We can walk through it. It’s not easy, and it’s slow. But step by heavy step, we get through the flooded section.
We’re almost to the visible pavement again when I step into a pothole I can’t see. My ankle twists, and down I go, falling backward onto my butt in a foot of cold, dirty water.
The good thing about Pete is that he never gets urgent. He never reacts like anything is a crisis. Something about his manner makes even the worst things seem not so bad.
He turns back and extends a hand to me. “Bad luck. But you were already soaked, so I guess you can’t get any wetter.”
If it was anyone but Pete—anyone who acted concerned, asked if I was hurt, fussed over me—I probably would have burst into tears.
But it’s Pete, and he’s always fine, and so maybe I am too.
I reach up to take his hand, letting him pull me out of the water and to my feet. Then I test out my turned ankle, relieved when it doesn’t hurt.
“No damage?” he asks, watching me get my balance.
“No damage,” I tell him. “Except to my ego.”
He chuckles while I shake myself off like a dog. I’m wearing jeans and a waterproof pullover with a hood, but I might as well be wearing a bathing suit, as little as the clothes are doing to keep me dry.
“Egos are expendable. We’re out of the flood now, and we only have another mile or two to go.”
“Thank God.”
“You’re a tough little thing. My daughters would’ve been in tears an hour back.”
I fall into step with him again, rubbing water out of my face for the millionth time. “I didn’t know you had daughters. How many?”
“Two.” He’s staring ahead, and his tone shifts as he adds, “But that was a long time ago.”
We’re approaching town, and I’m looking forward to getting back, getting dry, and then seeing Cade again this evening when we hear a vehicle on the road behind us.
It could be anything. Gas isn’t readily available anymore, but a lot of folks stockpiled it after Impact. And it’s still salvageable in abandoned, rural areas.
Working vehicles aren’t as ubiquitous as they were before the world fell apart, but they’re still around.
Nell has teams of scavengers that travel around and bring new supplies to the Pub. Several locals have farming vehicles they still use. And there are always folks traveling through.
So there’s nothing to panic about. Pete and I do immediately move off the road, but I’m not even nervous as I peer down it to see who’s approaching.
Maybe it’s someone we know.
Maybe it’s someone who will let us hitch a ride for the remaining distance.
I’m squinting through rain—the mist is so heavy now it’s as thick as fog—when I see two large trucks approaching.
They trigger alarm bells in the back of my mind for no reason I could explain.
“Get down,” Pete clips out. “Down on the ground.” He puts a hand on my head to push me downward, although I start moving at his first instruction.
There are no trees around the road to keep us out of sight. Our only hope for hiding is flattening ourselves in the long grass.
The ground is as soaked as everything else in the world. It’s soft and spongy and gross as I lie prostrate on my belly. Pete is right beside me with an arm over my back.
“Don’t move,” he whispers.
I wasn’t planning to move. I’ve never seen Pete so urgent before. It’s genuinely terrifying. I have no idea what he saw coming, but I’m praying whoever it is won’t see us.
The engines are loud, and they’re also blaring music. Some sort of Southern rock. I’m holding myself perfectly still—even holding my breath—as they get closer.
