The dark flood

What I did when the world went away

All I had was my boat. Everything else had long since washed away.

It wasn’t perfect — I’d escaped at the last minute, after all, and there’s only so much you can do when time is bearing down on you — but I was proud of what I’d managed to cobble together. No sails, but solar panels generated just enough power to the battery for propulsion. No kitchen, as such, but I’d carried a propane burner on board, and once the gas ran out I had a small metal oven that could take wood or anything else I could find to burn. I had a net and traps, and there would be plenty of fish to eat, assuming the power stations didn’t leak enough radiation to make it all poisonous, and if they did it was game over anyway. And there was enough of a flat bottom to the pontoon that I’d managed to pitch a tent and tie it down so it didn’t blow away.

Perfect for the end of the world.

My husband had been swept away in the first onset of the waves while trying to rescue my dog. Both gone. They were like a phantom limb: I could feel them next to me, even while I knew I was alone in the night.

From time to time, I saw pinpricks of light on the horizon — other boats like mine, maybe, although I was careful not to draw attention to myself. Every so often, while the battery held, I turned on my…