Coastal cities were disconcerting and 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.

* * *

____________________

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?”

“Your sign says you’re the Port Authority, I figured you’d be an authority on things that float in and out of this port.”

She raised her eyebrows and released her full terrifying glare.

He wasn’t getting anywhere with this woman and she was his only hope, the gatekeeper for the whole entire ocean. Beckett said, “Um,” and dropped to his knees.

She looked shocked.

“I’m begging you. I need a boat to carry me west, it’s a matter of survival, someone is going to die, seriously, do you have any ideas, any help, anything that you can do?”

Her eyes grew large, she looked around the room for help. “Oh, well, you might...” She leafed through a pile of papers on her desk and pulled a flier from the middle. “This is a research vessel, they’re leaving tomorrow morning, they might give you a ride for a fee.”

Beckett stood, dusted off his knees. “Thank you thank you, that is...” He studied the flier as he walked out of the Port Authority to the street.

Join the crew of the

Sea Vessel: Northern Ocean H2OPE

August 18 - September 2

Research, protection, organizing

for a healthier ocean.

The contact was Captain Aria Cook

Beckett stood in front of the Port Authority, back to the water, and called the listed number.

A woman answered, “Captain Aria here.”

“Hi, my name is Beckett Stanford. I need passage west, um west north.” Crap. He should have thought through what he planned to say. He sounded like an idiot. “On your boat, and I’m wondering what I can do to make that happen.”

Aria said, “Passage? We’re not going anywhere, out and around and back. Sorry, you must have me confused—”

She hung up the phone.

Double crap.

Beckett dialed the number again and because the water felt close, like too close, lapping his feet close, walked up Pier Avenue toward his cycle.

Captain Aria answered, “Yes?”

“Look, I know you’re not landing anywhere. I need to go out and around, I’m with the army, I’m supposed to contact Nomads, it’s a mission.”

“The army? Why not the Navy, they have their own boats?”

“Why do the services do anything, nothing makes sense, am I right? I just follow orders, and my orders were to secure a boat, go out to sea, and help Nomads who need help.”

“We need extra hands on our pollution research, we have five, need six. We’re repopulating fish habitats. Are you even interested in ocean biology?”

Beckett lied, “I’m passionate about ocean biology, fish, and um, their plight.”

“Uh huh, sure. Can you dive?”

Beckett paused. “No.”

Captain Aria sighed. “Fine, we’ll use you topside. We’re on dock 49. See you at 5:00 sharp.” She hung up.

Beckett checked his phone for a hostel and located one with an open bed. He found a long term parking lot for his bike and then another pizza joint for dinner. He had missed pizza and figured that was one meal that boats probably couldn’t provide. Then he checked into the hostel. He dropped his things onto the end of his bunk, climbed in, and fell asleep.