The Great Drying

Rain poured, children played, women fell, and men cried. It had been 32 days of dry air and 32 nights of bone-powdered ground since the rain had ceased.

In the first seven days of the drought, few heeded the warnings, and fewer cared to hear them. Cars drove from parking space to parking space, erupting spurts of gas as they bumbled angrily down their black trails. A policy of overuse had become commonplace among the modern community during its short, abundantly prosperous epoch. How could a resource so seemingly infinite become sparse?

 “No, all this doom and gloom won’t do for OUR quicksilver economy; Best to just keep one’s nose to the stone. We have enough for now, this will pass, because the reserves have always yielded us plenty before, and always will.” It’s hard to care about monsters in the dark while the lights are still on.

Enthusiastically, water was doused over plastic lawns while the neighborhood gutters gushed in a great swell. Sinks ran incessantly as a white noise to the completion of family dinners. Nobody felt the danger, like staring down a gun’s barrel and shrugging.

Lawnmower sounds and clever politicians drowned out the whispers of a minority scientific community. Drop by drop, hissing against the heated concrete, the body’s precious drip-fed substance was carelessly burning away its last thousands of gallons. 

14 days and the rain hadn’t come. The great white tanks, which in better days gorged water as fat bellied pale behemoths atop the desert plains, were now laid almost entirely hollow. “Behold-”, said the slick haired TV man, “the dormant empty carcasses have washed ashore. What now?” Some took trips out to the reserve vats to see for themselves, they couldn’t believe what the paper at the door or the man on the screen told them, nor the monotone voice in the box. But there it was, the truth, naked and ugly, sat in the sand for all to see. And all stood speechless. 

To be dumbfounded, in this case, is to find yourself feeling painfully dumb. Was it too late? What did it matter, the damage was already here, only water mattered now. 

21 days without the rain. Caught between the shaded reluctance of home, and the bright possibility of self-obtained salvation, some left to find a wetter place, while a shell of the population remained indoors, and dug in their yards for ground water. Only a dismal crowd showed up to witness the mass exodus, watching the red tail lights from the promenade disappear into a wall of dust. Driving like uprooted pilgrims out into the scorching flats with their red eyes glued to crystal windshields, they scanned the cloudless sky with craned necks. They wouldn’t find a drop, and a small convoy of cars grumbled back into town, running on fumes. No parades, just a wake.

Between his headache-strained nights, a junior journalist, haunted by a sleepless frenzy of bitterness, had printed a piece in the sports column. He had calculated the total remaining estimate of water left. “As of this day, we have just under 2,000 gallons left; Less than 5% of the total collective water in our own bodies. God help us.” The thought buzzed through everyone’s homes, but it was scarcely mentioned to children, for to acknowledge it was to make it real. Not enough water left to go around. 

Houses were split, family cars took separate roads, while people too, became divided. Violence was quick and unrevenged, as only a handful of authorities remained on post. It was safer to stay inside than it was to venture anywhere they said. A baby died, but the rain still didn’t come.  

29 days without rain, and the desperate had run their options dry. In the center of town, a man drank almost half a bucket of paint, while a smile spread itself across his cracked lips. The face was unshakably calm. He lay sprawled out in a pile of yellow oil, and seemed to glue to the cement, stuck to it like a dead bug. A trail of yellow hand and knee prints connected the discarded bucket to where the curled body had finally rested under the park fountain. Nobody stepped out of the shade to move or cover him. 

Time seemed to pass slower, as it was rationed out sluggishly by its fiery warden above, who dragged himself across the spotless blue. Days like these, felt like months. Homes were transfigured into dark shantytowns, boards replaced windows, and if any water existed it was kept secretly at the bottom of sloshing containers, and sipped sparingly between death-like sleep. Nobody had the energy to help another, and streets were haunted by empty faced people, as apathy scabbed over into self preservation.

 Hope became just as rare an element as liquid, but nonetheless a few still clung limply to its threads. An old woman was found dehydrated to completion in her garage on the 30th day of the drought, a tall cup of water nestled by her side. She was determined to save it for her husband, who had left to search for water a week earlier and hadn’t come home. The glass was half empty. 

Then it came, as any grand act of nature that is deaf to prayers might come; on its own benevolent accord. On the 32nd day, the deluge could be heard to the East, faintly, like the ticking of a bike’s spokes. The tapping grew, until it rushed towards the outer limits of town, like horses trampling. Most assumed it was some terrible monster, marauders maybe, coming to finish them off, but then again, no one was watching for clouds on the 32nd day. Then the roofs rattled a thunderous percussion, and the creatures crept out from their wooden graves to witness what their ears wouldn’t believe. 

Water, glorious, life-giving, water on their faces. Some slurped the ground while others stood in a stale daze and felt the dizzying effects of weeks’ old consciousness, slingshotting back into place. Experiencing a rain like this can only be compared to rebirth. The children roused their skinny awkward legs into play, while women crumpled to the puddling ground and let the drops beat against their backs, and the men, with upturned faces, cried for their ignorance.