The Opportunists

[Ichabod]

The storm surge peaked six feet over flood level. The words “Mandatory evacuation” are music to a looter’s ears.

I slog through thigh high murk, soaked with sweat and filth, full backpack and loaded arms. In the moonless night the waters resemble slowly undulating tar but smell of dank rotting death.

I shudder with disgust as my boot pushes into something heavy and yielding. Putrid bubbles burst and saturate the air with nauseating fumes. I step backwards struggling not to vomit.

And disgust gives way to panic as something cold and irresistibly strong grips my ankle--and begins to tug.

[rowan_bristol]

Oh this gives me a happy squishy feeling.

[Ichabod]

FYI - to presume anyone cares (I know, right?)... I've expanded this story and submitted it as flash fiction to another podcast.