The air is dry, too dry, and the cracked skin on my lips burns like fire. It's been a day since I last tasted water, since anyone has. My tongue feels like sandpaper, a useless organ stuck in a mouth that's already forgotten how to salivate. My mom says we're better off here, in the house. Says it's safer, even though we can't drink, even though it feels like the whole world is melting down outside our thin, wooden walls.

But I know the truth. There's no safety anymore, just the illusion of it. Not since the dead started crawling out of the water.

I can still see it, that first day, the water churning in the bay like something was trying to tear itself free from below. The news said it was an earthquake, or maybe a freak storm. But then we saw them—gray, bloated, rotten things, shambling up from the shorelines, dragging their waterlogged bodies onto the beach.

It's not just here. The news says it's everywhere: cities by the coast, towns near lakes, even villages with just a stream running through them. Anywhere there's water, they're coming out of it—like the sea spat them back because it couldn't stand the taste, like the sea spat them to punish them.

The TV's on, the volume low, and the news anchor's voice trembles as he talks. He's dehydrated, I can tell easily. His lips are dry and cracked, his voice a rasp. He says the death count's rising, especially in places like Miami, New York, Tokyo—cities surrounded by water. He talks about hospitals overflowing with people who can't survive without IV fluids, who've shriveled up into husks like they've been left out in the sun too long. The worst part is that no one knows why this is happening, why we can't drink, why they're coming back. Some people say it's the end times, God's punishment. But this isn't God. This is something else, something older, something cruel.

I flick the TV off. There's no point in listening to it anymore. It's all just numbers now—death counts, infection rates, reports of attacks. They're talking about it like it's some kind of natural disaster, like we can weather it if we just stay calm and follow the rules, as if with time, it could be dealt with as if we didn't all see how useless the police, the military, the national guard and others had been useless, unable to clear, get us rid of those monsters. But how do you fight something that shouldn't exist, that defies all the rules of life and death?

I rubbed my eyes, trying to chase away the images that kept flashing through my mind—bloated corpses with empty eyes, skin peeling away in wet chunks, jaws slack but gnashing at the air like they were hungry for something. I haven't slept since it started. How could I? Every time I close my eyes, I see them. And when I open them, I still see them, in my mind, lurking just beyond the walls.

Mom's in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a glass of water in front of her. She's just staring at it. I know what she's thinking because I've thought it too. Just one sip. Just a drop to ease the burning in our throats. But we know better. I tried that yesterday. We all did. The moment the water hit my tongue, it turned to ash or at least felt like it, filling my mouth with a dry, choking dust that made me retch. I couldn't stop coughing, and Mom had to slap me on the back until I could breathe again.

Now, the water's just sitting there, taunting us, as if a cruel joke from some god we've never believed in was being played on us.

I can hear the sounds outside—distant screams, the crash of something breaking, the low, mournful moan that I know isn't human. It's worse at night. That's when they're most active, when they seem to know we're hiding, waiting for us to slip up.

"Mom," I say, my voice barely a whisper. It hurts to talk now. "What if… what if they get in?"

She looks up at me, her eyes red-rimmed, hollow. I know she's thinking the same thing. We've barricaded the doors, nailed the windows shut, but it doesn't matter. If they want to get in, they will.

They are strong, deceptively so, much more than they should be. I had watched them tear bare handed people in pieces, bend steel and metal. A flimsy door won't be what will forever stop them.

"We'll be okay, honey," she says, but there's no conviction in her voice. "We just have to stay quiet, stay inside. They'll go away eventually."

But they won't. I know it. Deep down, I know that this isn't going to end. There's no going back to normal. There's no going back at all. The dead don't go away. They're here to stay, and they're hungry for something we can't give them.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, and I can feel the heat rising in my body. It's been a day without water, but it feels like an eternity. I'm dizzy, my head pounding, my vision swimming. I know the signs—dehydration. We learned about it in health class. But it was just a chapter in a textbook, just something to memorize for a test. No one ever told us it would feel like this, like dying from the inside out.

My thoughts are jumbled, disconnected. I can't focus on anything for more than a second. I keep thinking about the people we heard screaming earlier—the neighbors, people we knew. They were begging for help, banging on doors, crying out for someone to save them. But we didn't move. We didn't even open the door.

I hate myself for it, but I'm too scared to care. I didn't want to die. Neither did Mom. We just sat there, listening, hoping it would stop, praying they'd just go away. And then the screams turned into gurgles, and then silence.

I can't stop shaking. It's not just the fear, though that's part of it. My body's shutting down, rejecting everything that's happening. I can't think straight, can't keep the images out of my head. The bodies, rising from the water, bloated and grotesque, faces twisted with a rage that doesn't belong to them. They don't move like they used to. There's something wrong with them, something that shouldn't be. Maybe it's a delusion of my mind but I swore that I could hear them whispering two words, Prince and Perseus.

I heard on the radio earlier that people are calling it a plague, that it's spreading faster than anything we've ever seen. But it's not a plague. It's something worse. The anchor said that the cities near water are the worst off, that places like New Orleans and Venice are basically overrun. The water is turning against us, and it's dragging its victims back with it.

The heat is unbearable now. I can feel my body sweating, but there's nothing to replenish it. I'm drying out, shriveling up like a piece of fruit left in the sun. The news said that the elderly are the first to go, along with anyone sick or living in extreme climates. But it's not just them. It's everyone. We're all dying, one drop at a time.

"Mom," I whisper again, but she doesn't answer. She's still staring at the glass of water, her eyes distant, like she's somewhere far away. I can see her fingers twitching, the way her hand hovers just above the glass, wanting to reach for it but knowing it's useless.

I don't know how much longer we can hold out. Maybe a day, maybe less. The dehydration is setting in, and soon we won't be able to think, let alone fight. And when that happens, when we're too weak to keep the doors shut, they'll come for us.

I can hear them now, closer than before. The sound of wet feet dragging across the pavement, the low, guttural moan that makes my skin crawl. They're outside, just beyond the walls, waiting for us to make a mistake, to let them in.

I don't want to die. I'm only sixteen. I haven't even lived yet. But I don't want to live like this either, trapped in a nightmare that I can't wake up from, slowly wasting away until there's nothing left.

I grab the baseball bat I've been keeping by my side, gripping it so tightly my knuckles turn white. It's a stupid weapon, useless against something like this, but it's all I have. It's all we have.

I look at Mom, her face pale, her eyes glassy. She's given up, I can see it. She's not going to fight. But I have to. I have to try, even if it's pointless, even if it means nothing, for her, for me, for all of us. This is what Dad would have wanted.

The pounding starts again, louder this time, more insistent. They're here. I can feel the walls trembling, can hear the glass rattling in the windows. They're going to get in. It's only a matter of time.

And then I hear it, the sound that sends ice-cold fear shooting through my veins—a window breaking, the crash of glass shattering against the floor. They're inside.

I don't even have time to think. My body moves on its own, driven by pure, animalistic terror. I push Mom behind me, raising the bat, my heart pounding so hard I think it might explode.

And then they're there, in the doorway, staring at us with those dead, empty eyes, their mouths open in a silent scream, water dripping from their rotting clothes, pooling on the floor.

I swing the bat, hoping it would connect, hoping that I could get rid of at lest one of them, that maybe I could create a path to escape or gain more time, more room to think, to survive even longer but it's too late. They're on us, cold, clammy hands grabbing at my arms, my legs. I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but scream as they pull me down, down into the darkness, down into the water where they came from, where they want to take me.

And in those final moments, as the cold engulfs me, as the world fades to black, I realize that I was wrong. There's no safety. There never was. The dead don't rest. They just wait, biding their time, until they can drag us down with them, until they can make us just like them.

The water is rising, angry, powerful, changing. I feel something shifting , morphing, something that my soul itself found repulsive, something i knew deep down was an abomination against what was supposed to be Before I'm completely swallowed.

My eyes opened back without my say so, I don't know when I even closed them. I try to move, to do something. I'm still alive I think. Maybe it's the same for moms. Maybe we can escape. This was I thought before my gaze fell on a surface , one that allowed me to gaze at the bloated thing I had become, identical to those monsters who rose from the seas, rivers, the oceans and more. For the first time since the beginning of this horror, my throat doesn't feel dry and I am not thirsty yet unlike where I would have cried before with joy, I can only think one thing in despair, there's no escape.

I kinda wanted to show some of the consequences of the action of the main characters, how the world is changing due to them, how the world is alive in the background. Hope you like the chapter. Comments what you like or didn't like about this chapter. I also put some easter eggs/lore things in this chapter. Tell me if you found them.

PS: I got a p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / Eileen715 with two more chapters. With less than five dollars, you have access to everything I write in a month. Don't hesitate to visit if you want to read more or simply support me.