THE FUNHOUSE MIRROR COLUMN: The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pock-marked roads of Sol Plaatje. The once-bustling city now lay eerily silent, its streets deserted. The air smelled of decay and desperation. The zombie apocalypse had arrived, and it had brought with it a thirst that could not be quenched.
By Monty Quill
THE NEWS spread like wildfire. The local municipality had issued a grim announcement: water interruptions were INEVITABLE! The city’s water situation had deteriorated to a critical point. Repair crews worked tirelessly, but their efforts seemed futile against the relentless infrastructure decay.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, panic set in. People rushed to fill containers, hoarding water, the precious elixir of life. But little did they know that a different kind of thirst would soon consume them.
The taps ran dry. Families huddled together, their throats parched, eyes wide with worry. Once vibrant streets now lay empty, whispering secrets to the wind. The city, once a symphony of life, now echoed with the haunting refrain of emptiness.
Desolation clung to every corner. Abandoned cars sat like forgotten relics, their tyres deflated, windows shattered. Faded election posters flapped in the breeze, promoting political parties no one would ever vote for again. The scent of decay hung heavy in the air, a bitter reminder of what once thrived here.
And then came the zombies. Not the slow, stumbling creatures of Hollywood lore, but something far more sinister. Their eyes glowed with thirst, their movements swift and purposeful. They moved in packs, drawn by an insatiable need. Their thirst was something primal – a craving that gnawed at their very souls.
Where had they come from? The answer lay buried in the city’s secrets, hidden beneath layers of history and forgotten tragedies.
Some whispered of a clandestine experiment gone awry – a hidden lab where rogue municipal officials had toiled in secrecy. Driven by ambition and hubris, they sought to unlock the mysteries of water and sanitation. Their experiments involved a potent cocktail of synthetic compounds, viral vectors and forbidden incantations.
Others spoke of an ancient curse, awakened by a city driven mad by water cuts, interruptions and shutdowns.
The zombie plague spread swiftly. Fuelled by their insatiable thirst, the undead roamed Sol Plaatje. Those bitten by the abominations transformed into mindless husks, driven solely by their need to drink. Their transformation was swift. Their minds obliterated, they wandered the streets, sucking on dry taps, eyes vacant and thirsty.
The city’s survivors huddled in makeshift shelters, their faces etched with fear. They whispered tales of lost loved ones, of narrow escapes, of the day the city changed forever. Some clung to hope, while others surrendered to despair. But all shared one common truth: the thirst was unyielding.
Water became the currency of survival. Those who controlled the reservoirs and boreholes held power over life and death. Desperate scavengers risked their lives to fill rusty containers, their trembling hands fumbling with each precious drop.
In this bleak landscape, alliances formed and fractured. Betrayal was as common as the setting sun. The thirst drove people to madness, turning friends into enemies, lovers into strangers. And still, the zombie undead roamed, their hollow eyes fixed on the next source of the liquid elixir.
As the sun rose, casting a glare over the broken city, a rag-tag group of survivors gathered. They had a plan – a daring raid on the Newton Reservoir, where rumours whispered of untapped underground reserves. Their leader, a grizzled veteran, spoke with conviction.
“We’ll quench our thirst,” he declared, “or die trying.”
And so they set forth. The once-empty streets now echoed with their footsteps, a symphony of determination. The air crackled with tension, belief warring with despair. The zombie apocalypse had brought them to this precipice, and they would either rise or fall.
And so they pressed forward, hearts pounding, eyes fixed on the reservoir. The zombies lurked, thirsty and relentless. But the survivors carried something more potent than fear – they carried hope.
It was a beacon that defied logic, a whisper that promised renewal even in the bleakest hour. They, the ordinary citizens, were the custodians of possibility, the architects of a future where the thirst could indeed be quenched.
* Read more about this riveting saga here, and may your taps forever drip with suspense!
** Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual aquatic apocalypses, zombie municipalities or pock-marked roads is purely coincidental.
*** Dear Sol Plaatje Municipality, your water cuts are not inevitable – they’re inexcusable. It’s time to stop treating water like an inconvenience and start treating it like life itself.
