The Last Water - A Little Girl

The last water she'd seen a week ago now was the trickling remains of a once great river. She filtered it through an old shirt, deluded it with flat cola, but there was really no pretending that she wasn't drinking her own pists. Back in chicago, the tabloids babbled about outlaw gangs preying through the mountains and doomsday cults. But on 50 rena hads nothing and nobody, only the remnants of gas stations, dried out husks of ruined towns and dispirited clumps of dead brush. From horizon to horizon, nothing was moving but a few wary birds.