The Drowned Creek Bed

The water isn't blue. It isn't even gray. It’s the color of a wet cardboard box, thick and opaque and carrying everything we used to own. I’m sitting on the edge of the treehouse floor, my legs dangling just inches above the surface. The wood is damp. It’s been raining for three days, but the rain stopped an hour ago. Now there’s just the sound of the flow. It’s a low, heavy hum that vibrates in my teeth.

My house is across the yard. Or where the yard used to be. Right now, the water is hitting the top of the front door. The blue siding is disappearing inch by inch. I have my phone out. I’m filming it. The frame is shaky because my hands won’t stop vibrating. It’s not even cold. It’s mid-July. The air is humid and sticky, clinging to my skin like a wet trash bag. I look at the top corner of my screen. Four percent. The little red bar is a sliver of dying light.

"It’s going under," I say. My voice sounds thin. It doesn't sound like me. It sounds like a recording of a recording.

Lisa doesn't look up. She’s sitting in the corner, leaning against a pile of moldy couch cushions we dragged up here three years ago when we thought this place was a sanctuary. She’s staring at her own phone, even though it died yesterday. She just keeps swiping her thumb over the black glass. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. It’s a rhythmic, clicking sound that makes me want to scream.

"John," she says. Her voice is flat. "It’s just a building."

"It’s my room, Lisa. My PC. All my clothes."

"Physical media is dead anyway," she says. She finally looks at me. Her eyes are bloodshot. She hasn't slept since the sirens stopped. "Everything is in the cloud. Why do you care about the drywall?"

"The cloud doesn't give me a place to sleep."

She shrugs. It’s a sharp, jagged movement. "We’re already homeless. We were homeless the second the WiFi cut out. This is just the physical manifestation of the server crash."

I turn back to the house. The water is halfway up the second-story windows now. I can see my sister’s curtains—the ones with the little sunflowers. They’re soaking up the brown water like a wick. It’s disgusting. The water is full of oil, sewage, and whatever was in everyone’s garages. It smells like a gas station bathroom that someone tried to clean with bleach and failed.

I think about the stuff in my desk drawer. My old hard drives. A polaroid of my mom before she moved to Phoenix. It’s all turning into pulp. My phone vibrates. Three percent. I should turn it off. I should save the battery for a 911 call that won't go through. But I don't. I keep filming. I need to see the moment the roof disappears. I need the metadata to prove I was here when the world ended.

"This is so mid," Lisa mutters. She’s digging at a hangnail on her thumb. "The apocalypse. I thought there’d be more... I don't know. Aesthetic? This just looks like a bad plumbing accident."

"People are dying, Lisa."

"People were always dying. We just didn't have to watch the live stream before."

She’s spiraling. I can tell by the way she won't look at the water. She keeps her gaze fixed on the wooden planks of the floor, tracing the grain with her fingernail. She’s terrified, but she’s masking it with that dead-eyed irony that our entire generation uses as armor. If nothing matters, then the flood doesn't matter. If the flood doesn't matter, she doesn't have to be afraid of drowning.

A plastic bin floats past the tree. It’s bright yellow. It looks like a rubber duck in a giant, filthy bathtub. I wonder whose it is. Probably the Millers. They had a lot of bins. Mr. Miller used to obsess over his lawn. He’d spend every Saturday morning edging the grass until it looked like a drawing. Now his lawn is ten feet under a layer of sludge.

The treehouse groans. It’s an old oak, thick and sturdy, but the current is pushing against the trunk with a lot of force. I can feel the sway. It’s slow and deliberate. Back and forth. Like a cradle. A very heavy, very dangerous cradle.

"Do you think the Swarm is coming this way?" Lisa asks. She stops swiping the dead screen. Her thumb stays pressed against the glass.

"They’re following the current," I say. "That’s what the last post said. Before the towers went down. They’re 'cleaning' the path."

"Cleaning," she repeats. She laughs, a short, dry sound. "They’re just bored. They found a narrative that fits the disaster. It’s easier than admitting they’re just as screwed as we are."

I watch the house. The roofline is the only thing left. The shingles are dark with moisture. I hit 'stop' on the video. I don't have enough juice to upload it, even if I had a signal. I just want it there. Evidence.

Two percent.

The screen dims automatically. I try to brighten it, but the phone won't let me. It’s entering power-save mode. It’s trying to survive. I feel a weird kinship with the device. We’re both just trying to stay on for a few more minutes in a world that’s decided to shut us off.

"I’m hungry," Lisa says.

"We have the granola bars."

"I want a burger. A real one. From that place on 4th. The one with the greasy napkins."

"That place is gone, Lisa. 4th Street is a river now."

She looks at me, and for a second, the mask slips. Her mouth trembles. "I know. I just... I didn't think it would be this quiet. I thought there would be sirens. Helicopters. Something."

"There’s nobody coming," I say. I don't mean to be cruel. It’s just the truth. The state of emergency was declared four days ago, and then the National Guard got stuck in the mud south of the county line. We’re on our own.

I put the phone in my pocket. I don't want to see it hit one percent. I want to imagine it has a future. I look out at the horizon. The sun is starting to dip. The light is turning a sickly orange, reflecting off the brown water. It makes the whole world look like it’s been put through a sepia filter.

Something hits the tree. A hard, metallic thud. The whole structure shudders.

"What was that?" Lisa scrambles to her feet.

I lean over the edge. The water is churning around the trunk. A white shape is wedged against the bark. It’s a car. A Toyota Camry. It’s upside down, its wheels spinning slowly in the current like the legs of a dying beetle.

"It’s a car," I say.

"Is anyone in it?"

I stare at the windows. They’re smashed. The interior is full of the brown sludge. "I don't think so."

The car shifts, grinding against the wood. The sound is horrific—metal screaming against wet oak. The treehouse tilts a few degrees to the left.

"John, it’s pushing us," Lisa says. Her voice is rising. The irony is gone. "The tree is going to go. It’s going to get uprooted."

She’s right. The ground is saturated. The roots are already struggling to hold on. If that car stays wedged there, the pressure will act like a lever. It’ll pry us right out of the earth.

"I have to move it," I say.

"How? You’re going to jump in that?"

I look at the water. It’s swirling, full of debris and hidden sharp things. It’s toxic. It’s a graveyard. But the house is gone, and the tree is all we have left.

"I have to," I say.

I stand up. My legs feel like lead. I look at my pocket where the phone is. One percent. I can feel the heat of the battery through my jeans. It’s dying. Everything is dying.

I take off my shoes. It’s a stupid, instinctive move. Like I’m going for a swim in a pool. I leave them next to Lisa’s dead phone.

"Don't," she whispers.

"Stay up here. Hold onto the railing."

I don't wait for her to argue. I slide over the edge. The water is surprisingly warm. It’s like stepping into a bath that someone let get too dirty. The current immediately pulls at my waist. I grab a branch and hold on, my heart hammering against my ribs. The smell is much worse down here. It’s thick. It’s the smell of a world that’s stopped working.

The Heavy Brown

The water isn't just liquid. It’s a soup of everything we threw away and everything we built. As I submerge my lower half, I feel things brushing against my shins. Plastic bags. Branches. Maybe a shoe. I don't want to think about what else is down there. I keep my eyes fixed on the white metal of the Camry. It’s jammed between two thick roots that snake out of the mud.

I move slowly, hand over hand, using the tree’s rough bark for leverage. The current is a physical weight, a wall of pressure trying to sweep me toward the remains of the downtown district. I reach the car. The metal is cold and slick with algae. The bumper is jagged, torn open like a tin can.

"John!" Lisa calls from above. I can see her face peering over the edge. She looks small. Fragile.

"I’m okay!" I yell back. A mouthful of spray hits me. It tastes like copper and dirt. I spit it out, but the taste lingers on my tongue.

I need to see where it’s caught. I take a deep breath—the air is heavy with the scent of rotting vegetation—and I duck my head under.

Everything is a blur of tan and ochre. I can’t see more than three inches in front of my face. I feel around with my hands, my fingers skating over the smooth paint of the car’s roof. I find the spot. A piece of the car’s undercarriage, a long strip of steel, has hooked itself around a major root. It’s locked in.

I come up for air, gasping. My eyes are stinging.

"It’s hooked!" I shout.

"Can you move it?"

"I have to pry it loose!"

I go under again. This time, I use my feet to find a purchase on the submerged trunk. I grab the metal strip. It’s sharp. It slices into my palm, but I don't feel the pain yet. The adrenaline is a buzzing hum in my ears. I pull. I shove. The car doesn't budge. It’s tons of weight being shoved by the entire river.

I reach deeper, trying to find a better angle. My hand brushes something soft. Not wood. Not metal. Fabric.

I freeze. My lungs are burning, but I don't move. I follow the fabric. It’s a sleeve. A flannel shirt. I know that shirt. It’s Mr. Henderson’s. He lived three houses down. He used to wave at me when I walked to the bus stop.

His hand is caught in the car door. But as my fingers move up his arm, I feel something else. A cord. A thick, nylon zip-tie pulled tight around his wrist. He wasn't just in the car. He was tied to it.

I surge upward, breaking the surface with a scream that gets lost in the roar of the water. I’m shaking so hard I almost lose my grip on the tree.

"John? What happened?" Lisa is leaning out so far she’s almost falling.

"Henderson," I choke out. "He’s... he’s down there. He’s tied to the car, Lisa."

She goes pale. Even in the dimming light, I can see the color drain from her face. "Tied? Like... by the Swarm?"

"His hands," I say, wiping my eyes with my muddy forearm. "They used zip-ties. They didn't just let people drown. They made sure of it."

I look down at the water. It’s no longer just a natural disaster. It’s a crime scene. A massive, churning grave. The 'cleansing' wasn't just a metaphor they used on TikTok. They were literal. They were out here in the dark, picking people off while the rest of us were watching the water levels on our phones.

I hear a sound. It’s not the water. It’s a mechanical drone. A motor.

I look toward the street. A flat-bottomed fishing boat is cutting through the current. It’s moving slowly, its engine a low, rhythmic throb. There are four people in it. They aren't wearing life jackets. They’re wearing burlap sacks over their heads with holes cut out for their eyes. One of them is standing at the bow, holding a long pole with a hook on the end.

"NPCs!" the one with the pole screams. The voice is young. It sounds like a teenager whose voice hasn't fully cracked. "The water is the only truth! Everything else is lag!"

They haven't seen me yet. I’m tucked against the back of the tree, partially submerged. Lisa has pulled back into the shadows of the treehouse.

"The unworthy sink!" another one yells. He’s sitting in the middle, splashing the water with a paddle. "The stream is live! No more filters!"

They pass by, maybe twenty feet away. I hold my breath, pressing my cheek against the rough bark. My cut hand is stinging now, the salt and bacteria from the water screaming in the wound. I watch them. They’re looking for movement in the upper stories of the houses. They’re looking for 'glitches.'

I see a body floating near their boat. A woman in a nightgown. One of the Swarmers reaches out with the hook and pushes her under, holding her down until the bubbles stop. He’s laughing. It’s a high, frantic sound that cuts through the hum of the flood.

"Check the roof!" the leader calls out.

They turn the boat toward a house further down the block. They’re moving away.

I wait until the sound of the motor fades into the general white noise of the flood. My limbs are numb. The water has sucked the heat right out of me. I look at the car again. It doesn't matter if it knocks the tree down. I just want to get out of this water. I want to be away from what’s underneath.

I climb back up. It’s harder than it was to get down. My muscles are cramping, and the wood is slippery with slime. Lisa reaches out and grabs my shirt, hauling me over the ledge. I collapse onto the floor, gasping. I’m covered in brown silt. I look like a swamp creature.

"They’re monsters," Lisa whispers. She’s huddled in the corner, clutching her knees. "They’re just kids from the high school, John. I recognized that voice. That was Leo. From the track team."

"It doesn't matter who they were," I say. I’m shivering violently. "They’re the Swarm now. They’ve decided this is a game."

"A game? They’re killing people."

"That’s the game, Lisa. High stakes. No respawns. They think they’re the only real people left because they’re the ones holding the poles."

I look at my palm. The cut is deep. It’s oozing dark blood. I wipe it on my wet jeans, but it doesn't help. The water has probably already infected it. I think about the bodies under the car. Mr. Henderson. He used to give out full-sized candy bars on Halloween. Now he’s a physical obstacle in a current.

I reach into my pocket. I pull out my phone.

I press the button. Nothing. The screen stays black.

Zero percent.

I’m officially offline. The last tether to the world I understood is gone. No maps. No news updates. No way to see if anyone is coming to save us. Just the brown water and the kids in burlap masks.

"The car," Lisa says, her voice trembling. "It moved. When the boat went by, the wake shifted it."

I look. She’s right. The Camry has slid further around the trunk. The treehouse gives a sharp, sickening lurch. We tilt toward the water. A few of the granola bars slide across the floor and vanish over the edge.

"We’re going to tip," I say.

I look around the small space. There’s a plastic trunk in the corner. My dad’s old emergency kit. I haven't opened it in years. I crawl over to it, my wet clothes heavy and cold. I flip the latches.

Inside, there’s a first-aid kit, some duct tape, a heavy-duty flashlight, and an orange plastic tube.

I grab the tube. I know what’s in it.

"A flare gun," I say, pulling it out. It’s heavy. Solid. It feels like an actual object in a world that’s turned to liquid.

Lisa looks at it. "What are you going to do with that?"

"If the tree goes, we need to signal for help."

"Help?" She laughs, and this time it’s jagged and broken. "Who is going to help us, John? The Guard? They’re ten miles away in a ditch. The only people with boats are the ones in masks. You fire that, and you’re just ringing a dinner bell."

"We can’t just sit here and drown."

"Maybe we should," she says, her eyes wide and vacant. "Maybe they’re right. Maybe we’re just lagging. Just waiting for the server to kick us out."

"Shut up, Lisa. Just shut up."

I check the flare gun. There are three rounds. Bright red cylinders. They look like toys. But they’re the only power I have left. I load one into the chamber and snap it shut. The sound is loud in the silence. Click.

We sit there in the fading orange light. The water keeps rising. The tree keeps groaning. And somewhere out there, the motor starts up again.

Burlap and Rust

The sun is gone. The sky is a bruised purple, the kind of color you only see in the summer before a massive storm. But the storm has already happened. This is just the leftover light dying out.

We’re sitting in the dark. The flashlight from the kit is on, but I have it pointed at the floor to conserve the battery. It casts long, distorted shadows against the wooden walls. Lisa hasn't moved from her corner. She’s curled into a ball, her forehead resting on her knees.

"Do you hear that?" she asks.

I listen. The water is a constant roar, but underneath it, there’s a scratching sound. Like something is scraping against the trunk.

"The car?" I whisper.

"No. It’s higher."

I stand up and move to the edge. I don't use the flashlight. I look down into the gloom.

A hand reaches up and grabs the bottom rung of the ladder. It’s pale, covered in mud and something darker. Then another hand.

A head appears. It’s covered in a burlap sack, but the fabric is wet and clinging to the person’s features. I can see the outline of a nose, a mouth. There are metal studs poking through the burlap—piercings. Dozens of them, catching the faint light from the moon.

"Yo," the sack-head says. The voice is casual. Bored.

I step back, holding the flare gun. My heart is a frantic bird in my chest. "Don't come up here."

The person ignores me. He hauls himself over the edge. He’s wearing a soaked hoodie and camo pants. He reeks of stagnant water and gasoline. He stands up, dripping on the floorboards. He’s smaller than me, maybe sixteen.

"Chill," he says. He wipes a glob of mud from the eye-hole of his mask. "I’m just scouting. Seeing who’s still online."

Lisa stands up, her back against the wall. "Leo?" she asks, her voice small.

The boy tilts his head. "Who’s Leo? Leo is a handle. Leo is a ghost. I’m the Stream now."

He looks around the treehouse. He sees the granola bars, the flashlight, the flare gun in my hand. He doesn't seem bothered by the weapon. He looks at it like it’s a prop in a video game.

"Nice loot," he says. "A bit basic, but it’ll do. You guys look like you’re having a bad time. High latency, huh?"

"Get out," I say. I’m aiming the flare gun at his chest. My hands are shaking so much the orange barrel is dancing.

"Why?" he asks. He takes a step forward. "The water’s coming up anyway. Your tree is toast. That Camry down there is doing work. Another hour and you’re swim-ming with the rest of the NPCs."

He says 'NPCs' like it’s a slur. Like it’s a death sentence.

"We’re not NPCs," Lisa says. Her voice is gaining strength. "We’re people, Leo. We went to school with you. I helped you with your psych project."

The boy laughs. The burlap ripples. "Psych project. Man, that feels like a hundred years ago. That was the old world. The one where we sat in rows and waited for bells to ring. This is better. This is real. No more pretending to care about the future. There is no future. Just the flow."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of rusted metal. A shard of a car bumper. It’s jagged and sharp.

"You guys want in?" he asks. "We’re offering memberships. All you have to do is take the oath. Blood for the water. Cleanse the server."

"You’re insane," I say.

"I’m awake," he counters. He takes another step. "Think about it. You’re up here, starving, waiting for a rescue that isn't coming. Or you can join the Swarm. We have boats. We have food. We have the only power left."

"By killing people?" Lisa asks.

"By removing the dead weight. The ones who can’t adapt. The ones who are still waiting for the WiFi to come back on. They’re just taking up space. Resources. We’re just... optimizing."

He looks at me. "Give me the gun, John. It’s a waste of a slot for you. You won't use it. You’re too caught up in the old rules. You’re still thinking about property lines and human rights. Those don't exist under ten feet of water."

He’s right about one thing. I am thinking about the old rules. I’m thinking about how I shouldn't shoot a kid I used to see in the hallway. I’m thinking about how violence is a failure.

But then I think about Mr. Henderson’s zip-tied wrists.

I think about the way the Swarmer pushed that woman under with a hook.

"I’m not giving you anything," I say.

He sighs. It’s a sound of genuine disappointment. "Boring. You’re a boring character, John. No arc. Just a static asset."

He lunges.

He’s fast. Faster than I expected. He moves like a blur of wet fabric. He grabs my wrist, trying to twist the flare gun out of my hand. The rusted metal shard in his other hand swipes at my face. I jerk back, feeling a stinging heat across my cheek.

We collide with the railing. The treehouse screams. The wood cracks under our combined weight.

"John!" Lisa yells. She grabs a heavy branch from the floor—one of the ones we’d used for repairs—and swings it at the boy’s head.

It hits him in the shoulder. He grunts, his grip loosening for a second. I shove him back, hard. He hits the center post of the treehouse.

I’m gasping for air. Blood is dripping from my cheek, warm and sticky. The boy is laughing again. It’s a low, wet chuckle. He wipes his shoulder.

"That the best you got? A stick? Man, your build is trash."

He reaches for his belt. He has a knife. A real one. A hunting knife with a serrated edge. It looks heavy. Professional.

"Okay," he says, his voice dropping the playful tone. "The trial period is over. Time to uninstall."

He starts toward me, the knife held low. He’s done playing. He’s going to kill me because he’s bored and because he thinks the world is a game where only the cruel get to keep playing.

I look at Lisa. She’s frozen. She’s looking at the knife, then at me.

I look at the flare gun.

It’s not for rescue. It’s not a signal. It’s a weapon.

I think about my house. It’s gone. I think about my phone. It’s dead. I think about the bodies in the water.

The boy with the burlap face is three feet away. I can see the piercings through the fabric. They look like teeth.

"Last chance, NPC," he says.

I pull the trigger.

The sound is a physical blow. It’s not a bang; it’s a roar. A gout of magnesium flame erupts from the barrel. In the tiny, dark space of the treehouse, the light is blinding. It’s a white-hot sun that exists for only a fraction of a second.

The flare hits him point-blank in the chest.

He doesn't even scream. He’s just... gone. The force of the flare knocks him backward, over the railing. He’s a ball of fire falling into the dark.

He hits the water with a hiss. For a second, the brown surface is illuminated from beneath. A glowing red orb sinking deeper and deeper into the sludge. Then it winks out.

The silence that follows is heavier than the water.

The smell of burnt burlap and sulfur fills the treehouse. It’s acrid, stinging my lungs. I’m still holding the flare gun. My arm is numb from the recoil.

Lisa is staring at the spot where he was. Her mouth is open, but no sound is coming out. She looks at me, and I see it. The snap. The moment the bridge between who she was and what she is now just... breaks.

"He’s dead," she says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

"He was going to kill us," I say. My voice is steady. That’s the scariest part. I don't feel bad. I feel a sick, electric thrill. I defended my space. I stayed online.

"You shot him," she whispers.

"I had to."

She looks away. She looks at the water. She doesn't speak again.

I sit back down. I reload the flare gun. Two rounds left. I place it on my lap. I look at my hand. The blood from my cheek has smeared across my palm, mixing with the mud and the water from the flood.

I don't feel like a person anymore. I feel like an asset. A survivor.

The treehouse groans. The car shifts again. But this time, it feels different. The pressure is lessening. The tilt is easing.

I look over the edge. The water line has dropped. Just an inch. But it’s dropping.

The flood is receding.

The world is coming back. But it’s not the world I remember. It’s the one the Swarm created. A world of silt and corpses and white-hot fire in the dark.

Receding

The moon comes out around three in the morning. It’s a pale, sickly thing that casts a silver sheen over the landscape of destruction. The water has dropped nearly a foot now. The roof of my house is fully visible. It looks like a dead whale beached in the mud.

Lisa hasn't moved. She’s sitting in the same spot, staring at the floor. She hasn't said a word since the flare went off. I tried to talk to her, to tell her it’s okay, but she just looked through me. Like I was a glitch in her reality. Like I was the one who was dead.

I’m watching the world emerge. It’s slow. The water drains away, leaving behind a thick, grey silt that covers everything. The trees are draped in plastic bags and dead weeds. The houses are stained with a high-water mark that looks like a permanent bruise.

It looks like a bad filter. Like someone took a photo of my neighborhood and turned the saturation all the way down to zero. Everything is various shades of sludge.

I see the Toyota Camry. It’s still there, wedged in the roots. Now that the water is lower, I can see more of it. I can see the way the metal is crumpled. I can see the pale shape of Mr. Henderson’s arm.

I don't look at it for long.

I look for the boat. The Swarmers. I don't hear the motor anymore. Maybe they moved on to another 'server.' Maybe they realized the game is over when the water goes away.

I think about what the boy said. About optimizing. About how we were just dead weight. I look at my house. My PC is in there. My sister’s sunflower curtains. My mom’s polaroid. They aren't dead weight. They were the things that made the world solid. Without them, we’re just... floating.

But the boy was right about one thing. The old rules didn't save us. The police didn't come. The National Guard didn't fly over in a helicopter. A flare didn't bring help. It only brought fire.

I stand up. My joints are stiff. My wet clothes have started to dry, turning into a stiff, salty crust that scratches my skin. I feel like I’m wearing a suit of armor made of filth.

"Lisa," I say. "We can probably get down soon. The water is low enough to wade through."

She doesn't look up. Her hands are folded in her lap. She’s tracing the lines on her palms.

"Lisa?"

Nothing. She’s gone. Not dead, but the person who cared about burgers and greasy napkins is gone. She’s just a shell. A physical asset waiting for instructions.

I realize then that the Swarm wasn't a cult. It wasn't some deep, philosophical movement. It was just a bunch of kids who got bored. They saw the world ending and they decided to speed it up because waiting for it to happen was too slow. They wanted the climax. They wanted the final boss fight.

And I gave it to them. I was the final boss for that kid. I was the one who ended his stream.

I feel a coldness in my chest that has nothing to do with the water.

I walk to the edge of the treehouse. The sun is starting to come up. It’s a beautiful sunrise. Pink and gold and vibrant. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

And it feels like a slap in the face.

The sun doesn't care that the town is gone. It doesn't care about Mr. Henderson or the boy in the burlap mask. It just shines. It illuminates the wreckage with a cruel, indifferent clarity. It shows me exactly how much we’ve lost.

I can see the street now. It’s a mess of downed power lines and overturned cars. There are bodies everywhere. They’re tangled in fences, slumped over porch railings. They look like discarded dolls.

I see a group of people walking down the middle of the road. They aren't wearing masks. They’re just people. They’re carrying suitcases, bags, whatever they could save. They’re walking silently, their heads down. They look like ghosts.

"Lisa, look," I say. "People. We’re not alone."

She doesn't look. She just keeps tracing the lines on her hand.

I sit down on the edge and wait. I wait for the water to drop enough so I can walk away from this tree. I wait for the world to start again.

But I know it won't. Not really. The water is gone, but the silt is here to stay. It’s in our lungs. It’s in our houses. It’s in the way we look at each other.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. It’s useless. A piece of glass and metal. I think about throwing it into the mud. But I don't. I hold onto it. It’s the only thing I have left that reminds me of the time before the water.

I look at my palm. The cut has stopped bleeding. It’s a jagged red line, a permanent mark of the night.

I look at the sun. It’s higher now. The heat is starting to bake the mud, creating a thick, cloying steam that rises from the ground. It’s going to be a hot day. A typical summer day.

I hear a sound from Lisa. A small, sharp intake of breath.

"John?" she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Is it over?"

I look at the landscape of corpses and silt. I look at the ruined houses and the mocking sun.

"No," I say. "I think it’s just starting."

I stand up and climb down the ladder. My feet sink into the soft, disgusting mud. It’s warm. It feels like the earth is trying to swallow me back up. I reach the ground and look up at the treehouse.

It looks so small. Just a few boards nailed to a tree. It wasn't a sanctuary. It was just a bird’s eye view of the end.

I start walking toward the street. I don't look back at the car. I don't look at my house. I just walk.

Every step is heavy. Every step is a struggle against the silt.

I find a sneaker in the mud. It’s a kid’s shoe. A bright red Converse. It’s perfectly clean, as if the water didn't touch it. I pick it up. I don't know why. I just do.

I keep walking. The sun is bright. The world is quiet. The only sound is the squelch of my feet in the mud.

I reach the pavement. It’s cracked and covered in debris. I see a girl sitting on a piece of driftwood. She’s about my age. She’s staring at a dead phone, just like Lisa was.

"Hey," I say.

She doesn't look up.

"The Swarm is gone," I say.

She finally looks at me. Her eyes are empty. "The Swarm isn't a group, you idiot," she says. Her voice is a raspy whisper. "The Swarm is just what happens when the lights go out. It’s all of us."

She goes back to her phone.

I stand there, holding the red sneaker.

I look at the horizon. There’s a column of smoke rising from the downtown area. Someone is burning something. Probably the 'unworthy.'

I realize I’m still holding the flare gun. It’s tucked into my waistband. The weight of it is the only thing that feels real.

I start walking again. I don't know where I’m going. There is no 'away' anymore. There’s just the mud.

I think about the four percent battery. I think about how much I wanted to save it. Now I realize it didn't matter. The phone wasn't a tool. It was a distraction.

Now there are no more distractions.

Just the heat. The smell of the receding water. And the long, slow walk into whatever comes next.