A Script for A Drowning Man's Cartography

"Find anything, rat?"

The voice echoed across the water, sharp and mocking. Tyler didn't look up. He kept his focus on the line in his hands, pulling it up slowly from the depths. His knuckles were raw, the saltwater stinging the cuts. Below him, twenty metres down, lay the drowned remains of a city. His territory. At least for today.

"Just your reflection, Benji. It's ugly enough to scare the fish."

A harsh laugh. Benji's skiff, a sleeker craft with a solar-powered motor, glided closer. Benji stood at the bow, a gaffing hook held loosely in his hand. He was bigger than Tyler, older by a few years, with a reputation for taking what he wanted.

"Funny. My lookouts said you were pulling from the Gilt-Edge Tower. That's my claim."

"Your claim's as empty as your head," Tyler muttered, hauling the last of the line. A heavy, corroded metal lockbox broke the surface. Not the jackpot, but better than nothing. He swung it onto the deck of his skiff, the 'Sea-Witch'.

"That's my box, then," Benji said, his voice losing its playful edge.

"You want it, you can dive for it yourself. The lower floors are picked clean."

Tyler wasn't lying. He'd spent the morning navigating the submerged cubicle farms, the ghostly remains of an office culture no one remembered. He was looking for something specific. The old man, Jed, had told him a story before he died. A story about the CEO of the Gilt-Edge corporation, a survivalist who had a plan. An escape route. Jed said he kept it in his top-floor office.

While Benji watched, Tyler attached a new line and a fresh oxygen bladder to his rig. He wasn't giving up. The top floor was risky. The building's integrity was questionable up there, closer to the storm surges.

"Don't drown, rat," Benji called as Tyler fitted the rebreather to his mouth and slipped over the side. "It'd be a waste of good salvage."

The water was cold and murky. Light struggled to penetrate from the perpetually overcast sky. Tyler kicked his way down, following his guide line past shattered windows. He saw skeletal remains of office workers still seated at their desks, a grim tableau of the day the water came. He ignored them. He'd seen worse.

The top-floor office was surprisingly intact. A huge oak desk, now swollen and warped, dominated the room. The nameplate was still there: 'A. Corbin, CEO'. Tyler got to work, his crowbar finding purchase on the desk's drawers. They were filled with silt and mushy paper. Nothing.

He was running out of air. His bladder was half empty. Frustration clawed at him. Jed's story was just that—a story. He turned to leave, his light sweeping across the room one last time. It caught on something behind a fallen bookshelf. A long, metal cylinder, sealed with heavy-duty clasps. It was mounted to the wall, designed to be waterproof. His heart hammered against his ribs.

The Cartographer's Ghost

He worked the clasps with numb fingers. They were stiff with age and corrosion. One gave way with a loud crack that echoed in the silent water. Then the second. He pulled the cylinder from its mounting. It was heavier than it looked. This was it. It had to be.

His ascent was frantic. He burst through the surface, gasping for air, clutching the cylinder to his chest. The first thing he saw was Benji's skiff, tethered to his own. Benji was sitting on Tyler's deck, casually flipping through the contents of the lockbox. He looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face as he saw the cylinder.

"Well, well. Looks like you found something after all."

Tyler's blood ran cold. He'd been so focused, he hadn't thought to check his surroundings. He scrambled onto his skiff, holding the cylinder behind his back. "It's nothing. Just some old documents."

"Let me be the judge of that," Benji said, standing up. He dropped the lockbox and took a step towards Tyler, the gaffing hook held ready.

"Get off my boat, Benji."

"Not without my prize." He lunged.

Tyler was smaller, but he was quicker. He sidestepped, using the momentum to shove Benji hard. Benji stumbled, surprised by the resistance. He swung the gaff, the hook whistling past Tyler's ear. Tyler didn't hesitate. He grabbed the small, sputtering engine that powered his winch and hurled it at Benji's head.

It was a desperate move. Benji ducked, and the engine smashed into the side of his own expensive skiff, cracking the fibreglass. He swore, distracted for just a second. It was all Tyler needed. He sliced through the tether connecting their boats with his dive knife, pushed off hard, and scrambled to start his own motor. The little engine coughed to life. The 'Sea-Witch' lurched forward.

Benji roared in fury, but Tyler was already moving away, leaving his rival to deal with a sinking boat. He didn't look back. He pushed the throttle to its limit, the skiff bouncing violently over the grey waves.

Hours later, hidden in a cove formed by the top floors of a submerged skyscraper, he finally felt safe enough to look at his prize. His hands trembled as he worked the final clasp on the cylinder. It hissed as the seal broke. He pulled the cap off and carefully slid out the contents.

It was a map. Not paper, but some kind of polymer, thin and durable. It was covered in intricate details. Shipping lanes, coastal towns, highways—the world as it was before. His eyes traced the faded lines, trying to make sense of a landscape he had only ever heard about in stories.

And then he saw it. A route, marked in bold red ink. It started from this very city. It led west, across vast stretches of what was now open ocean, but the map called it 'land'. The route ended at a cluster of mountains marked 'Sanctuary Peak'. Beside it, a handwritten note: 'Elevation: 4,500m. High ground. Sustainable ecosystem. The only place left.'

Tyler stared at it, his heart pounding. It couldn't be real. Everyone knew there was no high ground left. The whole world was drowned. It was a myth, a fairy tale told to children.

But the map felt real. The detail was too precise. It showed submerged mountain ranges to navigate, safe currents to follow, even old-world fuel depots in the highest city ruins along the way. It was a complete guide. A path to salvation. He couldn't believe it. He had found it. The one thing that could save them all. Hope. And as he traced the red line with his finger, he saw another set of markings, these ones in black. They weren't part of the original map. They were newer. They showed patrols. Boats, just like his. And they were all clustered around the route to Sanctuary Peak, like sharks waiting for their prey.