Chapter 3 - Knock knock

He tightened the straps of his bag, every muscle in his body tense. The muffled thumps from the hallway made his pulse spike again. It sounded deliberate. Heavy. Too close. Something was out there.

His grip tightened around the kitchen knife — a cheap thing with a slightly dented edge, but at least it felt solid in his hand.

His other hand hovered near the doorknob, his breath shallow. This was it. If something waited outside, he'd have to face it. He wasn't ready. Not really. But who was?

A deep exhale. A quiet curse under his breath.

Then he swung the door open.

Thud.

It was an old microwave, soaked and dented, tipped backward and slammed against the wall. It had apparently drifted down the hallway and crashed against his door during the last slosh of rising water.

"...You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, the tension leaving him all at once. His shoulders slumped. His chest burned from the adrenaline spike. He wanted to laugh, but only managed a dry exhale.

Then the hallway greeted him like a ghost. Dim. Muffled. Still. The water was ankle-deep now, creeping higher with every hour.

It shimmered with a strange oily sheen, swirling with floating debris — junk mail, empty bags of chips, someone's broken mop, a child's toy duck bobbing lazily by.

He glanced at the other apartment doors. Half of them were wide open, hanging crooked on their hinges. No voices. No sounds. Just the slow drip of water, and the low groaning hum of a city drowning.

He hesitated at the threshold. Then stepped out.

Looking at some open doors.

He stepped forward, telling himself as he neared at someones home, that he was just checking — maybe someone needed help.

But deep down, he knew that was a lie. His stomach twisted with a low guilt as he entered the first apartment. It was trashed. No signs of life. A chair floating. A picture frame cracked. He called out once, softly, just in case.

No answer.

He took what he needed — some canned food, a few bottles of clean water, a large hoodie that fit him more like a cloak, and another kitchen knife, this one serrated.

In the next apartment, he found a bag of unopened instant noodles and a half-eaten chocolate bar still wrapped. He pocketed both.

The water lapped around his legs, cold and murky, as he moved slowly down the hallway. His boots made soft splashes, like whispers that didn't want to disturb the dead.

He paused at the next door. Apartment 705. The door was ajar, swollen from the moisture but easy enough to push open with a quiet nudge.

Inside, it was the same story — upturned furniture, water-logged rugs, and silence.

He moved through the living room quickly, almost mechanically, his eyes scanning for anything useful.

A dusty cabinet yielded a box of crackers and a half-empty bottle of soda. He stuffed them in his bag.

He didn't linger.

The next apartment, 307, was worse. Someone had tried to barricade the door from the inside with a dresser.

He had to shove it aside to enter. The hallway creaked ominously behind him, but nothing stirred.

Inside, he found a flashlight — dim, but functional — and a raincoat folded neatly on the back of a chair. It wasn't his size, but it would do. He left as quietly as he entered.

Then he reached apartment 309.

This one was open wide, the door swaying slightly as if someone had left in a hurry — or had meant to, but never did.

He stepped inside.

And stopped.

There was someone sitting in the middle of the room.

A man. Middle-aged. Wearing a soaked office shirt and dark pants. He was slumped in a wooden chair, unmoving, facing the doorway as if he'd been waiting for someone. His skin was pale. Lifeless. His eyes half-lidded.

A faint red ribbon trickled from his torso, mingling with the floodwater below. It stretched outward in a soft crimson bloom, like a flower blooming in the silence.

The apartment was still. Dead still.

He didn't say anything, but his eyes darted around the room.

He didn't call out. Didn't check for a pulse. Didn't look at the man for more than a second. He just turned and walked toward the kitchen, eyes fixed around him.

The cabinets creaked as he opened them, slow and careful. Some canned beans. Bottled water. A rusted can opener. A nearly dry towel. All of it went into the bag.

His hands moved quickly, but his mind felt far away — a dull pressure in his chest, not quite grief. Not quite fear.

Just… weight.

When he stepped back into the living room, the man in the chair hadn't moved. The red in the water had spread just a little more.

He left the apartment without a sound.

One more door. Then another. And another.

Each room had its own story. Some were empty. Some were ransacked already. One had a broken mirror and scrawled words on the wall that he didn't stop to read.

Another had music faintly playing from a half-dead speaker, looping the same sad guitar note again and again.

And through it all, he said nothing.

He took what he needed.

He didn't look back.

The water kept rising, and the world kept quiet.

---

When he stepped back into the hallway, heavier than before, the water kissed the middle of his shins.

Going down was no longer an option.

He glanced toward the stairwell. Black water pooled near the downward steps, the railings nearly submerged. Whatever was down there now belonged to the flood.

He looked up.

The roof.

If there was still a signal, maybe he could call for help. Maybe a chopper. Maybe a drone. Maybe just… a place to breathe.

Gripping the soaked rail, he started to climb. The stairs creaked beneath his weight, the air growing more humid with every level.

His heart beat steady now, not from panic — but from the certainty that whatever was coming next, it wouldn't be easy.

But at least, for now, it wasn't a monster from the floods. Just water.

And silence.

---

The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he ascended to the eighth floor. It was quiet — strangely so. No water here. Just the stale smell of mold creeping in from below, the air thick with dust and the scent of power outages.

He stepped into the hallway.

No signs of flooding. Dry floor, though stained in patches from past leaks. The overhead lights flickered faintly, powered by some distant emergency circuit still clinging to life.

Caleb moved carefully. The doors lining the hall were intact, untouched by the water — but every single one was shut tight. Not a single crack, not a whisper of movement inside.

He tried the first door. Locked.

The second. Locked.

At the third, he gave it a soft knock. "Hello?" he called, not loud enough to echo — just enough to be heard, if anyone was listening.

Silence.

Another knock. No answer.

He tried all the doors, he jiggled every handle, but it was firm. Deadbolt, most likely.

And with the way his thin, wiry frame had become because of consuming junk foods day by day— his bony hands trembling slightly from hunger and fatigue — he wasn't breaking anything down. Not today atleast.

"Damnit, I should have ordered takeout a day before..."

Click!

"Hmm? What was that?" Looking around, Caleb was sure that he had just heard something like a click.

He leaned against the wall, exhaling through his nose. The eighth floor was quiet. Too quiet. Like the building had stopped breathing up here.

Knitting his brows, he kept moving silenly.

The stairs groaned again as he made his way to the ninth floor, each step heavier than the last. His soaked clothes clung to his back like a second skin. His bag rustled with every movement, bottles clinking faintly like wind chimes in a graveyard.

He pushed the ninth floor door open, knife in hand.

And froze.

There were people.

Not many. Four, maybe five. Scattered across the hall — some leaning against the walls, others sitting on crates, nursing cups of something warm.

Makeshift lanterns flickered atop an overturned table. A pot steamed quietly over a small camping stove, and the faint smell of instant noodles filled the corridor.

They all looked at him the moment the door creaked open.

Eyes narrowed. Shoulders tensed. No one moved.

Caleb instinctively straightened, his hand hovering near his pocket — not threatening, just ready. His heart thumped like it wanted to run.

"Another one," a voice muttered — a woman with a tied-up braid, crouched near the lanterns.

A tall man stepped forward. Muscular, maybe in his thirties, wearing a jacket several sizes too big and boots that looked like they'd been looted from a fireman. His voice was low, but not hostile. Just tired.

"You alone?"

Caleb nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"You armed?"

He lifted the knife clipped to his belt. "Only this."

No point in hiding the knife, as they had already seen it as he walked forward.

The man gave a short nod as he looked at the knife. Then looked him over — not judging, not exactly. Just calculating.

"You from downstairs?"

"Yeah. Water's rising fast."

"Tch. Figured."

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncertain. Caleb glanced down the hallway where most doors were open. He could see more signs of life here — blankets pinned over doorways, makeshift signs, someone's sock drying on a wire.

But he didn't move further in.

He gave them a short nod — respectful, cautious — then turned to leave.

"Wait," the tall man called after him, but quickly stopped as he remembered the knife. "You don't have to go."

Caleb paused.

Another voice chimed in. A younger guy sitting near the stove, maybe twenty. "You got supplies, right? Food? Water?" His tone was more casual. Hopeful, even.

"Just enough to live by." Caleb said carefully after thinking it over.

"For now," the woman with the braid muttered.

The tall man raised a hand to quiet her, then looked back at Caleb. "We're not asking for your bag. Just… consider staying. It's safer in numbers."

Caleb turned back slightly, not entering, but listening.

The younger guy added, "You've seen how bad it is down there, right? The water's not slowing. Last we heard, another district's power grid went out. People're going nuts on lower floors. If you keep going alone, you'll get cornered."

"Or drowned," someone else said bluntly from the shadows.

The tall man shrugged. "Your call. We're not gonna beg. But if you want in, share what you know, pitch in, keep things clean. That's the deal."

Caleb met their eyes — one by one.

They weren't hostile. Not exactly friendly, either. Just… survivors. Like him. Holding on by threads.

He thought of the man in the chair. The blood in the water. The silence behind locked doors.

"I'm fine," Caleb said quietly. "Thanks. I just… need a place to breathe for a bit."

The tall man didn't press. He just nodded.

Caleb turned and stepped back through the stairwell door, the hallway behind him slowly dimming as it shut.

He descended one floor, stopping at the eighth, and sat on the dry concrete beside the railing. He dropped his bag beside him, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling.

The quiet here was suffocating. But at least it was honest.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, maybe, he'd go back up.

Maybe.

---

End of Chapter 3.