Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 8 - Quiet Hours, Nightfall

The storm came after midnight—soft at first, then steady. Rain tapped against the glass like a heartbeat, too calm for what the world had become.

The generator hummed through it all, deep and constant. For now we still had power, still had light, still had something close to normal.

Families slept in shifts inside the control room where it stayed warm. Alex had turned the break area into a small infirmary—blankets over tables, first-aid kits stacked by the sink, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through damp air.

Mark sat apart, scribbling in his logbook like the city was still taking attendance. The pen scratched steady until I finally said, “Who do you think’s reading that?”

He didn’t look up. “Procedure keeps order.”

“Order died at four o’clock.”

He underlined the date slower this time.

Dave joined me by the monitors. “Let him write,” he muttered. “It’s all he’s got left.”

Across the room, Alex checked ears for ringing while Cami brushed Marie’s hair beside the heater. Gabriel sat near the door, feeding Chuchis crumbs from a granola bar. The smell made my stomach tighten. None of us had eaten since before sunset.

Then Marie whispered, “Dad… I’m hungry.”

The room went still. Even the generator sounded distant. Eyes lifted one by one toward the shelves—water bottles, cleaners, tools. Nothing that mattered.

Dave rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s food out there,” he said quietly, nodding toward the monitors. The south-fence feed showed deer shapes frozen in the rain. “Half a herd waiting to be dinner.”

Alan looked up. “You serious?”

Dave nodded. “Rifles are in maintenance. The chemical chill bay can keep meat cold if we reroute a generator.”

Santiago, the older engineer, didn’t look up. “That bay’s sealed. Temp control still works. He’s right.”

Mark finally raised his head. “We’re not butchers. That’s contamination risk.”

Dave faced him. “You want to starve clean or eat dirty and live?”

No one answered. Even the rain seemed to hesitate.

Alex glanced from me to the cameras. “If you bring it in, process it outside. I’ll handle cleanup—gloves, bleach, whatever it takes.”

Dave nodded. “After the next tremor, then.”

The rain drummed harder, filling the silence where conversation used to be.

The NOAA radio hissed once—static, then nothing. Mateo sat beside it, staring through the dark. “They're out there,” he whispered. “By the river.”

No one spoke.

At 1:47 a.m., the generator dimmed. The hum faltered, caught again—then a low mechanical tone rose in the distance, patient and steady.

The walls began to tremble. Spoons rattled on the table. The air thickened until breathing felt like effort.

Alex covered Marie’s ears.

Dave’s voice was low. “That’s not thunder.”

“No,” I said. “It’s early.”

The vibration built—not violent, just longer. A drawn-out wave crawling through concrete and bone.

Someone started counting under their breath. “One… two… three…”

By the time it faded, it had lasted forty-seven seconds.

Rain kept falling—soft, patient, pretending nothing had happened.

Dave checked his watch, face pale. “That one lasted longer. Nearly one minute”

I looked toward the window, where the deer still stood motionless in the floodlight, eyes glinting through the rain.

“No,” I said. “It’s getting stronger.”