The Dry Rain

by Alex Westhaven

  The Dry Rain

  by

  Alex Westhaven

  The Dry Rain

  Copyright 2018 by Alex Westhaven

  Published by Brazen Snake Books

  Cover Art Images:ID78680083 © Inna Kotyk | Dreamstime.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by the Author

  Chapter 1

  William shuffled his feet through the barren field, papery gray bodies popping up with each step to explode in tiny puffs of corpse dust around his knees. It had been a week since the last moths took off, and no one knew when the next wave would come. More importantly, there hadn’t been any rain in over a month, and if the crops hadn’t been decimated by the moths already, they would have been dead due to drought by now anyway. Streams and ponds had dried up, rivers were the lowest he’d ever seen, and there had been talk that even the oceans didn’t come up as high on the beach as they once did.

  William had never seen the ocean. Hell, he’d never been more than a few hundred miles away from his farmstead. But right now he wished he were anywhere else. Or at least somewhere the moths hadn’t gotten to yet.

  If there was such a place.

  The first time they’d come, he’d been asleep. Thousands upon thousands of brown and gray moths had covered every inch of any exposed surface, their paper-thin wings beating fast as they sucked the water out of every living piece of vegetation there was. Two days later, the moths had all died, leaving behind a creamy, wriggling mass of larvae in their place.

  He wasn’t sure how the larvae survived, but there must have been enough nutrients somehow, because not long after that, thousands of moths had taken to the sky again, only to rain down in big clumps of dusty gray waste one week later. Where they’d gone, or where they’d come from, or if these were even the same moths was anyone’s guess, but it was less of a concern than the fact that food was running out, and animals and humans alike were starting to die. The whole cycle had happened twice so far, and if the moths came back again, he was pretty sure there wouldn't be enough food left for them to survive either. Unless they started eating wood or dirt.

  A thin figure stood waiting for him near the gate they hadn’t bothered to close since the crops had been devoured. May had always been a little thing, and she was getting weaker. Now that the cow had stopped producing milk, he supposed the only thing left to do was butcher it for the meat. Every day it was harder to get water out of the well just for themselves, and there was none to spare for ol' Bess. They’d have to leave soon to find water, at least. Maybe one of the bigger cities would have supplies until…whatever this was, ended.

  “Find anything?” May called out when he drew near. William shook his head.

  “Nothing. Just moth-bodies, as far as I could go. Larva here and there. The creek is just about mud now.” He took her hand and walked with her back to the house, not sure what else to say. She didn’t want to leave, but it wasn’t a question of want now. It was a question of survival.

  “It’s gonna be soon,” he said, hanging his old hat up on a hook as he closed the door behind him. “Can’t survive without water.”

  “What about damming the creek?” she said, handing him a cup of coffee - the only one there’d be that day - and then cradling another in her hands as she leaned against the kitchen counter. “We could get the neighbors together, make sure everyone has what they need.”

  He shook his head. “Water’s falling too fast. By the time we could get everyone together and get back out there with supplies, it’ll be dry.”

  She took a long, slow sip, her face a study in contemplation. She’d always been a thinker, his May. He often wondered why she’d settled for him instead of finding herself one o’ them smart city-boys that were always asking her out in college. Bet she was regretting that now, he thought as she met his stare with a tired, hopeless look.

  “So that’s it then,” she said, putting her cup on the counter and letting out a long sigh. “What about Bessie?”

  He shrugged, suppressing a wince at the soreness in his shoulders. “We’ll take her with us. Might need something to trade for water, depending on how far this thing goes. She’s weak anyways. Probably won’t last much longer. Maybe the Jensens will take her for the meat, if they’re staying.”

  May nodded, slowly. “Okay then. Tomorrow?” Tears welled in her eyes, and William went to her, pulling her emaciated form into his arms. He’d loved her since they were sixteen, and he’d take care of her right up until his last breath, no matter what.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 2

  Angie moved the curtain back an inch, just enough to peer out into the city street that had been bustling with activity just three short weeks ago. How things had changed since the moths had come. The Dry Rain, they were calling it in the media, though all those gray bodies that had ruined the street sweepers looked more like dirty snow to her.

  The first time it had just seemed like an oddity - another sign of global warming and a blight on urban gardening everywhere. But it hadn’t been long before every green thing in and around Whiskey Creek, Oklahoma was dead. Then the moths died, and only their offspring remained.

  The larvae were horrible. Little cream-colored worms writhing like tiny zombies looking for food. Inside, outside, there was no escaping them. What they were eating had been anyone’s guess the first time, until they’d finally started morphing into moths and flying away. Then the extensive damage done to clothes, furniture and any kind of natural fiber was all too evident.

  Not long after, the moths had come back - to eat whatever was left and then die, as before. And now the streets were covered in literal moth-balls and creamy white worms again, with no good way to dispose of any of it with the sweepers clogged from the first event.

  The scientists all said the cycle would burn itself out eventually. When there was nothing left to eat, the larvae wouldn’t be able to grow and morph into adults, and then they would die out.

  Unfortunately, so would nearly every other living creature on earth. The fish and water mammals might survive, the experts surmised, because these particular moths were strictly terrestrial. It was all some sort of primal reset, they theorized, and people were blaming it on everything from a general lack of respect and care for the planet to all sorts of religious retribution for lackadaisical morals and loose living.

  Angie didn't really care why it was happening. She wasn’t even sure she cared about survival anymore, which was getting harder by the day. When the larvae had come the first time, people had gone a bit craz
y. Or a lot crazy. Most people wanted to leave, but the subway tunnels were infested, and the trains stopped running a day or two in when the tracks got too slick from bug-guts and couldn't be cleared off. The roads had been packed with cars and folks on foot, all trying to find somewhere better to go even though the news said the problem was believed to be world-wide. Where they thought they were going, she wasn't sure, but eventually those who'd wanted out badly enough had either gotten out, or been killed in the horrible, riot-like madness.

  Her husband had been one of them. He hadn't even been trying to leave. He’d gone out to try to find a store that still had food in stock, and never came back. She’d called the police that night, but they were so busy dealing with the mobs they couldn’t spare the manpower to look for him. She’d finally ventured out herself the next day, and found him face down in a nearby alley, covered with hungry little white worms.

  They hadn’t seemed interested in his flesh or the somewhat fresh wounds on the back of his head. Just the wool coat he was wearing.

  She’d flagged down a cop, merely nodding at whatever he said while he called for someone to take the body away. They’d put it in cold storage, he said, but no one was getting buried just then on account of all the dead moths and live worms all over the place. There wouldn't be an investigation, he'd said. Not until the moth situation was 'handled'.

  She'd argued, almost gotten thrown in jail, made calls to the police station and courthouse. All to no avail, her pleas falling on unsympathetic ears.

  The store shelves were barren. Those that hadn’t been looted during the first exodus had simply run out of stock during the second. The truckers could still run, but there was nothing to send. The factories couldn’t be running low this soon, but they were probably stock piling stores to sell later at a premium just when people needed it most.

  Angie figured that was sometime yesterday, if her own pantry was any indication.

  She turned away from the window and let the curtain fall back into place. The sun was setting, and it was time to batten down the hatches, so to speak. She used to consider the bars bolted to the outside of her windows too prison-like, and had begged Ben to take them down more times than she cared to count. But she was grateful to have them now, along with the barred security screen door that she locked and tested before throwing two deadbolts and a slide lock on the back of her steel front door.

  Everyone around her had been looted already, by folks looking for food, stuff to sell for food, or both. She was sure they could have eventually broken her door down, but the biggest reason they hadn’t was probably the sign she’d posted beside the front door.

  HIV Positive. Enter at your own risk.

  It had been true until her husband died. Not that he’d been an actual risk to anyone, but people in general were still ignorant, which worked in her favor for now.

  She went to the kitchen and took stock of the canned foods she still had left in the pantry. There was maybe three-days worth of food, if she rationed it carefully.

  Or, she could feast tonight, and in the morning she could toss back a few of Ben’s meds from the medicine cabinet and lay down on her bed to die peacefully, on her own terms.

  She'd make that decision tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  It was just after dark when Micah helped Bailey out of the old abandoned cellar where they hid during the day. Between the moths and the lack of water, people in the city had plum lost their minds, and it was actually safer to be out at night, or so it seemed. Especially when the larvae hatched. Not many people wanted to be out in the dark with all those wriggly white worms all over the place.

  The thing was, they didn’t taste all that bad, especially after they were held in a tin can over a fire pit for a few seconds while being shaken like popcorn kernels. One of the other homeless guys had shown them how, and if you got it just right, they’d be dead, but still have some moisture left in ‘em — like a teeny tiny french fry. It took less of them to get full than one might think, and the man had said they were packed with protein and enough moisture to help with the whole water situation.

  Micah swore Bailey was putting on a little weight since they’d started on the moth larva diet. She’d been so skinny when they’d run away, and always getting sick. But for the past few weeks while everyone else lived a nightmare, Bailey had gotten better, her cheeks were starting to fill out, and Micah was starting to think they were going to end up with a different problem entirely. Attractive young girls weren’t exactly invisible on the streets.

  “I’m hungry,” Bailey said, tugging at his sleeve. “When are we gonna eat?”

  He looked down, managing a small smile. “Soon, Sis. Did you bring your cans?”

  “Got ‘em!” She held them up one at a time, two tall, empty soup cans that were attached to a string that hung around her neck. His own were hanging in a similar fashion — a good way to keep his hands free, but they were covered by his coat, slightly more subtle.

  “Okay then. Let’s go find dinner.” He took her hand, reminding himself not to grip the slender fingers too hard. She’d turned eight last month, but they’d been on the streets for a year. He hoped she’d keep improving. And if the moths and larvae stopped, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He couldn’t bear to see her start losing precious ground again.

  They walked several blocks to the banks of the river — or what was left of it — sticking to alleys and side streets to avoid being seen as much as possible. A small group had already lit fires and were hard at work harvesting and cooking as much of the larvae as they could before the little worms found their wings and flew off. One of the women manning a fire pit saw them coming, and waved a cheerful welcome.

  “You made it! So nice to see you, children. Bailey, will you stay and help me while your brother goes to find worms?”

  Bailey looked up at Micah, who nodded. “It’s okay. Stay here with Susan and I’ll bring back as much as I can.” He raised his eyes to meet Susan’s.

  The woman nodded. She understood. He could move faster alone and get more on his own. And it was good for Bailey to be around a woman for awhile too, considering their own mom had died a few years back.

  Bending down, he held out his arms, and Bailey willingly gave him a hug, squeezing hard.

  “I love you,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “I love you too,” Bailey said, her eyes tearing up just a little in the firelight. “Now go get my dinner!”

  Micah and Susan laughed, and Micah went through the park, nodding at other women tending fire pits on his way to find the men.

  He caught up with them about ten yards outside the park where larvae was piled up like snow and started gathering, saying a quiet hello to those he knew, and not bothering those he didn’t. With four cans full in just twenty minutes, he made his way back to the park and dumped them into the big bucket Susan had beside her chair. It was customary for everyone to work to fill all of the buckets, and then the women would divide all the prepared larvae equally among the participants.

  Micah made two more trips before the bigger bucket was nearly full, and it was time for them to go. Even among the homeless community, it was dangerous for them to linger — children without a guardian were easy targets. Susan prepared their portions and filled up their cans, then told Bailey goodbye as he led her away.

  Someday, they might be part of a family again, but until he was sure they were safe from her father, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  They spent the night as always, wandering the streets looking for food, clothing, anything they could either use or trade for things they needed. And just as the sun was coming up, Micah was hustling a very sleepy Bailey back into the warehouse cellar, where they could safely sleep the daylight away.

  Chapter 4

  It was cool and dry the next morning, and May was up early. She went to the well and brought up half a bucket of water, muddy and stale-smelling. Running it through a piece of well-used cheeseclot
h, she took the somewhat less brown liquid into the house and put it on the stove to boil.

  There were beans in the cupboard, and a jar of her own home-canned tomatoes. Browning the last of the sausage from the freezer, she added the beans and tomatoes to the saucepan and stirred until it was nice and hot.

  The water was boiling, and she strained it through more cheesecloth into a big glass jar. It was nearly clear, at least. Tossing in a generous handful of stale ground coffee, she put the lid on and let it sit for a few minutes before straining it through cloth one more time into two cups.

  Two plates, two forks, two cloth napkins folded just so. Just because they were in the middle of the worse drought she’d ever seen didn’t mean they couldn’t at least act civilized at the table.

  “Will? Honey, are you awake? Breakfast is ready!”

  She heard him moving about and set a cup at each place, then divided the sausage mixture between each plate. There was a loaf of bread on the counter, and she cut off the moldy bits and added a slice from the center to each plate.

  Will nodded and gave her a tentative smile as he stood behind his chair, waiting. Time-worn and leathery, he was still every bit as handsome to her as he had been the day they'd met. She sat, and he joined her, the expression on his face bland as he ate with her, every last bit on his plate.

  Finally, he sat back and sipped his coffee, his head tilted to the side in that familiar way she loved.

  “So, today.”

  He didn’t have to spell it out. She knew what he meant.

  “Today.” She met his gaze, held it. “I’ve been thinking about Bess.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I think we should turn her loose. She’s an animal, or more so than us, right? Maybe she could find water. Maybe she could lead us to it. Don’t cows have some sort of sense about that?”

  Will shrugged. “Maybe. But she’s been with us a long time, dear. We raised her, remember? She might not have those wild instincts. She might not even leave the farm. This is her home as much as ours.”