"Matley goes into the water today."

She lay awake in bed, the sun poured in from the window above her bed. Her sheets soaked, the room felt wet and heavy. The blackouts lasted longer and longer, and even an open window couldn't cool the heat.

She could hear her parents speak down the hall, mostly a murmur of rising and falling voices, the stilted tone of parents trying to hide an argument. She only made out one sentence.

"Matley goes into the water today."

Matley turned nine three days ago. That was the age, that was his age, when the thirteen went into the water. Orlin's Sea, a small body of water in an overgrown cow pasture. No animals grazed there for years now. Once a large lake, now all that remained was an ever-shrinking pond. But the moniker remained. Orlin's Sea. The pond itself remained fenced with barbwire, a tall fence of rusted wire wrapped around metal posts.

But Matley is nine. In a few hours, they will open the gate.

In a few hours, she goes into the water.

Matley sat up and shifted out of bed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. In the kitchen, the voices stopped. She could hear the footsteps coming towards her room, growing louder until her door flew open.

Her mother's smile showed every tooth. Must have been a bad fight, Matley thought.

"Honey! You're up. Well, today is the big day! Are you ready?" She beamed.

A really bad fight, Matley thought. Her mother left and Matley gazed around the small room. Bare walls, a small chest with a winter blanket tucked inside, and a single shelf with two stuffed animals, the fur long worn away. When children outgrew their toys, they passed them on to others. As her mother said, there used to be less things, more people. There used to be struggle. Despite this, Matley insisted she be able to keep these two. Each day, she expected to wake to an empty shelf.

She smiled. Maybe today would be good.

At the table, her dad forked the last piece of a soggy waffle, skating the piece of food over the syrup on his plate. He looked up her and smiled. He sniffed and motioned her towards him. Breakfast was sparse since the last of their chickens died. But today, there would be waffles. Bought food, a rarity. She enjoyed opening the freezer and seeing the box, so bright.

They saved them for today. Because today, there would be bought food, instead of black coffee and those thin, hard biscuits. Her father pointed out that they never went bad. How could they ever get worse?

"Sit down! We have waffles. Big day. You nervous?" He asked. He cleared his throat and sat his fork down.

"A little. Will everyone be there?" Matley asked. She pulled down on her pajama shirt to cover her stomach. She was outgrowing them, but the fabric felt soft and thin, broken in. She hated to see them go, passed down to another child in another family.

"Everyone," her mother said. She piled waffles onto Matley's plate and sat them on the table.

"If you're nervous," her Dad whispered "What if we ran away?"

"Could we?" Matley asked.

"No," her mother said. "No, we can't, Brian."

"Sure! You name it. We'll sneak out of here-"

"No. Stop, Brian. Just stop," she said.

"It was a joke," he said. He cut his eyes toward his wife. "Just a joke."

Matley lowered her head and ate. She focused solely on the burnt waffles, wishing the conflict at her periphery to some far away land.

"Before we go, can I visit Jason?" Matley asked.

"Swallow before you talk, hon," her mother said.

"You sure?" Her father asked.

"Yes," Matley said. "I want to say hi."

* * *

In his hospital room, Matley drummed her fingers on the chair, feeling guilty about her restlessness. The only sounds were the voices in the hall, the beeping of machines and the rhythmic wheeze of the machines breathing for the young boy. Jason turned nine a week ago.

He slept. A sleep, her mother explained, that he would never wake from. The fever burned out his brain and soon they would shut off the machines and he would join the twelve, and the many since then. Rolling Hills Cemetery would welcome another.

She had heard her parents marvel at the fact that Jason had been allowed to remain in an actual hospital, receiving care, for so long. They wondered what money, what trade goods, the family held onto when everything crashed. What did this cool room and machines cost them?

Jason's parents always left the room when Matley arrived. Today, Jason's mother stopped on the way out the door.

"Mattie," she asked. "Your birthday was close to his, right?"

"Three days ago," Matley said.

Jason's mother nodded. "Well, happy birthday. That's...that's..." She covered her mouth as she ran from the room.

Matley could hear her wails from the other end of the hall. She hopped off the chair and walked up to her friend. Through the tubes in his nose and mouth, she could barely make out his face and struggled to remember what he looked like before.

"They're saying awful things about you. About why," Matley said. "They said awful things before, but it's worse now. I miss you. I wish you'd wake up."

She waited.

"I go in today," Matley whispered. "So, wake up, okay? Please?"

No flutter of his eyelids. No movement. Same as before. Same as the others. She looked to the door, through the small window she could see his mother and father, contorted faces, screaming whispers.

"They all stop loving each other, don't they?" She asked Jason. After a moment she sighed. Matley left the room and shut the door behind her so it wouldn't slam. His parents thanked her visiting. They stood erect and quiet until she rounded the corner. Out of sight, she heard the whisper screams resume.

At home, her mother's hands shook as she buttoned the dress. The dress was new, stiff and uncomfortable, it seemed to press on her body, trying to reshape her. Were all new clothes this uncomfortable, she wondered? Matley squirmed and her mother said her name firmly. Matley stopped.

Her father sat on the swing outside, his feet on the ground and rocking himself back and forth. Every few seconds he leaned back, taking another swig. He was drunk. He would have the heavy eyelids and that weak smile. She never understood why he needed it, why he needed to be sleepy and sad.

"Are you okay, Mom?" Matley asked.

"Yes," she said. "I'm nervous. But it's a big day."

"You're worried He won't protect me."

"No, of course He will. You're my special, my amazing, special, girl. Matley, you will come out of that water just as you went in. Just like Bartley."

Tim Bartley. The miracle.

"He hasn't protected many," Matley said.

"Are you afraid?" Her mother asked.

"A little," Matley whispered.

Her mother gripped Matley's arms hard. She spun the girl around. Her face was stern, she breathed through her nose. "You can't be afraid. You have to have faith. You have to know He will protect you. Understand?"

"My arms." Matley grimaced.

"Understand!"

"Yes!" Matley cried.

Her mother released her grip and gently turned Matley around, to resume buttoning the dress and fixing her hair.

"Why did Tim make us paint the doors?" Matley asked.

"Because," her mother said. "He said it would keep us safe. He said it was a sign."

"I wish we had the blue door," Matley said.

"Teal. But yes, I miss it too. But red is pretty."

* * *

Her father rode in a different car. She recognized the driver of their car, a deacon at the church. Dressed in a white shirt and pink tie. He was bald and Matley looked at the thin covering of gray hair on the large folds of his neck, which seemed to consume his shirt collar. He talked about what a big day lay ahead. She would be tested. She would potentially be wed after the seven days passed without fever. Her life would be set. The Lord would see to it.

Her mother squeezed Matley's hand, but never looked at her. She watched the town, then the woods, fly past their window in a blur of green. The car slowed and pulled off the road and into the field. There was no road, only two thin trails from the car and truck tires, which wound through the fields and up to the pond. The car bounced on the uneven terrain, the Deacon apologized each time.

Orlin's Sea. The brown water remained still, barely rippling when the wind picked up. Matley felt overwhelmed by the people. The large crowd gathered around the entrance to the pond, dressed for service. Dozens, maybe a hundred. The whole town. Their whispers were a loud hum. Only the Reverend went beyond the gate. Only the Reverend entered the water.

She could see Tim Bartley on the grounds. Now an adult, he and several friends from school decided to swim in the water many years before. Old folks talked about how great swimming was in the blue lake, before it became the brown pond. Before people were barred from swimming there.

Thirteen children went in. Within three days twelve developed the fever, the aching, burning joints. They feel asleep, like Jason, and never woke. Only Tim survived. A few months later, hard rains brought flash floods in the night. Water fell heavy, like it did before the weather turned on them. Before the heat cooked their crops and cracked the soil in their fields. Rain of such power, the kind that had not been witnessed in decades, unleashing water that moved like a thick sludge, consuming everything in its path.

Tim was awake. Tim warned people.

"So, he did." The Reverend spoke. "He called out and saved us. God's messenger. God's chosen. He showed us the way."

Matley stood in the entry way, the small open gate in the barbwire. Her mother stood behind her. The Reverend spoke. One of the men watched Matley. He looked at her, but not like the others. Was it him? If the seven days passed without fever, is that who the Lord would bound her to?

The Reverend continued to illuminate the miracles of the survivor. Tim consulted on everything after that, with fellow survivors acting as a pseudo council. When he said they should paint their doors red and girls should wear long dresses, it was done. When he tasted his first beer in his teens and found the flavor bitter, the town abstained from alcohol. When he decided to chose a wife at 17, her protests were drowned in the cheers of the crowd, and the great celebration at their reception.

He could always turn to the good book, that tome with the dark cover. Her family had one with their name on the bottom right hand corner in gold. They never opened it. She wondered if any of them ever did? She looked toward Tim, but he looked only at the ground. He could not meet Matley's gaze.

The Reverend's arms shook. Each year was his last behind the pulpit. The next winter he would step down. But Bartley liked the Reverend's sermons, and his council agreed. The Reverend held out an open palm toward Matley. Her mother gently pushed her forward.

Matley heard her father cry out. She heard the scuffle, the grunts of the men trying to subdue her panicked dad. Her mother whispered.

"It's okay. Just keep your eyes on the Lord. Move forward."

"We struggled to feed our own. We struggled to keep the ways of our fathers and grandfathers alive. We were starving. We were dying. There wasn't enough. There just wasn't enough. But now, we bring them into the water. Then God makes a choice. His love so bountiful, he makes an impossible choice. For us."

Matley glanced at the fence. The signs had been removed. No warnings to stay out. Only the oldest, a rusted sign that had not been handmade by the townspeople, remained affixed to a post.

Warning. Naegleria fowleri present. Do Not Swim.

They had covered it in a thin cloth, which blew away in the breeze, leaving the bold letters, clearly legible, facing the crowd. The crowd that watched Matley stepped into the water. The crowd that felt embracing the old ways would save them from destruction, even if survival meant hanging on with a white-knuckle grip, ever dangling over oblivion.

The Reverend stood waist deep in the still pool. He reached out and took her hands. They held her tightly, but tremored. He pulled her forward, keeping her head above the water. She realized her father was the only other man that had ever held her. She wondered where he was. Was he in the crowd? Did they make him leave?

The Reverend spoke again. His baritone rode on the wind, but all she could focus on were his teeth, yellow and long. He held the back of her head in his palm, his forearm resting between her shoulders. He placed his other hand on her chest and she squeezed her eyes tight and held her nose. She clenched her teeth. He lowered her slowly into the warm water.

"We all go into the water."

He brought her out quickly, the air chilled her face, the sun felt brighter, baring.

"Matley," he whispered. "You have to let the water in."

He lowered her again. Again and again. Finally, he held her until she relented, drinking in the water, releasing the grip on her nose. He brought her up, coughing and spitting.

"There, child. There. Amen."

The crowded repeated him. "Amen."

Matley coughed and pulled herself away for the Reverend, struggling to the shore. She wanted out of the water. She saw Jason's obscured face, the plastic tubes, the flashing machines in the clean, lifeless room. No color there. No toys.

She remembered the man, the way he smiled, but not like the others.

Where to direct her prayers?

She fell onto the dirt and stood up. She could hear the water running from her dress and onto the hard soil. Her mother stood at the threshold, in the gateway. She opened her arms, but didn't step forward

They all said amen.

Follow us and our contributing authors for more dark fiction treasures!