People are coughing blood.
Del hears it before he sees it. Wet, rattling coughs echoing through the ruins. One worker. Then another. Then five. By midday, maybe a dozen.
By evening, three are dead.
The bodies are left where they fall. Nobody moves them. Nobody wants to get close. The sickness spreads through touch, through breath, through the water everyone's been drinking.
Del's water source - the runoff through the crack in the wall - tastes different today. Sharp. Wrong. When he spits it out, there's red in it. Not his red. Someone upstream is sick, dying, bleeding into the water that flows down.
Can't drink that.
Fuck.
Thirst is already building. His throat is dry. Tongue feels thick. Near the runoff, other workers are gathered. Staring at the water. Knowing it's bad. Drinking it anyway.
One man is on his knees. Cupping water in his hands. Drinking. Coughing immediately. Red in the water he's drinking. Doesn't stop. Drinks more.
"Better than nothing," someone mutters.
Is it?
Del watches the man drink poison. Watches the resignation on everyone's faces.
Another worker - older, gaunt - is walking away from the runoff. Not toward the Silt Quarters. Toward the deeper ruins. Moving with purpose.
Del watches him go. The man doesn't look back. Just walks. Like he knows where he's going.
He's looking for different water. Has to be.
Del follows. He keeps a distance between them. Not obvious. Just... same direction.
Past the Silt Quarters, past the salvage edge, into sections Del's never been. The ruins here are older. More collapsed. Darkness even during day - light doesn't reach through the layers above.
The older worker moves carefully. Tests each step. Knows what he's doing. Been here before maybe.
Del copies his movements. Steps where he steps. Avoids what he avoids.
The older worker stops. Looks back.
Del freezes. Pretends to be searching rubble. Not following. Just... coincidentally here.
The man stares. Long moment. Then turns. Keeps walking.
They descend deeper. The path gets harder. Rubble slopes. Gaps in the floor. The older worker navigates it like he's done this before. Del follows his route exactly.
Hears sound ahead. Voices. The older worker slows. Approaches carefully. Del does the same.
Two workers in a chamber. One is holding another down. The one being held is struggling weakly.
The standing worker has a knife. Cuts the other's arm. Not deep. Just enough for red.
Catches it in a container. Drinks it.
They're drinking-
Del's stomach turns. The pinned worker is too weak to fight. Just lies there. Getting drained. An odd smile on his face.
The older worker Del's been following backs away. Quiet. They don't see him. Del backs away too.
They keep moving. Deeper.
The older worker is muttering. Too quiet to hear clearly. Del catches fragments: " - should be here - lower section - "
The thirst is getting worse. Del's lips are cracking. Throat burns. How long since he last drank? Yesterday?
The older worker's foot slips. He stumbles. Catches himself on rubble. Breathing hard.
Del stays back. Watching.
They reach a section where the ceiling is lower. Still intact in places. Old structure. Preserved somehow.
The older worker stops. Looks around. Searching for something.
"Where - " Muttering louder now. " - was here before - water storage - "
He starts searching rooms. Moving through doorways. Most rooms are collapsed. Some are intact but empty.
Del stays in the corridor. Watching. Waiting.
The older worker tries a door. Locked. Sealed. He works at it with his knife. Prying. The door doesn't move.
He tries harder. Desperate. The knife slips. Cuts his hand. He swears. Blood dripping.
The door still doesn't give.
The man steps back. Breathing hard. Looks at the door. Looks at his bleeding hand.
Tries again. Puts his weight into it. The knife slips again. This time it goes deep into his palm.
He screams. Pulls the knife out. Blood pouring now.
"Fuck - FUCK - "
He's stumbling. Too much blood loss already - been weak from the rations, from the thirst. This is too much. He sits down. Hard. Trying to hold his hand. Blood everywhere.
Del watches from the corridor. Hidden in shadow.
I can't help him.
The man is getting paler. Shaking. Shock maybe. Blood loss definitely.
He slumps. Eyes closing. Still breathing but barely.
Del waits.
The man's breathing gets slower. Shallower.
Stops.
Del waits longer. Making sure.
The man doesn't move.
Del approaches. Carefully. Steps around the blood pool spreading across the floor.
No heartbeat.
The man is dead. Hand still bleeding but slower now - there is no longer a heart to pump.
Del looks at the door the man was trying to open.
Sealed.
The man's knife is on the ground. Covered in blood. Del picks it up. Wipes it on the dead man's clothes.
He takes a look at the door - the man made progress. Corrosion flaked away around the edges. Seal weakened.
Well done, old man.
Del works at it. Using both knives - his own and the dead man's, still warm. Prying. Careful not to slip like the man did.
Takes maybe an hour. His hands are cramping. Bleeding from small cuts where the knives slipped slightly. But not deep. Not through-palm deep.
The seal finally breaks. Door swings open. Slow. Hinges screaming.
Inside: darkness. Air rushing out. Old. Sealed.
Del waits. Lets the air exchange. Watches for movement, for collapse signs.
Nothing.
Enters carefully.
Small chamber. Storage. Shelves along walls. Most collapsed. Contents scattered.
Some shelves intact.
On them: containers. Sealed. Old construction. Round, metal, maybe the size of his forearm.
Del approaches. Picks one up.
Heavy. Full. The top is sealed tight, I'm a lucky man.
Opens it slowly. The seal breaks with sound - hiss. Air releasing.
Smells it. Just water. No rot. No wrong-smell.
Sets it down. Looks for something to test with.
Small bug. Crawling near the wall.
He pours small amount on ground near it. Waits.
The bug didn't die.
It walks through the water and keeps crawling.
Del picks up the container. Drinks. Small amount. Lets it sit in his mouth. Tastes like metal but not wrong-metal. Just old-metal.
Swallows. Waits.
Counts slow. Sixty. Ninety. One-twenty.
Nothing.
No pain, no sickness.
Drinks more. Bigger amount this time. His throat screaming for it. So dry it hurts going down.
Waits again.
Nothing.
Clean water. Sealed. Preserved.
Eight on shelves. Two on ground, dented but sealed.
Ten total.
Can't carry ten.
He takes four, tucks them under his shirt, hands wrapped around.
Shit, it's heavy.
But manageable.
He needs to get out.
Steps over the dead man in the corridor. His eyes are still open. Staring at the door he was trying to reach.
You got me here. You got the door almost open. Died so I could finish it.
Doesn't say it out loud. Just thinks it.
Takes the man's knife. Two knives better than one.
Thank you, old man.
He sets down the containers again and gently closes the man's eyelids down.
The climb back is worse than coming down. Del's turned around. Can't remember the route. Everything looks the same - gray stone, rubble, darkness.
Takes a wrong turn. Ends up in dead end. Backtrack. Try different path.
Another wrong turn. Dead end again.
The containers are heavy. His side hurts. Thirst is satisfied but exhaustion is building.
Finds a section that looks familiar. Maybe. Can't be sure.
Keeps going. Takes another two hours. Maybe three. Hard to tell time down here.
Finally recognizes something. Body pinned under beam. Saw it on the way down. Knows the route from here.
Another hour to reach Silt Quarters.
The smell hits first. Rot. Waste. Death.
The outbreak is worse. Bodies everywhere. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty maybe. And the living - hard to tell from dead sometimes. People lying still, barely breathing.
Someone screaming. High-pitched. Fever-mad probably.
Del moves carefully. Workers are searching through rubble. Looking for anything. Water. Food. Whatever.
Can't let them see what he has.
Finds collapsed section near his sleeping corner. Gap underneath. Stacks three containers inside. Covers with stones. Natural-looking.
Keeps one with him.
Heads toward corner.
Hand grabs his ankle.
Del jerks. Looks down.
Woman. Maybe thirty. Maybe older - can't tell. Sickness ages everyone. Lying in rubble. Skin gray. Eyes red. Lips cracked, bleeding. Fever-wet soaking through her clothes.
"Water." Barely a whisper. "Please. Please, water - "
Del looks at her. The fever in her eyes. The shaking in her hand. The fast, shallow breathing. Red at the corner of her mouth.
She's dying. Hours maybe. Maybe a day. But dying. Water wouldn't save her. Just delay it.
The water is for people who might survive.
He pulls his ankle free. Her grip is nothing. No strength.
Walks away.
"Please - " Voice follows. Weak. Desperate. "Please - water - please - "
Keeps walking. Doesn't look back. Can't.
Finds his corner. Sits. Stone is cold.
Can still hear her. Distant. Still calling. "Please... water..."
Opens his container. Drinks. Small amounts. Making it last.
Water tastes clean. Fresh. Better than anything since waking.
Tastes like the dead man's blood on the floor.
Tastes like the woman's voice begging.
Tastes like guilt.
Closes container. Sets it down. Listens to her voice getting weaker.
She's dying anyway. Water wouldn't save her.
True.
Doesn't help.
The woman's voice stops. Not slow. Just - stops. Silence.
Del sits. Drinking clean water. Alive while others die.
Hours pass.
Body crews come through. Three workers with cart. Cloth over faces. Collecting bodies.
They reach the woman. Worker nudges her with foot. Nothing.
"Dead."
They pick her up. Light. Barely anything. Toss her on cart with others.
Lands face-up. Eyes open.
Cart moves on. Full by the time it leaves. Ten bodies. Maybe more.
Del watches them go toward Grave-ward.
Maybe I could have given her water?
Won't leave.
But she'd still die.
But I could have made it easier.
Didn't.
Chose survival. Chose himself.
The night is quiet. Fewer people coughing. Recovering or dead.
Dead probably.
Can't sleep. Keeps seeing her face. Her lips. Her hand on his ankle.
"Please."
Eventually exhaustion wins. Sleeps. Dreams of sealed doors and dead men bleeding and hands reaching.
Wakes before dawn. Thirst back.
Drinks. Water is clean.
Tastes like guilt.
The outbreak continues. Day eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.
Del returns to the chamber twice more. Each time dangerous. Once nearly falls through floor. Once gets lost for hours. Finds way back through trying every path until one works.
Retrieves remaining containers. Hides them different places. Can't trust one spot.
Each time through Silt Quarters, more bodies. More silence.
People coughing yesterday are dead today. People healthy two days ago are coughing now. Three days from first signs to death.
Del doesn't get sick. Water is clean. Sealed. Preserved.
Day twenty-two. Outbreak ending. Not because people recovered. Because almost no one left to get sick.
Counts bodies visible. Thirty maybe. Hard to know - bodies get taken, new workers come in, people die in salvage.
But thirty sounds right.
Del sits in corner. Drinking clean water. Alive.
Why me? Why not them?
No answer. Luck. Followed someone who almost found it. Finished what he started. Survived.
Random.
Is survival worth this?
Doesn't know.
The woman's face still haunts his mind, as does the ever-wide eyed child. Eyes. Lips. Hand.
"Please."
Finishes water. Sets container down.
Tomorrow I will try to leave this place.