Breakout, Paul Herron [chrome ebook reader .txt] 📗

from his face. The wipers are on, but aren’t doing a thing. He still can’t see if the gate is open.

He puts the bus into reverse and spins the wheel to the right, the bus slowly coming around to face front. The gates stand wide open. He lets out a sigh of relief. He hits the gas and the bus surges forward. He hunches close to the windshield, trying to see as the bus vibrates and slides along the asphalt.

He eventually stops at the bottom of the road leading up to the prison complex. Two options. The 95 goes straight north, but it runs close to the coast. The 75 will take them west for about a hundred miles before turning north, but will add another hour onto the trip. Left takes him toward the 75. Right to the 95.

He hesitates, but he really doesn’t want to spend any longer than necessary driving in this.

He turns right.

He can’t go fast. He wants to. His foot is itching to jam the pedal right down. But there’s too much debris. Palm trees have fallen into their path. Cars are skewed and abandoned randomly in the road. Some have flipped, others have crashed into each other. The asphalt itself is hidden beneath about a foot of water. He has to be careful. Too much power and they’ll hydroplane.

This trip is going to take longer than he thought. Thank God he didn’t choose the 75.

It takes them twenty minutes to travel the four miles to the 95. He turns onto the interstate with a feeling of relief. Relief mingled with nervousness, because the water is deeper here. Easily two or three feet. Plus, the ocean is just to his right. He can’t see it, but he can hear it above the storm, the roaring of the water surging and breaking against the sea barrier. And if he can hear it from inside the bus, it must be crazy out there.

He keeps telling himself it’s okay. He has time. The hurricane hasn’t even hit yet. Jefferson told him landfall would only be at 6 or 7 p.m. As long as he’s far enough north by then—

And then the bus is floating, sliding sideways off the interstate. Montoya hears screaming from behind him, but his attention is focused out the windshield. All he can see is foamy seawater. A huge wave has broken over the barrier and is pushing them off the road.

The water slowly recedes and the wheels touch the ground again. He unclenches his hands from the wheel. They’re shaking. He clenches them into fists to try to steady them. It doesn’t work.

Louis is using the comms, talking to someone. Montoya thinks he hears something about the National Guard, but he can’t focus.

The engine has cut out. He tries to start it up again, but all he hears is a throaty growl that won’t catch. Questions are being thrown at him; he ignores them as he focuses on the engine.

Come on. Start, you piece of shit. Start!

The engine finally coughs reluctantly to life and the demands and questions behind him turn to cries of relief.

He puts his foot down and the bus inches forward.

The sea barrier cracks and falls away, miles of concrete crumbling and washing out into the ocean.

A massive wave hits the bus full on, rolling it onto its side and slamming it up against the lane divider. The water keeps coming, surging through the breach in the barrier, pummeling the vehicle until it’s completely underwater.

Then the bus is pulled back with the current and dumped unceremoniously into the ocean, where it fills with water and sinks slowly to the seafloor.

Seven3:45 p.m.

“This is Sheriff Montoya. All staff is directed to meet in the cafeteria. Repeat, all staff to the cafeteria right now.”

The voice is scratchy and tinny as it issues from the speaker. Sawyer barely hears it. She’s sitting in the staff room in Northside, her stomach in knots as she watches the storm through the reinforced glass.

Everything is dark. Lightning flickers every few seconds, illuminating the churning clouds, lighting up the torrential rain as it’s thrown from the sky. Debris flies through the air and tumbles hard to the ground. She’s already seen a car bumper, a street sign, and random pieces of wood. She tracks all the wood and timber, doing a mental jigsaw in her head as she tries to identify its origin. She thinks it must have been a shed or a hut that’s been ripped apart.

What the hell is she doing here? She must have been insane to fight her way to work this morning. Was it even worth it? Nobody has really noticed she’s come in. She could easily have postponed her first day, skipped town with the other evacuees and come in once everything had returned to normal.

But no. She had to stick to her plan. Her timeline. That was all that mattered to her. Making sure everything was done properly. It was stupid. She can see that now. Her stubbornness has a very real chance of getting her killed. But she had to do it. For her brother.

She blinks and looks away from the window. What had the sheriff said? To meet in the cafeteria? Right.

She stands up and uses the keycard Martinez gave her to exit the room. She hasn’t come across the cafeteria yet. She’s not sure where it is. She moves along the silent corridors, peering through doors as she passes. Lots of offices, some empty rooms, some storage closets, a small gym with bikes and treadmills squashed inside, but no cafeteria.

She eventually finds it close to the door into the long staff corridor that leads to Admin. But it’s empty. Just a few tables and two vending machines, one with drinks, one with junk food.

That’s when she realizes how much of an idiot she is. Martinez said there was a staff cafeteria in Admin. That’s where everyone will be. That’s where all their offices are.

She swears