Evacuation
One could never be sure that the worst wouldn’t happen again.
The woman hadn’t wanted to join the mass of cars that sat, almost perfectly still, on the interstate through Houston. If she’d had it her way, she’d have stayed home, in the house where she’d weathered so many storms, but she was living alone now, her husband merely a box of ashes in the passenger floorboard, and her son had been so insistent that she come to him, far enough inland to miss most of it, and of course she hated the idea of spending days with his wife, who could be boorish at times, but the weather forecast made it all seem so scary, like everything would blow away.
Carla—she still remembered that one, in 61, the only other time she’d fled, how when they got back, the carport was a mangled wreck.
One could never be sure that the worst wouldn’t happen again.
One could never really be sure of anything.
She looked down at the fuel gauge, the needle moving farther and farther to the left—soon, it’d be empty, and every place she’d driven past had hung sheets across their signs, some variation of out of gas spray painted across it, and she wondered what she’d do, but because she didn’t have an answer, she tried not to wonder too much.
Justin Carter is the author of Brazos (Belle Point Press). His fiction has appeared in BULL, Cowboy Jamboree, Rejection Letters, and other spaces. Originally from the Texas Gulf Coast, Justin currently lives in Iowa and works as a sports writer and editor.
