Hugh Howey: The Hurricane

“She’s not the one,” Zola and Daniel said in unison.

They glanced over at each other and smiled.

The camera panned to a cup of proffered water, grabbed at on the run and sloshed on the girl’s head. Then the scene cut to a young man in the crowd, clapping and egging her on.

“ He’s the one,” their mother said, laughing.

Sure enough, as the ribbon parted across the young woman’s chest, her friend in the crowd collapsed, clutching his own. Forks tinked on plates, and the four of them laughed. The spectator crumbled into a heap just as the theme music and opening credits began.

Daniel dove into his food while Carlton worked his magic on the commercials. He didn’t need to see the rest of the show, anyway; it would only be slightly less formulaic than the transparent intro. He was more excited to get family time over with and get upstairs to see who was online before passing out for the night.

While Daniel and the town of Beaufort slept, two hurricanes gathered steam. One was Anna, the first named storm of the annual hurricane season. She slowly took shape North of the Bahamas, her malformed eye finally winking open, her lungs filling with the powerful warmth of the Gulf Stream.

The other brewing storm was the pervasive digital one sparking at all times through the air. It was the dozens of conflicting weather reports, the several track projections, the weather channels and hurricane centers. The paradox of the digital age was that this plethora of information made it more difficult to hear. With so much available to the consumer, it was easier than ever to tune out all of it.

Weather warnings and urgent updates still scrolled along at the bottom of network television shows, but these were recorded on DVRs. They wouldn’t be seen until it was too late. Nothing was “live” anymore. Community service warnings had transformed into recorded history, reminding viewers of weather that had already blown through. When a flood warning appeared, it merely explained the previous week’s heavy rains.

“Oh, look, that’s about the storm we had last week.”

“So that’s why American Idol didn’t record the other day. I’m telling you, we’ve got to switch to cable.”

“I wish they’d take these stupid messages off. I can’t see the bloody score!”

Car radios still beeped with that awful broadcast from the emergency warning system (only a test, of course), but ears were tuned to iPods, ripped CDs, and satellite radio. The storm brewing off the East coast was literally drowned out by the storm that hung invisible in the air at all times. And amid this virtual sea of information, storms could jog their paths ever so slightly and do so unnoticed. Probability cones might creep, experts might jabber, poncho-packing reporters might cancel hotel reservations and make new ones, but it would be a full day, maybe two, before anyone else noticed. There were more important things to tune into: like Jeremy Stevens’s party, who was going, and what to wear.

By Friday afternoon, as projected course cones crept northward and experts explained how a front moving across the Midwest was deflecting Anna more than expected, Daniel was standing by the car pickup area giving into his best friend’s demands and agreeing to go to the party.

“So you’ll come?” Roby looked doubtful.

“I said I would.”

“Do you need a ride? I could see if Jada will stop by and get you.”

Daniel waved his friend off. “Don’t worry about it. Carlton’s taking his car into the shop after he drops us off at home, but Hunter said he’d give me a lift with mom’s car. It’s on the way to his girlfriend’s house.”

Roby reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone, which must’ve been vibrating. He glanced at the screen and started typing a response, somehow able to converse with Daniel at the same time.

“Is your brother still seeing that oriental chick?”

“Her name’s Chen. And that’s offensive.”

Roby glanced up from his text message. “What? Chick?”

“Oriental. Rugs are oriental. People are Asian. Think of the continent they live on.”

“Whatever. What’s racist is naming your Asian child ‘Chen.’ That’s asking for trouble.”

Daniel slapped Roby on the back. “My racist Jewish friend. I love it.”

“Now that’s racist.”

“Whatever. Hey, my ride’s here and your bus isn’t gonna wait for you.” Daniel waved to his sister and hitched his backpack up. As he walked toward Carlton’s car, he heard Roby calling out after him:

“Okay, but I’d better see you there tonight!”

••••

Daniel spent the afternoon pacing around the house, waiting on his brother to get ready. Hunter’s inability to get anywhere on time meant Daniel was fashionably late to the party, but was sweating and anxious by the time he arrived.

Jeremy Stevens lived on a cul-de-sac, which was already lined two deep with cars when they arrived. Daniel cracked the passenger door of his mother’s Taurus, and thuds of bass music rattled from Jeremy’s house to compete with the roar of Hunter’s heavy metal.

“Be right here at midnight!” Hunter yelled over the noise. A shrieking bout of laughter erupted from a cluster of girls and somehow pierced the mix of music.

“I’ll call you if I find a ride,” Daniel yelled back. He gave his brother a thumbs-up, which won a pair of rolled eyes. His bother started pulling away in the Taurus before Daniel had a chance to slam the door. The car’s acceleration did it for him.

“Who’s that?” someone in the yard yelled at him. “No randos!”

Daniel turned to the house to see silhouettes scattered across the front yard, embers glowing as smokers inhaled. An empty grocery bag buzzed past on a stiff breeze. Daniel looked to the sky behind him and realized it was much darker than it should’ve been. The feeder bands were already reaching overhead, blotting out the waning rays of the summer’s late setting sun. The last Daniel had heard, the storm was moving a bit more north, starting the habitual hysteria in Charleston that had become an annual event ever since Hugo crushed the peninsula two decades ago.

“I think it’s that creeper,” someone else said, their voice drifting along with the music.

Daniel ignored the smattering of kids in the yard. He weaved his way down a driveway stuffed with cars and headed for the side door. A handful of kids were in one of the cars, bright orange dots flaring out with inhalations, then dying down in a cloud of smoke. Coughing broke out, followed by laughter.

The garage door was open, a crowd spilling out of it. Daniel made his way through. A kid he somewhat recognized from school sat behind a card table, selling red plastic cups for ten bucks. A keg in the corner of the garage couldn’t have been getting more attention if it had on a mini skirt. Daniel waved the kid off and squeezed his way inside.

Around the line of girls snaking back from what Daniel assumed was a bathroom, he caught a glimpse of Jeremy Stevens directing traffic. Daniel went the other way, into the dining room where two wannabe DJs had their turntables set up. Wires snaked everywhere; two egg crates full of LPs sat on chairs to either side, and both boys held their headphones to their ears, nodding their heads off beat to what could only be different tunes than the one playing. Speakers stacked in one corner rattled the windows with great puffs of bass. Daniel could feel his shirt flutter against his chest as he walked by. It was too loud to even think in the room. He pushed his way through as quick as he could.

In the next room, Daniel stumbled onto a videogame tournament of some sort. An extra TV had been set up, and eight boys sprawled across sofas and chairs with an equal number of dead-bored girlfriends. Both TVs were broken into four squares, each square with its own gun bobbing in the center, chasing after something to kill. Somebody knocked over a plastic cup full of beer, which led to more screaming and cursing. A girl squealed and clutched her dress.