Chapter 19: Rain and Regret

July 8, 2023

Dear Journal,

The rain started before dawn.

At first, it was a drizzle, soft enough to fool us into thinking it wouldn't last. By the time we hit the county road, it was a wall of water. Sheets of gray hammered the asphalt, turning every dip in the road into a miniature river. The world blurred behind a curtain of storm.

We kept moving, heads down, packs soaked through in minutes. Marcus led, shoulders hunched against the wind, the muscles in his jaw flexing with every step. Naomi brought up the rear, knife in hand even as the rain tried to beat it from her grip.

Clara didn't stir once. Nora wrapped her in two layers of blankets and a tarp, pressing her close like she could shield her from the world. I don't know how much longer the kid can keep breathing like this. Her chest sounds like it's full of glass.

The road turned to mud. Our boots sank deep with every step. Marcus said we had to find cover before the cold bled us dry. Hypothermia kills quicker than hunger, he reminded us.

That's when we saw it: a barn.

Big. Red once, now flayed down to pale wood and rot. It sat crooked at the edge of a flooded pasture, its doors hanging wide like broken teeth. Half the roof sagged in, and a black mass of birds scattered when Marcus approached.

But it was shelter.

We didn't have a choice.

Inside, the smell hit first—wet hay and something else. Sweet and sour, like meat gone wrong. The floor was half-submerged, water rippling up to our ankles. Piles of straw floated like drowned hair. Shapes bumped against the far wall.

Naomi waded in first, blade ready.

Bodies.

Three of them. Half-decayed. Tied upright against the stalls with rope. Their jaws hung open, heads slumped forward. Whoever left them here didn't finish the job. Or maybe they wanted an audience.

Marcus cursed under his breath. "We're not staying in here."

But outside, the storm howled like something alive. Lightning split the sky, throwing the fields into stark white relief. For a second, I thought I saw figures moving out there, hunched and watching through the rain.

I told Marcus. He didn't argue after that.

We barricaded the doors as best we could and hauled Clara onto a dry loft above the stalls. Nora climbed up with her, curling around the child like a human shield. I gave them my jacket, though it was soaked through.

Naomi prowled the lower level, water sloshing around her boots. Every so often, she'd glance at the corpses and mutter something under her breath. I didn't ask what.

The rain hammered the roof. The barn groaned with every gust, timbers creaking like old bones. Drips fell from holes overhead, splashing into the rising water.

And then came the humming.

Soft. Low. Vibrating in the air like it belonged to the storm.

I thought it was Clara again—until I realized she was asleep, her small chest barely lifting under the tarp.

This sound came from below.

From the drowned stalls.

Naomi froze. Her grip tightened on the knife. Marcus whispered, "What the hell is that?"

The water rippled.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Like something moving underneath.

I grabbed the flashlight and aimed it down. For a second, all I saw was hay and debris swirling in the brown flood.

Then a hand broke the surface.

Pale. Bloated. Fingers bending backward, like they'd forgotten which way was up.

Marcus didn't wait. He hauled himself up to the loft, yelling for Naomi. She backed toward us, knife raised as more shapes began to rise from the water.

Not fast. Not thrashing.

Slow.

Silent.

The corpses tied to the stalls jerked suddenly, ropes straining as if something inside them woke up.

The barn shook when the first one broke free.

We didn't fight. We couldn't. The water was too deep now, almost to Naomi's knees. She scrambled up the ladder as one of the drowned things clawed at her boot, leaving a streak of black muck on her jeans.

Marcus kicked the ladder away the second she was up. It crashed into the water, sending ripples across the rising flood.

Below us, the shapes moved. Six. Maybe seven. Hard to tell in the dark. All of them staring up with milky eyes, mouths yawning open like they were learning how to scream again.

We huddled on the loft, clutching our weapons, backs pressed against the wall. The air smelled of rot and stagnant water. Every breath burned my throat.

Hours passed.

The storm didn't stop.

The water kept rising.

And the things below kept waiting—never climbing, never lunging. Just circling in the flood like sharks under the boards.

Naomi finally broke the silence.

"This barn's going under by morning."

She's right.

We can't stay here. But stepping down means stepping into that water.

And if the storm doesn't kill us, what's waiting in the fields will.

I keep thinking about South Station. About the voice. About how it said my name like it knew I'd come.

Maybe this is what it meant.

Maybe this is what it wanted.

Yours in the flood,

J.K.