The second surge struck harder than anyone expected.
From his perch on the ruined billboard, Ulysses saw it racing across the bay—a black wall of water, taller, faster, hungrier than before. The crowd screamed in one collective voice. Soldiers fired their rifles into the air, a useless command against the ocean.
"God help us," Ulysses muttered, though he hadn't prayed in years.
The wave hit.
It smashed into the seawall, shattering what was left. Chunks of concrete flew like shrapnel, smashing into buildings and cars. The roar swallowed the city. Ulysses clung to the metal frame of the billboard as water surged up its base, lifting cars and bodies like driftwood.
A family clung to a balcony just across from him—a mother, father, and two children. The balcony groaned under the impact of debris. With every crash, the parents tightened their grip on the children, their faces pale with terror.
Ulysses wanted to look away, but his journalist's instinct forced his eyes open. He had to bear witness, even to horror.
The balcony snapped.
The mother's scream tore through the night as the family plunged into the torrent. The father managed to catch the edge of the balcony, one arm hooked, the other clutching his youngest child. But the older boy slipped, swept away into the flood.
Ulysses's body moved before his mind. He dropped his notebook, lunged from the billboard, and grabbed the boy's flailing arm just as the current tried to steal him away.
The force nearly ripped Ulysses's shoulder from its socket. Water battered his chest, threatening to drag him down with the child. He gritted his teeth, every muscle screaming, and hauled the boy upward, using the billboard frame as leverage.
"Climb!" he shouted, voice raw.
The boy clung to him like a terrified animal, sobbing into his soaked shirt. Ulysses dragged him higher, both of them shaking, until they collapsed on the metal platform.
The father on the balcony shouted hoarsely, his voice shredded by the wind: "Salamat! Thank you!"
Ulysses wanted to answer, but he could only gasp for air. The boy trembled beside him, whispering prayers through chattering teeth.
Another crash shook the city. A cargo container had broken loose from the port, slamming into buildings like a battering ram. Windows shattered. The skyline shivered.
The moon pulsed again overhead, brighter, redder, as though feeding on the chaos below. Ulysses stared up at it, chest heaving, and for a moment, he wondered if the world itself had turned into one great heartbeat.
He wrapped an arm around the boy, anchoring him against the storm. For the first time in his career, Ulysses realized he wasn't just recording history anymore. He was trapped inside it, fighting to survive each line of the story.
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End of Chapter 11