Paper

“Nia. Come back to the surface. Over.”

“Another minute, I almost have—"

“Another minute and you’re free diving, Nia. Just please, come back. Over.”

Dez anxiously paced the deck in the old tugboat above. The air tanks used for fuel dives these days are ancient, providing only mere minutes of precious air. This matters to everyone—except Nia.

“Just leave it, we can mine the territories to the north, we haven’t tried there in a few weeks and—”

Suddenly, Nia head emerged from the waters.

Well, actually, Nia’s right arm emerged first, clutching a small black box. She swam to the boat, flopping inside with a thud.

“We wasted a tank for—this?” he asked, incredulously.

“Thanks, I’m doing just fine Dez,” replied Nia.

“Sorry, here, I’ve gotcha. But still.”

It’s been 17 days since they’d mined any respectable amount of fuel. And it’s been 9,132 days since the waters caught up with them. It wasn’t some major international event, at least, not at first. Within a week, all attention was on Biloxi, Mississippi.

Correction: what was left of Biloxi.

Nations been told for years, losing our coasts would be gradual. Devastating, but there would be time to abandon the coasts and retreat inward. When the waters rose on Biloxi though, they didn’t retreat. The city was lost forever. And then they lost Venice, Italy. And then New York City.

And that’s when the panic began.

For 25 years people retreated to dry land in droves, forming pods, some more of a haven than others. Eventually, so much dry land had disappeared that pods essentially became makeshift islands made of trash and the scavanged tips of skyscrapers. The twins belonged to such one, but panic was beginning to set in again. Their pod’s gourmand, or energy source, needed to be fed fuel 24/7. Years ago when you could still find gas or propane, that served as the primary energy source. When that was gone, everyone became lumberjacks, eventually torching every tree above ground for energy. When the dry land disappeared, they began diving for wreckage, seaweed, anything organic. Certainly not some small, rusted metal lock box. But Nia was determined to carry it to the surface.

“Where’s the machete?” asked Nia.

“Why don’t we try picking the lock first?” Dez responded.

“I think it might be too rusted at this point. This thing looks 20th century to be honest.”

Nia grabs the machete from across the deck, and began working on the box.

“We have to go, I think we’ve got at least three more dives left before it’s dark. Smitty’s crew was attacked by pirates at dusk last week and I don’t want to find out the hard way if they’re still—”

A loud crack, and the box was finally open. Inside, perfectly preserved, is a little black book.

“Oh my god,” the twins mutter under their breaths.

In the year 2055, books simply don’t exist, not anymore. Not like this. No one has so much as seen a sticky note in about 20 years, give or take. Writing is now haphazardly etched into scrap metal and anything else those living in pods can spare.

“Okay, you’ve got my attention, but we need way more fuel than pages in some book,” said Dez.

“We are NOT submitting this for fuel!” Nia says, snatching the notebook away.

She flips through the notebook and finds detailed instructions, quickly realizing this is no ordinary find.

“Look at this! Code, numbers, directions. We have to go back down,” says Nia.

“We?!”

____

“I couldn’t bring up the rest Dez.”

“Well, now we know why it was so heavy.”

The twins stared into the dark belly of the safe, shocked. In it was $5,000 dollars in singles, neatly bundled and perfectly preserved.

Or, what they thought were dollars.

“I don’t remember what money even looks like. I mean it’s green, look at all of these colors. Are you sure that’s what this is?” asked Dez.

“Yes, it says so right here in the notebook. There’s $20,000 total,” Nia said.

“We’ve gotta grab the rest.”

The twins take turns diving, retrieving all of the cash before dusk.

“How’s this for fuel? Imagine how long we could power the gourmand with all of this? I think we’ve saved the pod, at least for now,” says Nia, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Nia, look.”

In the very last safe was another little black book.