Page 43 of Leveling

Chapter 28

Coastal cities were disconcertingand this one was exceptionally so. It had been built on an incline, so the ocean was taking the city street by street. What used to be the main street, through the middle of town, was now oceanfront. Literally, water lapping on the street bringing with it chunks and debris. On the seaside the houses were at varying levels of submerged.

Street level, the bottom floor was a foot deep.

A half block deeper, that row—the water was up to the first-floor windows.

Until about six blocks out—the tops of roofs were the only part of the building above water, in rows, built into docks. Boats were anchored on the high pitch of old roofs. Top floors of taller buildings stuck up and out, here and there, like smaller versions of Beckett’s Outpost. One had a restaurant attached. Floating docks interconnected it all.

The entire thing was so odd, water up and over buildings, that even though Beckett had grown up in this world, had lived with this always, it still unsettled him. It was a disaster after all. Slow moving albeit. Commonplace, sure. Normal, but it was still an end-times scenario. And Beckett was only lucky so far.

When would his luck change?

Beckett couldn’t bear to drive straight up to the water’s edge. He turned just before the front road, into an alley, behind buildings, around hundreds of other cycles, and parked. He sat there for a minute talking to himself.You need a boat. To get a boat you’ll have to go to the water. You’ll have to.

He swung his leg off and over and locked up his bike. Behind him were city buildings. He walked, pushing and shoving and jostling through the crowds down Pier Avenue. The street butted into the sea perpendicular to block after block of submerged, half-collapsed, falling, possibly floating buildings in disgusting water. Foamy and dark and putrid. Why did anyone still live here and look at this?

But the city was bustling. All around and behind him, people walked and talked and ate at restaurants and shopped. It was only at the waterline that one could have a tiny bit of respite from the crowds.

Shit. It was about four in the afternoon. The sun was glistening obliquely down on the whole seaport city.

Along the waterline were sandbags, the army, fellow soldiers like himself, had been here moving the levee up, up, up, as water overtook the city.

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A building directly in front of Beckett said, Port Authority. That seemed a good place to start. A bell dinged as he entered, warning the Authority that someone had arrived. The lobby was crammed with about fifty people. No one at the front desk. Beckett leaned on a wall between a woman who was chewing a toothpick and sneering to herself, and a man who was wearing a sweat-stained suit.

Finally the Port Authority front desk person appeared. She had short cropped hair and an angry face, and though she seemed determined to be unhelpful, the way she flicked through papers and glared around, the air was electrified with the possibility that she might actually call someone to her desk. Everyone leaned forward, ready to lunge, but Beckett pressed past them all, “Excuse me, I need a boat.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Every body needs a boat, you still have to wait your turn.”

Beckett tried to return to his wall, but the sneering woman had spread her stance.

Beckett made do with standing in the middle of the room. Wishing that his fatigues would count for special treatment. Anything. It took over an hour as one by one people approached the desk, filled out paperwork, and then left with a look of glee returned to their face.

Beckett attempted to get a handle on what the process was, the paperwork, what he needed, but the system was enigmatic. The bulletin boards had helpful posters like, Don’t Trash the Ocean, and Settlements are for Safety. He tried to clear his mind, but questions kept rolling through, like,had anything Anna said been true?

The television in the corner, flashed an image of Anna Barlow, the actress, and Beckett walked toward the screen. She wore a silver-sequined gown, on a red carpet, smiling her big-screen-actress smile and it hit Beckett in his gut that Anna Barlow was not his Anna’s name.

Not at all.

And how would he find her if he didn’t even know her real name?

And if a woman doesn’t give you her real name, she doesn’t want you to find her. That was a truth that couldn’t be denied.

Beckett was called to the desk. He said, “I can’t tell if I’m in the right place, but I need a boat.”

“Even if we had any left, which we don’t, I would need to see your captain’s license.”

Of course there would be a catch. He patted his pockets, “Gee, I must have forgotten it, but you said there were no boats, is there someplace else—with boats I mean?”

“Not in this city. In this city, you come with a license, and I rent you a boat. When I have boats.” She scratched her head sending a cascade of dandruff flakes all over her desktop.

Beckett tried another tack. “I need to go out to sea, what are my options?”

“I don’t know, what do I look like?”

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