World-building: Cholera

2034

That terrible Sunday in December 2032, I came home to find Pete dead. There was nothing I could have done, I know that now, but in my heart I hold the blame. If I hadn’t gone away, he could be alive now. I’d gone away for a weekend with friends, but Pete had a big work project on. He said, go on, the weather’s still crap after the storm, I’ll just work. So I left him on Friday and got back Sunday afternoon. Sure, I worried when he didn’t pick up his phone when we came back into cell reception on the way home. But he was working, I’d thought. I’d see him in a couple of hours.

Then we passed through the green stretches intermingled with housing development on the outskirts of Seattle and could see the damage. Our laughter and chat dried up as we peered through the foggy windows. Another storm had hit, the weather hadn’t just been crap, it had been ferocious. Streams were overflowing their banks and storm drains were minor lakes. We saw one car and then another marooned in what we guessed had been rivers of water. We meandered around the countryside as road-closed signs sent us through a maze of unfamiliar roads. The sky was suffocatingly low and gray, but the rain had changed to the familiar misty drizzle.

The streets seemed empty of life, with little traffic and less people. My stomach dropped. The storm must have hit the center of the city hard. I hoped Pete and Mike were all right.

As soon as I opened the front door, I smelled the vomit. I rushed through the house and found him, dead on the bathroom floor, lying in soaked clothing. How could he be dead? Vomit? A stomach bug? How could he be dead?

I stood up from his body. I couldn’t believe that he was gone. What do I do now? Mike? Was he here? I ran through the house calling, but no answer. I opened the guest-door slowly, peering in to the gloom. No one. Had he gone out? What kind of son would leave his father when he was so sick, when he was dead?

I pressed against the wall in the hallway and slowly sunk to the floor. Pete was dead. Pete, my rock, was gone. How was I going to survive? He would know what to do now, but I didn’t. Is this a 911 call? I’d never called an emergency number before. I took my phone out from my back pocket. Battery 19%, I’d better charge it up while I talked. I lost power on that old thing so fast. I made my way back to the kitchen and plugged it in, feeling bile rise into my throat, I took a deep breath and dialed. I got a recorded message, there were 62 people ahead of me. I put the phone on speaker, and texted my friends. Someone would know what to do.