Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 30 – 45 Minutes of Chaos, In-Sync

3:45 A.M. – Clear Water Plant
The quiet hit first. Not peace—just absence.
Alex’s car rolled through the inner gate, headlights cutting through gray air. The road beyond the fence was empty, the city gone silent. Engines hummed low, a sound too calm for what was coming.

She stepped out fast, scanning the plant like it might twist under her feet. Behind her, the kids climbed out, bundled tight.

“Roads were empty,” she said. “People just… standing there.”

I nodded. “Inside. All of you.”

Mateo stood by the desk, phone to his ear. “She’s nearly off the bridge. Traffic’s crawling.”

“Tell her to keep going,” I said. “If she stops, she won’t make it.”

3:45 A.M. – Mormon Bridge
Carmen’s fingers gripped the wheel until her knuckles paled.
The bridge lights flickered across the wet pavement. Mateo Jr. sat beside her, hands pressed to his cotton-plugged ears, trying to stay brave.

She held the phone tight. “We’re almost off it, mi amor. Just another minute.”

Static crackled on the line. Mateo Sr.’s voice bled through. “Don’t stop. Keep—”

The words vanished under the first tremor. The steering wheel vibrated. The metal beneath them began to sing.

3:47 A.M. – Clear Water
Dave stood near the breaker box, eyes on me. “That pressure again.”

I felt it in the floor. “Everyone down. Ears covered.”

The walls moaned. Dust sifted from the rafters. I dropped beside Alex and the kids, one arm around them.

3:48 A.M. – The Bridge
The hum built, a low roll like thunder trapped under concrete.
Carmen slammed the brakes. Ahead, brake lights shimmered red through fog.
Then the world buckled. The far span of the bridge folded like wet paper.

The phone slipped from her hand. She screamed, covering Mateo Jr.’s head as the rearview mirror filled with fire and twisted steel.

3:50 A.M. – Clear Water
The pulse peaked. The sound wasn’t sound anymore—it lived inside the bones.
Lights dimmed to copper. The control panels flickered. On the monitors, animals pressed tight to the south fence, motionless, like they were praying.

Alex’s voice was muffled through her hands. “It’s inside, Pa…”

3:51 A.M. – The Bridge
The shaking stopped. Silence dropped heavy as smoke.
Carmen’s ears rang. She opened her eyes to see headlights pointing nowhere.
Behind them, the bridge was gone—just open black water and falling sparks.

She slammed the gearshift forward and pushed through the stalled line until traffic died again at the curve.

3:58 A.M. – FEMA Checkpoint
Concrete barriers ahead. A FEMA tent half-collapsed. A sign read CHECKPOINT 2 – STAY IN VEHICLE.
Carmen killed the engine. The hum still echoed faintly in her chest.

She grabbed Mateo Jr.’s hand. “Come on, mi vida. We run.”
They ran between dead cars, the night thick with smoke.

4:00 A.M. – Clear Water
The air went still. No sound, no pulse. Only the metallic taste left behind.
Dave leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Anna started counting heads.
I checked the monitors again. Nothing moving. But the animals—every one—facing north.

4:03 A.M. – FEMA Camp
Gunfire echoed somewhere beyond the tents. A man shouted, cut short.
A figure burst from the fog, hitting Carmen hard. They tumbled into the gravel.

She fought with everything she had, nails tearing skin. Mateo Jr. kicked at the thing’s head. Teeth flashed, caught his arm.

He cried out. She rolled free, grabbed him, ran. Blood streaked his sleeve.

A soldier’s voice shouted from inside the gates. “In here! Move!”
But the horde between them made it impossible. Carmen saw an open trailer—the side hatch of an MCU.

They dove inside and slammed the door.

4:11 A.M. – Clear Water
The NOAA radio cracked on by itself.
“This is NOAA Omaha station… the Mormon Bridge has collapsed… multiple vehicles in the water…”

Mateo dropped his phone. His face emptied out. “She was on that bridge.”

I couldn’t find words. The hum under my feet hadn’t fully stopped—it just waited.

4:13 A.M. – FEMA MCU
Carmen tore open a med kit, disinfected the wound, pressed gauze against it.
“Stay with me, Junior. Please.”

He was burning hot, breath shallow. She prayed in Spanish, words tumbling through tears.
Outside, gunfire faded. The camp went eerily quiet.

4:20 A.M. – Clear Water
We regrouped. Sharon’s voice carried from the corner, soft and wrong.
“More are coming.”
Dave stiffened. I watched the monitors again—every animal had turned toward the river.

Alex whispered, “Pa… what if it’s not over?”
“It’s not,” I said.

4:25 A.M. – FEMA MCU
The trailer lights flickered. Mateo Jr.’s eyes rolled. His small hand clenched hers.
She kissed his forehead. “Hold on, mi corazón.”
The hum crawled up through the floor again.

4:26 A.M. – Clear Water
The second pulse slammed through.
Bolts rattled. Lights bled orange. The generators screamed.
Alex pulled the kids close. The building shook like it wanted to split open.

Forty-seven seconds.

4:26 A.M. – FEMA MCU
The same instant—
Carmen’s ears filled with static. The world stuttered in light.
Mateo Jr. convulsed. His eyes snapped open, pale and glassy. He kinked his head twice, a wet crack following.

“Junior?” she whispered. “No… no…”
He screeched, hands clawing at air. She pinned him, sobbing.

Then she saw it—his earplugs were gone. They must’ve fallen out when he saved her.

The additional soldiers that were en route burst in, weapons raised.
“Get her out!” one yelled.

They dragged her back as she screamed his name. The door slammed.

4:27 A.M. – Clear Water
The pulse faded. The quiet after was too clean.
I checked the screens again. Every deer, every bird—facing north.

Alex’s hand found mine. “What’s out there?”
“Something coming,” I said.

4:28 A.M. – FEMA Yard
Carmen hit the gravel, gasping. Two medics tried to hold her back.

Then came the sound—low, fast footsteps. From the fog beyond the gates, figures were sprinting in from every direction, dozens of them, moving like shadows.

“Contact! Contact!” a soldier shouted.

Gunfire erupted. Hostiles poured over the outer barricade, jerking, shrieking, some crawling on all fours.

Neal shouted, “Fall back! Into the MCU!”

The survivors scattered toward the trailers. The soldiers fired until the last second, then slammed the hatch as claws scraped across metal.

One of the medics shouted, “What the hell are those things?”

Neal hesitated, watching Mateo Jr. thrash behind the glass, head snapping to the pulse’s rhythm.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, “but they’ve gone totally berserk on us.”

4:30 A.M. – FEMA Camp
Inside the MCU, the air was heavy with gun oil and sweat. The door rattled as something slammed against it from outside—then another hit, harder.

Carmen crouched in the corner; arms wrapped around her knees. Her throat burned from screaming, but she couldn’t stop staring at the sealed door across from her—the one that held her son.

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.

Each thud came in rhythm, steady as a heartbeat. The pulse outside had faded, but its echo lived in the metal walls.

A soldier muttered, “He’s still hitting the door.”
Another whispered, “That’s not him anymore.”

Carmen’s voice broke. “It’s him. He’s calling me.”

Neal’s jaw tightened, eyes on the hatch window where shadows shifted in the flickering emergency light. “Nobody opens that door. Not for anyone.”

The banging slowed, softer now, almost deliberate—like a message spelled in pain.

No one moved. No one breathed.

And in that silence, surrounded by death and the faint hum beneath their feet, Carmen began to pray.

They stayed there together, trapped between what was human and what wasn’t, waiting for dawn—or rescue—whichever came first.

The door screeched open.

“Carmen!” Mateo’s voice cracked through the haze. “Carmen, are you there, mi amor?”