Abyss Walkers

The Calm Before the Storm

[Still being heavily edited— writing for practice. Wattpad deleted my revised edit of this chapter, so I am restarting. Please let me know your thoughts!]

It's said that if you hold a seashell against your ear, you can hear the ocean.

I scoop one of the rosy pink conches littered around the empty sea floor and hold it to my ear. I am met with a sorrowful hiss, like a raspy breath, and I think with certainty that that's what the ocean must have sounded like when it died.

The conch falls from my hands and shatters against the salt-crusted sand. Pity pangs my chest when it breaks, but there's no sense in being gentle. I see a hundred of them a day. I hike my backpack up my shoulders and head uphill back toward the shore.

My boots crunch dozens of shells but I'm no longer careful to avoid them. Their tiny husks go out in a cascade of powder and a puff of dust, from laying still and dry for so long. The only remnants of life are the withered strands of seaweed that cling to the parched earth, and the wind-worn bones of fish that were pecked clean by birds long ago. There are no signs of any of those birds here now, the world is eerily quiet.

When I was young, ocean walking was like stumbling into a treasure trove full of color and life. Mom and I would walk hand in hand early in the morning, and she would challenge me to pick out one shell of each type: a cockle, a sand dollar, an oyster— with the biggest prize of all being a conch.

"Kylie," she would say with a giggle, "bring me that one over there!" She'd watch me wobble on tiny legs as I ran to please her, blissfully unaware of the danger we all constantly faced.

But that was before the last of the water disappeared.

Now, it's a wasteland. You can't walk barefoot here or you risk puncturing your skin with fish bones or shell shards. I've worn boots every day since I was ten, when I pierced my foot and quickly learned there was no extra water that day to rinse the wound. The lesson was almost deadly.

I'm so far out now that the shore is well above my head, and I can't imagine what it must have been like to bob so far above the surface. I haven't seen an ocean in my lifetime, but my parents had. Mom lived in a seaside town all her life, and she told me stories of people who skated on the water with sticks called skis, and that boats bobbed on water like birds bob on a breeze. Dad lived further inland, but he told me a lot about the rain. He said that so much water would fall, it would flood the streets sometimes.

I sometimes wonder what I would tell my children if I had any. I couldn't tell them about the ocean or the birds, they would never believe me if they couldn't see it with their own eyes.

The sun is just beginning to crest over the horizon, so I pick up my pace. The air is already unbearably dry, but if it begins to get hot, I'll collapse before I make it home. I came out to search the traps for any unlucky birds or other animals that might be feasting on the fish bones, but the cages were all empty. My dad would be disappointed, but I haven't seen any critters for a few days now.

I finally escape the ocean and return to the surface world, peeking into abandoned cars and shop windows for any non-perishables I might be able to snag. My house isn't far from the shore, so I still have some time left to search.

The town is quiet for early morning. I usually see at least one fellow scavenger or two, although we never stop to chat. Most of them are older, and aren't pleasant. I can't say I blame them, I've only been alive for seventeen years. If I had to endure forty or fifty years of this, of scavenging and scrounging, and mourning the life I used to have... I wouldn't be pleasant either.

I tuck a loose strand of matted blonde hair behind my ear and head for the docks, the last place I can search before I go home. I've always been apprehensive about the docks, I had a bad run in with a scavenger in the bowl once. There are, of course, boats laying in the bowl— the bottom of the harbor. It's enclosed, and hard to escape in a pinch. Dad tells me to stay away from there, but I've had some interesting finds on the boats.

I follow the cement path surrounded by slumped dead palms and littered scraps of fronds, and crouch near the dock. I grab the rope to lower myself down, when I hear a clatter behind me.

My heart drops. The back door to The Anchor is propped open, and someone is inside. It's an obnoxiously yellow dock-side restaurant that has been barred up for as long as I can remember. I've tried to ram the door open in the past, but it wouldn't budge. I can only imagine what kind of goodies might be in there.

I glance back and forth, seeing no sign of outside movement, and cautiously approach the door. I pull my hunting knife out of my pocket and hold it close to my side, just in case. I haven't had to use it... yet. But I've come close, and I'd do it again.

I can't imagine the look on my dad's gaunt face when I return home with no food, again. That sympathetic smile he'll give me... I can't stomach it. I know that he won't eat until I do, so I need to make sure I bring back something for both of us.

I never did find my mom a conch, even though I've heard dozens of them now. The least I can do is take care of my dad.

I can't risk losing him too.