Flooded Earth - A Gay, Post-Apocalyptic Romance Adventure

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The silence that proceeded the shot was broken, not by screams, but by a roar of applause.

The boat slowed as we approached our usual pier on the south-western side of the market.
The wooden leg protruded from a large square platform, signposted as ‘South-Westerly Piers’. People used these squares to construct their stalls for trade. The squares had eight piers, like our own, spraying off it in all directions, like the legs of an octopus. In addition to this, there was a ninth leg that led to the main plaza of the market. The main plaza, in turn, had 8 squares adjoined to it. Each pointed in the direction of which it would on a compass and was named after its direction. E.g. North, North-East, East and so on.
Each pier could accommodate two boats. Usually there was another couple who would share this pier; a man and his girlfriend who we weren’t very close with. Their space (on the other side of the pier) was empty.

Our boat came to a stop beside a wooden pole that rose from beneath the water. My father threw a coiled rope over it and my mother lowered the anchor at the front of the boat. I pushed open a small gate on the left of the boat.
The gate was the same colour as the rim of the boat and, therefore, blended in well. A firm white ramp automatically extended and unfolded from underneath the gate and landed on the edge of the pier. I turned to look at my father, my eagerness taking over my face.
“Go.” He said with a nod, and I slid down the plastic ramp onto the wooden pier.

It took a moment to adjust my balance to the different surface. Unlike the boat, the market was fixed in place by a large rig of foundations that was buried deep into the sand. This meant there was a minimal amount of swaying and the tide had little effect on the markets stability in the water. After being used to walking on a less stable surface, the stationary surface was different to manoeuvre upon.

As soon as I balanced myself, I dashed down the pier and onto the south-westerly square where a few regulars had begun to set up their stalls. I started up the wider leg that sloped upwards slightly, that led to the main plaza.
I entered the plaza, which resembled the other squares only considerably larger. The plaza was lined with boats, docked to the sides permanently, with small booths attached onto the deck. This created a shop-like set up and allowed the owners to run businesses that always remained in the market. In the centre of the square, a moderately sized circular hole broke through the wooden platform to create a pond.

It was around this pond that a crowd of people stood.

I knew why they were gathered there. So it didn’t surprise me when another gunshot cracked the still air. The crowd cheered and applauded in admiration, a split second after the sound.
I squeezed past a rather tall man and squashed up next to a short plump woman at the front.
A stocky man with cropped brown hair stood close to the edge of the pond on my left. The crowd surrounded him but allowed him some space. He held a long, heavy shotgun across both his hands. A deep wicker basket stood on the opposite side of the pond. Two chubby blue fish with wing-like fins lay with broken tailfins on the bottom. Flying fish.

The man, who I knew to be called Crick, let out a high-pitched whistle out of pursed lips. This sound was short but its end signified the start of another sound. A splash of water erupted from the centre of the pond as another flying fish jumped into the air.
Crick swung up his shotgun, took aim and pulled the trigger.
With the third crack I’d heard, Crick hit the tailfin of the fish and sent it spinning forward into basket.

The crowd applauded heartily once more and Crick reloaded the bullets in his gun. He emitted another two short whistles and two flying fish hopped into the open air, heading in opposite directions. He shot with incredible precision and caught them both as they crossed over. Both landed neatly into the wicker basket. Again the crowd cheered.