Floodwater

By T. M. Ponzetti

In 2312, as human populations continue to rise, the globe warms at an alarming rate. As Arctic and Antarctic glaciers melt and the gap between rich and poor grows, the world slowly transforms, experiencing massive flooding and extreme, widespread poverty. Humanity has no choice but to shift survival strategies.

In a flooded San Francisco, many are forced to turn to the growing seas for their livelihood, including gangs of young divers who search the submerged streets for fish and metals. Chase Reilly, a sixteen-year-old gang diver prospect, has just begun his initiation when he discovers a treasure lost beneath more than one hundred feet of water. As he attempts to bring up the contents of a vault worth millions to the surface, Chase accidentally breaches city walls, soon learning that a recreational diver has been killed by gang divers. Now under the supervision of Ward Murphy, a patrol officer with a secretive past, Chase is more determined than ever to claim what is hiseven if he must risk his own life to succeed.

In this intriguing story detailing the catastrophic effects of global warming, a gang diver, a patrol officer, and a communications mogul band together to retrieve a treasure and, in the process, learn the true meaning of value, loyalty, and survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480804791

T. M. Ponzetti

T. M. Ponzetti relies on diving experiences in the ocean waters off the Pacific coast and an academic background in anthropology and sociology for writing inspiration. Ponzetti seeks to contribute to the understanding of the potential physical effects and social impact of global warming and currently lives in California.

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Copyright © 2013 T. M. Ponzetti.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-0478-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0480-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0479-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014901068

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/23/14

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

EPILOGUE

Introduction

WHEN ENVISIONING THE PAST OR future, the focus tends to be on sensationalism. We concentrate on events and lose the people involved, and they become stilted caricatures that suit our values and ideals. In writing Floodwater, I wanted to tell a dystopian story of adventure in a futuristic time when people are forced to pay the consequences of today’s bad decisions. At the same time I wanted to tell a very human story.

Floodwater is not just about rising sea levels and over population, it is about fathers and sons, brothers and allies, and above all, the human will to survive. There are no perfect heroes or senseless villains, only people molded by their environment. Many have made poor decisions as we all do, but a few find the courage and humility to rise above it.

Prologue

IN THE FADING LIGHT OF early evening, Charlie Martin wove through the makeshift streets of the shanty town he called home. Decaying buildings hugged by pressboard and tarpaper shacks, built from whatever materials were available. Through the dusty little dwellings wound a series of narrow dirt paths. If it weren’t for these filthy roads, the area would be inhabitable. They were made of fill dirt, part of a program to reclaim land lost to rising sea levels. ‘Shanty Town’ caused mixed feelings of fear, loathing, and guilt in the privileged classes. There was no doubt these streets were dangerous, but Charlie was accustomed to them.

Nearly six decades of living by the laws of nature long ago forgotten by most men and women, he was an expert at basic human survival. Even now, he was concealing a hard earned cache of food beneath his ankle length coat, but no passerby would be any the wiser. Charlie was simply too comfortable in his environment to convey any sense of unease at carrying such a vital and fought over commodity.

As the sun sank ever lower in the sky bathing the shanty town in an unlikely crimson beauty, he neared his humble shack. It should have been a short and predictable journey, but something disrupted it. Within a few blocks of his home, he came across a body. By the looks of it, he was a boy of roughly twelve or thirteen years of age and freshly dead. Though the dead were common in a place like this, one couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity at the loss of human life, especially one so young. Not knowing why, Charlie walked closer to the lost youth.

The poor creature had a terribly bruised face and his dirty blonde hair was caked with blood. His sharp nose, now forever crooked, dripped more blood down his face, soaking a filthy shirt. He was an obvious victim of a savage beating, probably having run afoul of one of the countless gangs patrolling the area.

What a waste … terrible loss is what that is, he sighed.

At the sound of the old man’s voice, the boy whimpered and stirred. He was still alive, but for how long was anyone’s best guess. Charlie could have walked away. Most anyone would have. To help this boy heal meant expending energy and sacrificing a portion of his valuable cache of food; acts of altruism that were rare these days. But as he gazed out across the shacks shrouded in growing darkness, the man felt a wave of compassion. With darkness approaching, the rats and feral dogs would be out in force, and a fading boy like this would provide a welcome feast. It was an undignified way to die, and Charlie couldn’t allow it. Standing over the fallen youth, he encouraged the boy to fight.

Stand up, he said, I know you can.

The only response was a labored whine.

You have to fight; it’s the only way to survive, Charlie pressed.

The boy stirred, struggling to get up. It was a positive sign; he had the will to live. Charlie continued to encourage him.

Are you hungry? You look hungry. I have food, but only if you want it. You can stand up and eat, or you can lie there and die.

With the promise of nourishment, the boy battled his way to his feet. He collapsed from the effort, but refused to give up. After another long and painful attempt, he was at last standing. As the lanky youth stared straight at him with determined green eyes, Charlie smiled at the triumph. This one was going to make it. Having seen enough, he approached and offered support. The aid was gratefully accepted, and the boy rasped out a reminder.

You said I could eat if I got up.

Yes, Charlie affirmed, I have some food for you, and shelter. I’m going to let you stay with my family, and I’ll help you get better. Now come on, let’s go home.

1

PEERING WITH CAUTION OVER THE makeshift craft, Chase felt his first inkling of hesitation. When he had heard of this lifestyle several years earlier, it had sounded so simple; a no-effort, get-rich-quick scheme; find a gang, don the equipment, and jump in the water. Then it was just a matter of searching for metal and other valuable objects to trade for food and supplies. Nothing to it. But as he set about working towards becoming an Outwall diver, the reality slapped him like a burly grizzly bear’s paw.

First off, joining a gang wasn’t the easiest thing to do. One didn’t simply find a gang and apply for membership. A person had to win the approval of a current member, and then prove his or her metal. That first step nearly turned him off to the idea as he scoured the dirt streets of Outwall San Francisco for a dive gang member.

His initial attempt at making a connection nearly ended in death as he was beaten mercilessly by a couple members of the Ugly Bastards, the largest and most influential group of gang divers out there. Joining them was to be at the top of gang culture, and that was what Chase strived for. Using a little of the valuable metal cache he found, Chase used it as a bargaining tool to befriend a prospective teen gang member. The teen promised to bring Chase before his leader, a man who went by the ocean styled name of Phorcys. Unfortunately, the meeting never took place. Chase found himself the victim of deception as the teen and his surly companion robbed Chase of his precious metal and viciously beat him. The pair left him for dead, without the promised introduction to the unwritten mortal god of gang diving.

Chase would have given up had it not been for Charlie Martin, a man he now knew by the street name ‘Strobe’. The older man took pity on this unfortunate boy and did what he could to help. Housed in Strobe’s pressboard shack, Chase regained both his health and his interest in diving. This time, luck was on his side. Strobe just happened to be the most senior member of the Bay Killers. Smaller and controlling less underwater turf than the Ugly Bastards, they weren’t at the top of their game. But it was a start, and given the much gentler introduction a rather good one.

The boy’s next step was to have his courage and loyalty tested through a series of petty thefts and ‘tank runs’; errands that involved carrying heavy equipment to be filled with air. Picking pockets and braving the streets with equipment that made one a target for treasure seekers was a far cry from the savage beatings and brutal hazing of dry land gangs, but the water borne gang members weren’t free of mortal challenges. Territory below the waves was guarded with as much violent jealousy as that above, but turf battles weren’t the only threats to safety. Unlike the Outwallers who kept themselves out of the water, Chase would have to learn to dive.

Without the means to pay for formal instruction to ensure safe practices, the gang divers were forced to resort to a trial by fire. Each had to learn through experimentation, the limited experience of elders, or the fatal mistakes of others. The lack of knowledge often led to panic situations, and when these arose underwater, few had the knowledge to solve them. Many gang divers didn’t live to make use of the lessons hard learned. Chase would have to rely on a shaky cocktail of observation, wits, control, and sheer luck. Not the best combination when one’s very life is at stake. Only about one-third of those who took the plunge made it through their first year.

Gazing at the water as it lapped at the multitude of plastic barrels holding his perch afloat, Chase could almost count every tiny piece of algae dyeing the clear liquid a dirty green. If there was this much life in a simple square inch, what lay below the algal cloud ready to grasp an unsuspecting human? And if something didn’t grab him, there was the ever present danger of drowning. He was just plain inviting death. All Chase knew was what one of the full fledged members had told him in the pre-dive briefing: equalize your ears, don’t come up too fast, and always watch your air. That was not much in the way of instruction. The boy sat back in the safety of the pressboard and barrel raft, letting the weight of the tank strapped to his back aid in pulling him from the edge. His reticence, however, was not appreciated. From out of the waves he heard the angry shouts of the other Bay Killers.

Are you in or out?!

Go down or go back to the dump!

Come on! ‘Ninety-nine plus is not enough!’

This last taunt was the gang’s motto, claiming with bravado that the Bay Killers would not balk at diving to over one hundred feet in search of salvageable treasure. It was an unspoken call to arms. Chase struggled against the bulk of his equipment and stood once more at the precipice. If he did this, he was in. He’d even have the appropriate tattoo emblazoned above his collarbone and near the right shoulder; the tattoo of a breaching red orca crossed by a white stripe. It was the ancient diver’s flag incorporated on an animal as it leapt over the motto: 99+NOT ENOUGH. It would be his badge of belonging. Whenever he pulled down the collar of his shirt, everyone would know who had his back.

Taking a deep breath, he positioned the antique regulator in his mouth. The regulator was a pressure demand piece of equipment that would allow him to breathe air from his tanks as needed. Hanging off a much repaired rubber hose was his pressure gauge, a device that would allow him to monitor the amount of air he had left. His gear was poorly maintained, and it made the pending dive all the more frightening. Any one of these devices could fail without a moment’s notice leaving him to drown under several feet of unforgiving ocean.

If Chase were one of the Lockups, the privileged class living within the secure walls of the city, he could afford a modern kit: digital displays projected right into the mask, alarms that warned him of any equipment malfunction … maybe even a high tech fifth generation rebreather unit that would recycle the air in his lungs and allow infinite bottom time. But fate had made him an Outwaller, one of the desperately poor living outside the steel gates. He would have to find some way to eke out a living and survive on the most basic of human instincts, and gang diving was the way he chose. It was less humiliating than selling his body and less degrading than scrounging through garbage dumps. But if he was going to be part of the gang culture, he would have to get wet. Grasping the thick hose attached to his shoulder, he inquisitively examined the end of it.

There was a plastic device with a small blue button near the bottom, an open orifice the size of his thumb above it, and a flat black button covering the top. He pressed the large button at the end and inflated his buoyancy compensator, the air bladder filled vest that would control whether he would float or sink beneath the waves. Strobe had instructed him to keep it fully inflated upon entry, and he was more than willing to comply. Everything was ready. It was now or never.

With a terrifying leap, Chase lifted his legs to his chest and flew off the platform and into the water. The impact jarred the tank on his back, and he felt the first sting of panic. If he lost the tank, he would be without air. Instinctively he spit out the regulator and gasped wildly, but with grand effort he was able to regain control and place his life support back in his mouth where it belonged. Reassured, Chase floated for a calming moment.

As the water crept into his wetsuit, his muscles tensed at the sudden drop in temperature. He relaxed once more as his body heat warmed the invasive liquid and created a pocket of ocean between the suit and the open sea that was decidedly more human friendly in temperature. As he leaned back and slowly paddled towards the waiting Bay Killers, he heard one shout derisive advice.

"Don’t jump like that! Just stride in like those undercovers do!"

Next time! Chase yelled back with feigned confidence.

He then kicked his feet harder and drifted towards the caller. He was a twenty-something with dark hair and a square jaw, indicative of budding manhood, who went by the street name Shiner. Beside him was the slightly younger round faced Horatio Tulasku, who would rather be known as Tooley than either of his loathed given names. Having been handed advice by the elder of the two, Chase presumed that approaching this pair for support was acceptable. He was proven wrong as Tooley roughly shoved him aside.

Hell No! You’re with Strobe. Me and Shiner want to pull up metal, not dead bodies.

Just go over there with Strobe, Shiner added.

That was discouraging on multiple levels. On the surface was that ever present mention of death. Below was the nagging tone of exclusion. Sensing the other members’ reluctance to accept him, Chase heeded their advice and kicked towards Strobe. If the gang elder accepted him, the others would be obligated to do the same.

At fifty-seven years old, Strobe was not only the most senior Bay Killer, but also the oldest known gang diver in the bay. Given the gang diver high mortality rate, this was an amazing feat. Between the lack of training and ever present rivalry, most gang divers were lucky to see their twenty-fifth birthday. To live as long as Strobe, one needed an unparalleled combination of skill and courage, and such a personality commanded unspoken respect. There was honor among thieves.

When Chase was at last by his side, the veteran handed him a long metal pole with a set of three sharp points roughly welded to one end. Attached to it was a nylon rope, also tipped with metal. This time it was in the form of a spike with one end fashion into a barb and the other welded to a loop that was tightly fastened to the nylon. It was the oddest part of the diving kit, and Chase was at a loss as to its purpose.

What does this do? Fight off rivals? he asked.

That’s your hunting gear, the older man answered.

To be strong enough to dive, the gangs needed to eat. Digging in the trash for discarded scraps like so many other Outwallers didn’t provide enough protein, so they took advantage of their gear and hunted fish. Chase’s job on this day would be to help make sure the Bay Killers ate tonight. The boy listened carefully as Strobe explained spear fishing techniques to him.

If you see a rockfish or cabezon, stab it with the trident. Then shove the barb at the end of the rope into the wound and thread it through so you don’t lose the fish and waste what precious air you spent catching the fish. Try to get at least two, preferably three or four. If you can do that, you’re in.

Are you sure? Chase asked, finding this initiation a lot milder than expected.

If I say you are. It’s my gang, my family. I’m not Phorcys. Now do you remember what Rabbit told you about going down? Strobe answered.

Oh, yeah. He told me a few things. He said to equalize my ears and not go up too fast. I don’t know how to do that though … the equalizing thing.

It’s easy, Strobe said. I learned it from some Lockup years ago. Just kind of pinch your nose and blow gently once you start going down. You can move your jaws too, I find that helps. If you don’t, you’ll just get a burst eardrum. It’s happened to me a couple of times, you won’t die. It’ll grow back. Just be careful about the going up too fast part or you’ll get the bends. Then you could die, or just get crippled.

Is that why Rabbit walks with that limp? Chase asked. Is that what happens when you get the bends?

No, the older man answered, that’s what happens when you argue with a guy that’s got three feet of lead pipe in his hand.

Strobe then reached over and lifted the thick inflator hose attached to Chase’s buoyancy compensator and lifted it.

Hold it up like this, and press this button. That’ll let the air out so you can go down.

After giving the short instruction, Strobe raised his voice so the scattered pairs of divers could hear.

All right boys, let’s go down!

Preparing himself for the worst Chase took a deep breath, positioned the regulator in his mouth, and depressed the button as instructed. Within moments, he sunk beneath the waves as air escaped the plastic orifice. Surrounded by green murk, he was suddenly aware of every breath he took. The inhale was a shallow drag on the device wedged between his teeth, and the exhale was a noisy explosion of bubbles. Chase found himself belaboring each breath, unsure of how to monitor this formerly involuntary function.

Chase couldn’t see a thing through the microscopic life muddying the waters and to his utter discomfort soon lost track of Strobe. The older man had descended with the fluid motion of experience. All that remained were the silver beads of air floating up from his regulator. This was not good. Chase had lost the pro, and was too terrified to descend without him. He was still close to the surface and the option of calling off the adventure, but to do so would end in definite rejection from the gang. Not wanting to return to the life of a solitary street urchin like some cowardly mongrel, he swallowed his fear and forced himself down. With luck, Strobe would be easy to find.

Flapping his limbs, Chase pushed against the resistant ocean. His struggle made little progress until Strobe materialized from the depths to end it. The boy watched as his prospective mentor reached out and grasped a small toggle on his buoyancy compensator. When the older man gave it a sharp tug, the air drained from the intricate vest and Chase found himself dropping at what he considered to be an alarming rate. Pressure closed in around him, particularly in his ears. Sharp pain reminded him to heed the lessons of the unnamed undercover; the professionally trained cop sent to infiltrate Strobe and his gang.

Holding his nose tight and blowing out hard, Chase forced the pain out in the opposite direction. It didn’t feel like a very effective tactic, but he wasn’t about to question tested skills. He opted to try again, a little more gently this time. The trial and error worked, and with a bit of effort the pain subsided. Feeling an increasing comfort in this alien environment, Chase eased up and allowed himself to drift down. Before he knew it he had hit bottom and found himself standing on the sunken streets of old San Francisco.

With the first stage over, it was time to start hunting and salvaging. As the pairs of Bay Killers smoothly disappeared into the murk on their search for fish and metal, Chase readied himself to follow. He kicked hard expecting to find himself floating upward through the water and gliding onward like the others. Instead, he ended up flailing like a drowning mouse and dropping without dignity to the reclaimed streets. A second try produced the same result.

Something was wrong, and Chase assumed it was that rotten set of weights Rabbit had strapped to his waist. The more he thought about it, the more counterintuitive it felt. Weight pulled you down, why on Earth would you need to add a belt strung with weight to your already bulky kit? Assuming it was some sort of hazing prank, the boy fumbled to remove it. His progress was stopped when Strobe gave him a sharp rap on the hand. When he looked up, the older man shook his head slowly and swiped his hand through the water in a pantomime instruction.

No … Cut that out.

He then grasped Chase’s inflator hose and pressed the little blue button three times. With a triad of short hisses, the buoyancy compensator filled with a measured amount of air. Strobe pointed twice to the device he had just used in an exaggerated fashion.

Use this. This.

With the impromptu lesson over, Strobe launched himself off the street and signaled for Chase to follow. The boy kicked once more, and found he was now able to move higher in the water table and keep up with his elder.

As the older man began his search for anything that might be of value, the younger one took in his surroundings. All around him were the shadows of the flooded city; half corroded buildings towering in silent sentinel above him, cavernous entrances to dark and winding subway tunnels, and the traces of what were once heavily treaded streets and sidewalks. Coated as they were in a myriad of ocean life, they appeared so silent and peaceful. Chase felt himself calmed by the sight of rockfish slipping into tilted subway cars and brilliantly colored nudibranches attached to the much scavenged parking meters. Even the massive seven gilled shark coasting through the lost window of what was once a convenience store was no cause for alarm. It was as if some submerged culture had built these streets with the sole purpose of allowing the Pacific Ocean to slowly overtake it. There was little evidence of the chaos these streets had seen nearly one-hundred and fifty years earlier.

No Outwaller was sure of the exact dates, but the series of events was well-known to all. Sometime in the twenty-second century, the sea had risen to unprecedented levels. Swathes of the low level eastern seaboard and Gulf coast were beyond help. Populations abandoned once thriving cities like Boston and New Orleans, and retreated inland. Nearly the entire state of Florida was surrendered to the Atlantic. To avoid flooding, the surviving coastal cities were forced to build levees to hold back swollen oceans. It worked for a while, and society was allowed to decay at its own pace. But in northern California, the sea could not be held at bay for long.

In an event that had become legend. An earthquake struck the city in the middle of the 22nd Century, breaking the levees and sinking large portions of it beneath one-hundred and forty feet of ocean. Strobe had recounted the legend to a thirteen-year-old Chase as he lay in his makeshift bed of discarded blankets recovering from his horrible beating. Even now, in his sixteenth year, he could see the older man’s face that night. His wise, creased eyes lit up by the fire and his long graying hair haloed by starlight, he had the look of a wise village elder passing on traditional knowledge with a poetic voice never expected of one lacking any formal education. Three years later, the boy could still hear the story resonating in his head:

Citizens did what they could to keep the levees intact, and everyone bravely fought the inevitable until those hellish cracks and creaks were heard. The city stood silent as the levees weakened, and watched in helpless fear as they gave way. Poseidon then unleashed his fury and countless millions of gallons of seawater crashed into San Francisco. Faced with the raw fury of nature, all the boundaries between race, class, and religion were erased as every human being there cried out in anguish and fled in vain to escape the deluge. Everything not strong enough to brace itself against the waves was destroyed, and untold thousands perished. When the sea at last settled and the disaster abated, all that remained was the floodwater.

As the words echoed in his head, Chase found himself picking out evidence of the great flood. Cars and trolleys flipped and turned at crazy angles, a motorcycle permanently wedged in a second story window, windows blasted out of every building … every piece was a moment of terror frozen for a century and a half in this liquid world. He could almost hear the echoes of the past. Voices screaming out in pain from a threat they could not escape. Closing out the thoughts of destruction, Chase kicked hard to catch up with Strobe. He had work to do, and it was time he got to it. A quick check on his pressure gauge told him time was beginning to run out. One-third of his air was gone. A quick scan of the area revealed some prospective fish, and Chase tapped Strobe’s shoulder, indicating his need to break off and pursue. The man nodded, and followed behind. As the boy hunted, he would also search for scraps of metal.

With a glance to be sure he knew where Strobe was, Chase set about his work. His initial effort was an utter failure. Jabbing his homemade trident towards the first fish he saw, he was dismayed to find his aim off. What was worse, every fish nearby scattered along with his intended target. His second try fared no better, nor did the third. With the fourth, he decided to try a different technique. Instead of wildly stabbing at first sight, he slowly crept up on his prey, giving a swift jab only when he was nearly upon it. This new strategy met with success, and he threaded the unfortunate fish on his rope as instructed. Coasting a little further ahead, he repeated the process and found himself with the recommended bounty of two fish. He had done it! With a swelling sense of pride, Chase made a quick check on Strobe’s position and went for the preferred three or four fish. He found a few fish a bit farther away than expected, and he nearly lost track of his mentor in fruitless pursuit of them. A moment of panic rushed past as he scanned the surrounding area. To his relief the older man was still there, just slightly hidden in the murk. Another check on his air and Chase headed back in the proper direction.

On his way he saw something promising. A domed object propped against a building at a crazy angle. He swam up and examined it, rubbing as much life off it as he could. When it was partially cleared, and the silt he had stirred up settled, he recognized it as a garbage can. The flap over the opening was still on it, barely hanging on. He knew if he was lucky, and the salt water hadn’t fully corroded through the paint, there might just be some salvageable metal inside. Pushing himself above it, he thrust his heel down on the flap with as much force as he could muster. To his dismay, it fell with ease from years of rust and corrosion. It wasn’t worth saving, but his efforts to remove it stirred up a large cabezon that up until now had gone unnoticed.

Twisting his body around, Chase stabbed wildly at it. Luck was at last on his side, and he struck the animal right behind the head. After righting himself, he threaded his third successful attempt and twisted the rope around his wrist, forming a loop that he hoped would keep the fish from falling off. With the catch secured, he hurried back to Strobe. They had been down here a while, and he was getting nervous. A check of his gauge confirmed his fears, revealing he had less than half the amount of air he had gone down with.

When he reached Strobe, he found the man shoving some unrecognizable object into the canvas sack he had strapped to his chest. Under his arm was a crowbar, obviously found during his scavenging foray. When Chase swam up presenting his pressure gauge, Strobe examined it and nodded in agreement. Without any gestures about the fish, he pressed his finds against his chest, grasped Chase by his buoyancy compensator, and began the slow ascent to the surface.

Rising to re-enter the more familiar air environment, the boy felt the pressure he had grown accustomed to release its grip on his body. As he neared the surface, his ears popped and the sound of his breathing became less evident. He had one last bout with stress as he struggled to remain afloat, but it was quickly resolved with Strobe’s instruction.

Inflate your vest, kid. I can’t do everything for you.

Chase fumbled a bit until he found the blue button and pressed it, feeling the bladders in his vest swell with air, giving him a comforting grip. Now able to keep his head above the water, he was able to relax and catch his breath. Panting, he held up his fish laden rope with pride.

I saw that down there, Strobe panted. You did good … real good. Put that with what the rest of the guys found and we might have a decent meal tonight … let’s just get back to the raft. The added salvage puts a bit of extra weight on you and it’s tough to swim.

The two sought out the makeshift raft, leaned back, and kicked in its direction. The older man was right about the added salvage. Laden with their prizes, it took great effort not only to swim, but to stay afloat. Even with Strobe helping him carry his burden, the boy found himself near exhaustion when they at last reached the raft. With monumental effort he was able to haul himself up the precarious rope ladder, shrug off his gear, and collapse on the wooden deck. He heard Strobe mount the platform and drop down both his equipment and his bag of salvage. With a sigh of relief, the older man at last sat down and at last examined the fish.

Well, he said, it looks like I was right. You got something like eight pounds worth of fish there. Not the biggest ones, but that’s a good number. Looks like you passed.

So this is my family now? Chase asked with a broad grin. I have a family again?

Content in his triumph, he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. He listened to the sounds of the gang, his gang, returning with their respective treasures. Objects of different sizes were dropped on the deck, and conversation soon surrounded Chase with a reassuring sense of belonging. He even ran their street names through his head as they spoke: Shiner, Switch, Moose, Trip, Dredge … each boasted and argued about their discoveries. The subject soon turned to his fish and the newly arrived Tooley commented on Chase’s success.

Hey, that crooked nosed kid not only lived, he actually got something. Guess you’re one of us now!

I call part! Chase said.

The one who catches it gets first cut, Strobe reminded.

Yeah I know … that’s why I said part.

As the boys then began to indulge in boisterous celebration, a warm and joyous feeling came over Chase. After nearly three years of life as a prospect, he could at last be called a member. The beauty of the dive and the happiness of camaraderie lulled him into a false sense of reality, an illusion of this world that was shattered by angry shouts.

Hey! Strobe! We need to talk!

Eager to prove himself in his newly appointed position, Chase rose to the challenge before his mentor could respond. He stood up to face the newcomers, arriving in a much repaired fiberglass boat. With pride of knowledge, the boy was able to interpret who these people were by their build and dress.

A group of three hunched like vultures over a fourth, the tattered and soaked wetsuits identifying them as gang divers. Perched on the bow was a hawkish man in his early forties, wearing the filthy cast off clothing so common among Outwallers. His position on the boat and lack of diving gear indicated he was either a mouthpiece for the gang leader or the leader himself. A burly physique confirmed not only high status but membership in one of the more influential and successful gangs; one that controlled most of the salvage and thus a disproportionate amount of the food. He was either a Muck Sucker or an Ugly Bastard. If he was the latter he might be what was known as a Hunter. It was a unique class in Phorcys’ command that drove stolen underwater scooters on the wild and dangerous sea lion hunts that brought in both meat and envy. Not caring what a challenge to such influential men meant, Chase called back without fear.

Who the Hell are you?!

The man at the bow glared with stern confidence as one of the boys in his craft bellowed out a lack of concern.

He said Strobe, not Tow Headed Chicken Shit!

With a quick gesture, Strobe silenced Chase and addressed the newcomers himself.

What seems to be the problem here?

Without a word the man at the bow signaled to his shipmates. Two of the divers grabbed the crumpled mass between them and shoved him towards the front of the boat, keeping a tight grip on his ruddy hair. Chase took an instinctive step backwards as he saw the face of a frightened boy draining blood from a battered mouth. From behind he heard Shiner cry out in recognition.

Red!! What’d you bastards do to him?!

The collected Bay Killers began preparing for battle, pulling shanks from belts and lifting whatever salvage might be used as a weapon. On the boat, the three unscathed divers laughed derisively as they watched the display. Even when their boat drifted within striking distance of the Bay Killer’s raft, the intrusive group remained unconcerned. Strobe signaled his gang to hold back, disconcerted by the confidence exuding from the boat crew. His fears were confirmed when the sharp eyed man at the bow pulled down his collar and revealed his dive gang tattoo. It was an ocean sunfish, colored like a dive flag with an almost comical x for an eye. Below it was the motto ‘GO DOWN GUN DOWN’. It was the calling card of Outwaller power, and the man emblazoned with it knew it.

You got that right, I am a Bastard. They call me Tanner. I want to know why two of your Bay Killers were looking for salvage in Ugly Bastard waters.

Without further encouragement the Bay Killers backed down. To challenge this man would bring disaster. It was best to let Strobe do the talking and work his political magic. With a heavy sigh, the older man swept his grimy hands through his long hair and quelled his emotions. When he was at last able to talk business, he began the negotiations.

How far in was he, and where is the other one? He was with a boy called Cross.

Oh you mean the one that drowned? Tanner asked.

You found him dead? Strobe asked.

Nah, we just shut off his air! One of the vulturine boys responded.

If you don’t want to lose the other, Tanner said, you’d better pay up. Phorcys is tired of warning your boys about keeping out of his territory.

As the terms were laid down, the unfortunate captive’s head was pulled back and a cruel shank positioned at his throat. Now in a desperate position, the boy known as Red lost bravado. He had witnessed his friend and partner in the throes of a slow and terrifying death, and knew a similar fate awaited him if his gang did not come to a satisfactory resolution with Tanner and his thugs. Not worrying about