The first of the rains continued for twelve days.


    It started off as occasional, gentle showers and grew in intensity and duration into a steady hissing downpour.


    On the sixth day, the disused runoff systems reached a breaking point and the streets began to fill with murky water. The general sense of amazement faded to resignation, then to mild unease. Strangers went from jauntily telling each other how badly the water was needed to exchanging nervous shrugs. What can you do? Those shrugs said. It has to stop eventually.


    Natural disasters and extremes were not something the city was unfamiliar with, but there had been a period of relative calm for ten, twenty years at least. Nobody cared to return to the chaos of days past.


    The older folks dispersed only haunted glances and tight frowns. The younger generations might kid themselves, but the elderly knew all too well that sudden shifts like this one usually heralded even more extremes. They didn’t believe it would end anytime soon. On the contrary, they all knew that it was likely only the beginning.


    On day eight, the flooding began in earnest. Nobody was delighting in the showers anymore. No more children in the street, no more grins and laughter. That brief glow of comaraderie in the city flickered out as if it had never been.


    Evacuations were ordered in all of the low-lying areas. These were, of course, the pits of the city where runoff and pollution laws were lax; inhabited only by the poorest of the poor. Nobody paid much attention as they were herded out in sodden crowds like cattle, following routes to higher ground that were marked by road flares and the occasional neon-vested cop.


    Those with more financial resources watched from their hills and skyscrapers, sickened but comfortably removed from the muddy thronging in the streets below. And the middle ground—the inner suburbs and the business districts— were forced to make way for the masses now seeking refuge.


    Every public building with a roof and a working bathroom was quickly requisitioned by the city. It wasn’t a permanent solution, nor a very good one, but it was all that the panicked government could think to do. It at least kept people calm for a little bit longer. The illusion of control was more important than the actual power, in some cases.


    Days passed with general compliance. People were resigned, trusting. Willing to listen and obey instructions without much ado. The problems only came when the stream of refugees didn’t end. Buildings began to fill. Doors closed. Officers cordoned off shelter after shelter, and begin to turn everyone away. They would be pointed out, towards the next place. More often than not, that place would be full too.


    Day and night crowds trudged through the mud, adding a soundtrack of crying children, shouting, and occasional gunfire to the steady drum of rain. Eventually, there was nowhere else to go.


    Displaces masses bled out into the city, endlessly searching for somewhere dry to wait out what the government at last on the seventh day acknowledged as an ‘unprecedented’ storm.


    The rain mixed with thick dust and grime on the surface roads, creating a slurry of muck that sucked at shoes; the vertical surfaces of the city, though, experienced an odd renewal. Buildings whose walls had been layered in decades of filth were suddenly washed clean, sometimes revealing colors beneath that had been long since forgotten.


    The landscape was transformed. Gray, faded surfaces appeared as if they’d been freshly whitewashed. There was even a sparkling quality to some of the polished cement signs, in stark opposition to the increasingly disgusting streets. The bank building in the center of downtown suddenly shown with its original red brickwork.


    An occasional stray refugee would pause to gawk up at it, wondering at the rusty color that had sat unseen for generations. Even the mobilized soldiers often got lost as landmarks became unfamiliar. The seemingly monochromatic cityscape washed into something new; something oddly vibrant. It added to the feeling of surreality.


    On the tenth day, riots began. Unrest spread through the city like wildfire, starting with only the smaller neighborhoods in the seedy area south of downtown and fanning outward until breaking upon a wall of soldiers in the financial district. Helicopters brought in more and more military until the crowds receded back.


    Tristan watched from his window as the first of many barricades was erected just a half a block from the entrance to his building. A unit of eight uniformed men waded through knee-high water there, carrying between them a large length of metal fence. He watched them struggle to place it amidst the torrent of water that streamed over the pavement.


    They shouted at each other and twice had to ward off would-be rioters, but eventually managed to secure their railing between two buildings. Once it was in place, they left to fetch another piece. Tristan felt ill. He pulled his head away from the windowpane and sat hard on the floor.


    More and more pieces of fence were brought in, until the entire eastern length of the block was effectively walled off. Soldiers were stationed between each section, carrying guns and not at all bothered by the ever-rising waters that rushed by their legs.


    Each time Tristan risked another glance down to the street, the wall was longer, the lights brighter. There were floodlights and flashlights and armored vehicles coming in almost as fast as the water. His heart thudded harder and harder as the scene below unfolded. How the hell was he supposed to get out of the city with half the bloody military lined up and ready to shoot anyone who dared leave their buildings?


    At around four on the eleventh afternoon, an announcement was piped through the speakers sprinkled around the city for emergency use. It called for a total lockdown. Nobody was allowed to be outside until further notice. Rations would be delivered building by building. Anyone caught in violation was to be arrested.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Shot on sight, more likely. Tristan grimaced. His head had not stopped hurting for more than an hour or two since the cafe. His mother had always told him that the headaches were from nerves. He privately agreed, but liked to call them migraines whenever anyone asked.


    He crossed to the small bathroom off of the living area and leaned over the sink, cranking the tap fully towards cold. There was a loud spluttering noise and then a metallic clunk, and only a thin stream of water came out. He barked a laugh. Water outages were not unusual, true, but the irony of it happening during a flood was not lost on him.


    “Cody, the fuck have you gotten us into!” He muttered, abandoning the sink and opening the medicine cabinet to search for a painkiller instead. There was only two left in the bottle. Groaning, he popped them both in his mouth and leaned back to the faucet to gulp them down with the last trickle of water before the pipes signaled empty with another loud thunk.


    Just then, there was another rattle of gunfire from the street below. He yelped and jumped, catching the edge of the mirror on the back of his head. Cursing, he slammed the cabinet closed and rubbed the spot where a bruise was now forming. Laughter came again, at the absurdity of the now doubled pain in his skull.


    He wondered vaguely if he was losing his mind. Probably. “And does it matter, after all of this?” He asked his empty apartment. His tablet, still where he’d left it when he’d come in the night before, beeped and lit up. He reflexively dropped to the ground, getting out of view of the camera built into its face.


    The screen turned red, with scrolling white lettering flashing on it. Just another emergency alert. Scolding himself for being so jumpy, he crawled on his belly towards the thing and hastily flipped it face down. Just in case, he told himself.


    After a moment’s consideration he pushed it under the bed, too. Couldn’t be too careful. Both knees cracked as he stood. He could feel the annoying wheeze in his chest that was all that remained of the boyhood asthma that had plagued him until his medical advisor had finally approved him to get some non-required surgeries.


    It had been a joy to be able to breathe clearly, to be able to experience strong emotions without the terrifying squeeze of tightening bronchial pathways. He knew it had been more than sheer luck that had gotten that oh-so-rare approval on the procedure. Cody, certainly, had helped.


    Cody, the prodigal big brother ironically working for the Big Brother. The eldest of the Byrne sons. The one who had pulled all the right strings in the government to help as many as he possibly could. Starting, of course, with his kid brother Tristan. A lot of good it did him, Tristan thought bitterly, sweeping a hand through his dark hair. He wrinkled his nose, smelling the stink of his own fear.


    Cody. Cody, not Tris, had been Cara Byrne’s pride and joy before leukemia took her. He was the strongest of her three boys. The one with the genetic luck to not suffer any of the diseases that ran so rampant amid the lower classes. At least, to not be born with any of them.


    The third boy, Finn, had died in infancy. He was the youngest, unfortunately born after their mother had been “compelled” to relocate to a tract of houses in the southwest of the city. Near the dump. Near most of the chemical and radioactive spillage that the government continued to deny existed. Tristan of course, knew better. Cancer rates didn’t lie.


    He sighed and checked the time. Almost seven. Time yet to try to get a message out to his brother. Pushing himself up wearily, Tristan eyed the wooden hutch that stood lonely in one corner of the small fluorescent-lit nook by the kitchen that served as his dining room.


    It’s where he kept what his mother would have called his keepsakes. He tended to just call it his sentimental shit, or just ‘junk’ if he was feeling particularly ornery. It contained boxes of actual mementos like family photos and old documents, and then lesser odds and ends that he couldn’t bring himself to let go of.


    Old electronics, gifts, an old self-heating mug that had melted a plastic coaster into an unrecognizable lump that wouldn’t come off of it. It really was mostly junk, but when he had been allowed to move to a better part of town he hadn’t been able to get rid of everything.


    He dug through the myriad of useless stuff to get to an old notebook that was stuffed near the bottom of the heap. It was dusty and felt heavy in his hands. Dusty, but this thing had been his pride and joy for years and so had been taken care of. Very well taken care of.


    He nudged the hutch closed again and sat down at his tiny table, shoving aside some dishes and a sweatshirt to make room for the notebook. There was a power pad on the far side of the table and he gently set the old computer down on it, holding his breath for a moment as he waited for the green light that indicated charging.


    There was a soft tone and the light appeared, and Tristan smiled to himself. Well taken care of, indeed. He wiped off a layer of dust from the top of the thing as it charged, cringing a little as he realized that dust may well have come from the bad side of town. He flapped his hands at the dust cloud that now hung around his face in a futile attempt to dispel it.


    In the distance, more gunfire sounded. There was a sharp scream, another tap-tap-tap of rapid fire shots, then silence except for some far-off siren. Tristan swallowed hard. He gave the computer a few more minutes of charging, nervously picking at his nails while he waited, then decided he could sit idly no longer and swung it around to face him.


    It made a creaking click as he opened it but seemed no worse for wear than the last time he’d used it. Its ancient screen lit blue as soon as it was fully opened, and Tristan allowed himself a sigh of relief. The thing was a fossil, but sometimes the obsolete gadgets were the best chance at anonymity.


    Cody,


    Tristan began typing, nerves tightening his throat.


    Hope all is well. I picked up


    He paused. Thought about it, then hit backspace a few times and began anew:


    I ran into your old partner the other day, and she said to send her regards. Work has moved her to a different office and she doesn’t get to the city often anymore. She asked if I get out much, guess you must have told her about me. One day, I’ll leave the city just to get you off my back about it. Anyways, missing you always,


    -Tris


    Tristan ran through it twice more, reading it aloud to himself in a quiet murmur. He tried to find any obvious hint at subterfuge in the words, tried thinking about them backwards and forwards and at all angles until he was sure that nobody would be able to make anything of it beyond what was there.


    Once satisfied, he hovered his finger over the button that would send the message out. Hesitated there. Sighed. “God damn it!” He cursed, slamming the laptop closed instead and slumping back in his chair. His hands had begun to tremble.


    Images from the cafe played over and over in his head. He was no longer confident in the privacy of any correspondence. If they could find and do… do that to whoever dropped the file onto his tablet, then it stood to reason they could trace the file back to its origin. Back to Cody.


    No, he couldn’t risk it. And no matter how insane it all was, his only chance of any of this being of any use at all was to get the hell out of the city. Before the lockdown procedures got any further.


    Tristan stood up and quickly began tossing a few of his things into the beige messenger bag he usually used for work. It was sleek and new, a gift from his coworker after he had landed a rare promotion. A pang of guilt tailed the flash of memory.


    He was never the brave one, never the one given to act first. But Cody was relying on him.