The coyotes worked in teams, taking what they needed while the subdivisions slept and the moon and stars rattled around in the sky. It took two or three of them to carry a piece of lumber; they would clamp it in their jaws, stop every so often to rest and readjust. Other items were more trouble: slippery things like jars of nails, or heavier things, like the outboard motor they abandoned on the sidewalk after their backs nearly buckled under its weight. Still, the coyotes were mostly quick and effective thieves. They fanned out through the valley, careful not to hit the same neighborhoods over and over. The humans never knew what was happening. By the time the water rose and they were drowning in their homes, it was too late to do anything but stare as the coyotes floated past on their ark, saving no one.


CASSANDRA DE ALBA lives in Massachusetts with two other writers and a cat who won’t stop hitting her. She studied poetry and history at Hampshire College and is currently completing a dual masters in history and archives management. Her work has appeared in NAP, Illuminati Girl Gang, Drunken Boat and Strange Horizons, among other publications, and her most recent chapbooks are called Bloodlust (No Spaceships Allowed) and Special Bitch Academy. She’s read poetry on stage in at least 12 different states, but still doesn’t know how to ride a bike. She can be found on the internet at outsidewarmafghans.tumblr.com.

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