Chapter 1
— Flood Warning —
In the distance the sirens wail for Blue Out. A warning that another flood is imminent. I wade through the knee-deep water and the maze of abandoned houses in their murky canals. It’s hard to imagine that the Valley was once home to fifteen thousand people. Jagged green lines run along the mossy walls marking the levels of all the previous floods. It was probably a bad idea to come here. Actually I’m pretty sure of it. Not just because of the weather. Since The Valley Flood, the one that washed this whole town away eleven months ago, the area is strictly off limits. No one is allowed in or out of our old neighborhood. I’m risking a one-way ticket to labor camp just by being here, just by sneaking out of the wire fence perimeter of the FRS, the Flood Relief Shelters, while everyone was reinforcing the flood barrier with sand bags.
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I shut out the image of armed government patrols sploshing through the water in pursuit, megaphones blaring, “Citizen Naya DeLora, you’re under arrest for trespassing, suspected terrorism, and vandalism.” Because if you’re FRS trash, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a hulky vandal in full battle gear, or a skinny, sixteen-year-old girl, like me. Anyone breaching government regulations is immediately suspected of terrorism.
I push through the derelict front door into what was once a hallway. All that’s left of the living room now are a few fragments of wood and a tilted table floating on the boggy water. Whatever furniture there was is mostly gone, destroyed by the floods. A damp, acrid smell fills the room and makes me gag. With an effort I force myself forward. It’s difficult to make out anything beneath the muddy surface. Something soft and spongy brushes against my leg, exactly what I don’t know. I recoil and keep walking. Mom would probably have a heart attack if she knew what I was doing.
Outside, gray clouds are gathering. Today’s storm is meant to hit only the East Coast of Cape Harmony—but you’d have to have seaweed for brains to believe the official weather predictions, no matter how infallible our illustrious Governor claims them to be. And if the storm reaches the West Coast, the Valley where I am now and the surrounding area will be turned into a gigantic saltwater lake. There won’t be enough time to run for the grassy hills. I know. I’ve seen it before. But it’s too late to turn back now. Besides, I won’t get another chance like this. How often do the storms hit only the eastern side of the headland? How often is the waterline in the Valley only a couple of feet deep? And how often can I get away from the FRS unnoticed? With any luck I’ll be out of here before the first raindrops fall. I just need to get what I came for and get out.
I’m passing the window when the vroom of a motor engine cuts through the wail of the sirens. I duck down. I mustn’t be seen here. Crouching low, I risk a peek over the rim of the cracked, wooden sill. There’s a boat. Three men inside. Government patrol. One of the men gets up and the broad neon-blue stripe on his black wetsuit flashes in the rays of light of the setting sun. My heart skips a beat. This isn’t just local search and rescue. They’re Aqua8. The government’s elite military unit. Being caught by them is a one-way ticket to labor camp—if I’m fortunate enough that they don’t shoot on sight.
Drops of sweat drip into my eyes. Just my luck, the one time I sneak into a restricted zone, I have to run into the really bad guys. What are they doing here? The water is barely high enough to navigate a boat. I can only hope they won’t conduct any house searches. If they do, I’m a sitting duck.
My clothes stick to me like a second skin. There is no reason for Aqua8 to be here. The whole area has flooded and dried up several times since anyone last lived here. With 75 percent of the Earth’s former landmass submerged, coastal floods are a common occurrence. Even with flood barriers protecting our shoreline, the oceans have become so wild that the waves often splash high over the top of the protective dams during storms. Which is why the government sound the Blue Out warnings. Sirens to inform us that another floodwave is imminent. Ordinary citizens are ordered to remain in their residences at that time—which is kind of what I’m doing. Except that’s not how the authorities will see it.
Outside there’s a crackle of static from a radio. “Follow . . . Alpha team . . .”
The growl of the engine grows distant. As it fades, I wait before peering out the window. The black motor dinghy is heading into the gray dusk of a gathering storm. I get up and scurry into the hall. I know I should turn back. Aqua8 and the imminent flood. But I’m too close to finding what I came for.
Mud squelches out of my sneakers as I leave the flooded first floor behind and climb the stairs. First door on the left, I pause. Mom’s bedroom.
The normality of it is both comforting and eerie, as I squeeze down the handle and step inside. The rosy-pink bed sheets unmade, her bathrobe laid on top. I scan the chest of drawers, the closet, the ottoman that Mom always used to bang her knee on but could never bring herself to part with. What I’m looking for is in here somewhere. But where?
I rummage through the drawers. Blouses, sweaters, skirts . . . Mom’s treasured silk scarves, nightgowns. My mom’s problem is when she hides stuff, even she can’t find it anymore. We spent three months looking for a silver coin that was taped to the bottom of a foldout knitting box. All right, no need to panic, it’s only my life that’s at stake. I throw open the ottoman, breathing in a mixture of mothballs and mold. Pullovers. For a moment I debate taking them with me, but since the polar caps melted, it never really gets that cold, and the thought of lugging bulky clothes two miles through the flooded Valley isn’t very inviting. Especially not with Aqua8 around.
I get down on my knees, ignoring the stench of damp that the carpet breathes into my face, and check under the mattress. There’s nothing there either. Now I’m getting nervous. I need to be more systematic. I comb through the room from door to window. The shadows of the furniture grow longer in the dwindling daylight. Although I’m turning the whole place upside down, I’m not finding anything.
Where, where, where? I dig my hand through my hair and sit slumped on the bed. Think! Where would she have put it? Beneath me, the quilt is relatively dry. As I stroke the fabric, its familiar soft fibers spark happy memories. I choke back tears at the thought that this was once my home. Mildewed and smelly as it is, it’s still paradise compared to the FRS, the Flood Relief Shelters where Mom and I now live.
Of course, we’d known about the danger. For all those too poor to live up on the verdant hills of Ararat, the floods were an ever-present threat. But the Valley was meant to be safe. A place where the middle classes could live in peace. Here, on the West Coast of Cape Harmony, we dwelled, like we were on an island, cut off from the chaos on the mainland by the northern mountain range and the sea. Protected from the ocean by a tall dam that ran the length of our bay. None of us had expected the sudden vehemence of The Valley Flood. The tsunami-like wave that breached the barrier, swallowing the whole Valley in a single day, not one inhabitable house left.
I ball my hands into fists. On the bedside table, the ballerina on Mom’s music box stares at me, the same polished smile on her face as always—as if she pities me in my helplessness. I grimace. But in my mind, I can hear the music that plays when the lid opens. A tune from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. I think of Mom, sitting on this bed, brushing my hair out of my face as we listened to it. We used to love those moments.
Wait! It dawns on me—could it be? I flip open the lid. No music plays. The mechanism that makes the ballerina spin is gone. In its place is what I’ve been looking for. My breath catches as I pull out a fist-sized golden conch, Mom’s most treasured possession, and my reason for coming. There are no traces of damage on it; it’s pristine, untouched by the cold and damp that has seeped into the house.
Mom always said, “This shell speaks to you with the voices of the ocean. Listen. If worst comes to worst, this can save us.”
But as I cradle it in my palm, doubts creep into my mind. Can a conch really help us with everything that’s happened? Mom and me being flooded out, the FRS, the endless lining up for food, never feeling clean, the crushing lack of privacy. Yet, the memory of Mom persists, her eyes hopeful, her whisper low and mysterious as she smiles and holds the conch to my ear. “Listen.” And I listen now, even though I’ve learned that it’s only my own blood rushing in my ear when I hold the shell close. I picture the ocean, the white waves washing up on the shore.
But as I cradle it in my palm, doubts creep into my mind. Can a conch really help us with everything that’s happened? Mom and me being flooded out, the FRS, the endless lining up for food, never feeling clean, the crushing lack of privacy. Yet, the memory of Mom persists, her eyes hopeful, her whisper low and mysterious as she smiles and holds the conch to my ear. “Listen.” And I listen now, even though I’ve learned that it’s only my own blood rushing in my ear when I hold the shell close. I picture the ocean, the white waves washing up on the shore. Then the noise gets louder, tempestuous, roaring—like a warning shout. I tear the conch away. Dark water is washing around the soles of my shoes.
The flood! No, no! How can it have reached the second floor? Today’s Blue Out was meant to be harmless. Just a smaller storm. That’s why I risked coming here. Leaving the conch on the bed, I run to the window. Dusk is gathering into night. It’s much later than I thought. And the still water that had idly covered our front lawn has transformed into a streaming, swirling torrent that now reaches to the bottom of the bedroom window.
Fear twines itself around me like seaweed. How can I have been so distracted that I didn’t notice this? Can I get back now? The thought of the two miles between me and the FRS roots me to the spot. I’m no swimmer at the best of times, and as I look outside at the dark torrent of water, my hope fades. This is not like one of the Blue Outs where the storm waves wash over the dam a bit and Mom curses because she comes back from work with wet feet. It looks more like The Valley Flood, when it was as if the barrier that protects the Valley wasn’t even there anymore.
I grab the conch. First of all, I need to make sure that it’s safe. I look around for somewhere to stow it. Mom’s tin box with her spare buttons and sewing thread! With shaking hands, I spill the contents onto the bed, grab a silk scarf and wrap it around the conch then tuck it in the tin. I close the lid, shove the box into the zipper pocket of my windbreaker jacket, and run back to the window.
The water is coming at the house in actual waves, slamming against the window. Outside, lightning forks across the sky. I duck down below the window sill, terror stricken. A boom of thunder roars. The room is momentarily lit up by another flash of lightning, then plunged into an eerie dim gray light. This is a raging storm. And by the sound of it, one that’s only just gathering.
Above me, another wave smashes against the window. Then another. The glass vibrates and creaks.
CRASH!
I scream as water and glass rain down on me.
The force of the wave throws me to the floor. I spit out water. My hearing has gone all funny, like I’ve just dived into a pool. A dull bang echoes and the bedroom door is thrown open, streams of swirling seawater pouring inside. I’ve got to get out of here! The water is already up to my waist. Using the walls to steady myself, I push through the current. My eyes are burning from the salt. The water is streaming in so quickly, it’s as if I’m on a sinking ship. I know that if I make it out of here, my mom is going to kill me!
I manage to catch hold of the doorframe and pull myself onto the landing. The attic . . . It’s the only place left to go. The current is trying to force me back. Above me there’s a red cord that pulls down the hatch for the folding stairs. The water gurgles as I reach for it. Just as my fingers close around it, the next wave throws me back.
AAAH! With a rattle the stairs come down but my head goes underwater. My leg knocks painfully against the doorframe. I grope around, searching for the rungs and pull myself up, spewing water. My soggy shoes slip on the metal. I scramble through the opening and slam the hatch shut behind me.
The darkness of the attic surrounds me, the sound of the rising water distant. I slump to the floor, my breath raspy. Am I safe? Above me, through the slanted skylight, I see the moon growing brighter in a dark sky.
Maybe I can wait out the storm. Curfew is only half an hour away, but I’m sure I can sneak past the apathetic FRS security guards or even talk my way past them if I’m spotted. And this house is well built. After all, it survived The Valley Flood. Living in a world prone to flooding, we had the space below the roof converted into a safe room, like most of our neighbors; we stocked it with bedding, water bottles, and boxes of canned food. There aren’t many other things up here, only a few old items of furniture overhung with spiderwebs, but it’s enough to get me through the night—even through a few nights—if need be.
But only if the water stops rising. I stare at the attic trap door, willing it to stay shut. But even as I do, the wood begins to push up, letting the first drips spill into the room as the water from beneath gurgles in. I jump up. What’s going on? Why isn’t this stopping? Even during The Valley Flood, the sea never rose more than a few inches above the bedroom floor. The watermarks on our walls show that.
I rush to the skylight. Can I get to the roof if I have to? Standing in the dark, my clothes dripping wet, I peer out. A strong beam lights up the roofs opposite. Aqua8. I pull back, my heart racing.
Why are they still here? And how will I get away now?
I drop onto a pile of boxes. I wipe a shaking hand over my eyes. Think. I’ve got to think. I force myself to focus. I have three options: one, I get lucky, the water level stops rising, Aqua8 leaves, and I make my way back to the FRS in the pitch black; two, I’m a little bit lucky, the water stops rising, but Aqua8 don’t leave and I stick out the night here. As long as I’m back before community class in the morning, I should be OK. Except there’s also option three: the water keeps rising, and with Aqua8 gone or not, I take my pick between drowning right here in our house or out there in the storm.
I hug my arms around my legs. The panic I’ve been trying to suppress sweeps over me, like the rising flood. What if I don’t make it? What if I die here, and Mom wakes up all alone, me gone, only her knitting needles and an empty mattress in our assigned shelter? Never knowing what happened. Never knowing that I was here, washed away with all the memories of our past. I choke back a sob. In the darkness, with just the drumming of my heart, time passes agonizingly slowly.
A sudden motion shakes me from my thoughts. The boxes. They’re moving! The floodwaters have risen so high that they are starting to lift the furniture off the floor! I reach for the skylight and give the handle a quick turn. Aqua8 or not, if I don’t get out now, I’m dead. I push against the glass pane, but it doesn’t budge. Hammering against the skylight, I try to force it open. The water is rising more quickly than ever, lapping around my stomach, my chest. I slap a flat palm up against the glass pane. There has to be a reason why the stupid thing is jammed. A lock? A latch? I run my hands over the weatherworn frame. I can feel bulges on the sides where the wood is all cracked and swollen.
Oh no! It must have warped because of the damp! I push my full body weight into it, but the water is already covering half the pane. Come on! My breath clouds up the glass. I grasp the golden trident pendant that I’ve worn since birth.
A wavelet splashes into my face. I rub my eyes, clearing away the salt. Only I can save myself right now. In a sudden fit of determination, I grab the edge of my jacket, pull it off, and wrap it around my hand. I can feel the tin box with the conch safely inside. Turning my head away from the window, I slam my fist against it.
WHAM!
The force makes the pane vibrate. I draw my arm back and punch again.
WHAM!
This time the glass shatters. My hand stings as the saltwater touches it. I must have cut myself. Ignoring the pain, I reach through the broken skylight. Jagged glass brushes my hair. I clear away the remaining fragments from the frame, fling my arms out either side, and pull myself through the narrow opening.
Free at last, I collapse onto the roof tiles. The night air, fresh and cold, mixed with drops of rain, caresses my face. Gradually my breathing calms. My hand is still throbbing with pain. Blood is running freely across my right wrist. The cut is deeper than I thought. I press it against my shirt to stop the bleeding.
Then I clamber up toward the ridge. It’s completely dark now, the full moon and most of the stars hidden by the storm clouds. No sign of Aqua8. Have they gone? All I can see are triangular shapes, roofs rising out of the water. The only sound, that of the water slapping against the wooden gables.
To the west, rising above the waves, I can make out the concrete top of the crescent-shaped flood barrier. The wild ocean rages beyond. High up and to the right, among the stars, lie the luscious hills of Ararat Heights. At the other end of the Valley, floodlights illuminate the dilapidated factories that have been commandeered as Flood Relief Shelters. How on earth am I going to swim that distance? The water is swirling around the roofs, full of currents, floating debris, darkness. It’s like a wild river, threatening to swallow me whole.
Tentatively, I put my jacket back on, making sure that the box with the conch is safely in the zipper pocket. My hand is still bleeding, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I just hope that it won’t get infected. What am I waiting for? I’ve seen people brave all sorts of tides. Even our lame FRS swim champs are the heroes of our school, celebrated, admired—it’s just too bad I’m not one of them. My high school team are the Carps and there’s a reason why we’ve been nicknamed “the Craps.”
OK, OK, I can do this! I take a cautious step down the tiles. It’s lucky that I can see better in the dark than most people. I take another step forward when something moves in the shadows at the edge of the roof. Aqua8! I leap back. But it’s only the silver light of the moon briefly breaking through the storm clouds. I exhale, relieved, when the tiles below me shift. I slip, scream, and slide down the roof, hitting the water with a splash.
At once the flood is around me, cold and forceful. Before I can get my bearings it has me in its clutches, dragging me away from the hills, toward the flood barrier. I reach for the nearest roof gable and grab a hold, but the brute force of the waves tears me away. My heart is beating as fast as the wild, aimless current. Helpless, I am swept toward a gap of swirling darkness.
The water’s tearing at me, crashing over me, forcing me under. I come up coughing and spluttering, my throat burning from the salt. I vaguely register that the wide stretch of darkness around me must be the main road that runs through the Valley. New Frisco Highway, as the locals nicknamed it. A wooden plank sails past my head. Then I’m blindsided by another wave.
Underwater something soft brushes my arm. Algae? I try to brush it off, but I can’t move my left arm. Somehow the material has wrapped itself around me. The more I struggle to free myself the more the water keeps dragging me under. My arm is completely entangled, pinned to my body. I kick my legs, then realize that I no longer know which way is up. A rushing noise fills my ears. The pressure on my lungs is unbearable. Despite the pain in my injured hand, I tear at the rope. No, please. No! I need air! I’m drowning!
Chapter 2
— The Voices of the Ocean —
The world twists and I’m being pulled forcefully to the surface. I come up spluttering, gasping. The next moment I think I must be hallucinating—what I’m seeing can’t be real. Crystal-blue eyes stare at me from under a shock of curly blond hair. I blink away the saltwater. He’s the most handsome boy I’ve ever seen. His face is youthful yet mature with a strong jawline. I’m about to stutter thank you when I see the neon-blue stripe across his black wetsuit. The words die in my mouth. He’s Aqua8!
I stare at him in terror as he grasps my bleeding wrist.
“What are you doing here?” His clear blue eyes bore right through me. They are enigmatic.
“I . . . I lost m-my way in the flood,” I say through chattering teeth. Even to me that sounds lame, but the coldness of the water is seeping right into my bones.
“Are you out of your mind? Don’t you know what happens if you’re caught?” Behind his harsh question, I hear concern. But that can’t be. Aqua8 are ruthless.
Already, the engine of another boat roars closer. I struggle to get free.
“Stay still!” His grip on my injured arm is so strong that it’s painful. A searchlight sweeps his face.
“Lieutenant, found something?” I catch his eyes, pleading with him not to say anything, but of course he will. He’s one of them.
He turns into the light, cool, unwavering. “Negative. False alarm,” he calls out. “Do one more sweep. Retrace your steps then head back.”
“Copy that,” comes a reply from the patrol boat. The searchlight turns and the noise of the engine grows distant.
My heart beats frantically. Why did he do that? He could have handed me over. He should have handed me over. Instead, he pulls me out of the water and into the boat.
“Stay down!” he whispers. I lie at his feet in the dank hollow of the stern. He pulls the cord that starts the motor. The front of the dinghy rises into the air as he lets out the throttle. I look up at him, trying to read his face, but his expression is set, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance as he steers with military precision through the watery alleys between the rooftops.
Where is he taking me? If I jump overboard now, he might not be able to stop me. But his quiet determination holds me in place. Is it the naive thought that behind those strong cheekbones I can see no deceit?
Maybe I’m a fool. What if he turns me in after all? Just chauffeurs me to the labor camp so I can start my sentence without delay? I’d be going there like a lamb to the slaughter—relying on my bad instincts and his handsome cheekbones.
His gaze is still facing straight ahead. I sneak a peek over the rim of the boat. At once, I feel his hand on my shoulder, pushing me down.
“I told you to stay down.”
I recoil at the harshness in his voice. As we get closer to dry land, the motor slows then stops completely. He leaps out of the boat, pulling it close to the shore. He’s scanning the area like a hawk.
“Come on!” He holds out his hand.
I take it and clamber onto the muddy, rocky slope.
Where are we? I stumble and he steadies me, his hand brushing my cheek.
“You’re freezing!”
This time I definitely catch concern in his voice.
“That’s what happens to you when you’ve been in the water all evening.” I blurt out the words before I can stop them. I bite my tongue.
He gives me a curious glance. “The FRS are over that hill, three quarters of a mile east.” He points up the slope to the right. “Keep close to the water until you reach the Valley path. Patrols are weak on the north fence tonight.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. “Just go. Now!”
With a quick leap he’s back in his boat. I hear the engine start. Then he’s gone and I’m alone. I watch the dark water, lapping at the rocks. Still shivering, I turn and run along the foot of the hill toward the FRS. My head is spinning with questions. Who is he? Why did he save me? And will I ever see him again?
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