Thirst

by BrianMullin0

The Starfeather sped through the newly discovered galaxy, making its way home with a small treasure trove found on the third planet from a sun that was soon to become a red dwarf. It had transmitted a copy of the item which apparently bore language upon it. It had been hermetically sealed, and handled in in a sterile environment as images were taken.

Dr. Uyghan-Ik-Tsum had detected something on it which was both alive and not-alive. It was active whenever a crew member came close, and dormant when it was alone. Captain F'lara-K'pau-A'zia was paranoid regarding germs – especially xeno-biological ones. She would be just as happy if the High Council requested that she jettison the whole lot of artifacts into space...near a black hole, preferably.

"Captain, High Counsellor Baan'valo-Krus has sent a message to us," said the Starfeather's communications officer, Mump'Ix'El.

"On screen," responded F'lara.

The long, regal face of Baan'valo filled the screen, her crest shining silver, her facial feathers oiled to perfection. She looked formidable, and one not to be taken lightly. F'lara respected her.

"Linguists on 2,400 planets have pored over your find. Needless to say, they succeeded in translating it. I am providing you with an audio recording. First, you must stop the Starfeather now. Stay where you are. You are to listen to the recording, you and your crew, and immediately contact me when you are done."

"Should I play the audio file, Captain?" asked Mump.

A cold shiver ran up her feathers the wrong way. F'lara had a bad feeling about this.

"Yes," she reluctantly replied, and sat down in her Captain's chair.

<><><><>

The most terrifying monsters are the ones you can't see. They could be anywhere, look like anyone or anything, and you'd never even notice them. One minute you're enjoying life, and the next you're dying, or you see the world rolling by you as you lose consciousness while your head is skidding across the floor. Just your head. I'm getting ahead of my story.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to be humorous. My name is Henry Mortimer Einstein Crick. My ten-greats grandfather was Francis Crick, who helped discover deoxyribonucleic acid - or as you call it – DNA. Starting in the 2100s, all of the elder male Cricks went into molecular sciences.

I'm going to assume that, if you understand this, you're from another galaxy. Life on our planet was astounding, and we give the most credit for life being here at all on one particular thing: the presence of water.

In our technological youth, we didn't take much notice of how badly we were mistreating it. These mistakes created Global Warming, which by the late 21st Century, melted all glacial ice on Earth. It shrunk just about every continental landmass and obliterated many of the world's habitable islands.

Global warming radically reduced the amount of farmable land. By the 24th Century the world's population was fully one-quarter of what it had been 2 centuries before. Animal husbandry and agriculture were nationalized. Meat and fresh-picked produce were affordable only by the rich. Anyone else, if they were unable to grow things, was stuck with packaged or dried rations doled out by their government. Countries run by dictators fared worse. Our world wasn't a friendly place if your family was poor. And the poor were becoming fewer every hour.

My family wasn't rich, but we weren't poor either. We lived in an area called Maine, far enough inland that we weren't affected by glacial melting. Our house was a beautiful, late 19th century Victorian-style house, complete with turret-like towers, large bay windows and beautifully carved grillwork. It had two quirky concessions to American style – the first, a large front porch; and the second, a widow's walk. Why the widow's walk, meant for sailor's wives to stand upon and gaze out to sea to see if their husband's ship was returning – when the nearest sea was (back then) over 75 miles east? No one knows.

You have no idea what I'm talking about, so I've pasted a photo here.

In 2510, my Uncle Harold bought a plot of land in Greenland's Ummannaq, where he built a large home with an adjacent laboratory. He worked for some unspecified US government agency and spent his time traveling the world, looking at exotic fungi and bugs. He'd bring them back to Washington, where he and a team of botanists and behavioral scientists would study them.

Life in Ummannaq was quiet. And life would have gone on being quiet and full of bugs and mushrooms and rising sea levels, mutating whales, and government experiments to bring back wooly mammoths and polar bears if it hadn't been for the truck-sized meteorite falling smack in the middle of Greenland in June of 2518. Uncle Harold, who'd discovered a really amazing cave beetle that had evolved in darkness for millions of years, was in Washington, D.C. when it struck. The Danish government put the entire island under quarantine until they could figure out if the meteorite was biologically and environmentally harmless.

My dad was a General in the US army, and through his and my uncle's connections, they snuck my aunt and my 3-year-old cousin Gordon into the States. That's when they came to live with us, in Maine. Something else came, too – we just didn't know it at the time.

Aunt Betty spoiled little Gordon at every turn. He was the center of her universe. In his defense, he was respectful of other people's property. Problem was, his definition of 'other people's property' changed hourly. His appetite was voracious, and his stomach apparently bottomless.

Two weeks later, Uncle Harold returned to Greenland. There'd been a post-midnight phone call, and an hour later a government car drove him away. Dad said it was some sort of ecological event, and that's all the info he'd gotten from his Army contacts. Aunt Betty was, obviously, beside herself with worry. Gordon didn't care either way. He was 3, after all.

The next day, the entire Northern Hemisphere was cloudless. No one thought anything about it. It was August. Still summer. The 5% humidity was uncomfortable. It made Gordon fussy, so we bought him one of those plant-based plastic pools, along with a classic yellow rubber ducky. He'd throw it out of the pool, and whine until someone put it back in. At which point he'd scream like a banshee and then throw it out again. A game I think he learned from Xena, our cat.

School began Fall Semester. We got a call from Dad, who was back in D.C., asking if we'd heard from Uncle Harold. No one, apparently, had heard anything out of Greenland for several days. Not even the Danish government – or so they said. Mom promised she'd call if we heard anything. I asked him why didn't they fly a plane or send a drone over to investigate?

Dad was very quiet for a quite a while before he said, "Listen, champ. We did. What we found, what we saw - I can't tell you. But it was bad. Really, really bad. You watch out for your mom, now, you hear me?"

"And Aunt Betty and little Gordon too. Right, Dad?" I asked.

"I want you to watch them, carefully," he said under his breath, whispering. It was like he didn't want anyone else to hear him. "Very, very carefully."

It was a week later that water pressure dropped worldwide. Reservoirs were suddenly at half-capacity. Ponds and lakes dried up. And no clouds. Endless blue skies stretching from horizon to horizon. There was no rain – no rain, anywhere.

One day Mom and Betty were in the backyard sipping small glasses of lemonade - a rare treat, since the US had begun water rationing. Mom had been diligently saving water, while Betty pooh-poohed her, saying, "The government's lying, that's what. We've got plenty of food and water, mark my words!"

Gordon was sitting in his pool, filled all the way to the top, in violation of Maine's mandate against filling pools during the Water Crisis. From out of nowhere, a young rabbit hopped into it – and began drinking the pool water. It was struggling to stay afloat, all the while making huge gulps to swallow it.

Gordon screamed and lifted the bunny out by its ears. But instead of struggling, the rabbit swung itself onto Gordon's arm and bit him, hard. It began lapping at the blood dripping down. Gordon must have been in shock, because he didn't scream. Instead, he watched the bunny stain its white fur red with his blood. He giggled, as we stared in disbelief.

The rabbit then bit him again. He screamed, and bit the rabbit back - bit it in its throat. It went limp. Gordon dropped it in the pool, its blood mingling with his. A swarm of bees appeared, and just as we all ran into the house, it descended into the pool.

Betty carried Gordon to the bathroom, and tried to clean him up. But when she turned the water for the bath on, all she got was a few drops. "Muriel," she yelled, "There's no water coming from the faucet!" My mother appeared minutes later with a jug from the basement. "Here" she said, handing her a facecloth she'd just wet. It soon turned from yellow to dark orange as it became soaked with his blood.

There were thuds coming from outside, so I left them bandaging Gordon's bites to investigate. The living room window was being kamikazed by wild birds. A pack of wild dogs had knocked the pool over and were attacking each other. Victors stood over their kills, and were lapping at the blood. Canine corpses were being torn apart, just for the blood inside.

Mom thought music might help, but she'd play "In The Year 2525" on our piano, over and over again. It didn't help. Communications were lost. The last we heard, there was no water, anywhere. That explained the animals' thirst for blood. Blood is 98% water. And humans became infected. Whatever it was that had caused this, my uncle said on his last call, was probably on that meteor. And needed water to thrive.

We eventually ran out of the water mom had saved. We kept our own urine, and drank that, until it was utterly consumed. When Xena attacked Gordon, Aunt Betty killed the cat, and fed Gordon its blood. The next day, while comforting him, Betty slit her own throat. It's more revolting to drink blood, than to drink urine.

Do you what it feels like to be dehydrated from the inside out? There is no strength. There's the fever, that comes after your initial thirst. Your heart beats faster, and your body tries to hold onto its water. Then, your skin shrivels. And then you die.

First, mom killed Gordon. That bought us a day, But whatever was on that meteor – its thirst was greater. We could barely open our mouths, or blink our eyes.

Mom killed herself today. And I am so very tired.

[manuscript ends here]

<><><><>

There was dead silence in Starfeather's command center. "Open a channel to the High Counsellor," F'lara ordered. The regal image shimmered, eyes piercing. "Valuable lessons to be learned from a youngster long dead. Were all protocols followed?"

"To the tiniest detail," said F'lara.

"May the Star Winds blow you safely back to us," Baan'valo said, and winked out.

The conversations were lively in the mess hall that evening, focusing mainly on the dead planet's past culture and technologies. The Galley officer placed the captain's tray on her table.

"Second Officer T'imm, I believe I asked for a carafe of Dap'ttaw nectar?" F'lara scolded. "Surely our supply is ample?"

"Funny thing, Captain. Everyone's ordering more drinks than usual, and we ran out of tonight's allotment some time ago. I'll have someone fetch some more from storage."

A cold shiver ran up her feathers the wrong way.