The flood carried voices—screams, prayers, curses—all mixing with the roar of the sea. Ulysses clung to the roof of the truck, knuckles white, as the current tore past him. Every second, debris slammed against the vehicle: a shattered table, a refrigerator, a lifeless dog. Each impact rattled the metal, threatening to drag him down with the tide.
He forced himself to focus on faces. That was what journalism demanded: not just the destruction, but the people.
A man fought to swim with a child clinging to his shoulders. The boy wailed, arms wrapped tight around his father's neck. Ulysses dropped his camera and reached out. The current was too strong; they passed by before he could grip them. He caught only the father's eyes—wide, desperate, pleading—before the flood swallowed them around the corner.
Ulysses screamed after them, his voice lost in the chaos.
He wanted to jump in. Every bone in his body urged him to. But he remembered his father, the way the sea had stolen him too, and fear chained his legs to the truck roof. He gritted his teeth, hating himself for staying put.
The next wave came. Not as tall as the first, but strong enough to push the water farther inland. Streetlights sparked, transformers exploded, and the city descended into darkness. Only the moon lit the nightmare, casting everything in crimson.
The priest was there again. Ulysses spotted him clinging to the roof of a jeepney that had smashed against a lamppost. His cassock clung to his body like seaweed, his voice hoarse but still shouting above the storm:
"Stand! Stand and lift your heads! Your redemption draws near!"
Somewhere inside Ulysses, the words struck. He wanted to scream back—Redemption? Look around you! There's only death!—but the fury drowned inside his chest.
Instead, he reached for his recorder, shielding it from the spray as he documented everything: the priest's voice, the cries of survivors, the pounding roar of waves. His notebook pages were soaked, ink running, but he etched words anyway: Manila is drowning beneath a sky of blood. People faint from terror, yet others cling to hope.
The water began to recede, leaving wreckage in its wake. Cars piled like toys, corpses tangled in debris, survivors crawling onto rooftops and balconies. But no one dared relax. Everyone watched the horizon, waiting for the next surge.
Ulysses climbed higher, scaling the side of a collapsed billboard. From the top, he could see the city stretched out in ruin—dark, flooded, trembling under the moon's red eye.
His chest heaved, not just from exertion but from the weight of the realization: this was only the beginning.
The sea had roared once, and it would roar again.
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End of Chapter 10