“Dad, they won’t let us off the bus,” my daughter whispered as the floodwaters rose.
Part 1
“Dad, they won’t let us off the bus,” my daughter whispered as the floodwaters rose.
I stared at my office computer screen, the numbers blurring together.
My phone buzzed against the mahogany desk, illuminating Megan’s name.
I almost ignored it.
Teenagers usually just wanted a ride or lunch money.
I reached out and silenced the ringer.
Then, a chorus of digital alarms shattered the quiet of the office floor.
Every phone in the bullpen erupted at once.
An emergency broadcast alert flashed across my locked screen.
Flash flood warning.
Seek high ground immediately.
School bus delays reported across the county.
A cold weight settled at the bottom of my stomach.
I grabbed my keys and pushed my chair back so hard it slammed into the glass partition.
I hit redial on Megan’s number while practically running toward the elevator bank.
She picked up on the second ring.
Her breathing sounded shallow, punctuated by a frantic tapping.
“Dad.”
Her voice was painfully thin.
“Where are you?”
I jammed my finger repeatedly against the down button.
“On the bus,” she said.
“We didn’t make it home.”
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside.
“What do you mean?”
“The water came up so fast.”
I could hear the chaos escalating behind her words.
Children were screaming.
Someone was kicking heavily against metal.
“They won’t let us off.”
The cell reception crackled, distorted by the storm.
“The roads flooded.”
My mind immediately mapped out her usual route home.
The county roads dipped low near the old creek bed.
“Are you moving?”
I jogged across the marble lobby.
“No.”
The line went dead quiet for a fraction of a second.
“The bus stopped.”
That cold weight in my stomach turned to pure ice.
“Listen to me, Megan.”
“Stay on the line, Dad,” she pleaded.
“The water’s coming in.”
Rain pelted my face the second I pushed through the doors.
The sky hung low and bruised.
I threw myself into the driver’s seat of my truck.
“I’m coming,” I said, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear.
She gave me their exact location, and my worst fears materialized.
They were trapped at the overpass near the river.
My tires spun against the slick pavement before catching traction.
I kept a stream of chatter going over the roar of my engine.
“There’s water everywhere, Dad.”
The bus groaned in the background.
“I can hear people yelling.”
Someone in the background screamed an order to stay seated.
A younger child sobbed uncontrollably.
“Is the driver okay?”
Megan hesitated.
“He slipped when he stood up.”
Her breath hitched.
“He hit his head.”
“Is he awake?”
“There’s a lot of blood.”
My knuckles turned stark white against the steering wheel.
I swerved around a stalled sedan.
Cars crawled along the highway like dying insects.
“Dad,” Megan said again, her voice cracking.
“They’re really scared.”
I swallowed hard, forcing the panic down.
“So are you.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re doing great.”
I laid on the horn, forcing a minivan onto the shoulder.
“I’m almost there.”
The call abruptly cut out, leaving behind a hollow dial tone.
Traffic came to a standstill exactly a mile from the overpass.
Flashing red and blue lights painted the rain-slicked road ahead.
Police cruisers formed a barricade, blocking the descent.
Beyond them, muddy brown water spilled over the concrete embankments.
I slammed the truck into park on the muddy shoulder.
I didn’t even bother shutting the door as I vaulted out.
A police officer shouted at me to stay back.
I didn’t break stride.
My daughter was in that churning mess.
The frigid water soaked right through my work shoes.
It crept up my calves, soaking my jeans in seconds.
The current was impossibly strong.
I spun around and sprinted back to the bed of my truck.
My fingers closed over a thick coil of heavy-duty nylon rope.
I ran back toward the edge of the floodwaters.
My hands shook violently as I looped one end around a steel guardrail.
I plunged waist-deep into the surge.
The roar of the flood deafened me.
Wind whipped rain into my eyes like tiny needles.
Through the blur, I finally saw the yellow bulk of the school bus.
It was wedged sideways against a submerged concrete pillar.
The back wheels hovered inches above the raging current.
Pale faces pressed against the fogged-up windows.
Tiny hands slammed frantically against the reinforced safety glass.
I scanned every single window, desperate for a glimpse of her face.
I couldn’t find Megan.
I screamed her name, but the howling wind ripped the sound away.
I waded deeper into the maelstrom.
The freezing water sloshing violently against my chest.
It shoved against my hips, trying to sweep my legs out.
I wrapped the free end of the nylon rope tightly around my forearm.
I leaned my entire body weight forward into the rushing tide.
Without warning, a massive surge of displaced water slammed into my side.
My boots completely lost traction on the submerged asphalt.
For one terrible second, everything went dark and the water pulled me under.
