Sludge
I could hear it below me, swirling around a hidden vortex just underneath the surface. The inky substance corrupted anything it touched, staining it the same black as itself; contaminating everything in its path. Wildlife is a memory of the past and plants tend to be withered and dying making food nearly impossible. When the water had turned dark and too polluted to drink, about six and a half months or so ago, I didn’t think it would be this bad. That someone would have a plan. After all, I was just an accountant. Numbers run my life. We started with three. My wife, my daughter, and I. For a moment, I close my eyes and try to picture their faces clean and full of joy. I can’t. My deep green backpack plunges from my shoulder onto the rocky precipice on which I stand, teetering dangerously on the edge. I pull it back just in time to stop it from tumbling into the jet-black reservoir below, only to see my last bottle of clean water roll out of the unzipped pack and spiral into the depths of sludge. Zero supplies left. The worst number.
