Chapter 142
Nora's POV
Rain hammered the metal roof like buckshot, drowning out everything except the driver's shout through the cab window.
"This is as far as I can take you!" He pointed toward the fog-shrouded valley beyond the chasm. "Village is maybe a mile over that ridge, but the road's completely gone!"
I jumped down from the truck bed, Vincent following close behind.
The driver leaned out, genuine worry creasing his face. "You be careful out there. Could come down again any second."
"We will." I raised my voice over the storm. "Thank you for getting us this far."
Vincent secured waterproof covers over the camera equipment with practiced efficiency, his attempt at dark humor falling flat in the downpour. "At least our gear won't drown before we do."
I managed a tight smile, watching the pickup reverse carefully back down the ruined road. Then it was just the two of us, facing the obliterated path ahead and the storm bearing down from above.
No going back now.
Something cold settled in my chest, heavier than the rain-soaked jacket. I took a breath that tasted of wet earth and decomposing vegetation, then started forward.
The mud was like wet cement, liable to swallow your boot or send you sprawling with each step.
"I'm terrified," I admitted, gripping my bag straps tighter. The admission felt necessary, like naming the fear might contain it.
Vincent used a branch to test the ground ahead, each step deliberate. "Then why are you here?"
"There's this quote—'If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough.'"
Vincent glanced back. "You're right about that."
We pushed on. Thirty minutes of fighting through mud and debris brought us to where the route simply vanished—swallowed by a massive slide that had carved a hundred-yard gash down the mountainside.
Vincent stopped, breathing hard. "Can't go around. Too steep."
I pulled out the compact drone from my pack. The control tablet powered up, screen barely visible. I sent the drone up, watching the feed as it climbed above the devastation.
The village appeared on screen—just beyond the ridge, maybe five hundred meters. But between us and them: only the mountain itself.
"We have to go over." I pointed to where the ridge dipped slightly. "That's our only option."
Vincent looked at the steep slope, then at me. Without a word, he held out his hand. "Give me your camera bag."
"Thanks."
He shouldered both equipment packs, and we began to climb.
I grabbed roots, anything that might hold weight.
Twenty minutes later we crested the ridge, lungs burning, hands aching even through gloves.
The view stopped my breath.
The village spread below us like broken toys—at least a third of the structures half-buried in mud, only rooftops visible. Shattered wood, twisted metal, overturned furniture floated in the brown water covering what had been streets.
"Jesus." Vincent raised his camera with shaking hands, already filming.
My heart clenched. "Did they get everyone out?"
As if in answer, an engine rumbled to life somewhere below. A fire rescue vehicle appeared from another road on the opposite side, red lights cutting through the gray murk.
We started down the slope, more controlled than the climb—digging in heels, using trees as anchors. My thighs screamed by the time we reached level ground.
The fire crew spotted us immediately—two figures emerging from the mountain. A man in a yellow safety helmet waved us over. I recognized the posture of a local government official before I could make out his face.
"You're reporters?" He had to shout over the rain.
I showed him my credentials. He nodded, visibly relieved, then launched into the facts with practiced efficiency.
"Got the flood warning from the weather service yesterday evening, six-thirty PM. We evacuated all one hundred thirty-seven residents by midnight—every single person accounted for. They're sheltered at the community center five miles south." Pride crept into his voice despite the destruction. "New flood management protocols worked exactly like they were supposed to."
The knot in my chest loosened. No casualties. "That's incredible."
Vincent was already recording the rescue crew's work, panning across the devastation.
"Four other villages in this valley evacuated the same night. Early warning system saved lives."
I pulled out my recorder, mind already structuring the story. This wasn't just about disaster—it was about preparation, about systems that actually functioned when they mattered most.
The fire captain approached, rain dripping from his helmet. "We're about to start structural assessments. You want to follow, you wear hard hats. Non-negotiable."
"Understood." I accepted the yellow helmet. "Thank you for letting us document this."
His expression softened slightly. "People need to see what these storms can do. Just don't get yourselves killed in the process."
---
Over the next two hours, more vehicles arrived—emergency management, power company. Organized chaos transformed into coordinated recovery. Engineers examined half-submerged houses. Utility workers assessed downed lines. Chain saws roared to life, clearing debris from what remained of roads.
Vincent and I moved through it all, cameras rolling, recorders capturing everything. The machinery of disaster response, functioning precisely as designed.
By early afternoon, we hitched a ride to the shelter five miles away—a community center gym converted to temporary housing, rows of cots and folding tables, volunteers distributing hot meals and blankets.
Vincent captured volunteers in action, documented the distribution of supplies, the quiet efficiency of people helping people survive.
I helped carry supplies, talked to displaced families about what they'd lost, what they needed now. Listened to voices that shook with adrenaline crash, mixing fear and gratitude together.
---
At three-fifteen, the distinctive thump of helicopter rotors cut through the noise.
I stepped outside to see a black helicopter descend toward the cleared field behind the building. As it banked, I read the white lettering: Nelson Foundation.
Zachary's foundation.
The helicopter settled, rotors slowing. Ground crew rushed forward to offload cargo—large waterproof containers lowered on cables, each stamped with the foundation's logo. Volunteers swarmed to receive them, opening crates of bottled water, emergency rations, medical supplies, children's items.
Vincent appeared beside me, camera already filming. "These corporate foundations don't waste time."
"No." I watched the organized distribution, thinking of Zachary and Emily, how they'd probably mobilized this the moment news broke.
Something warm settled in my chest—that connection to people who gave a damn, who used their resources for something that mattered.