The Coast

Flash fiction. 250 words to describe 'rearranging furniture' and the word 'surge' in a suspenseful way.

Dahlia said the coast was sinking. She spoke softly, reading a report from the dark web. The road north may be unguarded. I pointed out that they hadn’t said anything about it on the Amazon Update. 

“They also say there’s no fires, but we see the smoke,” Dahlia said. She placed a hand on her belly. I thought of the unnatural heat that gripped our mountain, and the spring foliage that forgot to bloom. 
The next day, I quietly retracted the jacks on our RV while the community was at prayer. 

Smog lay like a blanket on the city as we came down. Beneath, the heat and carbon smell were suffocating. Tent-dwelling humanity lined the streets. We passed Amazon trucks with no drivers; mounted stun guns ensured their cargo would travel unmolested.

Our home had no such defenses. I became nervous as the city walls converged, the broken streets slowed our pace, and the people emerged. Desperate hands banged our doors and windows. Dahlia leapt from her seat and began rearranging furniture to block the door. 

We rounded a corner, and suddenly the city yielded to grey-blue void as streets and towers slipped under a surge of foam. Dahlia was right; the patrols had abandoned Pacific Coast Highway to the clawing ocean. 
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The road before us sloped into the languid tide, but I gunned forward. The banging stopped. Her hand found mine as we hit the water, slowing, sinking… until solid, glistening concrete finally surfaced, and we left LA behind.