When it Rains

Copyright 2022 Mark Allan Gunnells

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Cover art:

Ben Baldwin—http://www.benbaldwin.co.uk

Layout:

Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com

Proofread by:

Paula Limbaugh

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

EXCERPT FROM THE DAY THE RAINS CAME: AN ANNOTATED TIMELINE OF THE DELUGE

THE FORECAST FOR Greenville, SC, on April 24th, 20—, was clear and sunny with a high of 77 and a low of 54. The predicted chance of precipitation was zero percent. Allow me to repeat for emphasis: zero percent. In the years following what has commonly come to be known as ‘The Deluge’, meteorologists and other scientists have studied the phenomenon from all aspects. While there is still much that no one understands, many questions that remain unanswered, and countless conflicting conclusions, on one thing all the experts agree.

It should not have rained that day in Greenville, SC.

This is important to note because it shows that right from the onset, there was nothing natural about the Deluge.

The date in question did start off as expected. Sunrise was at 5:45am, and the day dawned as clear as promised. Not a cloud in the sky, and the air was warm with low humidity. When interviewed for this book, Eugene McArthur (a lifelong resident of Greenville, SC) described the day as one of those perfect southern days made for picnics and long strolls. And yet at nearly 12:30pm, that perfect day would turn into a nightmare. The first stage of what would become a global disaster. The residents of Greenville, SC (population just over 58000 at the time), had no way of knowing that their quaint city was about to become the epicenter of an event that would change history.

***

11:35am

Pamela Weston hated nice days.

Grande Caramel Frappuccino, she announced, then handed the drink to a young blonde girl who snatched the cup and marched off.

Pamela turned back to the line that stretched all the way to the convenience section.

The young man next in line said, I’d like a blueberry scone and a tall Iced Pineapple Matcha.

Shit! Not a drink with which she was familiar. She’d have to pull out the directions and fumble through it step by step, which would slow down the process even more. She grabbed the two-way radio by the register and said, Jessica, I’m going to need you to come help me in the café.

A few seconds passed, then came the staticky reply: I’m kind of in the middle of something.

Pamela groaned internally as three more students joined the line. "It can wait. Get up here now. Please."

She turned away from the waiting crowd, sure she could feel their annoyed stares drilling into her back, and began riffling through the book of drink recipes, looking for the Iced Pineapple Matcha.

When Pamela had taken the job as manager of the bookstore at Friedkin University two years ago, she’d thought it was a smart move. She’d been working at the Spartanburg County Public Library, a thankless job that mostly consisted of shooing out the homeless, and having her crotchety old boss tell her on a near-daily basis that she was too ‘flighty’ to ever be taken seriously in a professional setting. So when the campus bookstore position presented itself, she’d jumped at it, viewing it not only as a great opportunity but as vindication, proving that she was in fact managerial material.

And in all fairness, she had loved the job for the first year and a half. Sure, the weeks around new semesters were a crazy rush and annual inventory could be a headache, but the environment was so much more peaceful than the library, and her staff seemed to respect her. She, in turn, tried to always treat them with respect and understanding, never wanting to be like her previous supervisor. Of course, sometimes she felt she erred too far on the side of understanding, to the point that some of her employees saw her as a pushover. But ‘rather too soft than too hard’, as her grandmother used to say.

As she studied the instructions for the pineapple drink, out of the corner of her eye she noticed a few students leaving the line, grumbling and shooting Pamela nasty looks. Part of her saw these defectors as lost revenue for the store, but another part of her felt only gratitude and wished more customers would find the wait too long and give up. She glanced toward the back of the store, seeing no sign of Jessica.

Jess, where are you? she said into the radio.

I just need to finish this one order.

I said that could wait, Pamela answered, allowing a hard edge to creep into her voice. I’m all alone up here, and I’m swamped.

She hoped that some of the customers, overhearing this conversation, would take a little pity on her—but their expressions suggested otherwise. She turned away from them again and started trying to put together the complicated drink.

For perhaps the millionth time in the past six months, she found herself cursing Angie, the previous café manager. Pamela realized this wasn’t entirely fair. Angie had a right to take another position, and she’d worked out a full notice. It wasn’t the young woman’s fault that corporate had decided to hold off on filling the position, stating that Pamela could do double-duty for a while, managing both the bookstore and the café. No increase in pay came with these new responsibilities—but the headaches had increased threefold. Especially on nice days. Good weather brought more visitors onto campus. They walked around the lake right outside the bookstore, bringing in more business, particularly to the café side. Good weather also meant the café staff, made up mostly of students, were more likely to call out. Funny how these young people always seemed to get sick on warm, sunny days.

Today both the baristas scheduled for the morning had called out, Tanya claiming she had a stomach bug and Rudolph saying his grandmother was in the hospital. Pamela never used to be a cynical person, but she found herself having serious doubts about these stories. Yet in the end she’d simply wished them both well and realized she’d have to work the café alone.

Pamela overfilled the cup, spilling green liquid over her hand and the counter. Whispering an expletive, she snapped a lid onto the cup, wiped it down, then grabbed a scone from the bake case, throwing it on a plate.

The young man stared down at the scone and started, Could I get that heat—

When he glanced up at Pamela, he stopped mid-sentence and took his items. Never mind. It’s fine.

Finally Jessica came scuttling up from the back, taking her sweet time. When she’d made her way behind the counter, Pamela said, Okay, I’m going to take orders. You make the drinks and—

Dr. Acker has requested a book for one of his summer classes. It’s out of print and almost impossible to get. I tried explaining that to him, but he insists he needs that particular text. Nothing else will do. I’ve found a half dozen used copies through Textnet, but I need about a dozen more. I don’t know what these professors expect—

Pause! Pamela said. This was a technique she’d developed to halt Jessica’s frequent rants. Though Jessica was at least twenty years Pamela’s senior, at times Pamela felt like a parent trying to wrangle a hyperactive child. We can discuss this later after Charlie comes in at two and can take over things here at the café. In the meantime, I’ll take the orders, you make the drinks. Got it?

Jessica looked unhappy, but then she always looked unhappy. Sometimes she reminded Pamela of that old cartoon dog that seems perpetually depressed even when he’s happy. However, Jessica nodded her assent.

As Pamela took the next order, she found herself hoping desperately that Charlie wouldn’t call out. He was her most reliable barista, but today had already turned into such a cluster, she wouldn’t have been surprised by anything.

God, I hate nice days, she thought. Why couldn’t it be raining?

***

11:50am

Eugene McArthur and his wife Helen wandered off the paved path that wound around Friedkin Lake, taking a seat in the wooden gazebo and watching a gaggle of geese float across the sparkling water in a V formation. Eugene took his wife’s hand and squeezed it.

Thanks for insisting we get out, she said, smiling at him. It’s too lovely to spend another day cooped up.

Eugene lifted Helen’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. They had been married fifty-five years this past January, but she was still his best friend. The passionate side of their relationship had died down a long time ago, but