The Flood

by David Sachs

  How did they manage, in other places, Travis wondered. How did they handle it?

  At night Travis would wake Darren and share secrets with him.

  67

  A fishing boat discovered them.

  The men came onto it guessing that these were some others who had been caught in the flood. As everyone had been.

  “There’s one alive,” a man said.

  He pulled Darren up. Darren woke and saw the men and said nothing. He was so weak.

  The others were all dead. Their mouths and faces cracked and disfigured by dehydration.

  “It’s a miracle you’re alive, boy,” one said as he handed Darren to another man on the fishing boat.

  “Look at here,” another man said.

  He opened Travis’s jacket, which he’d pulled out from under a bench all wrapped up like a package. In it was a water bottle and crackers.

  “Why didn’t they drink this?” the man asked. He shook his head.

  “Why?”

  THE END

  GIVE FEEDBACK AND KEEP IN TOUCH

  Please join my mailing list for free ebooks, advance looks at new work, and special offers:

  www.bit.ly/davidsachsnews

  BOOK CLUBS: If your group is reading The Flood, I'd be honored to join your group for any discussion, in person, by Skype, or teleconference.

  ***

  Please…

  Spread the word about The Flood. Introduce it to friends and fellow readers.

  Reader reviews on Amazon and Goodreads are crucial for independent authors. Please take a moment to write a review.

  At Amazon: www.bit.ly/thefloodamazonreviews

  At Goodreads: www.bit.ly/thefloodgoodreads

  ***

  Follow my articles, free fiction, and other writing on my website:

  www.davidsachs.com

  and on Twitter here:

  www.twitter.com/@TheDavidSachs

  If you would like to be a beta reader to help shape early drafts of my work, or would just like to send me a personal message, email me at:

  david@davidsachs.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Award-winning author DAVID SACHS lives in Chelsea, Quebec (Canada), in the woods of Parc du la Gatineau. He is a long time feature writer for magazines and major metro newspapers, writing on politics, culture, society and the outdoors, covering everything from anti-globalization riots to Amazonian shamanism, and from homelessness to hitchhiking. His feature film, The Last Party, is in development with Bunk 11 Pictures.

  He is a father, an avid outdoorsman and rugby old boy, and a former physicist and Canadian Forces reserves officer. David is heavily involved in political and social causes, and a deadly boogie woogie piano player.

  http://www.davidsachs.com

  david@davidsachs.com

  How This Story Came To Be

  On my honeymoon in Greece, my wife and I were on an overcrowded ferry. We hadn’t paid for seats, and I was, let’s say, a bit hungover, so I went to nap on the open deck as the isles passed by. The entire story came to me in a dream. It was a far darker thing than I was used to, but I felt I shouldn’t waste something which had been given to me like that.

  The rest was just writing.

  (There was one scene from my dream I couldn’t fit in: scuba diving around Manhattan’s sunken skyscrapers. I just couldn’t make it work.)

  Thanks

  I would like to thank, first, my wife, for more than I could ever explain, but especially for her patience living with me while I lived with a story about horrible things.

  I’d like to thank Peter Whelpton, former EVP at Royal Caribbean Cruise Line, as well as Daniel Capella, cruise industry journalist and consultant, for their guidance on technical and logistical issues. They were a great help in creating the world of the Festival, and Daniel even created the ship’s layout at my website, www.davidsachs.com/theflood/. Any inaccuracies in this book are my own fault (either for story reasons or simply out of ignorance).

  I’d like to thank my beta readers (Victoria, Mary, Joe, Maureen, Jennifer, Diana, Jay, Samantha, Suzanne, Dan, Tia and CV), my brothers and many friends who helped me shape this story, and to Theresa Munanga for helping me spell it correctly.

  To my agent, Melissa McComas for believing in The Flood.

  Lastly, to Matt Mather, a great writer and better friend, for his guidance and occasional drink through the process of bringing this to readers.

  Book Description

  When the Flood hit, America’s East Coast was evacuated by every means possible. Now, a luxury cruise ship overloaded with refugees lies dead in the water: no power, no communications, no sign of rescue… and a dwindling buffet.

  For those that escaped the Flood, the real nightmare is just beginning.

  Travis Cooke was desperate to reunite his family. But not like this.

  Trapped on the disabled ship, Travis and the unforgettable cast aboard find themselves alone in a big ocean. As the panic rises like the water, Travis finds behind each door an unexpected new side to the ship, but no way out. How far will a good man go to save the people he loves and has lost once before?

  A gripping thriller, family drama, and mythic tragedy from a master storyteller. You’ve never read a story like The Flood.

  Welcome aboard.

  Copyright © David Sachs, 2015

  ISBN 978-0-9940102-0-9

  Cover image by Martin Gomez

  Published by benChaim

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the author. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Op. 4

  “Blue Skies” by Irving Berlin

  © Copyright 1926, 1927 by Irving Berlin © Copyright Renewed

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved Reprinted by Permission

  E-book extra

  Locked In the Trunk of a Car

  A Short Story Based on Themes from the Music of the Tragically Hip

  This story is part of a series of Short Fiction Based on Themes from the Music of the Tragically Hip. Their music always seems to put stories in my imagination, even when the lyrics don’t tell one directly. I’ve tried to take the feelings and contours of the songs from one medium to another. Look for other stories in this series at my author’s page on Amazon.

  The stories stand on their own – you don't need to know the music.. But for a unique experience to mirror my writing of it, I recommend listening to the song, LOCKED IN THE TRUNK OF A CAR (available here), on repeat, while reading. Or don’t. It’s a free country.

  I’ve woken up before in strange places, on couches perhaps, or with a girl in a strange bed, sometimes even in different cities. It’s usually after a night of heavy drinking. There’s that moment where you don’t know where you are. It’s disconcerting to wake into a completely new environment. It’s like you’ve woken to a new world, an Alice-in-Wonderland type experience. It only lasts an instant usually, wondering where you are, but it seems much longer as your brain tries to make sense of your surroundings. I like that moment of uncertainty, between worlds.

  This is different.

  Waking in complete darkness like this, it lasts longer. It feels less like waking and more like you’ve just begun dreaming – the type where you know it’s a dream and you can control your thoughts within the dream. That’s what this feels like at first. Then, it slowly drips into the realization that I’m wrong, this is no dream. I feel my body, the tape, the pain. I kick my bound legs out and shake myself around. I can feel the duct tape across my mouth now, the throbbing in my head. I’ve been hit on the head. I know where I am. I’m locked in the trunk of a car. I don’t know why. I don’t remember – I know I was at dinner, then I was walking home. That’s it, as far as I can remember. I don’t know even if there IS anything more to remember – if I was hit suddenly, or if there was more to the story but the concussion erased it. That’s the fu
nny thing about not remembering.

  I assume I’m going to die. I’ve done things in my life that have made people mad. I know there are people who want me dead. I don’t know who’s taken it upon themselves. So I’m waiting; there’s nothing else to do.

  I had a friend who knew he was going to die. The doctor gave him six months and the sonofabitch was right on the money. So my friend had this period in his life where he knew his own end. He lived, boy; he enjoyed that time. He spent it the right way, doing all the things people would figure they would do in that situation: fulfilling some of his dreams, spending time with the people he cared about, letting them know everything he wanted to tell them, all those things. I think we all have an instinctive desire, before we die, to say everything there is to say, everything we think or know. He had that chance. When you’re dying, nobody makes fun of you for talking about the things that matter. It wasn’t all Hallmark. He got laid. He did it right. This is different.

  For a few minutes I argue with myself, trying to bring hope into the equation. I mean, I don’t know who did this, I don’t know what this is about. Maybe they’re not going to kill me. But they are. I know it. Like my friend, I know my own end. But what good is that knowledge to me? Should I be living my life differently now that I know my time is measured? Should I be squeezing the juice out of every last second of life, making the most of this precious gift? Bound and gagged in the trunk of a car? My options are limited. My life, what remains of it, is playing out in my mind, in the dark. My body might as well be dead already.

  I hear a door close, and feet shuffling; somebody’s walking closer. I try to move to make noise, to get his attention, but I’m so confined I can just limply tap the side wall with my feet. It feels so impotent. Then the car door opens and I know that whoever it is doesn’t care. He knows I’m here already. He’s here to kill me probably. At least something is happening now, at least there’s more than my brain to listen to. The car is started, we’re going somewhere. Heh-heh. I wonder what my ultimate destination is. I’m scared now.

  *

  Car. Body. Me. My work is simple. I laugh about it as I start the car. I don’t think about the body specifically. It’s simple work if you don’t think about it. Anyways, it needs doing right now. The garage is dark and ugly and it always makes me feel kind of spooked, but pulling out, the sun is up, and we are on our way into a beautiful day. Me, car and body. The Unholy Trinity, rolling down the street, on the way to our day job just like everyone else this morning. Rush hour traffic in Toronto I can do without. Everyone’s got a place to go, though. I find this amusing. I know what I’ve got in my car. Hey buddy, what have you got in yours? What’s in your trunk? Ha. Who knows? Who knows how many sick bastards are running around in this city with bodies in their trunks? Look at my car, green Chevy Caprice. Old and rusted. In Toronto rush hour it looks different from the Audis and Civics and SUVs, but nothing too peculiar about it. Maybe every car has a story as interesting as this. Every window has something behind it. I have a long drive; I don’t think too much about the body specifically, just let my mind wander.

  The traffic is murder. The Don Valley Parkway in summertime construction. I’ve got all day, though. It’s nice when I’m not in a rush. I feel like I get paid to just sit in traffic and do nothing. I wish that was all there was to my job. I guess I shouldn’t complain about the traffic then. It always ends eventually, and then there’s that other part.

  North of Toronto, I pull in at a truck stop for breakfast. I’ve been here enough times before, but nobody knows me. The regulars seem to talk to each other, to the waitresses, so easily. I eat in anonymity. It makes me uncomfortable. Everywhere is like this now. You cultivate anonymity in this job, you don’t want to be noticed, right? But you feel like a ghost.

  “’Scuse me, I’m heading up to ditch a body! Whereabouts are you from fella? Can I buy you a beer?” I want to shout.

  I eat enough to fill my belly, know I’m alive. Too early for a beer anyway. I tip small, feeling angry at being unnoticed, then feel guilty after I’ve walked back out into the parking lot and the sun is back on my face and my belly is warm and full. It’s not the waitress’s fault things are like they are.

  The car seat is nice and warm when I sit down. I need gas, put ten bucks in just to top off. Doesn’t take too much gas. Not like these truckers, with their heavy loads, eating their weight in fuel to get where they’re going. My load isn’t so heavy in that respect. I use my bankcard at the pump. No need to talk to anyone.

  I wonder how four million people can live in the city and all pass through each other like ghosts. Or am I the only one? I guess it’s all a matter of degrees.

  *

  It hurts, bouncing along the highway like this. Been in this position, all my weight on these few points, for a while. If you’ve ever passed out on a hard floor and slept the night in one position, you can begin to understand what I’m talking about. The pain gets so bad in your shoulders and hips, but you kind of get used to it after a while. After a while, anything can become background noise. Then the funny thing is I can think about other things, forgetting the pain, but remembering again when we stop.

  When the bouncing stops and I’m suddenly still, it feels like the pain is leaking from my body. I can’t think about anything else but my shoulder, all swollen up and leaking pain. After that pain passes, I finally process the fact that we’ve stopped. The car is quiet. And there are others out there moving slowly. I can hear cars. A parking lot, or a gas station or something. I try to bang on the side of the trunk but I just can’t get any force, I can’t do anything more than tap. I try to bang my head against the side, but I can’t get any traction; my shoulder slips a little on me. My god, I can actually hear people talk. How can they not hear me? My heart sounds so loud, my nose-breathing is so heavy, for God’s sake, how do they not hear me? The duct tape muffles my voice as I try to scream, but they should be able to still hear something. Why can’t I tap any harder than this? This could be my only chance and I’m so impotent. How can they not sense that there is a human being here, feet away from them, with just this thin sheet of metal separating us? I’m here!

  I recognize his footfalls, his feet shuffling back over the gravel of the parking lot. His key is in the door. We’re going to move again. We’re going to leave here and he’s going to kill me, and these people are standing here close enough to fucking smell me. Oh God, I’m RIGHT HERE. Why can’t I tap any harder than this? The car is started. Please, there’s so little time left, and this is my whole life. We’re moving again. No. Stopped again. What… he’s getting gas. I can’t keep tapping, it hurts too much, my calves feel like they’re burning. Let him gas up in peace. He knows I’m here.

  Back onto the highway. I wonder if there is any good way to run out a life without a body? I wonder if there is any good way to run out life at all? Maybe the whole point of life is not thinking about when you’re gonna’ die. Maybe, once you know you’re dying, the game is over. Maybe it wasn’t all so satisfying for my friend, all those things he did in his final months. Maybe he was really dead already, he was just going through the motions. Maybe when you know you’re dying, life is like scoring goals after the other team has pulled the goalie. Is that what it felt like to accomplish those things? In baseball, they don’t let you bat in the bottom of the 9th if you’ve already won the game. Life’s not like this. You keep going, scoring meaningless runs. Maybe I’m lucky, my body’s been put on the injured reserve, I get to watch the clock run out from the bench, don’t have to bother with meaningless exertions and Kabuki dancing. We’re off the highway now, onto a smaller road.

  Going slower, the vibrations change, become, like, deeper, hurts more. It’s ironic. My body is so useless to me, all I’ve got left to live with is inside my mind, but I can’t think straight with this FUCKING PAIN IN MY SHOULDER. Why can’t I stop caring about the pain? I’m dying, why should pain be a concern for me?

  We’ve made several turns. There’s les
s noise now. We must be out of traffic, maybe in the country now, we’ve been gone so long, and we’re going so much slower now. Turn again. This is a dirt road. This is it.

  *

  It’s nice here. If it weren’t what it is, this would be a place I would like to come to. I’m probably the only one who knows about it. I could show it to people. It would be my spot, where I could take friends or girlfriends, or anybody, for camping or swimming, or picnicking. But it is what it is. And what it is is where I dump the bodies. It’s simple. Time to work.

  I always back the car in. It’s kind of tight down this lane through the brush. Hard enough to walk around the car without getting my arms cut up by these thorns, wouldn’t want to carry the body around. No room to turn the car around after either.

  Grab the bag and weights from the back seat and carry it around back. What’s that noise? That’s the trunk. Oh shit.

  *

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”

  I scream so hard my whole body feels like it will pop, but the duct tape mutes it, so that it is loudest in my own head. The light blinds me; I can’t see anything. It takes a moment to calm, I don’t know why; opening the trunk set off this wave of terror inside me, I started screaming, and then that voice.