Seattle was used to rain, but hadn’t seen anything like this in seventy years. The dusk air was bone-chilling, and everything was soaked. All one could hear was the constant roar of the storm.
A man ran frantically with a large bundle of firewood hidden underneath his leather coat. The man ducked into a tunnel, where the crack of leather on cobblestones echoed without dampening from the storm. He reached a heavy metal door and pried it open with a crowbar. It squealed in protest, sending white sparks skidding into the night. The man disappeared behind it.
On the far side of the door was a cozy room. The man knelt by a fireplace, emptying the contents of his bundle inside. He struck a match on the brick wall and lit the fire. It smoked violently before catching, and the flame steadily grew brighter.
“You scared me,” a voice said from the shadows. “I didn’t know if you’d be coming back — what with the city flooding and all. You and I both know we can’t stay here.”
The man raised his head, and the shadows on his scarred, stubbled face flickered in the flames. He sighed and removed a sleek, black pipe from a pocket inside his coat. When he had lit it, he sat down on a cot and propped his feet up on a stool.
“Well,” Chester said, his voice deep and gravely. “I’m here now, ain’t I?”
“Do you hear me?” the voice asked insistently, quivering slightly. “There’s water everywhere, nobody’s had power for over a week, and half the city’s gone! How long are you gonna keep this up, Chester?”
The fire grew brighter, revealing a tall woman sitting cross-legged on her cot. She wore a white tank and sooty cargo pants. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a messy bun, and her olive skin was caked in dried mud. Various maps were spread out on the floor in front of her. Alleyways, tunnels, and sewage systems were highlighted in blood red.
Chester rose with a creak, his huge frame darkening the tiny room.
“Right, then,” he said gruffly. “Lead the way, Jules.”
Without another word, the woman swiftly gathered what little belongings were scattered about the room and packed them up into two large trailbags. She leapt up onto the high windowsill, and forced open a small window. The sound of the storm outside broke the silence like the crack of a whip, and Chester shuddered. Jules heaved the bags through the window, and they landed with a thunk outside. The fire wailed, and died.
Jules disappeared through the window. The scraping of wood pushed by water hummed in Chester’s ears and he took one last look at the quiet room, before following her.
Vibrant fractals of lightning boomed in repeated succession overhead. Chester landed hard on the dock. A large green rowboat was tethered to it. He squinted up into the falling water and turned around. A constant waterfall was covering the seemingly endless system of stone walls and bridges bordering the city from Puget Sound. He had never left the city — not once.
People had always talked about it. “THE STORMS WILL KILL YOU FIRST” was a very popular headline in the TIMES, but Chester had never given it too much thought. He had always considered Seattle to be a haven, a city safe from the effects of increasing global temperatures. But this storm had been raging for thirteen days; it was unlike anything he had ever seen.
Jules already had their bags tucked under a raincover in the boat, and beckoned for Chester to board. He clambered in, making the boat sway under his weight, and took up the oars. Jules pushed off the dock, and Chester rowed them out into the waterfront. The Great Wheel loomed in darkness, a black silhouette over the horizon. Jules removed a canvas map from her raincoat and squinted down at it.
“Your point looks good,” she said through the breaks in the thunder. “If we keep heading north we can make it to the hills, up and out of the more violent watersheds.” For a while neither of them spoke, and they sat with the sounds of the water below and the water above. Chesters arms began to burn, and he docked them at a beach. Together, they heaved the boat ashore and tied it off to a nearby boulder. They strapped on their bags, and began the long trek up the talus fields.
Finally, they reached the top, and Chester turned around. The city at this height looked eerily deserted in the absence of light, and goosebumps covered Chester’s arms. Something was very off — something big. The Space Needle was nowhere to be seen. The skyline looked barren — naked — without it.
And that’s when he finally saw the Space Needle, strewn across the beach like a broken match, completely severed in two. Chester fell to his knees, shock hitting him like a brick wall. A nasty knot of disbelief choked up in his throat, and he burst into sobs.
A man ran frantically with a large bundle of firewood hidden underneath his leather coat. The man ducked into a tunnel, where the crack of leather on cobblestones echoed without dampening from the storm. He reached a heavy metal door and pried it open with a crowbar. It squealed in protest, sending white sparks skidding into the night. The man disappeared behind it.
On the far side of the door was a cozy room. The man knelt by a fireplace, emptying the contents of his bundle inside. He struck a match on the brick wall and lit the fire. It smoked violently before catching, and the flame steadily grew brighter.
“You scared me,” a voice said from the shadows. “I didn’t know if you’d be coming back — what with the city flooding and all. You and I both know we can’t stay here.”
The man raised his head, and the shadows on his scarred, stubbled face flickered in the flames. He sighed and removed a sleek, black pipe from a pocket inside his coat. When he had lit it, he sat down on a cot and propped his feet up on a stool.
“Well,” Chester said, his voice deep and gravely. “I’m here now, ain’t I?”
“Do you hear me?” the voice asked insistently, quivering slightly. “There’s water everywhere, nobody’s had power for over a week, and half the city’s gone! How long are you gonna keep this up, Chester?”
The fire grew brighter, revealing a tall woman sitting cross-legged on her cot. She wore a white tank and sooty cargo pants. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a messy bun, and her olive skin was caked in dried mud. Various maps were spread out on the floor in front of her. Alleyways, tunnels, and sewage systems were highlighted in blood red.
Chester rose with a creak, his huge frame darkening the tiny room.
“Right, then,” he said gruffly. “Lead the way, Jules.”
Without another word, the woman swiftly gathered what little belongings were scattered about the room and packed them up into two large trailbags. She leapt up onto the high windowsill, and forced open a small window. The sound of the storm outside broke the silence like the crack of a whip, and Chester shuddered. Jules heaved the bags through the window, and they landed with a thunk outside. The fire wailed, and died.
Jules disappeared through the window. The scraping of wood pushed by water hummed in Chester’s ears and he took one last look at the quiet room, before following her.
Vibrant fractals of lightning boomed in repeated succession overhead. Chester landed hard on the dock. A large green rowboat was tethered to it. He squinted up into the falling water and turned around. A constant waterfall was covering the seemingly endless system of stone walls and bridges bordering the city from Puget Sound. He had never left the city — not once.
People had always talked about it. “THE STORMS WILL KILL YOU FIRST” was a very popular headline in the TIMES, but Chester had never given it too much thought. He had always considered Seattle to be a haven, a city safe from the effects of increasing global temperatures. But this storm had been raging for thirteen days; it was unlike anything he had ever seen.
Jules already had their bags tucked under a raincover in the boat, and beckoned for Chester to board. He clambered in, making the boat sway under his weight, and took up the oars. Jules pushed off the dock, and Chester rowed them out into the waterfront. The Great Wheel loomed in darkness, a black silhouette over the horizon. Jules removed a canvas map from her raincoat and squinted down at it.
“Your point looks good,” she said through the breaks in the thunder. “If we keep heading north we can make it to the hills, up and out of the more violent watersheds.” For a while neither of them spoke, and they sat with the sounds of the water below and the water above. Chesters arms began to burn, and he docked them at a beach. Together, they heaved the boat ashore and tied it off to a nearby boulder. They strapped on their bags, and began the long trek up the talus fields.
Finally, they reached the top, and Chester turned around. The city at this height looked eerily deserted in the absence of light, and goosebumps covered Chester’s arms. Something was very off — something big. The Space Needle was nowhere to be seen. The skyline looked barren — naked — without it.
And that’s when he finally saw the Space Needle, strewn across the beach like a broken match, completely severed in two. Chester fell to his knees, shock hitting him like a brick wall. A nasty knot of disbelief choked up in his throat, and he burst into sobs.