The Flood

Updated: Jun 9

On the fifth day the water was upto our necks and we still couldn’t plug the holes. It didn’t matter. We were content to let the tides consume everything from the living room to the den, but God help us if the dining room was submerged. Rachel for one couldn’t take the idea. The sight of so much dishware at the bottom of the inland sea would probably drive her to ritual suicide.

On the sixth day the water was well above our heads and the boats had to be deployed. Adams was the only man brave enough among us to risk the voyage to the kitchen. He promised us that with three stout men he could secure enough food to last us weeks. I told him that if he wasn’t back in two days we’d have to try and make it to the second floor without him.

On the seventh day more holes appeared in the drywall and the waters grew fierce. The dining room was lost. Nothing could be done.

On the eighth day Adams returned in triumph. He and his small expedition had brought back an entire case of beans and three boxes of crackers. He told us of giant squids and humpback whales drifting through the pantry and the sharks that prowled above the stove. He spoke of a storm that nearly sank them and the refrigerator light that was their beacon in the darkness. We made landfall near the television and ate well long into the night.

Day nine came and went without incident, however, Rachel was becoming increasingly despondent.

On the tenth day the waters rose again and we had no choice but to try for the stairs to the second floor. Adams commanded one boat, while Prowly and I took charge of the others. The going was hard all day, the tide fierce. It was nearly evening by the time we caught sight of the handrail and then somewhere in the living room a window broke. We managed to tie the boats together before the rush could overtake us, but the current was too strong and by midnight we were adrift somewhere off the upright piano.

On the eleventh day, tragedy. Rachel vanished over the course of the night and Adams stubbornly insisted on mounting a search effort. He would not accept that she had most likely thrown herself overboard and drowned. For some reason he clung to the irrational hope that it had been an accident and that she was somewhere, adrift in the inland sea. Despite my pleas and the rising waters, Adams and several others sailed off on their own. Nothing could be done to dissuade them.

On the twelfth day Prowly, myself, and the few who stayed with us, finally reached the stairs. We set anchor and waited for the rising waters to fill what remained of the first floor, hoping for a fresh start on the second. Prowly said that it wouldn’t take long. More holes were appearing daily. The sea was turning to an ocean. Then he wondered aloud why we never thought to plug those holes when they first appeared. To this I had no answer.

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