Hundred Year Flood

One man's struggle to survive the flood of a lifetime.

Hundred Year Flood

by: moonlit cove

 

This is Stewart Pearson’s fifth day living in the attic.  The air is musty and humid, and its stench is overpowering.  The batteries in his flashlight are becoming weaker by the moment, and he’s running out of food.  He can tell by the waning light coming through the portal vent near the apex of his roof that nightfall is approaching, and he resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to suffer through at least one more night in this confined chamber.

The worst of the storm has passed, but there is still a steady drizzle of rain that pelts against the roof.  I’m such an idiot, Stewart thinks, I should’ve evacuated like everyone else.  But his pride had convinced him to stay behind because he’d been through so many heavy storms over the years and nothing bad had ever happened before.  Of course, he’s never seen anything like this before either.  After the initial hurricane passed through, the rain was a constant deluge for four straight days.  It had only lightened up just yesterday.

He contemplates leaving the attic, but is overwhelmed by the daunting path that he will have to take to escape.  He doesn’t know if he’s capable of making it, and he wishes for the motivation and courage to take that step.  And without warning, that motivation comes.

 

- - Five Days Earlier - -

 

Stewart felt a sense of triumph when he realized that the worst of the hurricane was over.  “Outlasted another one!” he declared, even though there was no one else in the house to share in his elation.  He expected life to return to normal afterward - and it did for a few hours - until the flooding began.

It was quite amusing at first.  A stream had formed in the street in front of his house, no more than an inch deep, but with a current of murky brown water strong enough to carry small pieces of driftwood along.  Stewart watched in fascination from his front room window as he sipped from a cup of afternoon coffee.  Half an hour later the rushing water was nearly to the level of his front porch, and his fascination morphed into concern.

The torrential downpour showed no signs of letting up, and by evening Stewart’s concern had become mild panic when he entered the living room once more and the carpet squished out water under his feet.  He pulled the curtains back once more and was overcome by shock when he saw that the previously tame stream had become a rushing river - the houses in his neighborhood now islands.  He looked up and down the street, but there were no signs that anyone else had stayed behind. 

There had been a mandatory evacuation the previous night in anticipation of the hurricane’s arrival.  Stewart ignored it, just like he’d done so many times before.  But standing and looking out the window at the sight before him, he admitted that it had a very different feel to it this time.  I might be the only one left, he thought.

By the time the water had reached Stewart’s ankles, the power went out.  He waded through the cold, muddy water to search for his flashlight.  It was an expensive model that was supposedly waterproof up to 100 meters.  He hoped he didn’t have to push it to those limits.  He retrieved the light from a drawer in his kitchen and tested it.  It shone brightly, but he turned it off quickly to conserve its power for when he’d really need it.  Even though the sky was darkened with heavy rain, it still provided just enough ambient light to navigate the house.

Stewart went to the pantry to gather up all of his non-perishable food and dry goods: boxes of cereal, crackers, potato chips, bread, canned vegetables and soups, and a tin of cookies.  He boxed up all of these items, along with a manual can opener, some utensils, and the flashlight, then he headed up to his bedroom on the second floor.  His phone was on the dresser, and he cursed himself for forgetting to charge it the night before.  After changing into a set of dry clothing, he collapsed onto the bed in frustration. 

And he waited.

Rainwater pounded the roof above him, and rushed through the streets below him.  He wondered how much longer this could possibly last.  He knew he’d have to wait it out on the second floor.  Eventually the waters would subside and he’d be able to leave.  He took comfort in the fact that he had several days worth of food.  The rain lulled him, catching him off guard with heavy eyelids.  A few slow blinks later and he was welcomed into the arms of sleep.

 

- - - - -

 

Stewart was jolted awake by a thumping sound.  He darted out of bed and to the window.  The shock of seeing the new depth of the floodwaters caused him to stumble backward.  He had to remind himself that he was actually on the second floor after seeing that the water level was only four feet or so below the window.  To his left he saw a massive tree branch floating away rapidly - the apparent object that had struck his house.  Grabbing the flashlight, Stewart rushed into the hallway and shone it down the stairwell.  He gasped when his light beam revealed that the dense, dirty water was only two steps shy of reaching the second floor.

Panic overtook him as he gathered up the box of food and a couple more dry outfits.  For a moment, he thought that he could escape through a window, but he remembered that they had been painted shut by the previous homeowner, preventing him from ever opening them.  Besides, even if he were to make it out the window, raging waters would sweep him away in seconds.  With full darkness setting in, he’d be better off waiting until daylight - and for the rapids to die down.

As the floodwaters crested the top step, beginning to soak the carpet of the second floor, Stewart made his way into the hallway once more and pulled the cord on the attic hatch.  The stairway squeaked as he unfolded the wooden ladder.  He climbed halfway up and shoved his box of goods onto the rafters above.  After he was safely inside, he pulled the stairway back into place behind him, shrouding himself in darkness.

There were no windows in the attic - just the portal vent that let in a minimal amount of light by which Stewart could judge whether it was night or day.  Even though he was unable to see it, he could judge the rain’s intensity by its sound, and the same went for the raging water below.

And so began five long, solitary days in the attic space.  He did his best to ration the food and was able to entertain himself with a deck of playing cards he’d found inside a box of trinkets.  When nature called, he had no choice but to designate the corner furthest away as the “bathroom”.  By day five the smell was overwhelming.

Over the course of his time in the attic, not only had the rain tapered to a drizzle, but also the sound of the rushing water below had gone from full-on rapids, to trickling, and finally, to stagnant by day four.

 

- - - - -

 

And now, here he sits, anxiously waiting for the water to recede.  By his estimation, he only has about a half day of food rations remaining.  His only way of gauging the water level is to open the attic stairs slightly and shine his flashlight down into the second floor of the house.  Doing this over the course of the last few days has shown little recession - if any at all.  The realization hits him that he will have to attempt an escape at some point.  He just needs to work up the courage.

The only conceivable way to leave the house, Stewart figures, is to attempt to hold his breath long enough to swim down the stairway to the first floor, out the front door, and back up to the surface outside.  He estimates that, even with the aid of his waterproof flashlight, this may take close to a minute to accomplish.  He is unsure if he is capable of holding his breath for that amount of time.  A few quick trials with his wristwatch yield an average time of forty-three seconds.  Just as he is finishing his last trial run, he hears the sound - faint at first, but undeniably real.

A voice.

Its message is indiscernible to Stewart, but the longer he listens, the closer and more pronounced it becomes.  His heart rate increases and he tilts his ear toward the segment of roof that separates him from the sound.  The voice comes closer and louder, accompanied by a muffled rumbling.

“A boat,” Stewart says aloud.  “It’s a boat!”

As the craft approaches, the voice is unmistakable now.  A crewmember using a megaphone or PA system of some kind is calling out for survivors.  “Attention survivors!  This is county fire and rescue.  If you can hear us, alert us now.”  The man repeats this message continually.

Excitement and panic overtake Stewart simultaneously.  He hammers his fists against the inside of the roof.  “In here!” he yells as loud as he is able.  He searches for something heavy to throw at the portal vent in an attempt to knock it out, but all he finds is a box of old books.  He chooses a large dictionary and lobs it upward, hitting the vent, but doing no damage.  The book crashes down and its spine gives way, creating several thinner volumes.

“I have to go now,” he calls out while breathing heavily.  As Stewart scurries toward the ladder, he is concerned that his elevated pulse and short breaths will be detrimental to his ability to remain underwater for the length of time necessary.  But he must try this now - it’s his only hope of rescue.

The hinge creaks on the ladder hatch and its wooden stairs touch the waterline almost immediately.  Stewart shines the flashlight into the abyss of opaque brown water, mere inches below the attic floor.  Items from various rooms of his house float about on the surface: clothing, plastic bottles, sofa cushions, an office chair, and an array of other odds and ends.  He hesitates briefly as the dark water littered with random items within the reach of his flashlight beam makes him think of an underground sewer system.

There is a startling movement in the water to the right, but he isn’t quick enough with the flashlight to capture what caused it - just its fading ripples.  He pans the light around the area and finds the erratic sine wave movements of a small blacksnake.  As much as Stewart hates snakes, the boat outside is practically at his doorstep and the voice in the megaphone urges him onward.  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves, then pushes the stairway all the way down into the water, requiring more force than he imagined.

The water is cold on his legs, waist and torso as he slowly descends the steps.  Soon he is submerged up to his shoulders and his entire body shivers.  The glow of the flashlight beam underwater creates an eerie circle of brown water below him.  He steps off of the ladder and treads water over toward the stairway leading down to the first floor.  When he reaches the point of his last opportunity to have his head above water, Stewart counts to three, draws in the deepest breath he can muster, and plunges his head below the surface.

His open eyes sting momentarily in the filthy liquid.  He brings the flashlight up near his face and swims down the stairwell, using the handrail to pull himself along faster.  He isn’t prepared for the amount of debris that he must swim through.  Pieces of driftwood and foliage are everywhere.  A window must have broken out somewhere.  If only he knew which one he could head for it, but it’s too risky - better to stick to the plan.

Continuing down into the entry foyer, Stewart’s noticeably dimmer flashlight beam reveals a school of large fish rather close to his face.  It startles him so much that a few air bubbles escape his mouth.  As the fish scatter, he chides himself for being so careless as to waste precious air.

Stewart reaches the front door just as the urge to draw in a breath is beginning to envelope him.  He grabs the doorknob and uses it as leverage to pull himself downward, fighting his body’s natural tendency to rise toward the surface.  He has to let go momentarily to fumble with the locks while holding the light in his other hand.  He slowly rises upward, but manages to grab a hold of the knob once again after unlocking the door.

How long has it been? he wonders.  Thirty seconds?  Thirty-five?  He hopes that the boat is still nearby.  In order to break the door free from its seal, Stewart must place one foot on the wall next to the opening to push against.  The solid wood door moves freely but slowly to its open position.

Something suddenly dawns on Stewart that he hadn’t thought of during his mental practice runs.  He must swim out far enough away from the front door in order to not come up under the front porch awning.  Ten feet should be sufficient, he thinks.  With a push-off from the door frame, he swims vigorously out away from the house as far as he can before his body begins rising.

By now, the desire to take a breath is nearly unbearable.  His throat is tightening and his head is pounding.  He flails his arms and legs wildly, desperate to reach the surface.  It seems to be taking entirely too long to ascend.  He paddles with all of his strength, but the flashlight reveals nothing above him but dark, muddy water.  He closes his eyes and keeps moving upward, willing himself to make it to fresh air.

His progress is halted when his head comes up against a hard object.  Panic overtakes him.  There shouldn’t be anything here! he thinks, almost angry that something would thwart his plan.  He manages to shine the dying light onto the object blocking his path - a plastic picnic table floating upside down.  Stewart realizes that he’s only an inch below the surface.  His neck is throbbing now, and his eyes feel as if they may burst forth from their sockets.  The urge to breathe is so strong that he’s afraid his body’s involuntary reflex is about to kick in and cause him to fill his lungs with this filthy mire.  Hurriedly, he reaches up and around until he finds the edge of the table and works his way out from under it, finally bursting forth from the surface of the water and inhaling the most satisfying breath he’s ever experienced - followed by another, and another.

It is dark out, but Stewart frantically listens for the boat and megaphone messenger.  He still hears them although they sound very distant now.  He waves the flashlight wildly without realizing that it has burned out.  “Hey!” he yells, “Over here!”  He sees the flashing red and white lights of the boat several hundred feet away.  He yells louder, but to no avail.  The boat motors around a street corner and disappears between roof peaks of houses on the neighboring street.  All that’s left is the faint sound and the reflection of the flashing lights in the treetops.

With his flashlight dead, Stewart swims over to the rooftop and climbs up onto the shingles.  They are rough and gritty, and they cut into his soft waterlogged skin.  His soaked clothing clings to his body, and the coldness takes on a new level now that he’s exposed to the air.  He brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, shivering.

“They’ll come back,” he whispers, teeth chattering.  “They’ll come around again.  They have to.”  He watches as the flashing lights fade further into the distance, leaving him in complete darkness.

He sits silent for what seems like an hour, waiting to see if the rescuers will return.  His concentration is broken by the sound of splashing in the water just a few feet in front of his house.  He listens intently as the noise approaches.  Suddenly, the splashing gives way to clawing on his rooftop.  Stewart bolts upright and backs away, further up the roof incline.  A number of horrible visions cross his mind as to what it might be.  He can’t help but imagine an alligator working its way up toward him, causing him to wish that the flashlight was still working.

As the scraping continues to close in on Stewart, his pulse quickens.  His breathing, which had just settled, becomes heavy again.  The scratching noise sounds strained - something trying desperately to hold on.  This is oddly comforting to Stewart, knowing that an alligator would have no trouble climbing the roof shingles.  Within seconds the creature is at his side, rubbing its wet body against him, practically falling into his lap.  He takes several blows to his face from a soft yet rigid object.  Stewart reaches out and surveys the hairy creature - a dog - one of the neighbors’ presumably.

“Oh goodness,” he says, “you’re a survivor, too!”  The dog responds with even faster tail wags and rubbing of his body against Stewart.  “We’re gonna make it, boy!” he says while petting its soaked fur.

They remain huddled together until there is once again a rumbling of sound in the distance.  This time there is no boat with flashing lights.  Instead, as the noise gets louder, Stewart sees a spotlight breaking through clouds in the sky.  It sweeps back and forth bathing everything in its path in a bright white glow.  Stewart awkwardly rises to his feet on the angled surface and begins waving his arms and yelling.  He nearly stumbles in the strong breeze of the rotor blades.  The helicopter’s spotlight makes several passes back and forth before focusing on him and the dog.

Reviews

[Quinn W]

First of all, let me just say how freaking excited I was that you had posted something!!!! This is amazing! You kept my interest the entire time, which is not always the easiest thing to do. And, this has a certain realistic tint in it. I also really liked the mention of how he used the bathroom. Most authors don't mention those things and it makes for an unrealistic story. I don't think Harry Potter ever took a bathroom break. I wouldn't blame him though, I mean, after what happened to Hermione with that troll I wouldn't want to go either.
The dog was also a great touch. I would've felt really bad if he didn't have anyone to wait with. Great job with detail too!

[moonlit_cove]

Thank you so very much, Quinn! As always, I appreciate your reviews and feedback greatly. Thanks so much for taking the time to read it. I'm glad you enjoyed it. And it made my day knowing that you were excited that I posted something. :-) I had gotten very busy with work and didn't have time to write anything new for a long time, but things have slowed a bit. Thanks again!