Free Flash Flood by Chris Ryan Page A

frosted window. Someone was hurrying up a flight of stairs, a box in his arms.
    ‘Hello?!’ he shouted.
    The shadow quickened its pace up the stairs and vanished, as if it was afraid of him.
    At the junction Ben picked a turning and found himself in a road with a few shops – a newsagent and a delicatessen.
    The delicatessen was dark, but in the window, arranged on a marble slab, there were loaves of bread and delicious-looking savoury pastries. Ben’s stomach rumbled at the sight of them. He must have used up a lot of calories keeping warm in the water. He tried the door but it was locked.
    Reluctantly he tore himself away and trudged on, turning off into another street. The first buildings he came to were hotels. Their names were picked out in neon letters over the doors, but the signs were dark.
    A big four-by-four in a parking bay started to shriek, its indicators flashing. The noise continued for about thirty seconds and then stopped. Ben couldn’t see what could have set it off and no one came to investigate. Other alarms and sirens sounded in the distance, as if in answer. Thirty seconds later the alarm came on again. How long would it carry on like that? Until its battery was dead?
    Was there another sound too, mingling with the far-off sounds of alarms and sirens. Human cries?
    Or was that his imagination?
    Down a side street Ben caught sight of a figure trudging slowly along, head bent against the rain. The man was walking away from him, but Ben’s heart leaped at the thought of company. Should he run to join him? This trek was so lonely. He had never had to fend for himself and make all these decisions before. He yearned to have someone to talk to, the reassurance of another human being. Someone to stop him imagining he heard screams in the wail of a car alarm.
    No , Ben told himself. I know where I’m going. Keep to the plan .
    As he walked on, he caught sight of himself in the window of a bookshop. He looked bedraggled, as if he’d been sleeping rough. The expensive Burberry mac on top of his sodden jeans was obviously stolen. No wonder no one wanted to stop for him; he looked a real vagabond.
    He glanced down a flooded street and saw a red dinghy with an outboard motor chugging slowlyalong between the buildings, at first-floor level. One of the boat’s three occupants was standing up, looking in through the windows. They were dressed for the weather in heavy-duty rubberized yellow sailing coats.
    They must be looking for people in trouble, thought Ben. At least some people were helping each other. It restored his faith in human nature.
    In a richly furnished house down one of the flooded streets, a middle-aged couple were carrying boxes up the stairs.
    ‘There’s a boat out there,’ said the woman, spotting the small dinghy chugging along outside the window. She came into the living room and put the box down on a black bin liner on the pale carpet. It contained their passports, building society books and share certificates from the safe downstairs. Another box was filled with the jewellery she had inherited from her grandmother – a diamond necklace and a string of pearls. They lay in satin-lined leather boxes on top of some other essentials – some bottles of water, a few croissants and the keys to the BMW in the garage – although the car was probably ruined: the garage wasin the basement and the whole ground floor was underwater.
    Those boxes were all the couple had been able to salvage from the ground floor when the flood started.
    ‘Did you hear me?’ said the woman. ‘I said there’s a boat out there. People are getting out of London … Do you think we ought to?’
    Her husband was easing his wellington boots off, careful to keep them on a black bin liner so that he didn’t mark the carpet. ‘No, we should be all right here.’
    The woman noticed that one of the men outside was standing up in the boat. She waved at him and he waved back. The boat stopped beside the window to the