Dry Town

If water follows the path of least resistance then that would explain Dry Town. There’s nothing but resistance here and water is as sparse as a donut at a police convention. I should know, I’m a cop. And thirsty.

Ten years ago the days were getting warmer but no one seemed to care. Lighter clothes and more hydration were the order of the day. Now the heat is exhausting and most of the water has all but evaporated and yet most of the remaining townsfolk seem immune to the heat. They thrive during the day and venture out at night to try and secure whatever they can to drink. But the night is not for the weak. Roving gangs will try and steal our most precious resource. I do my best but I’m outnumbered and outgunned. And they’re not overly concerned whether folks are fortunate enough to have found potable water because everyone has around two gallons of blood. The gangs are content to drain you.

A few days of rain every year are enough to keep the citizens of Dry Town secluded in their homes. Even the gangs were happy to sit out the rainy days. Water collection is the only thing that matters. Raindrops are a temporary detente.

Before the heat, before the lack of water, Dry Town was pretty much like any other small town in America. Folks minded their own business, knew who they could count on and misfortune was an infrequent guest.

I came to town after 12 years of policing in a big city. I always thought small town America would be less stressful and for a time it was. People were relatively friendly and my workload was primarily domestic disputes and misdemeanors. The stores were quaint and the diner always served fresh coffee. Coffee is now a thing of the past. Big box stores were just a forty minute drive. Dry Town had everything one needed to survive and be happy, unless happy included alcohol. I’m not sure why or when the prohibition of booze happened but it gave the town its not so clever name. Alcohol could still be bought outside of town and brought into town but for some reason there were no sales allowed inside its borders. As folks started to pack up and leave Dry Town for wetter pastures, only the most devout remained. What could be bought before the thirst set in were lockets made right here in town by the owner of the hardware store. A small little novelty made by Mr. Peterson that seemed to be a hit among locals and visitors, especially the heart lockets. Excuse the pun but I never understood their charm. Hard to understand anything these days. The diner is now closed while Peterson’s Hardware is open for anyone willing to brave the heat. Were it not for the people I’m not sure what’s worth saving here. And that’s getting harder by the day. But the town employs me and so here I am.

The gangs must have moved on to another town for the time being as today was uneventful. Evening was busy with folks searching for sources of water and hoping to find some hidden oasis. Any spot that had plant or animal life was reason to dig. With no pressing concerns I was of service in helping find any possible water tables below the parched surface. Occasionally a small little depot of water would be found but more times than not we came up dry. I wasn’t sure how much longer the townsfolk could survive. And yet they seemed unconcerned with their results and happy to be working together for the common good. They also appeared quite healthy considering water was in short supply. Curiously, all wore their charms from Peterson’s Hardware proudly around their neck. Perhaps they felt defiant without the gangs around and just wanted to show some style. Or solidarity. Whatever the reason they worked without complaint.

I don’t know what compels these folks to stay in this dry wasteland. When one of their own is sent to meet their maker by way of gang violence they seem unconcerned. And yet there is always a relative showing up and settling in to take their place. Why would anyone choose this hell to put down roots knowing a family member was dispatched in a hail of bullets? Then again, I'm here. I may just be a dumb cop but this town is not worth the price of admittance. I protect them as best I can and in return I’m compensated with money, a house and just enough water to know I want more. The big cities are worse. So let them have their peculiar way of living, the lockets and all the rest. I don’t ask questions. But eventually my luck is going to end and there will be no one coming to replace me.

Days turned into years and I found myself more and more curious why the current population didn’t pack up and move on? Why hadn’t I? Why did I stay in this small dying town?

One day I found myself at Peterson’s Hardware not really sure why. Almost three quarters of the town’s populace were in the store not looking any surer then myself. It was stifling hot and for the first time I realized that there was no air conditioning. They had an air conditioner but it was not being used. My home unit was on all the time. Come to think of it I never really heard any other AC units running except mine. As people milled around the store I caught the attention of the proprietor, Mr. Peterson. He was a slightly older fellow with long black hair and pale skin. A little too black for someone his age. And a heart shaped locket around his neck. I wasn’t one to pass judgement but the locket didn’t seem like the kind of thing a guy would wear. But other than myself everyone wore one. I asked him how long he owned the business. He told me it went back three generations. When I asked why he kept his business so damn hot, while the world outside was getting hotter by the day, he said one must adapt. I suppose he had a point. There would probably come a time when the comforts we take for granted will no longer be viable. I inquired about buying one of those silly lockets. Maybe they were magical. When you’re hotter than hell the mind starts to believe in fairy tales. Are these charms keeping everyone cool? Mr. Peterson told me he was all out of lockets and probably wouldn’t be making any more. I left without really knowing why I went in the first place. Back to my home. Back to the coolness and back to wondering why I never left. Besides trying to fend off the gangs I didn’t really serve a purpose, other than the occasional search for water. Once folks started to leave Dry Town crime became nonexistent. The lucky charm crowd kept to themselves and barely noticed my presence. I was a cop in a one cop town with no need for law enforcement. I felt like I was a character in a fucking Stephen King novel.

That night the gangs returned. None of the townsfolk were out and about looking for water. So the gangs just shot holes in things as they made their way through town. I let them have at it because there was no sense in putting myself in harms way for a bunch of crazy ne’er-do-wells when no one’s safety was at risk except my own.

Ben Crawford. I was sure one of the gang members was Ben Crawford. I ran, aimed and got off one round hitting Ben’s radiator. I followed him until his eventual breakdown and the rest of the gang was long gone. Ben was one of the townsfolk who left Dry Town as more and more of the locket crowd moved in and the water ran out. I couldn’t imagine why he turned to violence but he was going to answer for it, even if only to me.

I got him to put his gun down after convincing him I wanted only to talk. He yelled, “do you know who you are?” I wasn’t sure how to respond so I yelled back, “the sheriff of Dry Town.” “No,” he said, "you’re a part of the resistance whose been mind fucked by those creatures destroying the planet." Now granted, the folks of Dry Town were a bit odd but, “creatures?” He continued to weave a tale so far fetched that it really did make me wonder if I was character in a novel. He kept rambling on about this race, apparently the locket crowd, that was keen on destroying Earth’s water supply to kill off the planet’s inhabitants and make the place an oasis for their species. By oasis I assume he meant shit hole.

Ben seemed to know things about me that I only had a faint, far-off recollection. As he kept talking I kept remembering. He was kind enough to offer me some water. I felt obliged to lower my weapon and sank into the picture he painted with words. He was either a lunatic or I was. But slowly I began to remember. I started to believe that neither of us was crazy. The fog started to lift and for the first time in a long time I felt unattached to the goin-ons of Dry Town.

The creatures started to occupy Earth gradually. The lockets were the glue that kept them connected, like bees in a hive. Thinking back I don’t remember one of them without it. Water was their nemesis and heat their salvation. Humans were dispensable unless they could be used to benefit them. I was a benefit. Control the mind, control the human. Fighting had been going on for years. The fight was between humans they could control and those they could not. They suffered minimally by controlling the enemy. I was their protector. I was their enemy. I was waking up.

Ben finally relaxed enough to sit besides me. I asked, “why do you suppose that I recognized you.” He said he was my son.

The bullet ripped through my abdomen. In a moment of blissful surrender Ben grabbed my gun and shot. He was an infiltrator. He was one of them. He was in my head. As my life started to wane I could see the tiny heart shaped locket reveal itself around his neck. I had no son. I had no family. I was no longer under his spell.

I was a cop.

I was thirsty.

I was part of the resistance.