The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  “Don’t—!”

  Rodney fired. The bullet flew across the dock and over the crater, disappearing in the light.

  Namiane awakened, as though her soul re-entered her body, jerking upright with a loud gasp—but she collapsed back down, and fell asleep again in Davy’s lap.

  The noise made Davy’s ears pop. It vibrated for eternity. Then, everything became silent, and a sharp ring sounded in his left ear, and he pressed against it as he cringed.

  “Boom.”

  A sound of bursting wood—the bullet struck something. The Spirit of the Lake.

  “Oops.”

  Rodney, already bruised from his beating earlier, flinched and shrank to the ground, waiting for Davy to hit him again. This time to literal death.

  But Davy did not hear see the damaged hull, let alone hear the bursting of the wood. He looked away from the crater as his body trembled. He was thirsty. He took a bottle of water by Namiane on the ground and raised it to his mouth. Nothing came out. It was empty. For some reason, he felt glad.

  Rodney watched. He unstrapped his bottle from his waist. “Here. Have some.”

  Davy reached to take it, but as the bottle of water clenched within his hand, he could not pull it away. The strength in Davy’s hand had become weak, as he turned squeamish; the bottle dropped to the ground and spilled.

  “Hey!”

  “I’m all set, Rodney.”

  “That costs a friggin’ mansion, man!” Rodney dropped to the ground and licked up the spilled water. His sandpaper-dried tongue picked up dead grass, and he spat. He rose and patted his pants.

  “You owe me a mansion, Davy.”

  Davy sat and took his face with his hand as though he had a great headache.

  “Shut up. I beg of you. For one second.”

  “Fine. I’ll be waiting inside when you’re ready to go. Look at the sun. It’s coming up. When it passes the mountains, Vendicatore will be at his podium. We don’t got much time.” He tapped at his wristwatch. “We don’t go now, you’ll burn in a lake of fire forever.”

  “Okay,” Davy said.

  “A lake of fire, Davy.”

  “Go inside.”

  Rodney opened the sliding door. “Don’t waste time with the cuckoo girl.”

  Davy glared at him. Rodney yelped in fear of his wrath and entered the cottage and closed the door.

  Davy kept Namiane in his lap. He looked down at her face, and her eyes opened without a tear.

  “I’m sorry, Davy.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I did all this. All of it. It’s not your fault; it’s mine.”

  Davy failed to decipher yet another random apology from her. She wasn’t to blame for the monster he’d become. Vendicatore was.

  As the sun rose past the mountains for the afternoon, light shot across the crater at the couple. Davy garnered the strength to raise his head through the rays and the empty crater. It did not fill—not in red, not in that dirty color, not in blue—it was empty, as usual, except for the usual trickery of the mirage of the sun-drenched horizon.

  Davy looked back down at Namiane. “What do you see when you look at the crater, Nam?”

  She turned her head at the horizon, over the dock. Her half-open eyes widened.

  “It’s the lake.”

  “You see the lake?”

  She smiled. “My God . . . it’s the lake, Davy.” Her voice was hoarser than ever before.

  Davy looked at the crater again. It was empty. He rubbed his eyes and looked once more. It was still empty. He blocked the sunlight, and looked—and it was still empty.

  “What color?”

  “It’s the lake, doofus. You did it. You did it, Davy.”

  She rose from Davy’s lap. Slowly, weakly. She walked toward the crater—gravitated to it—like a zombie.

  Davy ran in front of her, stopping her path. “There’s nothing there, Nam.”

  She tried to look over his shoulders, but he moved side-to-side and blocked her view. He covered her eyes with his hands as she tried to walk through them.

  “I want to swim.”

  “What? There’s no water. You’re gonna fall and die.”

  “Are you crazy? Look at it, Davy. It’s shiny. It’s so beautiful. My God, look at the boat!”

  This made Davy’s chest fill with sudden excitement—he fell for it again. He jerked his head to look; he looked back at her in disappointment. “No, it’s not. There’s nothing.”

  She stopped in place and looked at Davy. She crossed her arms. “Don’t lie to me anymore. I see what’s going on. Your father wants more, doesn’t he? He’s not satisfied with this whole lake? I told you this would happen! I knew it.”

  “You’re hallucinating. You need water now.”

  She punched him. “Then move!”

  “No. That’s not real. There’s nothing—”

  “Liar—!”

  Davy picked her up. She kicked and screamed.

  He threw her over his shoulder, and with one hand opened the sliding door, and entered the cottage.

  “Time to go?” Rodney called from the living room. He sat in a rocking chair.

  Davy walked through the kitchen, through the hallway to the end and into their bedroom. Surrounding—overwhelming—the bed was an endless array of paintings on easels, all representing the crisp, blue Pacific Ocean and the beaches of Hawaii. (Namiane always dreamed of one day waking up there, given the placement of the paintings.) Davy laid Namiane on the bed.

  He exited the bedroom and ran into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet—it was empty, and he tilted his head in confusion. He turned to Rodney, who hoarded a whole bunch of water bottles, as he tried shoving them into his backpack.

  Rodney, caught, put his hands up. “You owed me a mansion.”

  Davy glared at him. He took one of the bottles and ran back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and sat on the bed to rejoin Namiane. She lied flat on her back, eyes closed.

  “Open up, Nam.”

  She gently shook her head, her thin, messy hair brushing against the pillow. She yawned and turned over.

  Rodney called from outside, “Let’s go, Davy!” A pair of short honks from his car followed.

  Namiane shooed Davy away with her shaking arms.

  “Just go. Go. Steal and kill. Kill, steal, kill. All that you’re good at. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry I made you this way. But there’s no changing it, now.” There was silence. “Go kill! Leave me alone!”

  Davy left the bottle opened on the nightstand. “I’ll be right back, and—” he bit his tongue. He no longer wanted to make another promise of Hawaii he couldn’t keep.

  She nodded sleepily.

  He touched the bottle. “Promise me you’ll drink this. I want it to be empty when I get back.”

  Now she was fully unresponsive. Her breathing became wheezing, even and loud; she had fallen asleep.

  Davy watched her as his eyes reddened. He rubbed them and felt a breeze from the window as the curtains flailed and flapped in the air. The wind brought in a flurry of sand.

  Before he could close the window, a green ray of light shot across the crater, across the dock, hitting his face.

  The familiar voice vibrated through the dead woods. It echoed, bouncing off the walls of the crater, in a thunderous roar.

  Davy received a reiteration of the instructions from his father, as the green figure took shape in front of the mountains.

  Do not bring your gang, else you could be caught. Just you, Penelope, Frank Solas, and Rodney Bight. For now, send your gang deep into the desert, to scout Solas’ men, in hiding. And you will steal Tidewater . . . then you will go to Solas’ oasis . . . and, finally, you will steal his reservoir . . . this time, don’t fuck up, boy! Do you want me to suffer an eternity in hellfire?

  The voice roared across the sun-drenched bowl. The green spirit flickered above the mirage.

  A white projector screen hanged from the ceiling in front of Governor Vendicatore’
s desk.

  Vendicatore was sitting behind his desk, watching the screen.

  On the screen: two split images. They were two camera angles side-by-side, focused.

  One was of the back of the cottage, Davy’s head sticking out from the window.

  The second was the crater, and a close-up of Wesley Bay’s “spirit.”

  Demon.

  Vendicatore covered the microphone he was holding with his other hand. He did this to let out a laugh, without leaking it through.

  He stopped laughing. He raised the microphone to his lips.

  He spoke in a different, even colder, voice: “I repeat: only you, Penelope, Solas, and Bight shall go to steal Tidewater. Then go to Solas’ oasis . . . you and Penelope will kill Solas and Rodney Bight. Then you will steal his reservoir.”

  Vendicatore jerked his face and laughed into his shirt; he collected himself and screamed, “Bring me back to life!”

  And with that, he flicked off his microphone and resumed his bursting laughter.

  When the final echo of his father’s voice faded, Davy nodded and slammed the window shut on the wind.

  He scanned the bedroom and pulled the wardrobe from the wall and positioned it in front of the window. He exited the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  Rodney’s car beeped from outside. Davy looked out another window. Rodney held his hand on the horn.

  Davy ran down the hallway and pulled a chair out of the kitchen. He returned to the closed bedroom door and wedged the top of the back of the chair underneath the knob—he couldn’t allow Namiane to leave the room, in her delirious state. He remembered when she tried drowning herself two years ago. He couldn’t trust her to not jump off the cliff while hallucinating; she thought there was water to catch her!

  Namiane now secured in the bedroom, Davy hurried to the front door and opened it.

  As he walked through, he thought about what he was about to do. He swallowed. The guilt—a parasite—had begun to spread, slowing killing him—and he was about to end the cure to the drought, Tidewater, thereby leading to the death of more people.

  He slapped his head. Tidewater was an elaborate ruse, he remembered, as Rodney told him. It was meant to scam the remaining population. He knew now that one would benefit from it. It was always meant for the unquenchable, salivating mouth of one Governor Vendicatore, and his second swimming pool that was undoubtedly under construction.

  His father’s voice brushed his ears more. Davy nodded to the tune, and his expression changed.

  He remembered what he cared about, above all things. He had one final mission. Just a little more blood. He’d already spilled so much—what were a few more drops? Rodney assured him a smooth operation through the palace—he assured him no guards.

  The only blood that was left to spill belonged to Rodney and Solas. Both traitors of Davy’s father. Davy could stomach their blood, even if he had turned deathly squeamish.

  Davy hopped onto the passenger seat of Rodney’s car. He felt the tip of a rifle tapping his elbow from the backseat.

  CHAPTER 15

  There was a sign of life in the city later that afternoon. A ruckus vibrated all throughout—hammering, pounding, thumping, clanging. The noise was a conch shell horn, screeching and echoing all through the streets—a call for an uprising.

  Survivors in their tents and the buckles of the streets awakened from the noise. They awakened from the shore of the Pacific to the remains of downtown Los Angeles. The noise was a reminder. A universal call of hope. It allowed their wrinkled, skeleton-like faces to crinkle a smile for even once; it allowed them to muster their last bits of energy to rise and crawl toward it.

  They gathered in hoards. They collected their empty cups and thrust them in the air. They all gravitated to the sounds, and met, and formed crowds.

  The thousands walked together, holding hands, and their cups. They marched over the cracked brass-colored stars in the streets, toward the noise. As they walked it grew louder and louder. And they chanted, Tide-wa-ter . . . Tide-wa-ter . . . Tide-wa-ter.

  And they followed it with, Kill So-las . . . kill So-las . . . kill So-las . . .

  The roar made the ground shake. It soon flooded out the noises of construction.

  It was as loud and frightening as thunder. Even Frank Solas himself heard it, the ringing of his name, despite standing miles away in the middle of the desert in his tidy orchard. As he prepared to leave, the wind brought the thunderous message to him, and it rattled his reservoir; it made him vomit his trout from the night before.

  They chanted until their voices in unison soared to the heavens. God Himself must have heard them, and wept.

  But did these people want His tears to rain down on them? God, no! They chanted so their true God, Governor Vendicatore, could hear them.

  And Vendicatore did feel their voices. He trembled to the roar. Tears streamed down his face.

  Wait—were those tears, or was it streaming, dripping water from the pool he had jumped in? Regardless, they were tears of joy, and not sorrow; this was a certainty.

  Vendicatore, their true God, with a soaked towel around his waist, walked through the palace hallways. Chlorinated swimming pool water dripped from his body. The carpet underneath his bare feet shook. He hurried to take off his bathing suit for a suit and tie, as his palace shook and flopped side-to-side.

  As the disintegrating bodies chanted, they turned around a crumbling skyscraper. Falling debris struck many of them, and they died. As the survivors cornered around the skyscraper the sun beamed on them. Their already-burned skin turned to shiny glass, making a sizzling sound; some cracked into dust and died. One bite of the sun too many. But the rest carried on. Those who survived blocked the ray with their trembling arms. With the sun blocked, they saw the palace ahead, poking into the clear blue sky, far, far away. But nearby, in front of them in the plaza, there was a platform, as the strong men of Vendicatore fixed it in place. The strong men placed a lectern on the stage, and a pair of glass squares on sticks—teleprompters—on each side.

  They fixed a large vinyl portrait behind the stage to the ground with stakes. With a construction crane, they took the top of the portrait and raised it, tightening it, removing all the kinks of the fabric, to the roars of the crowd. As the portrait flapped with the wind, revealed was the face of Frank Solas with a red tint of ink. An unflattering face—unflattering even for the perpetually grumpy-faced old man. It was a condescending smirk.

  The crowd booed and yelled insults at his displayed face.

  But something snapped above, and the vinyl dropped over the stage. The crowd cheered.

  Down with Solas! Down with Solas! Kill all the Hoarders!

  Vendicatore’s men regathered it and rose it again. With the construction crane, they rose to the mid-point of an old, undamaged skyscraper, and tied the top of the portrait to the windows of it.

  When this happened, the sun was fully blocked by the portrait. The people released their hands and saw the eclipse. They saw the man on the portrait, flapping with the wind like sails. Rage festered on their faces.

  On the portrait, above Solas’ wig, there was the word “Tidewater” written in blood red letters. It flattened as the portrait fastened and tightened with the stage and the skyscraper. The rest of the words became clear. The words “Will End His Greed!” was below his chin, printed in the same font and colors.

  And the people roared with approval. They gathered around the stage, all the thousands, and prayed to the palace whose golden tip glowed as it absorbed the sun.

  Their prayers were soon answered. They looked up. They saw the state car exit the gates of the palace, driving down the snaking path of the hills. It drove to them, a dozen armed guards walking in a circle around it as it moved slowly.

  Some people leaped onto the guards. And the guards threw them against the ground and shot them.

  Through the windshield, seen was the smile of Vendicatore, radiating stronger than the sun, when the blood splat
tered on the glass.

  But not everyone on the island was a worshiper. Arriving on the scene, the “conspiracy theorists” of South California: a group of twenty marched, the leader of them holding a wireless microphone, as Vendicatore’s car approached the stage. These people had well-nourished bodies. They were fat compared to the twigs of the crowd. Hoarders. The twenty of them together took up more space than two-hundred of Vendicatore's followers.

  They—all wearing black t-shirts printed with Vendicatore’s face and the words “THE REAL HOARDER”—got as close as they could to the car. They stood before the rifle-pointing guards. The leader raised the microphone to his mouth and shouted into it. A speaker blared in his other hand.

  “Dictator! Everyone, please, do not listen to this man! He is the drought! He caused everything!”

  And another spoke up—he jumped over the fence and entered onto the stage, as the crowd jeered at him. But as he pointed at the state car, he spoke through the microphone of the lectern, “He is avenging North California! He is not South Californian—he’s an agent of North California! He’s plundered our country . . . he wants us dead! He’s working with the Water Thief. It’s all for his own gain. Look at what he’s done—look—”

  The guards of the stage reached the protester and pulled him away from the lectern.

  “Please, listen—!”

  The guards threw him over the fences to feed the crowd. The bundle of reeds in their great number gathered him and beat him, and pulled his hair from his scalp, and dug into his skin with their nails.

  Die, greedy pig! Hoarder!

  Hoarders! Kill all the Hoarders!

  Vendicatore's worshipers attacked the rest of his protesters. The guards separated them all and carried the protesters away as the crowd cheered.

  The state car parked inside the fences, by the stage.

  The driver exited and wrapped around the car to open the backseat door.