Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 6 – Before It Hits

At 3:45, the first thing I noticed when Alex’s car rolled past the inner gate was the quiet. No sirens. No city noise. Just the hum of engines and the crunch of gravel under the tires.

She’d taken just long enough to grab what they needed—clothes, medicine, bottled water—before leaving home. Cami had packed the emergency bag, Gabriel carried his backpack, and Chuchis hadn’t left his side.

When the car stopped near the maintenance bay, the air looked gray and heavy, like the daylight itself was losing strength.

Alex stepped out first. Her face was tense, eyes scanning the plant as though it might shift under her feet. Gabriel climbed out clutching Chuchis, and Cami opened the rear door for Marie, who looked small under the weight of her blanket.

“Pa,” Alex said, walking fast toward me. “You weren’t kidding. The roads were empty. People were standing out in the open, like they’d forgotten where they were.”

I nodded. “You did good. Everyone okay?”

“Yeah. Just shaken.” She looked back toward the car. “The air feels wrong. Like before a storm, but thicker.”

“Inside,” I said. “All of you. Now.”

Dave appeared in the doorway, waving them in. “Move quick. It’s close.”

Alex led the kids into the control building while I checked the perimeter feeds. No motion except the animals gathered along the fence again—dense clusters of deer, stray dogs, and birds covering the posts. None moved. None made a sound.

Mateo stood near the main desk, phone to his ear. “She says she’s nearly off the bridge,” he said. “Traffic’s stopped but still inching forward.”

“Tell her to keep going,” I said. “If she waits, she won’t make it before the next hit.”

He nodded, voice tight.

By the time I followed Alex inside, she already had the kids settled near the thick concrete wall. Cami sat with Marie and Gabriel, keeping them close. Chuchis lay at their feet, eyes wide, body rigid, staring at the far corner of the room.

“Keep those earplugs in,” I told Gabriel. “Don’t take them off for anything.”

He nodded without looking up.

Dave’s wife, Anna, handed out spare earplugs from the emergency cabinet. “Better than cotton,” she said, moving down the line. No one spoke much. The silence felt loaded, like the building itself was holding its breath.

Outside, the last two employee families arrived. Engines idled while doors slammed, voices low and hurried. They rushed the children inside just as the first flicker ran through the overhead lights.

The air shifted. Not wind—pressure.

Dave glanced at me. “Here we go.”

“Everyone down,” I said. “Ears plugged and covered.”

Alex pulled the kids close. I dropped beside them, one arm over her shoulders. The vibration started light, running through the floor, then built into a steady thrum that filled the walls.

The lights dimmed to a dull copper glow. Metal beams groaned. Dust fell in soft streams.

On the monitors, the animals pressed tighter against the south fence—hundreds of them, shoulder to shoulder, motionless.

The sound wasn’t sound anymore. It was a pulse under the ribs, a rhythm you felt in your teeth.

Alex gripped my arm, eyes wide. Her lips moved, but I could barely hear.

“Pa… it’s inside…”

I tightened my arm around her. The kids cried quietly, soundless against the weight of the vibration.

Dave stumbled toward the breaker panel. Anna shouted something, her voice bending under the noise.

Then, at 4:11, the old NOAA weather radio snapped on.

A burst of static filled the room, followed by a strained, metallic voice.

“This is NOAA Omaha station… structural emergency reported… the Mormon Bridge has collapsed… repeat, the Mormon Bridge has collapsed… multiple vehicles in the water… additional responders en route…”

The signal warped, shrieked, and died.

Mateo froze. The phone fell from his hand and hit the floor. “No,” he whispered. “She was on that bridge.”

Dave took a step forward, stopped halfway, and looked at me. The truth hit both of us at once.

At exactly 4:26, 15 minutes later, the tremor roared again, another surge that rattled the bolts in the floor — then stopped.

Forty-seven seconds. Exactly forty-seven seconds.

The quiet afterward was worse than the noise.

No one spoke.

From the corner, a muffled sound broke the stillness. Sharon. Still bound to the pipe, head tilted, eyes open. Her lips moved in rhythm with the fading pulse.

She was smiling.

“More are coming,” she whispered.

Dave turned toward her. “What did she say?”

Before I could answer, the lights flickered once more — a short, sharp warning.

I looked at the monitors. Every animal outside had turned north, facing the river — toward where the bridge used to be.

Alex moved beside me, voice low. “Pa … what if this isn’t over?”

I kept my eyes on the screen. The clouds beyond the fence rolled low and dark, racing faster than the wind.

“It’s not,” I said. “It’s just starting.”