2619

The southern desert sun beat down on the cracks of what was once known as the Mississippi River Valley. His feet were blistering in the heat being insulated by his leather boots. The back of his neck was hot to the touch no matter how much he covered up. And the heat only played with his body temperature keeping him uncomfortable during the day and too cold in the nights he spent camping underneath cacti. His beard grew in nicely but was cut haphazard by the dull knife he kept in his waistband.

He’d been following the dust ditch north for weeks in hopes of finding a welcoming civilisation. There was nothing left for him in Baton Rouge. The northern territories decimated the dehydrated desert culture of the south during the water riots of 2615. After the 2300’s the geography of the United States changed vastly. Most of the country had become an inhabitable desert where the temperature could reach up to 146 degrees some days. People living in these areas relied on trade from the north, where they received almost drowning amounts of rain but more moderate temperatures.

Originally, the south didn’t have much to offer besides salts and succulents. Keeping them under the hard pressed thumb of northern farming monopolies, until he had come along. If it wasn’t for him, he thinks his family may have been alive. But if it wasn’t for him, most of his family would have been dead long before. He figured out how to make it rain. He showered the city of Baton Rouge allowing for grass to grow there for the first time in over 250 years.

At first, the device was kept secret and the local government had called it an anomaly. Scientists from the north flocked to the city and were swiftly turned away because this amount of rain was naturally impossible.

The windowsills of apartment buildings became lush and green. City dwellers came together to renovate new green spaces where each community had their own garden. After he felt like his device was perfected, he had started making plans with other cities to introduce his new technology. Soon Houston, Jackson, and Dallas would all see rain for the first time in 50 years.

He was traveling out of the city on March 4th, 2617 just as the North was coming for him. He was sitting in the Mayor of Dallas’ office when the broadcast popped up. His home was on fire. All the plots of farmland were now engulfed in red flames while the black smoke swallowed buildings from the bottom up. The screen played images of people running away from falling debris and people scaling walls to save the last remnants of plant life. The broadcast spared no one as it panned over the bodies lying around his technology. The piles of people covered in bruises and smoke trying to protect the thing that helped give them their freedom and independence back from the north.

He jumped into his vehicle and drove swiftly home despite Dallas officials pleading for him to stay. Without him, there was no water. And no water is no life. But without his family, to him there was no life already. He pulled up to the shambles of what was once his home. He stepped through the door frame and called out, “Julie?”. “Kevin?” Then he heard a crunch. His gut fell into his balls as he observed the white fragments sticking out from the bottoms of his shoes. That was the last piece of Kevin he would get to keep.

There was no time to lose. He sprinted outside so fast that he hoped it would suppress the vomit. He dropped to his knees and released himself over into the street. He looked up and the sweat beds from the tip of his hair fell upon his cheeks. His vehicle was gone. Someone now knew he was home. And he knew, he had to run.

Now, all he had was Paco, a mechanical bird, who he put back together near the Arkansas-Louisiana border.

“Paco, how many miles until we reach Memphis?”

Memphis had been known for being sympathetic towards Southerners but was not turned away by the northern alliance due to its ability to grow corn at massive rates.

Paco’s mechanical eyes pinpointed himself north and dilated. “324.9 miles” Paco squawked and flew in a circle around his head.

He sighed and kept his gaze straight forward, “Thank you.”

The midday sun was beaming at 129 degrees that day but his constant walking and his heavy pack made him feel much hotter.

He started seeing stars and stumbled slightly.

“Paco,” he said with the last moisture in his mouth. “Where is the next shelter?”

Paco’s head spun in a circle and fixed northeast. “About 4 miles at 76 degrees.”

He stopped, took a deep breath and turned slightly in the direction of the shelter. Every step for the next two miles felt like a thousand pounds on his feet. His consciousness was fading in and out. He dropped to his knees in the blistering sand.

Paco’s wings started flapping, “Water ahead! Water ahead! Water ahead!” His eyes lit up a bright green.

“Paco, where?”

“One mile, water ahead, one mile!”

He lifted his eyes from the ground to the horizon.

One more mile to go.

He started off in a slow crawl. Pulling his sleeves over the palms of his hands to lessen the burn. He dragged his feet and couldn’t prevent the scratchy sand from invading his shoes.

“Water ahead! Water ahead! Water ahead! Less than .75 miles!”

He used the will to survive to push himself to his feet. He knew he would die if he attempted to crawl the rest of the way. Step by agonizing step he made his way towards his savior.

“Water ahead! Water ahead! Water ahead! Less than .5 miles!”

In the distance he saw a brown shack and prayed whoever lived there was kind to strangers.

He kept moving forward but the shack seemed to keep moving farther away.

“Water ahead! Water ahead! Water ahead! Less than .25 miles!”

Every step he felt like his back was being supported by toothpicks.

“Water ahead! Water ahead! Water ahead! 200 feet!”

He saw the dilapidated shack falling apart at the seams. Sand had eroded it and the desert claimed it as its own. He walked around the shack to find a pile of bricks.

“Arrived! Water! Arrived”.

He scoured the ground with as much energy as he had left. Pushing over bricks and scraping away sand when he pulled up a bucket with a rope.

An old well.

An old well that the desert had dehydrated.

“Paco, you told me there was water here.”

“Arrived! Water! Arrived!” He squawked and flailed his wings. Paco flew off of his shoulder and started pecking at the bucket.

“Arrived! Water! Arrived!”

His eyes were going black and the constant pecking faded out. His last glimpse of life was that tiny bird with his green glowing eyes lying to him that he had made it.