The walk inland was like crossing through a battlefield.
Water still pooled in the streets, carrying trash and the occasional body, bloated and gray. Survivors trudged through knee-high currents, clutching bundles of clothes, food, or children. Some wandered in shock, their eyes hollow, whispering prayers that no one answered.
The boy held Ulysses's hand tightly, refusing to let go. His small steps slowed them, but Ulysses didn't mind. The weight of another life tethered him to something human, something more than just recording the disaster.
Near a plaza, they passed a crowd gathered around a broken loudspeaker rigged to a generator. A government official stood atop a truck, megaphone in hand. His uniform was soaked, his hair wild, his voice trembling as he shouted:
"Evacuation centers are full! Go north to higher ground! Stay calm—supplies will come!"
The crowd jeered. "Lies!" someone shouted. "Where's the food? Where's the water?"
Another voice screamed: "Where's the president?"
The official faltered, stammering something about "communications cut" and "temporary authority."
His words dissolved into the roar of the mob. Stones and bottles flew. Soldiers raised their rifles, but their hands shook. The line between crowd control and massacre thinned with each second.
Ulysses pulled the boy away before the clash erupted. The child looked up, eyes wide. "Why are they angry, Kuya?"
"Because they're afraid," Ulysses said quietly. "Fear makes people do things they never thought they would."
As they pressed on, Ulysses noticed new voices rising above the chaos. Not officials, not soldiers, but men and women with Bibles in their hands, standing on toppled cars, crying out verses through the smoky air.
One woman, hair matted with seaweed, raised her arms to the crimson sky:
"The sun is darkened, the moon turned to blood, and the seas rage! The Lord has spoken! Repent, for the Son of Man comes!"
Some fell to their knees. Others shouted in agreement, desperate for meaning. Yet others cursed, accusing her of madness. Fistfights broke out between believers and skeptics.
Ulysses scribbled furiously in his notebook, his pen tearing the damp paper. Authority collapses. Prophecy rises. Fear is the new law.
The boy tugged his sleeve. "Do you believe her?"
Ulysses paused. The truth lodged in his throat. He remembered the priest by the bay, the words that had echoed even as the waves crushed the city: Lift up your heads.
"I don't know what I believe anymore," he admitted. "But I know this—people are looking for hope. Even if it comes wrapped in fire."
The boy nodded as if that were enough. But Ulysses felt the weight of his own uncertainty pressing harder than the floodwaters ever had.
The city around them was unraveling. Government crumbled. Crowds fought. Prophets multiplied. Nations fractured not only across oceans but inside every street.
And Ulysses, pen in hand, was caught in the middle—observer, survivor, unwilling prophet of words.
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End of Chapter 14