The man's face was inches above the waterline, his skin bloated and pale. Camila tightened the bandana around her face before paddling towards the carcass, silently evaluating it for freshness and disease. When times were bad, people in the Floats would eat anything, even each other. For a moment, she considered. The man hadn’t drowned; his body would have been devoured by fish and bacteria otherwise. Camila reached into the corpse’s pants, searching the pockets for a wallet or tablet. Nothing. Whoever killed them had already stripped them clean. Disappointed, Camila shrugged and left the man's body for the raucous gulls now circling above her.
Her tiny canoe was crammed with metal scraps, leaving barely enough room for her to sit. Camila paddled it through the wide avenues of Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood. Here, where the flooding hadn’t been as bad, the water was only about eight feet deep. Brownstone houses still stood, lining the nonexistent streets. Most of them had been long-abandoned, their inhabitants fleeing to higher ground as the waters crept ever closer. Some of the structures had completely collapsed, succumbing to the constant ebb and flow of the tide. Few humans still lived here, choosing between the dry land beyond the Wall or the upper floors of residential skyscrapers in former Downtown Brooklyn.
Camila gave a few halfhearted paddles before yielding to the current, letting it carry her across the uninhabited remnants of the vacant neighborhood. She began sifting through the growing pile of salvage that sat at the back of her canoe. It was the product of a week’s work, picking through disused warehouses and flooded offices for anything that could be of use. She obsessively scraped at the dried mud caking a large drone battery, hoping that it would still hold a charge.
When the first Blackout occured in 2067, Camila still hadn’t been born. Instead, she was raised in the tumultuous years that followed, in a world burdened by natural disasters and extreme rationing. Order quickly dissolved in Puerto Rico, as hurricanes and tsunamis demolished infrastructure as quickly as it was rebuilt. Her parents fled to the United States, where they had family in New York City. They weren’t faring much better. The East River swelled, its roaring waters tumbling over levees and makeshift barriers, transforming the Big Apple into a canal city overnight. The Wall was built to keep the water out, a towering concrete barrier stretching across Manhattan Island to Queens.
Her family had moved into its shadow, fighting for space in that congested strip of land. Behind the Wall, New York continued to grow, revelling in endless wealth and splendor. Construction never stopped for an instant, demolishing and rebuilding skyscrapers in an endless cycle. Meanwhile, the old city outside the Wall was all but forgotten. The flooded landscape of the Floats remained unchanged and unlit, its inhabitants left to fight over fuel and water and shelter.
Before her father died, Camila had expected to live her entire life in the New York City behind the Wall, where industry thrived and civilization prospered. She had never once considered life beyond, up until her uncle had gone into the Floats and vanished. They never knew what became of him until Camila and her mother were forced out of the dry land as well, once they could no longer afford the rising rent. They had lived in the ruins of old Brooklyn for well over eight years now.
Signs of life began to appear in the dead city around Camila as she made her way downtown. Hastily constructed bridges stretched between buildings, covered in barnacles and algae. Boardwalks ran alongside waterways, linking blocks together instead of crosswalks. Market stalls floated alongside her on inflatable rafts, their inhabitants hawking their wares while casting greedy glances on her stash of salvage. Grabbing her paddles, Camila deftly steered the canoe down a series of winding alleyways, avoiding winding eddies and banks of pulverized rubble. She scanned the damaged walls of the buildings around her until she finally found what she was looking for: the rough image of a coquí frog, graffitied with bold black paint.
The heart of the Coquís' territory was a cluster of high-rise residential buildings near the East River. Snipers prowled across the rooftops and automated drones hovered overhead, competing with the seabirds for airspace. Armored guards manned checkpoints, the laser sights of their automatic rifles casting red dots across Camila’s arms as she continued paddling. She made her way toward a large office building, where a pier had been constructed in the open plaza before it. She eased her canoe in between two hovercraft, whose black hulls bristled with fearsome machine guns. She clambered onto the pier, standing alongside the others that had come to pay tribute. Her eyes caught a familiar figure nearby.
Camila's uncle stood at the other end of the platform, hands folded behind his back as his piercing eyes scanned the crowd. When they inevitably landed on Camila, they twinkled with pleasure. Her uncle’s scarred face twisted into a crooked smile, and he stepped forward to beckon her with a friendly wink. With curiosity tugging at her soul, Camila cast a cursory glance at her canoe and obeyed.
Her uncle looked far worse than he had been before going beyond the Wall. Gruesome scars ran from his forehead to his collarbone, and his left eye was clouded with milky cataracts. Nonetheless, he beamed brightly as he ran his fingers through Camila’s hair.
“
Mi sobrina, what have you brought your
tío today?” Camila’s uncle asked as he bent to inspect her canoe. He waved away a group of enforcers, reaching for a small cardboard box carefully tucked into the pile. He examined the package, gently running his fingers over the label on its side. “Antibiotics?” he inquired, reading the sticker. His grin widened even further, exposing chipped and yellowed teeth. “How’d you manage to get your sticky fingers on these beauties?”
Camila remained silent, staring towards nothing at all. Her uncle simply laughed. “Best not to ask, eh?” he exclaimed jovially as he slid it back into the pile. Then his expression hardened.
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about,” her uncle said, clenching his jaw. “Your mother.” Camila nodded absentmindedly.
“No, listen to me. I need to talk to you about that woman,” her uncle repeated urgently, his eyes flashing in brief rage. “I need you to leave her. It will be better for the both of us if you do.”
Camila shook her head firmly. “Children don’t abandon their parents.”
“She’s not
being a parent. She’s a useless junkie, and she has never helped you with the tributes. Join
me, Camila. We’re still family. I need your help.” Camila looked into her uncle’s eyes and saw the sudden anguish reflected in them.
“You’re recruiting, then? And you want me to join as a soldier? Where have you
been all this time?”
Her uncle scratched at his head in agitation. “I’ll make sure you can become lieutenant before you ever see activity. You won’t ever have to kill anyone with your own hands. I'm earning money again. We'll be able to return to dry land very soon. Just
promise me you’ll do it.”
Camila shook her head again, feigning dejection. “I can’t leave my mother. She won’t survive without my help.” His uncle sullenly looked away, becoming despondent. He removed a slender vape from his pocket and inhaled a lungful of aerosol. Then he straightened his back and began to chuckle.
“You’re scared,
niña. Believe me, I was too.” He continued to smoke the vape, his cheerful manner returning as he patted Camila on the shoulder. “I’ll be here tomorrow, if you change your mind.”
When Camila and her mother had moved to the Floats, there were not many options. Most surviving buildings were missing floors, ceilings, and walls. Some were susceptible to rain, while others were prone to flooding. Everything became soaked within a week of settling down. Her mother managed to find an ancient apartment in Bushwick, built long before the floods had begun. They lived on the second floor, which wouldn’t flood even when the tide was high. Here, Camila had helped her mother hoard fuel and clean water, creating a rough semblance of life behind the Wall.
The sky was streaked with bands of purple and orange by the time Camila arrived at her doorstep. The setting sun burned red behind a dense curtain of smog. She exited the canoe and securely tied it to a steel pole. Unlocking her front door, Camila stepped into the apartment.
A smell of mildew and rust lingered throughout the building. Camila heard loud snoring emanating from one of the rooms. She peeked through the doorway to see her mother sleeping on the rotting carpet, wrapped in their best blanket. A small bottle, half-filled with purple pills, lay beside her on the ground. Camila scooped the bottle up, carefully counting the pills left inside before placing it into the family safe. Four had disappeared since yesterday. Her mother wouldn’t be moving for at least another twelve hours, and Camila would not dare to wake her up. Instead, she changed out of her waders, soiled with silt and washed-out sewage.
Nights in the city were cold, especially without a functioning heating system. Camila's teeth still chattered, even after she had bundled herself into a tight ball. It was impossible to sleep, so she could do nothing but think. Her stomach protested another forgotten dinner as she reconsidered her uncle’s words.
Although united by their plight, the people of the Floats refused to remain together. Instead, they splintered into their own separate factions, forming gangs and clans. Water Rats, Tiburones, Copperheads, and Coquís. To join a gang meant dubious safety from one while inciting almost certain retaliation from the others. Yet, it could be better than having nothing at all. Camila had considered it more than once, especially her uncle’s group, the Coquís. It meant having people to count on when times were tough, which couldn’t be said of her own mother. In a way, she was already a part of them, paying her weekly tribute in exchange for uncertain protection.
Her uncle had joined and wanted her to be member. Camila couldn’t remember a time when she had been needed so dearly. She might even have the chance to return to her old life behind the Wall, something she would never achieve with a mother that spent half their earnings on narcotics. It might be her last chance to escape.
The next morning, Camila had made up her mind.
Turf wars occurred even behind the Wall, although they were decidedly rarer there. Camila’s father had purchased a rifle in case they ever happened a little too close for comfort. As a child, the weapon used to terrify her, and her father kept it on a tall cabinet, out of her reach and sight. Now, it lay next to the safe where her mother kept her drugs, loaded with ammunition in case of a robbery. Camila grabbed it, hanging the sling across her shoulder. She caressed the barrel and stroked the trigger, fully aware of its fearsome power. Death in an instant, inevitable and unstoppable. She would need such certainty in a firefight.
Her mother was still asleep when Camila headed out of the apartment door for the last time. She untied her canoe and grabbed its paddles, seized with sudden vigor. She didn’t look back as she rode the current, concentrating on the path ahead. The water lapped against the sides of her canoe, creating a melody she had never noticed. It filled her ears as she dove down familiar shortcuts, leading her towards a different life.
Just as he had promised, Camila’s uncle was standing on the pier the next morning, priming another vape as he waited to welcome her with open arms.