The Hurricane by Hugh Howey

well pump.”
    Daniel followed Carlton into the kitchen and started
rummaging around in the cabinets for pitchers and containers with lids. He
noticed a few flashlights and a ton of loose batteries on the island counter.
    “So the worst that can happen is that we lose power for a
while?” He topped up a pitcher with water and set it on the counter. Carlton
fit the lid inside the pitcher and rotated it closed. He slid it to the side
and frowned at Daniel as he began filling the largest Tupperware.
    “The worst is that we lose the house or someone gets hurt.”
    Daniel saw that he was serious. “Were you here for Hugo?” he
asked. Some things lived in his brain as legend, or historical curiosity. For
him, Hugo was nothing more than before and after pictures in Charleston area
restaurants. It was commemorated lines on the sides of buildings showing how
high the tide got. It was the news clips of boats in trees that they used to scare
people into evacuating, convincing families to get on the interstate and sit
for twelve hours on what should be a two hour jaunt. In his neck of the woods,
Hugo had become the name of the prototypical storm, even though he was sure
there’d never be another like it. It was the bogeyman of meteorology. It lived
in the weather closet, and parents used it to terrify kids.
    “I was in Charlotte for Hugo,” Carlton finally said. His
eyes seemed to focus far away, his lips pressed together. When he returned his
attention to Daniel’s face, he must’ve seen the relief there, for Carlton’s
guise hardened further.
    “It was still an amazing storm, even that far inland.
Tornados were spun off every which way. You’ve never seen so many trees down or
houses demolished. Nobody had power for days, most for weeks.”
    Daniel felt water spill over the lip of the full container.
He sloshed a little more out so it could be handled and passed it to Carlton.
He grabbed the next one as the window over the sink rattled in the wind, absorbing
its fury and shivering with it.
    “What do we do next?” Daniel asked. He looked out at the
fluttering leaves and the twisting trees in the back yard. He remembered, as a
kid once, helping his father put plywood over every door and window when Floyd
looked like it might be the next Hugo. It became a category five, the worst
sort of storm, but never made landfall. They had done all that work for
nothing. And now they had done nothing in preparation, and already the
wind outside seemed dangerous.
    “Now you should go get some sleep. Take a flashlight with
you. Your mom and I will wake you up if it gets bad.”
    Daniel handed him the last container and shut off the water.
Carlton squeezed his shoulder. In that instant, and for the first time, Daniel
realized Carlton was his own person. It seemed obvious in retrospect, but the
thought had never hit him before. This man who had stumbled into their lives,
and then their home, had existed before he did either of those things.
He had lived somewhere else. He had been through other storms. He had been a
kid just like Daniel. These were alien thoughts.
    “Try and get some sleep,” Carlton said.
    Daniel patted his stepdad on the arm, even though he felt
like doing more. He was just so used to doing less . He grabbed a
flashlight, clicked it on and off to make sure it had juice, then ran off
toward the stairs. He stomped up them, rounded the bannister at the top, and
headed for his room. As he passed his sister’s room, he saw the door had been
propped open with a chair. She was inside, sitting up in her bed, holding her
nonworking phone toward the window and grumbling at it.
    Daniel laughed at her as he changed into sleep pants and a
clean t-shirt. He placed the flashlight on his side table, turned off the
light, and rolled over to gaze out the darkened window. Outside, shadows
shivered. Trees waved their arms like ghouls, and leaves threw themselves flat
against the glass, peeked inside for a moment, then raced off to some