Nature's Fury

Flash floods claim more lives than any other natural disaster on the planet, Craig's voice rung smugly in the back of his head. They are also some of the most common.

He had nothing against rain, really, it was hard to grow up in Bristol and not be able to at least tolerate the stuff. Though he really, really didn't like most water (much to his parents' confusion) rain was fine most of the time. Right now, though, he was wishing that it hadn't decided to not only follow him from home, but also to call all of its state-side friends over for a bloody party right above his head. Clambering his way to the top of the moving truck, electric lantern clutched in one hand, raincoat flapping around him in the wind, glancing down at the rushing water below, he prayed nobody else had the misfortune to be caught out in this weather.

He was horrified when a bright blue car came rushing down, not floating but still being pushed along pretty fast by the water. Someone was sitting on the roof, clutching at the roof rack.

The car slammed into the truck, jolting him loose and throwing off its terrified passenger. His fingers scrabbled through the air, desperate for something to hang onto.
Both hands found a grip, on opposite sides of his body.

. . .

Chell lashed against the tumbling water, feeling beaten and bruised after mere seconds in it. She worked hard not to panic, trying to think, but a primal terror screeched through her body, setting every nerve on end. She went to scream, then dug her teeth into her cheek to stop herself from losing the precious few bubbles in her mouth. Her lungs were burning, she hadn't gotten a proper breath, she–

A hand closed around her wrist. She clutched at it, recognizing an anchor when she felt one.

Her head broke the surface, still pummeled by waves, but up enough for a breath of the hot, sticky thunderstorm air. She blinked up at her rescuer, the man she'd seen climbing the truck up ahead. He was clutching the open window of his vehicle with one hand, his feet drifting in the water. He was yelling something at the top of his lungs, but that was all she could make out. She shook her head to show she didn't understand.

His mouth snapped shut, and he looked very thoughtful for a second. With a bit of work, he dragged himself back into the cockpit of the truck, towing her along behind him. Out of the water, she could just make out his words.

"We can't stay here!" he was yelling, "It's still rising!"

She nodded, and accepted the leg up back out the window, praying he'd be able to join her before the space flooded.

. . .

Wheatley swung up onto the roof, gasping and out of breath. He hadn't had this much exercise since public school, and was far from being in shape. He gazed at the girl he'd grabbed, thrashing about above the water. He knew if he hadn't she'd have almost certainly died, but there was still no guarantee they'd both survive this storm, and if he had to spend time with her, he knew he'd feel just downright awful if she died on his watch. Well, he would've anyway, but at least it would've been that sort of impersonal Oh God, that could've been me! awful that comes from watching a news report.

She gestured for him to stay low, and then set the example by crawling out to the middle of the roof. He followed, keeping his head down. His lantern, the only source of light he had, had been dropped when he'd slipped, and he missed it already. The sun was going down somewhere, and it was getting dark.

. . .

It had been over an hour. The truck had come to rest between two trees, moving in a series of halting jerks as the water shoved it off the road, before just gliding the rest of the way when the water reached the bottom of the window. It was still getting higher, flooding the cabin beneath them. The two watched it in fascinated horror, wondering when it was going to top.

Three hours in, the wind died down, though the pounding of the rain on roof of the truck made conversation impossible. Chell fished a sodden granola bar out of her pocket and shared it with her savior. His face told her he wasn't a huge fan of granola, but he accepted it with a "Thank you!" and gnawed his way through his half. Neither of them had much appetite, but both were aware of how important keeping their strength up was. When they finished, the sun was fully gone, the only light coming from the occasional flash of lightening. She groped for his hand in the dark, and clung to it.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle when the air began to cool. Soaked and scared, they huddled together on the roof for warmth, his poncho held above them like a tent. He told her about the rain back home, which, though there was a lot of it, was never this bad. He asked if the weather in the states was always like this (because, if it was, he might just have to move back to England). She shook her head, a wry smile twisting her lips.

Their arms were too tired to hold it up anymore before she would open her mouth. Slowly, haltingly, she told him about her friends, her family. He found a pen in his pocket, and they both wrote down the other's contacts on their arms, in case one of them didn't make it, agreeing to alert their loved ones and tell them what happened. She was surprised by the number of local numbers he gave her.

"I got a job in…" he named some town she'd never heard of before, gesturing vaguely to the horizon. "Some friends offered me a place to stay until I found an apartment."

He told her his sister had agreed to bring down his big orange tabby in a week, to give him time to settle in. He looked so forlorn, glancing at the water just a foot and a half below their feet, that she leaned over and gave him a quick hug, promising him his cat would be fine, that he'd be there to take care of it.

The sun was peeking over the horizon, glinting briefly between the hills and the clouds, when the rescue helicopters soared overhead. The water was up to their knees, forcing the two to stand. They were cold, wet and somber, but they were alive. When the first man dropped down with a harness, Wheatley handed his partner up to him, despite her squirming. The helicopter pulled back, full, as the other one dropped a different man to retrieve him. He cheered and waved on the way up, only to collapse once he got in.

They both gave their statements. One the media heard, they immediately made him out to be some valiant knight, saving a damsel in distress. Neither of them particularly liked this portrayal of themselves, and refused to comment.

. . .

Weeks later, ink fading on his arm, fuss finally dying down, he got home, put away the groceries and set the answering machine to "play." He picked up Butterball and sat down on the couch to listen.

His heart nearly stopped.

"Hey, Wheatley. Look, I'm sorry I didn't call sooner, but things are only just settling down over here; besides which, among all the numbers you wrote on my arm, you somehow failed to give me yours. You don't want to know how many calls I had to make to find it out.
"Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to talk or hang out sometime? It'd be nice to get to know eachother under less dire circumstances. Call me."

Inspired by a series I'm watching on atural disasters. They had a whole hour dedicated to flash floods. I took a bunch of pieces from the survivors stories, peiced them together into something like a plot, tossed in these two, and wound up with a really weird and dangerous way to meet and bond with someone you might never talk to under normal circumstances. I've also set it up for future Chelley (or just a close friendship, if you're not into that) so huzzah! Probably won't revisist this world, had a lot of trouble getting into their heads.

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P.S. Can't you just see Wheatley cuddling with a fluffy orange house cat?