Chapter 8: Rising Waters

chloe

The hurricane raged into its fifth day. The entire building had lost both water and power. Floodwaters submerged the lower floors, forcing many residents to take temporary shelter in hallways on the 45th‑floor and above. Public corridors overflowed with people. With no working toilets, garbage bags and human waste littered the walkways. Arguments flared non‑stop on Nextdoor, neighbors blaming one another. The fragile order that had held through the early storm was crumbling.

I skimmed the rolling thread without posting. Collapse had been well within my predictions. My only real concern was when these quarrels would turn violent — and when that violence would reach my door.

A text popped up on my phone. Derek had messaged me from a new number, his tone still gentle. “Chloe, I know you’re angry. Can you give me a chance to explain?” I glanced at it and locked my screen.

I opened the Facebook to confirm my suspicion. Isabella had posted under her own account, politely asking if anyone would share supplies or barter. After reading her post I set my phone down. Their food stores were running dry. This was no friendly gesture; it was thinly veiled pressure.

Forecasts had originally said the hurricane would pass in four to five days. On day five, winds were growing stronger instead. Emergency calls went unanswered. FEMA’s last official bulletin had been issued three days prior, telling everyone to shelter‑in‑place. There had been radio silence ever since.

Bad news kept pouring into the group. Several units around the building had lost entire window panes to the gale. An elderly resident had fallen in the hallway, suspected of suffering a heart attack, with no medical help available. I filed these details away in my mental log of the disaster and updated my assessment: this hurricane was worse than the one I had lived through in my past life. Any window for evacuation would come much later.

Then a distress message popped up, sent by a family member from a neighboring apartment block.

“Does anyone have nitroglycerin or any fast‑acting heart medication? My father is dying. Please, somebody help us.”

The message was nearly an hour old. I held adequate stocks of that emergency medicine. But that building stood three city blocks away. Streets lay under meters‑deep floodwater, impossible to cross without a boat.

I did not reply. After a moment of silence, I muted group notifications. A costly lesson from my past life: do not drain yourself over things you cannot change.

I picked up my binoculars and scanned the flooded streets below, checking water levels and floating debris out of habit. Two blocks away, a dark shape drifted on the surface. At first I thought it was furniture or trash. When I adjusted the focus, the outline became clear. It was a body.

I set the binoculars down and scrolled the Nextdoor. Someone had confirmed the identity twenty minutes earlier. A resident from another building had ventured out in search of food after two days of hunger. A billboard, torn loose by wind, had struck him and cast him into the flood.

I put the binoculars back. On day five in my past life my phone had long been dead, and I survived on rainwater. Back then I thought that was rock‑bottom. I had been wrong. The true horror was believing you could endure, only to break right before the end. I forced myself out of that grim line of thinking and returned to the present.

I stepped into The space to take stock of supplies and check the hydroponic trays. In one corner, seeds had sprouted fine white roots. One plant near the artificial lamp had pushed through a pale‑green shoot. I knelt and watched it for several seconds. Something tight inside me softened, just a little.

Next I checked the rabbit hutch. The doe’s belly felt noticeably firm and swollen. She had already been pregnant when I bought her. By my count, she would give birth in no more than two weeks, roughly around when the hurricane receded. I added a handful of hay. My fingers hovered over the hutch latch for a second before I pulled away and returned to my practical tasks. Living things were easier to manage than dead ones.

In the afternoon I heated a stored meal and turned on a show on my tablet. The hurricane howled outside. New group alerts kept popping up, which I ignored entirely. These two hours were intentional downtime. No crisis‑planning, no calculations. In my past life I had never allowed myself to rest. Constant pressure had burned away my ability to think clearly.

Toward evening came a familiar pattern: three short knocks followed by one long one.

It was Zoe. She held a red apple out toward me with both hands, her expression earnest. “For you.”

I took it. “Where did you get this?”

“Marcus gave it to me. I saved it for you.”

I bent down, my tone level. “Zoe, keep good things for yourself. Never let others know what supplies you have, and do not give things away to anyone.”

Zoe thought for a second and shook her head. “Not for others. Only for you.”

I paused, then accepted the apple. I fetched two energy candies from my cabinet and handed them to her, then saw her to the door. Lectures meant little to a child. Some lessons had to be learned through experience. All I could do for now was make sure she stayed fed.

Back on the sofa, I found a new message from Veronica Santos.

“Chloe, the water is knee‑deep on our floor. Lucas and I have an inflatable boat. Can we come stay with you?”

I did not answer right away. Veronica, Lucas and I had cycled through the same foster‑care system. We were not close, yet we shared a quiet understanding forged by hardship. In my past life, Veronica had stood beside me through two deadly conflicts. Still, letting them move into my own apartment was another matter entirely.

After thinking it over, I typed my reply. “My place is full. But there is a vacant unit on the 45th floor. Lucas should be able to get the lock open. Come quickly; the water is still rising.” I sent the message and added a second line: “Bring everything you can carry.”

I needed her strength, and she needed my shelter. Trust grew from mutual necessity. Hiding my full resources did not mean I rejected an ally.

That evening, Marcus came to pick up Zoe, who had been playing at my place..She clung to the doorframe, refusing to leave. “Your cooking hurts my stomach,” she said plainly.

Marcus offered no excuses. He lifted her into his arms and nodded a quiet thank‑you toward me. Out in the hallway he frowned at piled garbage bags and spreading sewage. “If this mess sits for two more days, the 45th floor will be unlivable.”

I leaned against my doorframe. “What’s your plan?”

“Deal with the existing waste tonight. Dump these piles downstairs. After that everyone handles their own trash.”

“Agreed.”

We fetched rope and thick work gloves, bundling the garbage bags and dropping them over the edge. Unpleasant work, completed with no extra words.

Once finished, I told him, “My friend Veronica Santos and her boy friend Lucas might come tonight. She will stay in the vacant unit.”

Marcus raised no objection, only a practical warning. “Make certain she can get past the lock.”

“Lucas will handle it.”

With that we each returned to our separate apartments.

Night fell. I entered The space to audit my stockpiles. Most of my early stockpile was high-calorie processed and cured meat — enough to last months, but living on it long-term would wreck my health. I jotted a new priority list in my notebook: pasta, rolled oats and mixed grain cereals. Once stocks were secure, I would minimize open‑flame cooking to lower the risk of drawing attention. The fast‑growing greens in hydroponics would be ready for their first harvest in about one week.

Outside, the wind still bore heavy force. Rain had eased slightly from yesterday, but floodwater kept creeping higher. I closed my notes and sat quietly against a storage shelf.

Day five. The worst was not yet here — but I could see it coming