasn't that clean. It never was.
Still, surviving wasn't the same as living. And what was coming next—the aftermath, the shortages, the desperation—would test them in ways the storm never could.
That evening, Mom made a simple dinner: rice, canned chicken, and rehydrated vegetables. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling.
We ate by lantern light to conserve generator fuel, the shortwave radio murmuring in the background.
"...thousands displaced. Convention center at capacity. FEMA establishing temporary shelters. Residents urged to remain in place if safe. Looting reported in multiple areas. National Guard deployed..."
"Looting already," Mom said, shaking her head.
That was exactly what I'd feared. The storm was just the beginning. Without power, without supply chains, without law—people would become the real danger.
I double-checked the locks on all the doors. Tested the motion sensors. Loaded the crossbow and placed it by my cot.
Mom watched me without a word. Then she walked over, took my face in her hands, and kissed my forehead.
"We're going to be fine, baby."
"I know, Mom."
"But if anyone comes for us," she said, picking up the hunting knife and testing the edge with her thumb, "they'll wish they hadn't."
That night, I fell asleep to the sound of rain on steel shutters, dreaming of nothing at all.
And somewhere in a crowded, sweltering shelter, Derek and Megan were just beginning to learn what it meant to have nothing.
---
Mom and I crept upstairs like two cautious animals leaving a burrow.
The farmhouse had held. A few roof tiles were missing, and the front porch railing was gone completely, ripped away and flung into the field. The old oak tree had lost half its branches. The yard was carpeted with debris—shingles, tree limbs, a twisted stop sign from God knows where.
But the walls stood. The shutters held. The generator hummed.
I climbed to the roof to check the garden. The cold frame was battered but intact. A few pots had tipped over, soil spilling across the concrete. But the tomato seedlings were alive, and the herb planter had barely moved.
"Tough little plants," Mom said, righting a pot of basil.
"They get it from their gardener."
Mom smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. We both knew what came next.
I went back to the basement and powered up the monitors.
Our property cameras came back online one by one—six of eight survived. The perimeter looked rough but secure. No people. No movement.
Then I switched to the feed from Derek's house.
Static. Both cameras were dead.
"Well," Mom said, standing behind me. "That's that."
But I wasn't satisfied. I needed to know.
I pulled up social media on my phone. Cell service was spotty—the towers were damaged—but I managed to load a few pages.
My stomach dropped.
A local news drone had captured aerial footage of the coastal neighborhoods. The beach house district was unrecognizable. Houses reduced to foundations. Cars flipped and stacked like toys. The storm surge had reached the second floor of most buildings.
Derek's street was underwater. The house—our old house—was missing its entire front wall. The second floor was partially collapsed, roof peeled back like a tin can.
A rescue helicopter hovered nearby, and the camera zoomed in.
Two figures on what remained of the second-floor balcony.
Derek and Megan. Alive.
Mom and I stared at the screen.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mom muttered.
They were both soaked, filthy, wrapped in curtains. Megan looked like a ghost—pale, shivering, one arm cradling her belly. Derek was waving frantically at the helicopter.
The rescue crew lowered a basket. Derek shoved Megan aside and climbed in first.
The drone footage caught everything—Megan's face as she watched him leave her behind. The same expression I must have worn when the water took me in my past life.
The helicopter lifted Derek up, then lowered the basket again for Megan.
They were airlifted to the emergency shelter at the convention center downtown.
Alive. Both of them.
I closed my phone and let out a long breath.
"They're alive," I told Mom.
She was quiet for a moment. "I'm not surprised. Cockroaches always survive."
Part of me—a tiny, dark part—had hoped the storm would finish what karma started. But the universe wasn't that clean. It never was.
Still, surviving wasn't the same as living. And what was coming next—the aftermath, the shortages, the desperation—would test them in ways the storm never could.
That evening, Mom made a simple dinner: rice, canned chicken, and rehydrated vegetables. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling.
We ate by lantern light to conserve generator fuel, the shortwave radio murmuring in the background.
"...thousands displaced. Convention center at capacity. FEMA establishing temporary shelters. Residents urged to remain in place if safe. Looting reported in multiple areas. National Guard deployed..."
"Looting already," Mom said, shaking her head.
That was exactly what I'd feared. The storm was just the beginning. Without power, without supply chains, without law—people would become the real danger.
I double-checked the locks on all the doors. Tested the motion sensors. Loaded the crossbow and placed it by my cot.
Mom watched me without a word. Then she walked over, took my face in her hands, and kissed my forehead.
"We're going to be fine, baby."
"I know, Mom."
"But if anyone comes for us," she said, picking up the hunting knife and testing the edge with her thumb, "they'll wish they hadn't."
That night, I fell asleep to the sound of rain on steel shutters, dreaming of nothing at all.
And somewhere in a crowded, sweltering shelter, Derek and Megan were just beginning to learn what it meant to have nothing.
---