The freezing water surged into his shoes again, squeezing between his toes as they shivered in the swamp of wet soles. Its depth increased as he made his towards the pile of supplies; he had not realized that the floor was slanted. The jet of water that had punctured the wall of the elevator shaft was slackening, but not fast enough. Some of Miljan's less-vital possessions were now drowned in the cold abyss of the lower level, and he could only hope that the rest could be shifted upstairs in time. No time to mourn for lightbulbs and winter clothes. Rush, rush.
Citadel activity had only increased in the twenty-four hours since the first commotions. First had come the tremors, then silence, then a cannon-like sound that brought curtains of water down on him from the ceiling.
He clapped his arms around three large sacks of rice, lifting them from the top of a crate before they soaked in possibly toxic water. Perishable goods were first priority. Now that the booze was safe, anyways. Miljan trudged up the stairs, wondering between frantic breaths whether the flood would reach the entrance of his shelter. The possibility of it rising farther was something he refused to consider. A little more of the wall collapsed with a now-familiar thud, and the thundering sound slackened with the pressure. An entire water main must have buckled to produce this much volume, spilling its stagnant contents into the city's bowels. Counting on the shelter's groundwater pump was no longer an option.
"Wish... I—could swim... damnit."
Miljan started down on his seventh trip, wondering whether a hereditary heart attack would get him before the water could. Things were starting to float around now, and he shut the door to the submerged level so none of the canned goods would be swept down. A piece of sharp lead stuck in his palm as he swept a box of pencils and other superfluous supplies into the swirling foam. Vulnerable items took their place on the crate (how in hell was he supposed to lift that when it was full?), and he paused for a moment to take stock. Now for the last plastic cooler, splashing through a curtain of water on the way. The cascade in the elevator shaft was still plunging down past this level, but there was more runoff in the ceiling with every passing minute.
Struck by inspiration, Miljan gathered everything that seemed buoyant and watertight, then began shoving the raft of supplies along with his foot. Plastic packets and bottles bobbed over the edge of the elevator shaft into the boiling pool below, and he slammed the door behind them. Let the water carry them upstairs. And godamnit, why hadn't he thought of that before? He might have saved some of the items downstairs, now left behind and,
"Gone, gone gone! Gonegone!"
His sing-song voice ran laps around the constricting space, reflecting off the water to leap back on him, distorted and childlike. Off again, off again, towards the stairs as fast as was possible with the bulky container slamming against his knees. As a light fixture exploded overhead in a starburst of sparks and more water, the floor roused itself and made a lunge for his ankles. Slap, into a pulsing darkness that prickled his face and straining eyes with sudden cold. Sounds articulated themselves as heartbeats, distinguished by variations in pitch, duration and distance. The concrete was rasping at his palms, but it felt farther away with every passing moment.
"Zeka maya!" Grandmother put her hands on her hips. "Moj drag..." There was light now, late afternoon in springtime. "...why do you try to carry so much? Far too thin for that, silly boy."
He looked up guiltily, conscious of the pile of broken clay tiles at his feet.
"Miljichka, you will snap like a twig and have a knot in your back for the rest of your life like your uncle. And then you have to go back to the clinic so often you will might as well live there."
His gaze wandered over to the houndeye that was tied to a post in front of the house. It drank greedily from a trough.
"And once you live at the clinic I will have to ride that terrible bus every Wednesday to come feed your fat cheeks with a spoon. Now go find a bag to pick up those pieces—only a few at a time—and if you see your stupid brother tell him that if he starts drinking before dusk I will—"
Miljan scratched his nose and wondered how people could drown in bathtubs no deeper than the houndeye's water trough. He wanted to go pet it, but he knew how Grandmother could shout louder than a whole pack of houndeyes.
"Miljan! Look at me when you don't listen!" His eyes snapped back to Gran, and now Iskander was standing just behind her, dressed in Dr. Breen's turtleneck. He also sported stalker legs, but Miljan knew that his friend has been born with them and it was impolite to bring them up. They caused him no trouble, anyway.
Grandmother spun around and saw Iskander. Miljan knew what was about to happen; the sky was getting brighter as he backed away, heart swirling around in his chest.
"Who are you?"
The houndeye knocked over the trough and began straining at the leash as the house melted like candle wax, running smoothly across the ground towards the three-legged predator.
"Miljan!" Grandmother screeched with Ioanna's voice. "Get those things to your brother and run!"
The tiles—she meant the tiles. He scooped up as many as he could and bolted through the space between metal-legged Iskander and the liquifying cottage.
"HURRY! Then come back for the rest! And me!" Grandmother Ioanna stayed rooted to the spot, facing Iskander, the source of the terrifying light.
The freed houndeye zipped past his flapping shoes, and the hilltops to the north were rising and tilting, rolling up carpet-like on their towards him. Knin's rooftops appeared upside-down, clinging to the underbelly of the world as it swayed from east to west five kilometers at a time. The light behind him was too thick to see through, but everything was still back there. He had to carry, carry everything, and then go back for gran.
Some hours later, after she assured him that the world had finished beginning to end, he sat on the cold concrete by the blast doors and listened the xylophone of water droplets. Flooding had ceased; now only a thin film of rust-colored liquid seeped from the wall. The plane of smooth ink that marked the border between the submerged shelter and his own truncated realm now stood two steps down from the upper story. It had risen a centimeter during the previous hour, as water settled out of various fractures and clogged pipes, but Grandmother had pronounced that it would climb no farther than the last step.
He believed her, as she was of incredible age and had helped him work out several important facts. Most importantly, he was not going to die. Miljan had watched his hands begin to melt in the heat of dark energy flares. With every trip to dry land, grasping at clastic piles of belongings, there had been less and less of his fingers. When the last of the supplies was safe from the water, and he collapsed ready to die from the burns, she had told him to not be such a girl.
As it turned out, Miljan had gone off his head just a little bit, cracking under the pressure of the moment. Lucky that Grandmother was there to sort him out, to tell him that Knin had evaporated years ago, that he was hiding safe underground unless he let his balls give out on him and have all his things ruined and who the hell was this Iskander? He sounds like a Muslim.
Now they were both safe, although he still felt a bit like dying after putting his tendons and lungs through the ringer like that. He lay splayed out on the floor, each extremity touching an emblem of his success. Bottles rattled and tinkled as his trembling legs brushed against them. It was a beautiful sound. Through a low point in the ridges of bags, he could see Gran's headscarf where she sat on a barrel.
"That was very well done, Miljichka. I know you will help me like that again, when it's time to get ready for Saint Sava's day. Now have a palačinka."
He nodded in exhaustion, a can of sweet potatoes in his hands.
"I think this wasn't so bad after all," he murmured. "Sure, we lost some things, but now we can live up here. Everything beneath is drowned, so it's a sure thing that this floor is ours. All locked up and... homely."
Her wrinkles nodded judiciously.
"I think I may even open up the peep-hole sometime, to let some natural light in. No one can see through from outside, after all."
The citadel let out a groan from somewhere above. Miljan heard only the soft tapping of grandmother's cane.