Small waves lap onto the sloped concrete embankment below the first step. The tide has been calm in recent months, with no severe floods so far this season.
Ever since the oceans rose, the notion of a natural “inland” has become a distant memory, as high ground became a commodity for the wealthy. Hills became islands, and it wasn’t long before claims were staked in elevated soil, creating a new and thriving market for above-sea property. And with the money came new infrastructure. Enormous roads, suspended above the water, winded around and between these islands, creating a network which only island residents had access to. Mangroves and seagrasses replaced oaks and evergreens, as concrete and damp soil intermingled.
On the flatter lands which managed to escape the floods, people were faced with a different challenge: how could the seafront property be effectively commodified, if it were constantly under risk of flooding, changes in tide, and weather catastrophes?
The solution came in the form of adaptation. Structures were developed with submergence in mind: buildings had escape hatches which led to the open air above, doors and windows were designed to seal airtight if necessary, and advanced construction materials were produced—composed of a newly invented hydrophobic substance, making surfaces slick and glossy. Shed roofs became popular: elevated on one side and sloping down into a wide gutter, they gave the silhouette of the cityscape an askew, almost fractional appearance, as if some giant blade had lopped off a portion of each building.
As these new structures began to spread along the waterfront, investors began to contemplate:
“If new buildings were constructed behind these buildings, identical in design and even further elevated, then the forward buildings could serve as a wall of sorts, as a rudimentary flood barrier”.
Unethical, yes, but in these times of uncertainty, even less contemplation was given than usual to the morality of business decisions.
And so a new city emerged, reminiscent of the terraced cities of the Inca—in which building complexes formed enormous sloped steps, running from the high inland to the low coast. This staircase gradually grew taller and taller, eventually reaching a towering peak: an apogee reflecting the greatest feat and highest limit which the industries could accommodate, and which the wealthiest could afford. Few buildings were constructed beyond this peak, as the demand for these monstrous structures could not justify the inordinate price to construct them so far inland. One might imagine that with such an immense flood-wall now in existence, people could construct smaller homes, smaller buildings, behind these behemoths—providing the staircase with a swift and steep descent. Yet, some of the wealthy continued to buy and build, not for the practical purpose of defence against the frequent floods and sudden shifts in tide, but simply for the status associated with possessing a property amongst the tower-dwellers. As such, property prices behind the towers remained high, and unaffordable for those residing closer to the coast. The towers plateaued.
Could we have moved the people inland, behind those tall towers, and saved these coast-dwellers from the drowning and starving which thousands fell victim to on a regular basis? Could we have built a new city, deep inland, behind those tower-walls?
Perhaps.
But in times of uncertainty, opportunities also arise. Great, stinking, heaping opportunities, bearing their ugly heads out of the waves, fanged mouths reeking as they gape upwards; serpent necks extending into the clouds above.