Part 3: The Things We Lost
By 5:10 AM, Walter Briggs was on his feet.
The fire had died, the sky was a bruised purple, and the smell of rot drifted from the flooded valley below. Fog clung low, hiding the broken land beneath like a mother covering her child’s wounds.
He moved slow.
Every joint ached. His back barked with every step, but pain had always been part of the job — whether it was picking stones from corn rows or burying your only son.
Nathan still slept under the tarp, his breath shallow but steady. Annie had curled up next to him during the night, her tiny fingers wrapped around the stuffed raccoon she refused to let go of.
Walter watched them for a long moment.
He didn’t deserve a second chance. Not after the way he’d shut the door on David. Not after the silence he gave Nathan all those years.
But God doesn’t always give second chances to the ones who deserve them most.
Sometimes He gives them to the ones who need them the worst.
By sunrise, the others were stirring.
The three teenagers, scared but strong, helped gather what dry supplies they could. Melinda, always two steps ahead, tore cloth into strips and soaked them in boiled creek water.
“We’ll wrap Nathan’s chest when he wakes,” she said. “He’s bruised inside.”
Walter just nodded. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
The dog — old, limping, half-blind — followed him everywhere. The logger called him “Chief,” said he’d pulled him out of a ditch the day after his wife died.
“We don’t talk,” the logger said. “We just… know things.”
Walter liked that.
They set out at 7:00 AM.
The water had receded just enough to expose a twisted version of the town they once knew. Gold Beach wasn’t on the map anymore. Just splinters, cars in trees, dead cows hung in fences, and a bloated horse lying in a swing set.
Walter didn’t let the kids see too much. He kept Annie walking close and Nathan in his arms. His legs trembled under the boy’s weight, but he didn’t ask for help.
No one carried his burdens for him. Not ever.
At the three-mile mark, they reached what used to be County Road 21.
It was gone — replaced by a field of mud, scattered shoes, a doll’s head, and an overturned mailbox with the name Fletcher still painted in fading white.
Walter stopped cold.
The Fletchers had been their neighbors since 1959. Their youngest girl, June, used to sell sweet tea at a roadside stand in the summer, just to buy books.
Now there was only the smell.
And silence.
The group paused near the ruins of an old gas station. Melinda passed out crackers. One boy cried quietly. Chief growled at something only he could sense.
Walter sat Nathan against the wall, covered him with the wool blanket, then stepped aside to breathe.
His hand trembled as he reached into his coat pocket.
The letter.
David’s last letter.
Unopened.
Still folded, still sealed, still smelling faintly of tobacco and regret.
He stared at it.
Then tore it open.
Dad —
I know you’re still mad. That’s okay. I probably deserve that.
But I just wanted you to know — I see it now. I see what you were trying to do all those years. The discipline, the silence, the work.
You were trying to build me like the land builds things. Slow. Rough. Lasting.
But I broke anyway.
I don’t blame you. I love you. I never said it, but it’s always been true.
And I hope someday, if Nathan ever finds his way back to you… you won’t shut the door.
He’s more like Mom than me. Thank God for that.
Goodbye, Dad.
– David
Walter folded the letter slowly.
Then wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, hard enough to scrape skin.
When he returned, Annie was telling the others about “the big dog that saved us from the sea.” Chief sat nearby, ears twitching like he knew he’d just been praised.
Nathan stirred. Eyes cracked open.
He looked at Walter and whispered, “You carried me?”
Walter nodded.
Nathan blinked, tears slipping sideways into his matted hair.
“Thought you hated me,” he said, voice barely there.
“I did,” Walter replied. “But I was wrong.”
They didn’t say much else.
They didn’t need to.
The sun climbed high and hot. The last mile was uphill — Crooked Pine Ridge — where the old elementary school still stood. It hadn’t been used in years, closed after the town shrank.
But stone walls don’t rot like people do.
The front doors were torn open, hinges rusted, but inside was dry, cool, and still smelled faintly of chalk and dust.
They broke into the old supply closet and found bottled water, emergency blankets, even a few packs of dried fruit.
It wasn’t heaven.
But it wasn’t the ocean.
And that was enough.
That night, Walter sat on the roof of the school, watching the lights blink out along the horizon. The second wave hadn’t come yet. Maybe it never would. Maybe it was waiting for something.
Or someone.
Beside him, Nathan wrapped in a blanket, his voice stronger now.
“Why’d you stop writing?” he asked.
Walter thought about lying.
Then didn’t.
“Because after your dad died, I didn’t know how to talk anymore. I didn’t think anything I said would matter.”
Nathan stared into the night.
“It would’ve mattered to me.”
A long silence.
Then Walter pulled something from his coat — a small tin medal, dulled with age. Bronze Star. Given after a battle in the Chosin Reservoir. Coldest place he’d ever known.
He pressed it into Nathan’s hand.
“I used to think this meant I was strong,” he said. “Now I know… real strength is what gets up the morning after you’ve lost everything and still makes coffee.”
Nathan smiled faintly. “Instant or brewed?”
Walter chuckled. “You think I’m made of money?”
Below them, Annie laughed in her sleep.
Somewhere far off, the sea answered with a low moan.
Walter didn’t know if the worst was over.
Didn’t know if FEMA would ever come.
Didn’t care if those men in black trucks came back with their clipboards and policies.
He had what mattered now.
And that was more than most.
Up next: “Static on the Radio” — A strange signal brings a warning only Walter seems to understand.
Part 4: Static on the Radio
The old school on Crooked Pine Ridge creaked and groaned like a ship in fog.
Wind hissed through shattered windows, carrying the scent of salt and pine. Somewhere in the dark halls, a forgotten bell swayed gently on a rusted cord. It hadn’t rung in years, but tonight, it moved like something was remembering.
Walter Briggs lay awake on the cold classroom floor, wrapped in an old gym mat, the smell of mildew thick in his nose. His back protested, his knees pulsed, but his eyes stayed open.
Something was wrong.
Not outside — inside.
He rose and stepped through the hall in socked feet, past faded murals of smiling apples and patriotic eagles. He paused outside the old principal’s office, once the only place he feared as a boy.
There it was — the source of the unease.
The emergency radio mounted above the desk.
It was on.
No one had turned it on.
And it was humming.
He tapped the side of it gently. No knob, no switch — just static.
Until the static changed.
A voice came through, scratchy but deliberate, like someone whispering from deep underwater.
“…Crooked Pine… wave pattern shift… Briggs…”
His spine stiffened.
Then it cut to silence.
“Did you hear that?” Walter asked.
Behind him, Melinda stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blanket around her shoulders.
“Hear what?”
“The radio,” he said. “It said my name.”
She stepped inside, glanced at the device, then back at him. “It’s dead, Walter. Hasn’t worked since we got here.”
He reached to show her — but the radio was silent now. Cold to the touch.
No light. No hum.
Just a dead hunk of plastic on the wall.
“You okay?” she asked gently.
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
She didn’t press. Just nodded, then disappeared down the hallway, her slippers brushing the dusty floor.
Walter stood there a minute longer.
And whispered, “Don’t play games with me, David.”
By morning, the sky had turned a metallic gray.
The kids were restless. Annie wanted to draw. Nathan was trying to walk again. Walter had fashioned a crude crutch from a broken mop handle. Nathan limped across the classroom, teeth clenched, refusing help.
“Just like your dad,” Walter muttered. “Stubborn as a mule.”
Nathan didn’t smile. “You ever say anything nice?”
Walter thought about it.
“Not unless it’s deserved.”
“Maybe you should try.”
Breakfast was canned peaches and bottled water. The teenagers — Kara, Tyler, and Bo — kept quiet. Kara had lost her brother. Tyler hadn’t spoken since Day One. Bo cried in his sleep.
They all listened as Walter unfolded the county map, spread it across a desk, and jabbed a finger at it.
“We’re here,” he said. “Crooked Pine Ridge. This elevation buys us a little time.”
“Time for what?” Kara asked.
Walter’s finger moved west. “The sea’s not done.”
Melinda leaned in. “That radio last night…”
Walter nodded slowly. “I think someone’s trying to warn us.”
They stared.
He could feel their doubt.
“You think it’s the government?” Kara asked.
“No,” Walter said. “I think it’s something older.”
Melinda raised an eyebrow. “Like a ghost?”
Walter shrugged. “I’ve seen worse things wear a uniform.”
They checked the other radios — all dead. Phones were paperweights. No signals, no texts, no nothing. But the strange feeling lingered. Like the land itself was listening.
At noon, Chief — the old mutt — started barking at the far wall.
Just once.
A deep, angry sound.
Then silence.
Then thunder.
The windows rattled.
Books slid off shelves.
And far off in the valley below, the trees began to sway — not with wind, but with something else.
Something pushing.
Walter climbed to the roof with his binoculars.
And there it was.
A black streak through the sea, miles out, but moving. Not a wave — a wound.
Like the ocean had cracked open.
Melinda climbed up beside him. “That’s not right.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
He handed her the glasses.
She stiffened. “What is that?”
“Whatever it is,” Walter said, “it’s headed here.”
That night, they barred the doors with desks and filing cabinets.
They set rotations: Walter and Tyler first, then Melinda and Bo.
Nathan stayed up late with Annie, helping her draw pictures in a notebook they found.
“Look,” she said, showing Walter a sketch of their raft. “That’s you. That’s me. That’s the raccoon.”
Walter smiled. “That’s the best raccoon I ever saw.”
She beamed.
It was the first time the room felt warm.
Then, around midnight, the radio came alive again.
Walter and Tyler were the only ones awake.
“…rising pressure… 10 hours… northern descent… Briggs must choose…”
Then a whisper.
“The water remembers.”
Walter froze.
Tyler sat straight up. “Did it just say your name?”
Walter nodded.
The next morning, they prepared.
They boiled water. They made packs of what little food they had. Nathan insisted on walking without help. The teenagers wrapped their feet in duct tape to protect from sharp debris.
Walter climbed the hill behind the school to clear his head.
That’s when he saw the girl.
She stood near a burnt cedar, maybe ten years old. Wet dress, bare feet, hair like seaweed.
She didn’t speak.
Just pointed — toward the east.
Away from the ocean.
Toward the mountains.
Then she vanished.
Walter blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, cursed softly.
Then turned.
And the sky over Gold Beach was gone.
A wall of water, taller than any storm surge, blacker than night, crawling inland like judgment itself.
And it wasn’t alone.
The ground beneath him shook — not from quake, but from something beneath the water moving.
He ran back to the school.
“We go now!” he shouted. “No more waiting!”
“But we don’t even know where—” Melinda began.
“The mountains,” he said. “We head east. Now.”
No one argued.
Not this time.
They left the school at 9:47 AM, just as the first wave touched the edge of the ridge.
Walter glanced back once.
And saw the old flag above the school — torn, half-fallen — flutter one last time before it was swallowed.
Up next: “The Dead Fields” — Walter leads the group across the flooded land, only to find something buried beneath the mud that should’ve stayed lost.
