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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author DAVID SACHS lives in Chelsea, Quebec (Canada), in the woods of Parc du la Gatineau. He is a long time feature writer for magazines and major metro newspapers, writing on politics, culture, society and the outdoors, covering everything from anti-globalization riots to Amazonian shamanism, and from homelessness to hitchhiking. His feature film, The Last Party, is in development with Bunk 11 Pictures.
He is a father, an avid outdoorsman and rugby old boy, and a former physicist and Canadian Forces reserves officer. David is heavily involved in political and social causes, and a deadly boogie woogie piano player.
http://www.davidsachs.com
How This Story Came To Be
On my honeymoon in Greece, my wife and I were on an overcrowded ferry. We hadn’t paid for seats, and I was, let’s say, a bit hungover, so I went to nap on the open deck as the isles passed by. The entire story came to me in a dream. It was a far darker thing than I was used to, but I felt I shouldn’t waste something which had been given to me like that.
The rest was just writing.
(There was one scene from my dream I couldn’t fit in: scuba diving around Manhattan’s sunken skyscrapers. I just couldn’t make it work.)
Thanks
I would like to thank, first, my wife, for more than I could ever explain, but especially for her patience living with me while I lived with a story about horrible things.
I’d like to thank Peter Whelpton, former EVP at Royal Caribbean Cruise Line, as well as Daniel Capella, cruise industry journalist and consultant, for their guidance on technical and logistical issues. They were a great help in creating the world of the Festival, and Daniel even created the ship’s layout at my website, www.davidsachs.com/theflood/. Any inaccuracies in this book are my own fault (either for story reasons or simply out of ignorance).
I’d like to thank my beta readers (Victoria, Mary, Joe, Maureen, Jennifer, Diana, Jay, Samantha, Suzanne, Dan, Tia and CV), my brothers and many friends who helped me shape this story, and to Theresa Munanga for helping me spell it correctly.
To my agent, Melissa McComas for believing in The Flood.
Lastly, to Matt Mather, a great writer and better friend, for his guidance and occasional drink through the process of bringing this to readers.
Book Description
When the Flood hit, America’s East Coast was evacuated by every means possible. Now, a luxury cruise ship overloaded with refugees lies dead in the water: no power, no communications, no sign of rescue… and a dwindling buffet.
For those that escaped the Flood, the real nightmare is just beginning.
Travis Cooke was desperate to reunite his family. But not like this.
Trapped on the disabled ship, Travis and the unforgettable cast aboard find themselves alone in a big ocean. As the panic rises like the water, Travis finds behind each door an unexpected new side to the ship, but no way out. How far will a good man go to save the people he loves and has lost once before?
A gripping thriller, family drama, and mythic tragedy from a master storyteller. You’ve never read a story like The Flood.
Welcome aboard.
Copyright © David Sachs, 2015
ISBN 978-0-9940102-0-9
Cover image by Martin Gomez
Published by benChaim
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the author. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Op. 4
“Blue Skies” by Irving Berlin
© Copyright 1926, 1927 by Irving Berlin © Copyright Renewed
International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved Reprinted by Permission
E-book extra Locked In the Trunk of a Car
A Short Story Based on Themes from the Music of the Tragically Hip
This story is part of a series of Short Fiction Based on Themes from the Music of the Tragically Hip. Their music always seems to put stories in my imagination, even when the lyrics don’t tell one directly. I’ve tried to take the feelings and contours of the songs from one medium to another. Look for other stories in this series at my author’s page on Amazon.
The stories stand on their own – you don't need to know the music .. But for a unique experience to mirror my writing of it, I recommend listening to the song, LOCKED IN THE TRUNK OF A CAR (available here ), on repeat, while reading. Or don’t. It’s a free country.
I’ve woken up before in strange places, on couches perhaps, or with a girl in a strange bed, sometimes even in different cities. It’s usually after a night of heavy drinking. There’s that moment where you don’t know where you are. It’s disconcerting to wake into a completely new environment. It’s like you’ve woken to a new world, an Alice-in-Wonderland type experience. It only lasts an instant usually, wondering where you are, but it seems much longer as your brain tries to make sense of your surroundings. I like that moment of uncertainty, between worlds.
This is different.
Waking in complete darkness like this, it lasts longer. It feels less like waking and more like you’ve just begun dreaming – the type where you know it’s a dream and you can control your thoughts within the dream. That’s what this feels like at first. Then, it slowly drips into the realization that I’m wrong, this is no dream. I feel my body, the tape, the pain. I kick my bound legs out and shake myself around. I can feel the duct tape across my mouth now, the throbbing in my head. I’ve been hit on the head. I know where I am. I’m locked in the trunk of a car. I don’t know why. I don’t remember – I know I was at dinner, then I was walking home. That’s it, as far as I can remember. I don’t know even if there IS anything more to remember – if I was hit suddenly, or if there was more to the story but the concussion erased it. That’s the funny thing about not remembering.
I assume I’m going to die. I’ve done things in my life that have made people mad. I know there are people who want me dead. I don’t know who’s taken it upon themselves. So I’m waiting; there’s nothing else to do.
I had a friend who knew he was going to die. The doctor gave him six months and the sonofabitch was right on the money. So my friend had this period in his life where he knew his own end. He lived, boy; he enjoyed that time. He spent it the right way, doing all the things people would figure they would do in that situation: fulfilling some of his dreams, spending time with the people he cared about, letting them know everything he wanted to tell them, all those things. I think we all have an instinctive desire, before we die, to say everything there is to say, everything we think or know. He had that chance. When you’re dying, nobody makes fun of you for talking about the things that matter. It wasn’t all Hallmark. He got laid. He did it right. This is different.