Ralph Walker

THE TOXICITY OF WATER

Everything was damp again. Nothing had soaked all the way through, but the wet parts would bloom into mold or worse if he let it go. He pressed a dry sponge against the base of the wooden toolbox, soaking up what he could. The color faded a shade with each pass. Inside the open top, the Ziploc seals were tight, but the metal had gouged the bags too many times. Moisture would get in again soon.

“Is there any more saran, Dot?”

“Not for metal, Sherman. I need it for the cheese, and the herbs.” She called back.

“We shouldn’t preserve them if they don’t have any flavor left.” He said it loud enough she might hear him, if she bothered to listen. It was an old fight. She wanted to save the basil and the tarragon. He wanted to save the Philips heads and the Allan keys. They were both right.

Sherman left the tool box in a slice of sunlight and shuffled back across loose pallets to their main house. It pained him use that word to describe their dwelling. The stand of tent poles he had lashed was working pretty well. High over the wheels the truck bed was cramped but dry. Dot had rolled back their quilted roof of tarps to let things air out for the afternoon. The potted plants were doing fine on the ground, but he needed a better place for his toolbox. Once the rain returned, he couldn’t leave the metals out in the elements. All too soon they’d surely rust.

Maybe he shouldn’t be concerned. They’d have to be moving along again before too long, looking for higher ground. No matter what Dot thought they couldn’t resettle, not here. It wouldn’t matter if the rains came or not.

Sherman climbed onto the steel bumper and sat on what used to be his old nightstand. King James was still stuffed in the top drawer along with his will and a Smith and Wesson he had never learned to shoot. He pulled off his boots and socks and dropped them onto the welcome mat Dot had grabbed in the panic. He pulled a dirty towel off the igloo cooler and dried his feet. The wrinkles of age and wet were impossible to discern.

Dot worked a roux, shaking flour over the shallow pan. He paused at her shoulder. “How much do we have left?”

“Enough to have a decent meal with your grandson.” She worked the shredded bacon in between the cattails and cabbage. From the bite in her voice Sherman knew they wouldn’t need any pepper, at least not tonight.

“I don’t like him coming here.” He said.

“Why, because you are embarrassed? This will be his someday too. Besides it isn’t your choice. I invited him.”

Sherman grumbled as he crossed the flatbed and sat on a dining room chair to rub his corns. Dead skin peeled under his thumb. The itch felt good.

#

Hunter climbed over the third felled tree and got back on the asphalt. He strode up Rose Glen Road alongside the guardrail. The tree’s shadows were long but the sky was still a day tone of blue. A dozen wooden pallets fitted together into a makeshift deck, bordered by potted vegetables, an unlit lantern, and Sherman’s wooden toolbox. Two plastic deckchairs waited, vacant in the center. The truck was parked on the uphill side, straddling a wet stone gutter. The cab was dark, but the curved plastic roof glowed. Slices of lantern light poked out between the outer wall of book shelves and dressers. He could hear the action inside.

The fry pan sizzled and popped while Dorothy stirred. A metal canister snapped like a snare drum as Sherman dropped in hardware and plucked it back out again. Hunter ducked his head under the tarp.

“Hi Nana.” The boy’s smile was wide as he hopped up to the bumper. The flat bed tow truck had been a blessing. Solid engine, high wheelbase, large bed, it had mostly kept them out of the wet and made it easy to move, but there really wasn’t enough room to bring everything. They had a little extra elbow room when they could make camp and spread out.

He dumped his deflated dry pack next to their boots. She put down the spoon and wrapped an arm around her kin’s neck, kissing him on the cheek from behind. “I have an extra pair for you.” She pulled a knot of frayed white athletic socks from the leg pocket of her over-worn fatigues.

Hunter smiled over his shoulder. “Thanks Nana, but I brought my own.” His skinny arm held up a pair of grey woolies. He dried his feet and donned the socks.

Hunter half stood, half crouched under the arched tarp and picked his way toward the dining table that dominated the flatbed. Careful to stay on the knotted carpet, he ducked under mason jars hanging from the bents and high stepped over plastic milk crates on the floor. Sherman kept every version of grinder and screwdriver and bowsaw he could find. Hunter wasn’t sure what he was saving the hand tools for, but he seemed to have one of every type should some need arise.

“How far have the waters receded?” Sherman never waited to ask the most important question.

“Not far enough.” Hunter stretched out a hand to his grandfather.

The smaller man shook hands with his grandson and pulled the boy in for an awkward embrace. The kid had grown long, like his mother. His features were flat; ears pressed back, hands like paddles, too thin around the middle. Dot always tried to ply him with scrapple or pork roll when they could get it, but he always pushed it back to them. He never did eat enough meat.

“Not far enough.” Sherman repeated as he let the boy go. “Where are you working?”

Hunter straddled a crate with a pillow top and pulled up to the dining table that doubled as Dorothy and Sherman’s bed. “Got a dive gig out of Pennsauken. They’ve taken half a dozen of us.”

“Dive gig?” Dot smiled back. “Sounds like you’ll need seconds.”

“Based on what I smell, I might need thirds.”

#

The meal didn’t last long. Dot stretched the bacon and cattails as far as they would go. Everyone ate enough. After plates were cleaned Sherman fished a gallon jug from behind his chair. He poured three shots of cloudy clear into Dot’s favorite teacups.

She raised the cup to her nose and let the moonshine touch her lips. She smiled adoringly at her husband and pushed the cup to her grandson. “You need the hair on your chest more than me.”

Hunter, mid-sip, almost spit at his grandmother’s statement. He gulped down his drink. “I’m not fifteen anymore Nana. I’m pretty well done growing.”

“I hope so, or I’m going to have to raid some highlander’s pantry before you visit anymore.” She reached across and mussed his hair.

Sherman sipped his drink. Hunter slowed himself down, watching the older man. The space heater splashed a warm orange light across the plastic and hung glass. Their shadows danced on the checkerboard tablecloth.

“I’m working on the peninsula.” Hunter watched his grandfather’s face.

“Oh?” He took another sip. “North end?”

“No. The Schuylkill.”

Sherman’s eyes found Dot’s. He tipped back his teacup, finished his drink and folded his hands. “Are they diving the west side of Philly again? We heard the water has been too fast.”

“They’ve been dropping temporary eddies. The water is shallower too, not receded, not yet, but shallower. Besides, north Philly has been picked over.” Hunter said.

“You best be careful.” Sherman frowned. “Those temporary eddies just make the water go faster, other side of the structures.

“I know Grandpop.” Hunter’s lips flattened.

“Do you think you’ll be going down Twenty Fourth Street?” Dot asked.

“They have to do the whole city Dorothy. Don’t get your hopes up. Every block is swamped.”

“They showed us new maps today. Rooflines are emerging for some two story buildings north of Grey’s Ferry. Tidal water isn’t getting past Reed Street anymore. Everything is still swamped, but it’s a pool, not a river.” Hunter focused on his grandmother. “I don’t know what there will be to recover, but I have to go down Twenty Fourth Street each way. It can’t hurt to look.”

Sherman muttered under his breath.

“It is as much his as ours.” Dot’s eyes were on her husband.

Sherman licked his top lip, feeling the chapped skin. “Diving a wreck isn’t anything like salvage. You’ll do more damage than good. You should wait for the waters to drop.”

Hunter expected this argument. “And if they never recede? I can’t do anything if there is nothing left to salvage.”

“So why go? The buildings are surely unstable. The water might be toxic. Don’t put yourself at risk. You are more important to us than anything else.” Sherman flipped his teacup upside down.

“Because some salvager is going to get in there sooner or later. We both know it is better if it is me. Besides, I know what to look for.” The man-boy stood up and gathered his dry bag from the rear of the truck. He pinched the compressor seal letting the bright orange rubber expand with new air. Reaching inside he pulled out a rolled towel, still damp. Tenderly he unrolled the cloth across the table and motioned to his grandmother. She leaned in close to see. Dozens of large seeds were revealed.

She picked at a seed with a crooked finger. “Pumpkin?” she asked hopefully.

Hunter nodded. “We found them two days ago. There was a bushel that hadn’t burst. We each took one.”

She silently counted the seeds. “Those are worth-“

“They aren’t worth anything if you can’t plant them.” Hunter interrupted. “I figured you’d know what to do with them better than most.” He turned back to his grandfather. “The pilots think the water rose calmly on some streets. When the sea wall broke the river’s inflow balanced against the tide somewhere around Passyunk. Most of Center City is probably a big swimming pool.”

“Doesn’t mean anything survived. There are only six steps from the kitchen to the street.”

“I should still look.”

#

Dot rinsed the plates, stowing them in the nightstand. Sherman folded up the table leaf, widening the surface so he could lay with his wife in their bed, such as it was. Hunter walked with the lantern and tucked down the hem of the tarps outside. The three met at the bumper. Sherman hopped down in bare feet.

“They say the rain is coming hard next week.” Hunter said.

Sherman nodded.

“Are you going to stay here?”

Sherman looked back at Dot, out to the woods, then down the road to the felled trees. A few electric lights tried to peak through the foliage. “She’d like to, but we can’t stay long. Someone is going to clear those trees eventually.”

Hunter looked back to his grandmother. She was sitting close to the lantern, counting the seeds again. The two men moved towards the edge of camp. He clasped his grandfather’s shoulder. “Don’t go far.”

“We won’t. If we go, you’ll find us on higher ground. We’ll leave our mark.” He put out his hand for a shake.

Hunter felt the metal pushed into his palm.

Sherman leaned close. “Your grandmother is right. It is as much yours as ours. Be careful.”

#

The next morning Hunter traversed a cable bridge to the 676 platform. The onramps had all washed away, but there was more than a half mile of elevated concrete road that remained stable. Private salvage crews had set up to work off the platform. A dozen slips and a pair of small cranes were enough to handle their operation.

Three flat boats were still docked. Hunter followed the others onto a steel hulled salvager and found a spot on the bench. Tesso climbed on after the last diver, and marched back to the open cabin. She started the gas engine and let it rumble, while she stalked the deck; checking hoses, compressors and the winch. Her face hid behind oversized sunglasses and a ball cap. She didn’t make eye contact with any of the divers. She threw off the bow rope and pushed the boat out from the slip, before returning to the captain’s chair.

Hunter stared at the river. They were floating fast along with the brown blue water. He couldn’t see bottom.

Without warning, Tesso turned the wheel and gunned the throttle.

Hunter reached for the steel bench, but couldn’t stop himself from slamming into Roy, a muscle bound diver next to him. Moesha, in her three point subway stance, snickered at him from across the way.

“Sorry.”

Roy shrugged it off.

Moesha was still laughing. Hunter turned to her and shouted over the engine. “Do you know how many streets we are doing today?” She wore the same hot pink tiger stripe swim shirt he had seen her in the on the last five dives. Her flippers were cut short and tipped with neon green electrical tape. On their first dive together she had joked it was the closest thing she’d had to a pedicure since the waters rose.

“Panama, Pine, Waverly, maybe Lombard.” She shouted back.

“That’s it?”

She looked at him sideways while she wrapped her spool. “We aren’t making it to South Street yet.”

“I don’t care about South Street.”

She squeezed up her face and looked at Roy. “He doesn’t care about South Street. I told you this kid is a tourist.”

Roy considered Hunter again.

“I’m in this for more than money.”

Moesha raised her eyebrow. “Oh? You’re a Samaritan huh? If you want to drop concrete boxes or pull bodies the Feds are looking for volunteers. They could use a nice boy like you. You could swim down and try to find some of those babies still strapped into their car seats. You look like the kind who wants to be a hero.”

Hunter had heard the story. A diver had found two twins still strapped in. The driver had crashed and drown, but the minivan floated. One baby survived, sucking on a pocket of air. The other – Hunter shivered. “I’m no Samaritan.” He wasn’t a hero either.

“Good, ’cause I don’t got time for that. We need to get our shit done so we can get to South Street. That is where the money is at.” Moesha spat.

The chop calmed as they passed between two apartment buildings, each kneeling in the muddy water. Hunter said a silent prayer as they entered the city of brotherly love.

#

The early dives were short. There was barely a thing worth salvaging on Panama or Pine. The boat bottom was littered with sealed bottles of motor oil, scrap metal and garden hoses. Hunter grabbed some faucets and a shower head. One of the others found a wallet and a few dollars cash, still dry in a Ziploc. Tesso made him give her the cash and throw back the leather. No one was getting rich today. They would barely cover fuel costs.

Waverly had been a different story. They found a firetruck and an ambulance submerged under a collapsed building. The truck had been marked on the salvage maps a full block away, but it must have drifted. Underwater it was impossible to tell if the building had fallen violently from the impact or crumpled over in slow motion. Either way the brick had heaped on the truck. Most of the divers worked the ladder truck. Hunter followed Moesha and Simon to the ambulance.

“I got an air pocket in the back.” Simon called out over the two way.

Hunter swam down to find the hatch open. The gurney was gone. Most of the cabinets hung open. A pyramid of stale air was trapped in the top. Simon’s torso was above the water line stuffing medical supplies into his dry bag. Hunter stayed below and grabbed at anything that looked like it might survive.

Moesha swam in. “You leave anything for me crabs?”

“Closest to the door.” Simon said, pointing back into the water towards the defibrillator and the ready kits.

“Shorted out batteries and water logged gauze? Gee thanks.” She grabbed the bags anyway.

#

One by one the divers surfaced, chucking cinched orange dry-bags and loose hunks of metal over the side of the skiff.

“Anything worthwhile in the truck?” Moesha asked, still treading water.

“Some meds and parts. Roy got the best stuff.”

The barrel chested black man was already aboard. He held a massive tool over his head and smiled. “The Jaws of Life!” He flipped a switch and the combo tool started right up. It looked brand new. “Air pockets in the upper cabinets. Everything was dry.”

Moesha pushed off. “I’ve got air left. I’ll go back down.” She wasn’t one to leave a cache for someone else.

“No!” Hunter said it too quick.

“I want to get paid off that truck. We should go back down.” Moesha looked at Tesso.

An oversized air bubble rose and popped on the port side of the boat. Simon stared at it. “Somebody left a door open. Things are shifting.”

Tesso logged what they had pulled up on her clipboard. “We got enough. Get on board Moesha. Nobody is swimming home.”

A pair of cut flippers with green electrical tape flew over the side.

Tesso stopped in front of Hunter. “You know something?”

“No. I just want to get further south.”

“Everybody wants to get to South Street.” Simon parroted Moesha.

Back onto the boat she shook off the water and shot a middle finger at Simon. “He doesn’t care about South Street. He’s not in it for the money. He is some fucking Samaritan.”

Tesso ignored the wet tigress. “Where?”

Hunter felt her gaze. He looked at the other divers. No one was here for sentimental reasons. They all had families to feed or debts to pay. Everyone had lost something. At the same time, with the take from the firetruck they had already made money. The sun was high enough in the sky. There was still gas in the engine.

“Twenty Fourth Street.”

“Twenty Fourth and what?” Tesso didn’t budge.

“Naudain.” Hunter regretted it as soon as he gave it breath.

“Oh come on kid. That is a waste of air.” Roy said.

Tesso pulled her cap down and returned to the cabin. She put a foot up against the wheel and pulled out her charts, letting them drift while the divers hashed it out.

“What is so special about Twenty Fourth and Naudain?” Simon asked.

“Nothing. It isn’t South Street.” Moesha snapped.

Hunter looked at Simon and doubled down. “The feds cleared it early, but no one has picked it over yet, not once since the flood.”

“You think there is something worth finding there?” Simon asked.

“It doesn’t matter. The river blew it out. You’ve seen the maps. Those streets got power washed. There isn’t going to be anything worth looking for.” Moesha settled.

“I don’t think so. When the Atlantic charged up the rivers and the water turned back into the city some of the streets were sluiceways, but not all. Sure Penrose, Passyunk, Oregon got punched in the mouth, but they run east west.”

“So?”

“Twenty Fourth Street runs north south. We’ve all seen it. Some streets are underwater, but barely have any damage at all. The water came up slower, calmer in a few places. I think it is worth a look.”

“There was nothing there worth saving before the rise.” Moesha said.

Hunter swallowed the sting. “Maybe not in the stores, but there were wealthy people living in the apartments. They must have had silver, brass, maybe some jewelry?”

“I’m not dry-walking. Anything above the high water line is still stealing.” Roy piped up.

Another burp of large bubbles popped next to the boat.

Roy was right. They couldn’t ransack dry floors, but Hunter didn’t need anything above the second story. Dot and Sherman’s colonial had fully flooded. Only the attic and roof deck remained dry in the surge. Last week’s flyover pictures gave Hunter hope.

“Tesso swiveled back on her chair and called from the cabin. “How much did you get so far?”

Hunter rifled through his dry bag. “Eight prescription bottles, an Epi-Pen, two IV bags, a couple of faucets, some copper pipe. Enough.”

She nodded at Roy. “And you got your toys?”

He nodded back.

She got out of her chair and walked the deck, scanning the rest of the divers. “Everybody is already getting paid today.” The divers all nodded. She stopped in front of Hunter. “You know something about this block.”

“I do.”

“You want to go so bad. Give it up.”

Hunter swallowed. “That section of Naudian is a pretty rich block. I used to help people out in that neighborhood, handyman type stuff. Seemed like any other block, but everyone was a little richer; nice watches, jewelry, collectables. Everyone paid in cash.  I know at least one guy kept his valuables in a floor safe, the watertight kind.” Enough was true that he kept the whole boat’s attention.

“How would you know about the safe?” Simon asked.

“I put it in, between the floor joists.”

“When you were fifteen?”

“Twelve. My Dad was the one they hired. He could build just about anything. I tagged along and helped out.”

“A floor safe sounds promising.” Moesha pulled a map up on the dive tablet.

“Might be enough for one, but I got a boat full of divers. What else is there Hunter?” Tesso wasn’t convinced.

“There are two banks on the block.”

“ATMs are a waste of time. Too much work to salvage and the parts are worth less than the cash inside.” Roy said.

Hunter had played his last card. If his story wasn’t enough they would surely skip the block today, maybe all together.

“Pawn shop!” Moesha called out. “Sign said ‘Diamond Broker’ too.” The owners had an apartment on the block. They weren’t going anywhere.”

Roy smiled. “Hard goods. I can get behind that.”

Simon leaned across Moesha to Hunter. “I thought you said this was a rich block?”

Moesha slapped Simon on the cheek playfully. “Some people are rich in ways you just wouldn’t understand.”

Tesso turned back to the cabin. “Sounds like we have a winner. We only have an hour to dive. Everybody in?” She started the engine back up, not bothering to wait for an answer. The flat boat cut a hard turn sending a foamy wake in all directions.

Hunter lost his balance and reached for the rail. He missed and grabbed Moesha’s arm instead.

“Don’t go getting fresh. You got your dive.”

Hunter’s eyes widened. He slid back to his place.

Moesha’s face softened, flashing a stark white smile against her coffee face. “Tell me about that safe.”

“Second floor, under a four poster bed.”

“Am I gonna find your baby pictures in it?”

Hunter looked at her in disbelief.

She turned the tablet so he could see it. A search page for the phone book was open next to the map. “Ceppelli right?”

There was no denying it. His name was printed in black on his dry bag and the leg of his wetsuit.

“This is your parent’s house?”

“Grandparents. Don’t tell.”

“There ain’t nothing to tell. I’m not looking for heirlooms. I’m in this for the good stuff.” Her finger was on the corner building with Mr. Hiltor’s pawn shop. “Diamonds right?”

Hunter nodded.

“Perpendicular current.” Simon yelled over the motor. “Top water is running eight miles an hour west to east. There might be an undertow. This is real close to the confluence between the Schuykill and the Atlantic.”

“So this is a waste of time. Nothing should be standing.” Roy said.

“The roofs are still there. It could be a lagoon. Maybe the currents balanced each other out.” Hunter had been thinking about this for days.

Simon shook his head. “Wishful thinking. If the pressure somehow balanced, I’d bet as soon as somebody pops a window the whole place comes down. There is no way this section is stable.”

“So stay on the boat if you don’t have the stones to dive Simon.” Moesha dared. “All of Philly is unstable.”

The engine quieted.

“Gear up.” Tesso commanded. “We’re here.”

Barely a floor of the old colonials peaked above the water line. Skirts of broken branches gathered high around the trunks of street trees. One flat roof was piled with crates and suitcases. More than half had been opened and rifled through by weather or wanderer, or most likely wind. A dress fluttered in the breeze, its hanger caught on a roof gutter. It was the same as almost every other street Hunter had seen, but that was his grandparent’s house. That was his mother’s dress.

“The pawnshop was there on the first floor.” He pointed southwest, the opposite corner from the fluttering polka dots. “The valuable stuff is either in the basement or the second floor. I’d check both.”

“Are you sure?” Roy asked.

He looked back at his fellow divers. Sure you aren’t going to find anything of value. Mr. Hiltor only ever dealt in rhinestones, digital watches and pop guns. “Pretty sure. Look for the blacked out windows.” Hunter needed the time. He started to ready his gear.

Moesha was already ready to dive. She had washed out the filter on her rebreather and cleared her snorkel. Two orange dry bags were knotted to her shoulder straps. A finisher’s claw hung from her belt and a shiny set of pointed of pointed brass knuckles weighed down her unwebbed hand. She smiled at Hunter as if she might eat him for lunch. “Smash and grab, right!”

He shrugged on his own kit and knotted the bags at his waist. “Yeah, smash and grab.”

Simon was kneeling over the rail, fingers in the water. He stared at the water surface trying to read the currents. “You see that?” Two blocks down, a peaked slate roof floated by, chimney and all. Simon counted out loud as it passed. “Top water has to be going at least ten miles an hour.

None of the divers paid much attention when Simon got like this. His head spun around looking from face to face for someone else to reinforce his anxiety.

“Tesso?”

“What Simon?”

“Are we moving? I mean do you have the engine going? You are pushing against the current to keep us in one place. Right?”

Tesso stepped away from the Captain’s chair, putting her hands halfway up. “Do you hear anything?” The ignition key hung from her fingers in plain sight. The whole boat was still, floating midblock, barely a ripple in the water. “Are you getting wet?”

Simon looked past the key at the islands of brick and shingles, resting in still water. “Where is the stake?”

Moesha pointed to the low rise brick building that marked the corner. “You better hurry if you think I am going to share any of those diamonds.”

Simon’s eyes followed the ridge of water that crossed just beyond the face of the target building. “The confluence between fast and slow water is the most unstable part of the current. You don’t know what you’ll find.”

“Exactly, so go find something. You’ve got fifty minutes. Simon, if you don’t dive you can swim back. We’ll go to South Street on our own.” Tesso restarted the engine.

Hunter leaned into Simon. “Stay north of the intersection. The whole thing is an eddy. Calm waters.” He pulled on his mask.

“No such thing as calm. Held back, or contained maybe, but it is just waiting to flow.” Simon pulled his filter and cleared it.

#

Six divers flipped over the side in unison. The first four swam straight for the corner, but the other two didn’t rush. Hunter sank straight down under the boat, wanting to put space between him and the rest of them. Simon was just a slow coward.

Hunter fell all the way to the street before turning on his headlamp. The street looked mostly clear, almost clean. The postbox was still mounted to the sidewalk. Doors were still on their hinges. The windows weren’t even broken. It was eerie swimming here. It was as if someone had turned on all the bathtubs on the block, and let them run forever. Stuff that floated found its way out, but anything bolted down had stayed in place.

Hunter started for number eighty eight, following the path he would have taken from the bus. It was weird to swim instead of walk. The nylon straps of his diving gear cut into his shoulders like when his old backpack, weighed down with school books, used to. Tiny bits of his old life swirled about. His headlamp caught scraps churned up when the waters rose; plastic shopping bags, a broken child’s car, the cover of a smoke alarm. The rest had fallen, collecting in the corners like piles of leaves in the fall, caught between stoops.

“Six on the pawn shop.” The crackle startled him. No one communicated much at the start of a dive. Everyone was looking for their own stake before they helped out the rest of the boat.

Six steps up, the black door with its brass knocker looked unharmed. Hunter rolled down the waistband of his wetsuit and pulled out a single key. His grandfather had never trusted anyone with that key before, just like his father had never trusted anyone with the keys to his truck. The stamped brass slid into the deadbolt and turned with a jiggle. Kicking his feet, Hunter pushed open the door.

Between the swelling and the rug the door only cracked open eighteen inches before locking in place. He could have popped the hinges or busted the frame, but that was a last resort. Hunter unstrapped his rebreather and pushed it through in front of him as he swam in the house. He didn’t even bother unclipping his spool. He knew his way around.

The living room looked as if someone had picked it up and dropped it. The brown leather couch Sherman loved to nap on, was cracked and swollen in a corner. Stacks of beloved books and magazines were nothing more than wet rags. Somehow the pictures had stayed on the walls. Hunter kept moving.

Nana’s kitchen was mostly cleaned out. She was the one who had insisted they leave. Sherman had called her a busy body, but she was always plugged in. The under counter monitor was still hanging over the stove, splattered with grease. She loved watching the feeds while she cooked, keeping up on the latest murder investigation or crime report. Every Thanksgiving she made an extra apple crumb cake to walk down to the firehouse. As he got bigger she made Hunter carry it for her, and she introduced him to each of the ‘Heroes of Engine Company nine’.

Maybe she was being overdramatic, but she had started packing before the water mounted the first step. They had been lucky the flatbed started that day. Sherman only had it to replace the fuel pump for Dad the night before. He never did finish fixing the radio.

“Twenty minutes. Status report.” Tesso was in his ear.

“Four cleaning out the pawn shop. Roy and I are scouting for the diamonds. Basement is mostly collapsed. I don’t think Ceppelli had it right.” Moesha said, more for Hunter than Tesso.

“Hunter?” Tesso scolded through the static.

“Did they clean out the second floor? Try the apartments next door. I think they owned those too.” He wanted more time.

“Where are you?” Moesha asked.

Hunter swam up the stairs.

“Who has eyes on Ceppelli?” Moesha asked.

“He’s midblock. There is a door cracked. Number eighty eight.” Simon said.

“Are you with him?” Tesso asked.

“No. My spool got caught up. I’m outside.”

“Safety first Simon. Safety first.” Moesha taunted. “I’m coming to you.”

The door to his grandparent’s bedroom wouldn’t budge. Sherman must have closed it tight before they left. Now swollen, the opening was the strongest part of the wall. Hunter swam into the adjacent room, his father’s childhood bedroom, and found the closet. Closet walls were always the thinnest in these old colonials. He remembered listening through the walls while his mother searched for him on the other side as they played hide and seek. He pulled a drywall knife from the sheaf at his leg. The jagged blade made short work of the wall board, leaving a hole between the studs just large enough.

The bedroom was a disaster. Small unrecognizable bits of his grandparent’s old life swirled around. Once they had decided to leave Dorothy hadn’t worried about the state of affairs they left behind.

Hunter swallowed hard. He wished his parents had heeded the same warnings.

He pushed the waterlogged mattress and frame up and over. The safe was recessed in the hardwood floor, fully exposed. The false floorboards had floated out of place. Hunter knelt focusing his light on the dial: eleven, six, fifty four. Sherman always used his wedding anniversary for the combination, said it was the only way he could remember. Hunter wasn’t sure if he meant the combination or the anniversary.

The dry safe door popped open and a gasp of air escaped around Hunter’s face. Grey brown water flooded in. A stack of papers almost as old as his family immediately began to disintegrate. Ink divorced from pulp. Paper curled over on itself. Hunter grabbed what he could, trying to stuff the birth certificates and deeds, and wedding licenses into the dry bag. They were lost, his family’s paper history washed away in still water. A few trinkets lay in the bottom; a pair of medals from Sherman’s father’s army service, a short string of pearls, an opal ring, a dozen coins from some other shore. Hunter stuffed them all in, wishing he didn’t have to claim his inheritance this way.

A light crossed the room.

“There you are.” Hunter heard Moesha in his ear. She was floating outside the bedroom window along with Simon and Roy. “Find your baby pictures?”

Hunter didn’t wait. He cinched the bag shut and swam for the closet. He ran the compressor as he moved, caving the rubber in on itself, tight to its contents. There was one more thing he needed.

Moesha smashed the glass with her brass knuckle, getting inside in an instant. Ray ripped the hinges off the bedroom door, while Moesha cut the frame. Hunter was already up the stairs when they broke through.

Water topped out a foot above the last step. Hunter splashed out, feeling the weight of his gear. The attic was the hardest. His parents had moved up there after Dad’s job was gone. Hunter couldn’t linger over the four poster bed tucked under the dormer. He went straight to the deck.

The screen door was off its hinges. Muddy water splashed around his knees. Outside he pulled up his mask, catching his breath. Cushions floated, trapped inside the railing. The metal chairs were long gone. Across the submerged courtyard, a row of five roof decks all poked out, just like the one he stood on. He remembered playing in the yards below, under a canopy of strung up laundry and chattering neighbors, calling across the rooftops. His mother used to sit up here and talk with his grandmother while he scampered about below.

Trapped between the row houses the water was still.

The pots were still there!

Moesha crashed outside. “Why are you up here? What are you doing? Taking in the view? If you are done diving get back to the boat. You are going to lose your stake if you keep this shit up.”

Hunter kneeled in the water and looked under the leaves. The fruit was plump and purple and red. A few had already burst, but at least six looked healthy. He unzipped his wetsuit and pulled a hand towel from his breast.

Moesha looked over his shoulder. “Tomatoes? You came out here for tomatoes? What was in the safe Hunter?”

He plucked a fist sized tomato from the stem and cradled it in his palm. “My inheritance.” He wrapped the fruit and placed it tenderly in a dry bag. “These are Morados, my family’s heirlooms. Do you want one? More are ripe on the vine than I can carry.”

“I don’t want one of your goddamn tomatoes! Tomatoes don’t pay the bills. Where is the jewelry, the cash, the diamonds? This your house, your neighborhood. Where are the fucking valuables?”

The water started to ripple. Hunter held out a second tomato to Moesha.

She shook her head. “There isn’t anything here is there?”

“Here, take one. It’s the last of their kind. There aren’t any more like them.”

The house started to shift. Simon emerged from the attic, his spool unwinding behind him. Ray followed, untethered.

“The structure is breaking.” Simon called out. His head turned on a swivel, barely holding back panic as he looked for an escape route.

Ray still had his mask on. “Tesso will bring the boat to us.”

“Where is she?” Simon asked.

Hunter pointed to the main roof. Simon and Ray didn’t wait, pulling themselves up and over, back towards the street.

“The pawn shop just collapsed.” Simon called back, now in full panic. “We have to go.”

Moesha took a tomato, stowing it in her bag and gave Hunter a look. “Last of their kind?”

He nodded.

They both climbed onto the roof. Moesha followed the others, sliding down, and splashing into the water. Hunter paused, straddling the peak of the roof. A turbulent boil swirled where the pawn shop used to be. Half the divers were in the boat. Simon was swimming frantically with Roy and Moesha behind. All three were being pulled in the fast water. The current had shifted. The confluence of river and ocean had moved. Tesso gunned the engines, pointing towards them.

The house groaned and Simon shifted his feet. One flipper went through the shingles. Hunter looked down through the rafters seeing his parent’s bed below.

If only they had listened.

He kneeled to pull himself out. Instead of rising up, he pushed the whole house down. The frame moved and twisted, crumbling under him. He felt heavy, dense, weighed down by loss.

Water bubbled below, first pushing up the mattress, then drowning it under its own weight. The room they slept in flooded. He felt the rafters sink away and him with it.

He hadn’t moved, but the house collapsed underneath him. He wasn’t standing or swimming or sinking. Hunter bobbed in the water, letting it pull him where it may.

Water splashed his face. The noise got louder. Was it the river or the ocean? It didn’t matter. The brine was toxic. It was trying to wash his whole family away.

He heard the roar of the engine before he saw the arms reaching out for him. A hot pink tiger stripe took him by the collar.

#

The trees had been pulled to the side of the road. Broad sweeping strokes painted the asphalt in mud and dead leaves. The tracks weren’t wide but there were more of them than he expected.

As he strode up the hill, Hunter could see the broken wood. Three pallets were splintered into the mud where the rear tires should be. A splash of congealed grease marked the ground where Dot dumped the pan fat. Maybe they left in a hurry, maybe not. Didn’t matter, Sherman never left a note, but had taught his grandson what to look for.

Hunter kept going up the hill, rounding a turn into the park. He saw the mark. Shallow axe strokes carved the trunk, pointing him to the top of the hill.

None of the mud tracks appeared to respect the yellow dividing line. Had someone given chase? Hunter hurried.

Broken asphalt became heavy gravel as he followed the marks off the main road. The trees got closer together. Hunter’s footsteps crunched loud inside the park.  Another mark pointed him into a thicket. There was no way they had driven the truck through here.

Through the trees the canopy opened up. A pool of sunlight shined down on a patch of turned soil, rich and black. A pot marked each corner of the garden.

Hunter squatted at the edge of this grandmother’s handiwork. Even if she hadn’t convinced Sherman to stay, she had still planted an anchor. They wouldn’t go far.

He opened the dry bag and pulled out a wrapped tomato. The fruit had burst, soaking the towel with its juices, but the important part was still intact. Hunter picked three tiny seeds from the carcass. He found a space between the rows of pumpkin seeds and pressed each one into a soft part of the ground, covering them up. They might not grow tall, but this variety was hearty. They would take.

Behind him, Hunter could hear the distinct snap of metal bolts dropping into metal cans. He stood and turned, seeing an arched quilt of plastic tarps beyond the trees.

THE END

RISING WATERS SHORTS

Rising Waters is an anthology of near future short stories. Similar to Black Mirror or Close Encounters before it, this episodic anthology follows everyday characters into a world challenged by accelerating technology and inevitable climate change. Each story stands alone, but together they paint a picture of what the world might be, just around the corner.

GRIEF PROTOCOLS: RELEASED 2017

STEALING AIR: RELEASED 2018

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ralph Walker is an architect and writer, living in New Jersey with his wife and two kids.

He has been writing speculative fiction since 2012. Other works include:

THE TOXICITY OF WATER was originally published in Into the Ruins Winter 2017

GATORS IN KANSAS published in the UnCommon Lands anthology

Additional stories in the RISING WATERS series of shorts.

You can find him on twitter @RW_Igloo or at his website www.ralphwalkerauthor.com

Copyright

Ralph Walker Copyright 2018

20180614.03

Content

Ralph Walker
THE TOXICITY OF WATER

RISING WATERS SHORTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright