the little children raise their open filthy palms

chapter two

Chapter two

Phil trudges through the water carefully, legs moving slowly but surely as he hikes the thighs under his arms up just a tad bit higher.

Behind him, he can hear the soft sounds of sleep coming from the tiny boat they’d thrown together out of plywood and duct tape. Tommy’s still asleep having dozed off an hour or so earlier after Tubbo had started answering questions in that sleepy kind of quiet way. How the younger kid is sleeping in his situation is beyond Phil, but he at least takes care not to let the water touch his feet too often. It’s up to Phil’s hips, cold and dark and sludgy and occasionally he hits his foot on something hard and stiff and he always tenses up, ready to throw Tubbo off and pull out his shotgun. But each time he freezes and waits for the sounds of gurgling dead to push themselves above the water, it never comes. It’s always a stick, or a mailbox, or the remnants of some shapeless human-made mass. The water never gets any deeper and Phil’s grateful, but he’s ready to be out of it.

Floods weren’t unexpected. Sewer systems had backed up with leaves and debris after their workers had abandoned them or died, and after a heavy rainstorm had gone on for three days straight their route out of the safe house had been blocked. Phil had waited as long as he could, but before long they had gotten to the bottom of their supplies. So they made the trek out into the floodwaters, hoping that they only would last a street or two before thinning out and only being a nuisance at most. But no. It’s been nearly five hours, and Phil’s seen no end to the dull water. They’d woken up early, earlier than the boys had gotten up for in a while, so it’s not really a surprise their chatter had faded off into sleepy silence after a bit.

Speaking of, one of them speaks up. Tubbo, who’s been riding on his back, shifts, then speaks. “Phil,” he says, voice quiet and thick with sleep. “...look. Your eight o’clock.”

He looks. There are a couple of dilapidated houses rising above the water, and a few cars sitting in the street, gutted and rusted metal all that’s left. And in those cars, pressed against the remaining glass, are deadwalkers.

Rotted faces stare blindly out towards them, fingers shifting against the car frame and heads tipping as the ripples from Phil’s movements hit them. He slows, then stops, the small boat containing Tommy resting against his hips and back. The ripples stop and the deadwalkers seem to rest after a moment. From behind him, he can hear Tubbo’s shaky breath.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” He asks, and Phil tips his head back to try and get a look at his face.

“Shh,” he says, and hopes it’s reassuring enough. Holding tight to Tubbo’s legs, he begins to shift forward again. He drags his feet along the pavement, doing his best not to let the water move too much around them. Tubbo stays quiet, but Phil knows his eyes are on the dead and takes that as enough warning to be able to look ahead and work out their escape route. The water doesn’t seem to get any lower at any point, but there are a few houses coming up on the right that they could potentially get behind or in. It could serve as a way to cut their movements off from these deadwalkers- he thought he saw four or five, and while he trusts Tommy and Tubbo to fight their way out, there’s other dangers lying below the water. And other dead that he’s sure will expose themselves with the ruckus they’d make. He takes Tubbo’s silence as reassurance that his movements aren’t alerting them, and changes their course slightly to head toward one of the houses. Slowly they go, Phil taking one careful step after another and making sure that Tommy in his boat is floating softly behind them, not hitting anything. The rope connecting them is short and thick, wrapped a few times around Phil’s waist and securely knotted around one of the small support pieces on the boat.

“Door on the right,” Tubbo says quietly once they’re close to the house, and Phil takes his guidance without question. Towards the right they go, keeping his eyes on the water and avoiding what looks like a piece of an aluminum roof. Finally, after far too long of holding his breath, Phil pushes open the back door to the flooded house. It’s half-open, leading into the kitchen, and he slowly makes his way inside. Tubbo relaxes as they get out of sight of visible deadwalkers, and Phil finds the stairs in a few moments.