She crouches, her mouth gaping beneath the spigot. She’s too young to know what dangers might lurk within the rusty jug. Mold, ebola, salmonella, e coli, high fructose corn syrup… I’m too old too remember it all. We’ll die, anyway. Probably for the best.
I remember it still, that first taste of life. Sweet, with a hint of earth and blood. Funny how rust tastes like the thing that courses through my veins, bringing health to all my parts. A painful death, worse than dehydration. What did they know?
Garrison calls us “the drinkers.” He says the world is ours.