Hugh Howey - The Hurricane

“Is anyone going to bring food or water around? Are the stores open?”

The power man looked to their mother. “Most people who’d be working are too busy tending to their own mess.” He glanced toward their house and the massive tree resting across it. “Believe it or not, you guys are lucky. I wish I had better news, but I don’t want you guys to plan for the best and be disappointed.” He patted their father on the shoulder, nodded to the rest of them, then took a step away. “Somebody will be around in the next day or two,” he said again.

Daniel watched his mom run after the power man. “If you and Frank are friends, take him home with you.”

The man shook his head. Daniel heard him say something about inlaws, a full house, as much of a favor as he could repay, and then a door squealed on twisted hinges and slammed shut on the rest. The power truck roared to life and did a tight turn in the cul-de-sac. A guilty hand waved from the open driver-side window.

“I’m sorry to do this to you,” their father said as their mother stormed up the driveway. Daniel and Zola hadn’t moved. It was all playing out like a scene from a daytime drama.

“You’re in the toolshed,” their mother said. Daniel could tell at once that she actually meant it. She stopped by him, bent and retrieved the chainsaw, then stood back up. “The chainsaw can stay in the house.”

With that, she marched back toward the front door, past a frozen Carlton, the silence blooming as the distant buzz of chainsaws fell still and the Beaufort sun set over the first day of Hurricane Anna’s aftermath.

••••

Daniel slept fitfully that night. He thought of his father out in the toolshed, curled up in a sleeping bag, and his guts twisted with a mix of worry and anger. When he wasn’t dwelling on that, his thoughts turned to the girl down the street. Anna, who had smiled up at him as they’d partnered to build—to him at least—a near magical device for sipping juice out of sunshine. The back and forth—feeling infatuation one minute and rage the next—had him spinning in his bed, searching for comfort. Daniel was dying to run to either of them, to wake his dad or Anna up and have some sort of conversation—but to say what? A storm had blown through his life and somehow had left these two people behind like fallen oaks. Both had appeared out of nowhere, even though one seemed to have lived a few houses down for quite some time, and the other was probably just a short drive away for who knows how long.

Twice in the night, Daniel went to his window and looked out over the moonlit back yard—still jumbled with downed trees—and out toward the toolshed in the back. It was one of those prebuilt units, made to resemble a small house with two little windows in the front, a covered porch, and brightly colored trim. Daniel had helped clear a spot for his father inside, twitching his nose at the heavy smell of gasoline, checking the plywood floor for any sign of rat droppings, feeling sorry for him and hating him at the same time. He stood by the window both times that night and looked out at the barely discernible toolshed, then went back to his jumbled sheets and tried to find some solace in them.

In the morning, he woke to the sound of a chainsaw, buzzing like an alarm, but much closer than the others had been the day before. Daniel crawled out of bed and tugged on some bluejeans, despite the sticky heat in the powerless house. His legs had been scratched to hell by the yard work the day before, and it wasn’t like he could sweat any more than he already would. The jeans, at least, would offer some protection.

He pulled on a fresh t-shirt and padded downstairs. The front and back doors were propped open, along with all the windows, allowing a slight breeze to plow through the heat and humidity. The roar of a chainsaw chewing through wood rattled through the house. Daniel hurried out to the front stoop, expecting to find his father manning the machine over a thick log, buried up to his knees in sawdust. As he scurried down the steps, Carlton looked up from the limb he was cutting, his safety goggles fogged with an early sweat. He powered the chainsaw down, the chain clacking in complaint, and smiled up at Daniel.

“You want a turn?” Carlton lifted the chainsaw and held it out toward Daniel.

“I’m actually scared of those things,” Daniel said. He looked across the yard for any sign of Zola or his mom, but it looked like Carlton was the first one out to work on the storm debris.

“They’re completely safe if you use the right precautions.” He jerked his chin. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

Daniel patted his stomach. “Lemme get some breakfast first.” He looked back toward the house. “Where is—? Is my dad up?”

Carlton lifted his goggles and placed them on his forehead. “Haven’t seen him,” he said.

Daniel nodded. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

He turned and went back up the steps and into the house. As he crossed into the kitchen, the chainsaw roared back to life and began chewing through more wood. Daniel grabbed two cups from the drying rack by the sink, filled them with room-temperature water from a pitcher, shook a shiny pair of Pop-Tarts packs from an open box, and stuffed them in his pockets. He cradled the cups of water and headed toward the back door. Before he made it out, his sister appeared at the bottom of the steps, her eyes thick with sleep. Zola took one look at Daniel as he prepared to back through the screen door with the cups of water, and knew where he was heading. She gave him a disapproving frown.

Daniel wanted to say something, but didn’t. He pushed the screen door open with his heel and backed onto the patio, allowing the springs to clap the door shut. He turned and weaved through the labyrinth of downed trees toward the toolshed. A path through the limbs and brambles had been made by someone else, probably Carlton rummaging for tools the day before. Several other chainsaws could be heard throughout the neighborhood. Daniel’s mind drifted toward the girl a few houses down as he stepped up to the toolshed’s porch.

He knocked twice and opened the door.

Light spilled through the two small windows. A puff of gasoline-laden air hit Daniel and tickled his nose. His father looked up from where he was crouching on the floor, forcing a sleeping bag into a tight roll.

“Daniel!” His father beamed. The smile on his face was not that of a man who hadn’t seen his son in over a year.

“I brought you something to eat,” Daniel said dryly. He set down one of the cups by his father’s bedroll and fished in his pocket for a pack of Pop-Tarts. “Here.” He held them out.

“I’ve actually been awake for a while,” his dad said, almost defensively. He accepted the food and sat back on a pillow Daniel recognized as belonging to the living room sofa. “I didn’t want to wake you guys and couldn’t really get started with the saw ’cause it was inside.”

“Carlton’s using it,” Daniel said, jabbing a thumb toward the door.

“I heard.” His dad looked away. “So, things are going well? How’s school?”

The questions made Daniel want to scream, to yell at his father, to beat his fists on something, to run to a girl down the block that he barely knew and press his face into her shirt and cry like a fool—

“Fine,” he said instead. “We’d only been back a few days before the storm hit. So I guess I’m acing all my classes so far.”

His father laughed. More than the joke warranted. He tore open his Pop-Tarts and patted the bedroll at his feet. “Sit,” he said.

Daniel remained standing. He took a sip from his own cup of water, his eyes not leaving his father. He drank a deep gulp, and then lowered the cup.

“I take it you were in the area when the storm hit?”