Chapter 12 Raine
Raine
The shelter was too quiet.
Hundreds of cots lined the school gymnasium, blankets draped over shivering shoulders, kids curled against their parents. The air stank of damp clothes and fear. A generator hummed weakly in the corner, lights flickering overhead.
I walked the rows with my notebook in hand, every muscle still humming from the rescue. I should’ve been resting. Instead, I was chasing ghosts.
A woman clutched my sleeve as I passed. Her hands were wrinkled, nails chipped. “My husband,” she whispered. “They said he was on the transport out of Foxtrot. But… he never came.”
“What’s his name?” I crouched, pen ready.
“Joseph Tillman.”
I flipped through the lists. Nothing. Not on intake. Not on casualty. Not on evac. Just gone.
I thanked her, moved on. More stories came the same way—missing spouses, sons, neighbors. People marked alive one moment and erased the next.
By the tenth, my stomach twisted.
This wasn’t bad paperwork. This was deliberate.
“Hey.”
I stiffened. Adam’s shadow loomed at the edge of the aisle. He looked out of place in here, all sharp lines and storm-colored eyes, mud still drying on his boots.
“You should be resting,” he said.
“So should you.” I jotted another name, ignoring the way his presence made my pulse jump. “These people aren’t drowning, Adam. They’re disappearing.”
His jaw flexed. “I know. But you can’t fix it all in one night.”
I turned to face him, anger sparking hot. “What do you suggest? Sit on my hands while families are being ripped apart? Pretend I don’t see it?”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “I’m saying you shouldn’t walk into this alone.”
The way he said it—low, rough, almost pleading—made something in me stutter. I hated that it did.
Before I could answer, a cough rasped behind us. An old man leaned against the wall, his face gray, his eyes hollow.
“They’re taking them,” he said hoarsely.
Both Adam and I turned.
His hands shook as he lifted them, palms scarred with rope burns. “They came at night. Said they were moving us to higher ground. Loaded folks into trucks. But they never came back. I jumped before they could throw me in.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Adam stepped closer, steady as stone. “Who took them?”
The man’s eyes darted toward the exit, fear etched deep into every line of his face. “Not FEMA. Not police. Men with masks. Vans with no markings.” He swallowed hard. “And they didn’t care who watched.”
Cold settled in my gut, heavier than any floodwater.
Because in that moment, I knew the truth.
This wasn’t a natural disaster, taking people.
It was a cover for something far worse.