As I race down the interstate on the bike, small towns nestled into the foothills fly by me. I take the occasional peek to either side as I enter the sprawl of the Seattle area. Vines have taken over many structures, and several buildings have burned to the ground, but for the most part, things don’t seem too apocalyptic. Just deserted and run down.
But the farther I go, the more the destruction wrought by the Great Collapse rears its ugly head. A large section of South Seattle, once dominated by shipyards and warehouses, is now below several feet of water and an extension of Elliott Bay.
To the north, the skyline of downtown Seattle is like a scene from a disaster movie. Half the skyscrapers are gone. Collapsed, likely from saltwater entering their foundations. The remaining ones are in ruins, some charred black from fires long ago, all with broken windows and toppled facades.
I shudder at the thought of what I might find at my parent’s house. Suddenly, Aiden’s absence is harder to bear. He was going to help me through this. He’d be here to comfort me and would know what to do if I encountered problems. But what’s done is done. I don’t know where he is, and I’ll likely never find him. I can’t undo that choice now, as much as I’d like to.
I continue heading west, cutting through the southern part of Seattle, changing course several times, navigating water-covered streets, collapsed bridges, and fallen trees. After countless detours and backtracking, I get to the South Seattle Marina. The briny scent of Puget Sound assaults my nose.
But I’m met with a scene of devastation. Where row upon row of boats used to be moored in floating docks lining the shore, now, twisted hunks of metal and fiberglass lie, half submerged in water. Masts, ripped sails, boat hulls, and pieces of dock tangle together, stretching a hundred feet in both directions along the shoreline. The only intact boats sit lopsided in lawns and parking lots, deposited by a storm surge that receded months ago.
The few remaining marina buildings are submerged up to their roofs. The new shoreline is two hundred feet inland from where it once lay.
“Well, crap,” I say to no one. There goes my plan to sail home.
Just to my west, the emerald-green island of Vashon rises from the waters of Puget Sound, dotted with trees. It’s a mere two miles away, across a long channel of icy water. So close, but no way to get there.
I get off the bike and search around, getting a sense of the damage, trying to see if anything resembles a seaworthy vessel. And that’s when I spot it—a large metal structure a few hundred feet down the coastline—a dry dock for boats needing repairs out of the water. My family used one when we damaged the keel of our sailboat.
Before the sea-level rise, the dry dock would have been at the shore, but now several feet of water surround it. And to my delight, a thirty-foot Catalina sailboat is suspended by several large straps attached to large chains.
I wade into waist-deep water to check it out. The water chills me to the core, but I press on. After a quick inspection, the boat seems to be in decent sailing shape. It was about two-thirds of the way through having its underside repainted. But other than that, there aren’t any apparent problems. Protective blue canopies cover the sails and the cockpit, keeping out the harmful effects of salt water and inclement weather. I couldn’t be luckier.
It doesn’t take long to figure out the winching system to lower the sailboat. Fortunately, it’s an all-manual affair. A large handle attaches to multiple gears, which raise and lower the boat.
In a short while, I’ve got the sailboat into the water, the harnesses removed, and the mainsail unfurled. A quick inspection of the rigging all checks out. It looks like a pretty simple boat to sail. Easily handled by one person who knows what they’re doing. It’s been well over a year since I did any sailing, but it should come back to me quickly.
A short while later, I’m in the cockpit, using the power of the wind to head to my home on Vashon Island.
*
AIDEN
The trail has gone steadily downward for miles, with a few exceptions where I had to kick along the ground for a while. But my luck doesn’t last forever. After two hours of coasting, the trail levels out completely. It continues, totally flat, as far as the eye can see. So, I hop off the bike and walk, pushing it by the handlebars, hoping there’s more downhill to come. As best I can tell, I’ve made it about halfway from Snoqualmie Pass to the outskirts of Seattle.
I can’t get my mind off Zach. That look he gave me when I told him we should split up was of someone deeply betrayed. I’ll never unsee that expression.
I’m such an idiot. Every time I get the least bit scared for his safety, I push him away. I should have trusted him. Let him make his own decisions and take his own risks. Withallthe facts. And my actions always make it worse for both of us—at Elk Springs, the Columbia River, and now the Snoqualmie Tunnel.
I can only imagine how he felt being left alone on the side of the Columbia River, waking up to find me gone. I didn’t even have the courage to tell him myself. He had to read about it in the note I left for him. The thing is, I always intended for us to get back together. Our separations were never supposed to be permanent.
The note.I just remembered.
I gave him instructions for reuniting if we got separated.There’s a chance to find Zach.We’d meet at noon at the Black Sun statue in Volunteer Park every Sunday.
Lightness fills my whole body—assuming he remembers what I wrote on the note. And assuming he forgives me and evenwantsto find me. Or, if he started showing symptoms and realizes he’s sick. That thought makesmefeel sick. It’s a long shot, but at least it’s something. A glance at my watch shows it’s 1:45 p.m., Saturday. I have under twenty-three hours to get there.
I pass by a sign by the side of the trail.
Welcome to North Bend
Easy to Reach… Hard to Leave
I make a sad laugh.That’s some bitter irony. But the good news is, going through a town increases my chances of finding a car.And increases my danger.Gradually, homes and abandoned cars show up along a street running parallel to the trail.
A new model Honda Civic slants haphazardly across the road, with a dead body in the driver’s seat still decomposing. A grizzly metric for sure, but one that gives me hope this car’s battery may be more recently used than many of the others I’ve found.
The keys are in the ignition.
