A Desperate Search for Water

  Nick’s feet dragged against the cracked earth, his breath shallow. His body had stopped sweating, a sign he recognized but refused to acknowledge.

  The road ahead was fractured, split open like parched skin. Scorched patches of molten veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface, their eerie glow casting twisted shadows against warped, glass-like formations.

  Yet life pressed forward.

  Thick vines, unnaturally coiled, gripped abandoned structures with a force that seemed less like growth and more like possession. Stalks, smooth as bone, flexed gently toward the sky despite the still air. Some curled away as he passed—reactive, aware.

  He ignored them.

  A glint of water shimmered through the tangled undergrowth below.

  His knees struck the dry earth before he realized he had collapsed. Hands, trembling, parted the vines until his fingers brushed the surface of the narrow stream.

  The water was murky, its movement slow and thick with sediment. It carried the scent of metal, of age. But his throat was too raw for hesitation.

  His hands cupped, lifted, drank.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  The first swallow burned. The second settled like a rock in his stomach. The third, he barely tasted.

  His body, despite itself, straightened.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, breathing slowly. A thin layer of dust clung to his skin, mixing with the dampness of his lips. The city still loomed ahead, but his legs carried him forward with steadier steps.

  The City of Ruins

  The first sign of past struggle lay twisted and half-buried near the city’s edge—a vehicle, its hull warped beyond recognition. No wheels. No treads. No openings where an engine might have been.

  Beyond it, a building stood scarred and hollow, a massive crater punched through its center. Impaled deep in the ruins was a towering metallic rod, scorched black, its surface fractured as if it had absorbed something far greater than heat.

  Nature had begun its reclamation, but the battle had been recent enough for the wounds to remain visible.

  He kept moving.

  The Edge of Shelter

  The outskirts were different. Lower buildings, smaller footprints, fewer signs of status. The vines clung just as tightly, but here, there was a hesitation in their grip—as if this part of the city had been less worth taking back.

  A bridge, its railings crumbled, stretched before him. Beyond it, a house—small, unremarkable, with a door sagging in defeat.

  A branch lay nearby, thick and sturdy. He picked it up, wedging it into the doorframe.

  The rusted lock crumbled under pressure.

  Claiming a Space

  The air inside was thick with time. Dust coated every surface, undisturbed. The walls stretched barely ten feet across, the ceiling marked with the faint scars of past leaks.

  He tested the structure, pressed a hand against the wall, knocked against the roof with a loose stone.

  It stood.

  A metal pot, cool to the touch, sat forgotten in the corner, its surface untouched by rust. Nearby, polymer utensils lay scattered, still intact despite time’s decay.

  A shattered device, its screen cracked, rested beneath fallen debris. Its purpose was lost, but its presence confirmed one thing—whoever had lived here once, hadn’t left by choice.

  He stepped back, gaze sweeping over the space.

  Not a home. But it would do.

  Preparation

  He pulled vines from the walls, twisting them into a crude belt. The metallic pot and polymer kettle hung at his side, swaying with his movements. A dry branch, tested for weight, became a walking stick.

  His stomach ached, not from hunger but from adjustment.

  He turned back toward the

  water source.

  The city could wait.

  For now, he needed to gather.