01/03/2026
Chapter One: The G-Mix
Karla dreamed she was floating.
Not falling. Not rising. Just suspended—an astronaut adrift in the void, untethered, weightless. There was no sound, no sight, no feeling at all. Only smell.
Salt. Rot. Seaweed.
The odor pressed in on her, thick and insistent, as if it had weight. It pulled at her, tugged her forward, drew her closer with a force she didn’t understand and couldn’t resist. Her balance wavered, the universe tilting just enough to warn her that something was wrong.
She woke with a gasp.
Her body was slick with sweat, yet a violent chill ripped through her bones. Her heart hammered as she sat up, breath shallow, instinct screaming before her mind could catch up. She swung her legs over the side of the bed—
—and planted her feet in water.
Cold.
Karla froze.
Wet?
No. That wasn’t right.
The floor wasn’t supposed to be wet.
She looked down. Water rippled around her ankles, dark and moving, swallowing the carpet. Her first thought was the bathroom—an overflowing toilet, a busted pipe, something explainable. Fixable.
Then the smell hit her again.
Seaweed.
That same pungent, briny stench from her dream filled the room, curling into her nose, coating her tongue. This wasn’t tap water. This wasn’t anything that belonged inside her house.
This was foreign.
Contaminated. Alive with who-knew-what—pathogens, chemicals, things that could make you sick just by touching them.
And then she knew.
“Momma?” Karla whispered, panic sharpening her voice as she searched blindly for her shoes. One floated past the bed like a forgotten toy. She snatched it up. The other bobbed nearby. Socks didn’t matter. She shoved her feet into the sodden sneakers and bolted for the door.
Her mother was elderly. Frail. Slowed by rheumatoid arthritis that gnawed at her joints, swelling them, grinding cartilage and bone until movement itself became an act of endurance. Medication dulled the pain, but nothing erased it.
Whatever this was—however it had come—it could kill her.
The hallway was dark, the water higher now, sloshing with each step. The smell was overwhelming, making Karla gag. Her imagination betrayed her, flashing images of things lurking beneath the surface—snakes, alligators, nightmares born of floodwater and fear.
She pushed them away and reached the hall closet.
Lifeguard gear.
Who would’ve thought those summers at Sam Bonart Playground and Pool on Forstall—the whistles, the drills, the endless training—would matter like this?
She grabbed two life jackets, pulled one over her own head, then snatched dry towels and clean blankets from the top shelf. Her arms burned as she hurried toward her mother’s room.
“Momma?” she called, louder now.
“Karla?” her mother answered, confused, sitting upright in bed. “What’s going on? Where all this water coming from?”
“I don’t know,” Karla said, already moving. “But we gotta go. Now.”
Her mother looked down at herself—just a thin nightgown, bare legs trembling. “Go where?”
“Away from here.” Karla slipped the life jacket onto her mother, hands shaking. “Please. We gotta move fast.”
“I can’t go out the house like this,” her mother protested. “I need my pants. My shoes.”
Karla scanned the room, spotted jeans folded on the bureau, grabbed them along with a Walmart bag. “Here. Put these on. Hurry.”
“I don’t like this, Karla,” her mother said, voice cracking as she struggled into the pants.
“Me neither, Momma,” Karla replied softly. “But it is what it is.”
She wrapped a blanket around her mother’s shoulders, stuffed the rest into the bag, and helped her stand. Her mother wobbled, unsteady, pain slowing every movement.
“Be careful,” Karla urged, holding her tight. “Come on. We have to hurry.”
“I’m moving as fast as I can,” her mother snapped weakly. “Ain’t this water contaminated?”
“Probably,” Karla said. Definitely, she thought. “But we don’t got a choice.”
They reached the foot of the bed, and her mother stopped.
“My oxygen tank.”
Karla swore under her breath. “I forgot. Hold on.”
“What about my house?” her mother asked again, fear turning to grief. “All my stuff?”
“We have to leave it.”
“What about my medicine? If my arthritis starts acting up—”
“I got it,” Karla said quickly, pressing her mother’s hand to the bedpost. “Hold on. Don’t let go.”
She gathered the pill bottles, grabbed the oxygen tank, strapped it onto her back, then returned to her mother.
The living room was devastation.
Water knee-deep. Furniture soaked and ruined. Generations of memories drowned without ceremony. Her mother’s face crumpled as she took it in.
“Why me, Jesus?” she sobbed. “Why my house?”
Karla helped her onto the couch, her own throat tight. “Stand up here while I grab some trash bags.”
“I can’t stand long.”
“I’ll be right back.”
As Karla turned away, her mother’s voice stopped her. “I don’t wanna leave. I worked my whole life for this. Some of this been in our family for generations.”
Karla didn’t answer.
In the kitchen, she stuffed trash bags with whatever seemed essential—light, useful, necessary. On impulse, she grabbed a steak knife and slid it into her vest pocket.
When she returned, her mother was lying down on the soaked couch, eyes closed.
“Momma!” Karla shouted. “What are you doing?!”
“Just leave me,” her mother said quietly. “Let me die with my stuff.”
Karla dropped the bags, pulled her upright, and cupped her face in both hands. Tears streamed freely now.
“Listen to me,” she said fiercely. “I am not leaving you. I will not let you die. But I need you to help me. We save us together. You hear me?”
Her mother nodded.
“Okay, baby,” she whispered.
Karla replaced the wet blanket with a dry one and squeezed her hand. “Now,” she said, “let’s get out of here.” from my book: Gutta: The G-Mix coming 2026 from Keyono " Buck " Cook and CookBook Publications ‼️💯
