The Water Killed

The water killed. It started with swallowing wrong. Then, folks began to slip and crash. When the dead overwhelmed us, the experts came with their collapsable bases. Only essential activities were allowed. Rain water collection was prohibited. Rations would be determined.

Early on, I took a drive. The windshield wipers barely kept up. At a red light, I tried not to watch the soldiers dragging an old man from his home. They shot him. They drank from the confiscated bucket of rain water. I tried not to notice. But, the storm washed the old man’s blood down the sewer drains.

Weeks became months, and the summer baked thirst into our minds. At a town meeting, someone claimed she understood. “A spasm,” she said, “so powerful it has infected the psyche of every person here.” She pointed at the soldiers guarding the entrances and exits. “Our water is good!” She screamed before another cried, “Take her!”

The town had swollen with these soldiers swinging their metal around. We stayed in, and stared at our screens while the town’s roads cracked under the rumble of armored vehicles.

When the first snow fell, A little boy and his baby sister snuck out before the sun rose. As the story goes, they built a snowman. They dressed him warmly. Before the little boy could wedge a makeshift broom in its stick hand, a soldier aimed and called, “Who goes there?” The snowman crumbled under their weight.

The town buzzed. A rumor spread. We lived on ancient burial grounds, stacking our dead on top of their dead, blood was beginning to seep through the mud.

I’ve seen the red. An anonymous poster wrote on X.

One night, I woke up to relieve myself. I hadn’t washed my hands in so long. I cautiously twisted the faucet’s knob. Rust ran in the creases of my palms until the water was clear. Outside the window I noticed an orange glow outlining the town’s center. I gazed at it while cool, clean water washed the rust off of me. For a while the water rushed, before the fire raged before me.