Introductions

It was inevitable. It was going to happen sooner or later. Many hoped for the later rather than the sooner, but it happened when they expected it least.

There were a few, here and there, who dreamed about this event. They, of course, tried to tell others of it, but they wouldn't accept it, said it was delusional, fantastical even. The more they went on about it, trying to warn others, they were taken away to padded cells, left to themselves to rave about it, and were thus resigned to it happening.

The 'it' being that in five minutes, or thereabouts, others would be reduced to a pile of hair, jewelry and clothes. Yes, people everywhere would get Demolecularized or DM'd (for short). Another label for this has been the disintegration effect.

It started in the extremities, fingers and toes, and then worked its way to your head. The process went faster from the toes to the torso than the fingers through the arms, as it had much more area to cover, but it met at the shoulders, then up through your neck and to your skull.

When it begins, you can't stop it no matter what you do, however, being in the shower at the time it happens seems to accelerate the process. You just kinda watched as you slowly disappeared at a molecular level. Those who were around others described the feeling as a pins and needles sensation, but otherwise it didn't hurt at all.

You just DM'd right there and then. Some described the last moment, when the last of the flesh and bone dissolved, as a pop, and then they were gone, but not forgotten. For those who survived (until their time came), they gathered the others' remains and eulogized them. The survivors just hoped that someone else would be around for their remains to be gathered as well. Therefore, those who remained took to gathering with others until they too were DM'd.

One

You're sitting uncomfortably on a cracked plastic seat at the bus station. The stale smell of diesel wafts in when the door to the outside opens and closes, and another scheduled departure is announced.

Mrs. Henderson from apartment 3B taps your shoulder, her knuckles bony and trembling. "Did you hear?" she whispers, her voice raspy with panic, eyes darting to the rain-streaked window where people hurry under umbrellas.

"They took Mr. Peterson this morning. Said he was shouting about… about *toes* dissolving right off in the shower." She clutches her shopping bag, clearly upset by this latest development.

Outside, city workers prepare buses under their canopies for departure. One of them, you both notice, scrubs graffiti off a bus—a crude drawing of a stick figure dissolving into scattered rings and watches. The rain makes the colors bleed into gray streaks.

"Did they take him to County General?" you ask, keeping your voice low. The bus station suddenly feels colder.

Mrs. Henderson nods, knuckles whitening on her bag. "Third one this week from our building. They're calling it 'shower psychosis' on the news." Her laugh cracks like dry twigs.

"As if hot water makes you see your own feet..." She trails off as a bus roars to life nearby, its exhaust momentarily drowning the station in fumes and noise.

You notice a discarded newspaper wedged under the bench—the headline screams "SHOWER PSYCHOSIS EPIDEMIC: TRANSFERS TO NEW FACILITY BEGUN". Below it, a grainy photo shows stretchers being loaded into ambulances outside County General's barred windows.

Mrs. Henderson follows your gaze, her breath catching. "They say it's temporary. For evaluation." Her tone suggests she believes this as much as she believes the bus schedule.

Outside, the graffiti cleaner pauses, staring at his own gloved hand. He flexes his fingers slowly, deliberately, before resuming scrubbing. The dissolving stick figure smears into a grayish blob.

Mrs. Henderson leans closer, her whisper barely audible over another bus engine starting. "My niece works in admissions at County. She called me last night... terrified." She swallows hard.

"Said they're not evaluating anyone. Just keeping... what's left of them. Then putting remains with mannequins and sending the kit and caboodle off to their new storage facility, you know, in case it's contagious." She pulls a crumpled tissue from her sleeve, dabbing at her eyes.

Outside, the graffiti cleaner suddenly drops his sponge. He stares at his boot, shaking his foot violently before ripping it off. A pale, perfect toe pokes through a hole in his sock. A raw, guttural sound comes from him, swallowed by bus engines... as his toe dissolves into nothingness. Rainwater pools where it vanished.

A supervisor leads him away and calls for another employee to finish his work.

You tell Mrs. Henderson that you hope that bus is not going to be the one they'll be leaving on. Bad juju.

Mrs. Henderson nods, her eyes fixed on the spot where the worker's toe vanished. "That poor man," she murmurs, clutching her bag tighter. "First Peterson, now him... it's happening faster than the city officials said."

Her voice cracks as she adds, "My Arthur... he vanished last Tuesday. Right in his armchair. All I found was his wedding ring and that awful plaid shirt."

Outside, the supervisor barks orders, but his hands tremble visibly as he points at the wet pavement. The replacement graffiti cleaner arrives, avoiding the damp spot entirely. He scrubs furiously at the smeared remains of the stick figure until only a faint chemical stain remains on the bus's metal flank.

Mrs. Henderson digs into her shopping bag, pulling out a small, framed photograph. "This was Arthur," she whispers, showing you a picture of a smiling man holding a fishing rod.

"He loved Sundays by the lake. Now... now I don't even have his ashes to scatter there." Her thumb traces the glass over his face. "They took his shirt and ring to that facility. Like evidence."

A metallic screech cuts through the station as Bus #42 pulls up to Platform 3, its destination sign flickering: **COUNTY GENERAL VIA INDUSTRIAL PARK**. The doors hiss open, revealing empty seats and a driver staring blankly ahead, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel.

Mrs. Henderson shudders, clutching Arthur’s photo to her chest. "That’s the one," she whispers. "They use it for... transfers. Arthur rode it the morning before he..." Her voice dissolves into silence as she watches a young woman in scrubs board, clutching a manila folder stamped "PATIENT INTAKE."

Outside, the replacement cleaner scrubs harder, shoulders tense. "Saw it happen to my buddy last week," he mutters to no one, voice raw. "Right in the break room. Left behind his lucky wrench. Some good it did him." He spits on the pavement near the damp spot.

Mrs. Henderson watches Bus #42's doors snap shut. "They'll say Arthur had 'shower psychosis' too," she whispers bitterly. "He hated baths." She tucks the photo away as the bus pulls out, its tires hissing on wet asphalt.

Two

The replacement cleaner suddenly freezes mid-scrub. "My... my fingers..." he rasps, staring at his gloved hand. Two fingertips vanish silently through the fabric. His sponge plops into the puddle as he stumbles backward.

Mrs. Henderson grabs your arm, her nails digging in. "Not here—not *now*!" Panic sharpens her whisper. The cleaner fumbles at his belt, pulling out a worn leather wallet. He shoves it toward the supervisor before his forearm dissolves up to the elbow.

"Give this... to Marcy," he gasps, collapsing against the bus. His knees vanish mid-fall. The supervisor catches the wallet, face ashen, as the man's torso dissolves into empty overalls crumpling onto wet concrete. Only his boots remain upright.

Mrs. Henderson trembles violently against you. "They're not even hiding it anymore," she whispers, staring at the boots. "Like trash left on the curb." The supervisor pockets the wallet without looking, kicking the boots aside with a choked sound.

A teenage girl drops her skateboard near the puddle. "Whoa, sick special effects!" she calls out, pulling out her phone. "Going viral for sure!"

The supervisor whirls around, snarling, "Get back!" just as her pinky finger dissolves mid-air. Her scream cuts through the station as her phone clatters to the pavement, live-streaming her vanishing forearm.

Mrs. Henderson digs her nails deeper into your sleeve. "We need to leave. *Now.*" Her voice trembles with raw terror as she pulls you toward the exit. Outside, rain slicks the streets into dark mirrors reflecting fractured neon signs. A distant siren wails toward County General.

The skateboarder's screams devolve into wet gurgles as her torso dissolves above the waistband of her jeans. Her phone lies face-up on the pavement, screen cracked but still streaming—comments scrolling frantically: "*FAKE!*" "*NEW GOVT WEAPON???*" "*MY BROTHER VANISHED YESTERDAY...*"

The feed cuts to black as the last of her sneakers disappear.

Mrs. Henderson drags you into the alley behind the bus station. Rainwater drips from a fire escape overhead, soaking her thin cardigan. "Arthur knew," she gasps, pressing against wet brick. "He kept journals. Diagrams. Said it started in the extremities and moved inward—faster with moisture."

She fumbles in her bag, pulling out a waterlogged notebook. "He tracked disappearances. Showers... rain... tears..." Her voice breaks as she thumbs pages smeared with Arthur's frantic handwriting.

The alley dead-ends at a chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire. Beyond it, the flickering neon of the "Starlight Motel" casts long, distorted shadows.

Mrs. Henderson presses the notebook into your hands. "Take it. Arthur was right—it's accelerating near water. Always starts with..." She stares at her own trembling fingers.

A drop of rainwater lands on her wrist. She jerks back with a choked gasp. "No. Not yet." Her knuckle dissolves silently, leaving a raw, bloodless patch.

"Find the pattern—before..." Her index finger vanishes mid-gesture. She stares at the space where it was, trembling violently. "Arthur said... groundwater... reservoirs..."

The notebook feels cold and heavy in your hands. Mrs. Henderson stumbles backward against the alley wall, clutching her maimed hand to her chest. "Go!" she rasps, her voice fraying. "They’ll come for anyone who—" A wet cough cuts her off as her lower lip dissolves silently.

Outside the alley, the bus station erupts in chaos—screams, splashing footsteps, the screech of brakes. A police cruiser comes to a halt, its spotlight sweeping across the entrance to the alley.

Mrs. Henderson’s eyes lock onto yours, desperate. "Arthur’s maps... page seventeen..." Her jaw vanishes mid-sentence. The rest collapses into a heap of floral polyester and orthopaedic shoes.

You scramble backward, putting Arthur's notebook inside your jacket as the police spotlight sweeps closer. You duck inside a Chinese restaurant's back entrance as the beam nears where you just stood.

You make apologies to the employees as you leave through the front door. You're perplexed, unsure what to do next. Mrs. Henderson's last words haunt you.

You see silhouettes running, police lights flashing blue-red across wet pavement. A woman slips and falls into a puddle—her scream cuts off abruptly as her legs dissolve into the rainwater.

Inside the restaurant, steam curls from bamboo baskets as patrons slurp noodles, oblivious. One patron, clearly shocked, says to her friend sitting across from her, "Did you see that?"

"Just street performers, eat your food," was what the friend said in reply.

You step onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, Arthur's notebook a cold weight beneath your jacket. Neon signs bleed color into puddles reflecting running figures—a man trips, his hand vanishing as it slaps the wet concrete. "It's in the water!" someone shrieks before dissolving mid-stride.

Three

A news van screeches around the corner, its side door sliding open. A reporter thrusts a microphone toward a trembling woman clutching a child. "Can you confirm the government's denial of..." The child's sneaker dissolves silently. The reporter drops the mic, backing away as the van peels off, tires spraying contaminated water.

You duck into a narrow bookstore doorway, heart pounding. Pulling out Arthur's notebook, you frantically flip to page seventeen. Rain smears the ink, but a hand-drawn map emerges—circles radiating from the city reservoir, dates scribbled beside each neighborhood's first disappearance. "Contamination vector," Arthur had scrawled in the margin, "amplified by direct H2O contact."

A teenager stumbles past, clutching his dissolving hand. "It's in the pipes, man!" he gasps before collapsing into a pile of hoodie and skate shoes. Across the street, a fire hydrant bursts, sending a geyser of water arcing onto the sidewalk. Screams erupt as people scatter, but the spray catches an elderly man—his legs vanish instantly beneath the deluge.

You press deeper into the bookstore doorway as contaminated droplets patter near your boots. The notebook trembles in your hands. "Groundwater... reservoirs..." you mutter, tracing Arthur's frantic arrows pointing toward the industrial park. A circled notation catches your eye: *"Pumping Station #5—Epicenter?"*

Across the street, the hydrant's geyser collapses. What remains of the elderly man—a tweed coat and polished shoes—floats in the spreading water. A woman screams, backing into a café awning.

"Stay dry!" she shrieks at a drenched teenager. "For God's sake, stay..." Her warning dissolves as rain drips from the awning onto her scalp. She vanishes mid-sentence, leaving only a paisley scarf.

Inside the bookstore, the bell jingles as you push deeper past dusty shelves. The proprietor, a gaunt man polishing spectacles, frowns at your soaked jacket. "Trouble out there?" he asks, nodding toward the chaos visible through fogged windows. His voice is calm, detached.

You clutch Arthur’s notebook tighter, rainwater darkening its pages. "It’s spreading," you manage, flipping back to the map. "Through the water systems..."

The bookseller leans forward, peering at the smudged ink. "Reservoirs?" He taps a bony finger near Pumping Station #5. "That old place. Been rumors for weeks—strange lights, trucks hauling sealed tanks out at midnight."

He adjusts his spectacles, voice dropping. "My nephew worked maintenance there. Vanished last Thursday. Left behind his toolbox and a half-eaten sandwich."

Outside, a police loudspeaker crackles: "RETURN TO YOUR HOMES. AVOID STANDING WATER." Sirens wail closer.

The bookseller's gaze flicks nervously toward the entrance. "They're sealing the district. Blockades going up on Elm and Third."

He pulls a rusted key from beneath the counter. "Take the service alley behind the mortuary—leads straight to the pumping station fence." He presses the key into your damp palm.

"Arthur Henderson was a good man. Came in every Tuesday for fishing magazines. Find out what he died for." Outside, the wail of sirens shifts to panicked shouts—glass shattering, followed by a chilling silence.

You pocket the key. "Why help me?" The bookseller shrugs, polishing his spectacles again. "Someone needs to scream the truth before the rain washes us all away." He nods toward a narrow door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’. "Go. Before they lock the alleys."

The alley stinks of damp cardboard and decay. Rain drips from overflowing dumpsters, forcing you to hug the brick wall. Arthur’s notebook feels heavier now. Ahead, the mortuary’s back gate looms—rusted iron topped with coiled wire.

You fumble with the key; it grinds in the lock. Rust flakes away as the mechanism groans open. Beyond the fence, Pumping Station #5 squats under floodlights, steam hissing from its vents like breath.

Inside, emergency lights strobe across puddles reflecting dissolving limbs. A guard patrols the perimeter, his boots splashing through shallow puddles reflecting the harsh light. "They're poisoning us," you whisper, clutching Arthur's notebook.

The guard pauses near the fence, lifting his radio. "Perimeter secure. No signs of..." His voice cuts off abruptly as he stares at his gloved hand—two fingers dissolving silently into the wet leather. He stumbles backward, radio clattering into a puddle. Static crackles as the device vanishes beneath the surface.

The guard collapses against a steam pipe, clutching his maimed hand. "It's... in the pipes," he rasps, eyes wide with terror. "They knew..." His wrist dissolves next, tendons glistening briefly before disappearing. The remainder of his dissolving body collapses against the steam pipe, his uniform crumpling into empty boots.

Four

Inside the station's control room, a technician frantically types commands. "Containment breach in Sector 7!" he shouts into his headset. "Override the..." Rainwater drips from a leaking ceiling pipe onto his keyboard. His scream cuts off as his forearms vanish.

Frantic shouts turn to wet gurgles as other technicians vanish. "Seal Sector 7!" a woman yells before her torso dissolves into mist. A technician staggers toward you, hand outstretched as fingers melt away. "The filtration system—" he gasps, "—they overloaded it with..." His jaw vanishes mid-sentence.

You dive behind a pallet of chemical drums labeled **CRYSTAL-X CONCENTRATE**. Arthur’s notebook flops open to a smudged page: *"Industrial solvent runoff? Accelerant?"* Rainwater drips from a burst pipe overhead, dissolving a nearby mop into strands. The air reeks of chlorine and ozone.

A surviving technician scrambles toward you, her lab coat sleeve dissolving at the elbow. "The filtration tanks!" she gasps, bloodless tendons flexing where her forearm should be. "They're diluting Crystal-X into the reservoir—makes the DM effect spread faster through groundwater!"

Her eyes dart to the dripping pipe. "Get to the main valve control! Shut..." Her jaw vanishes mid-word, the rest collapsing into a puddle of scrubs and safety goggles.

You scramble deeper into the station, Arthur's notebook clutched tight. The valve room hums with machinery—massive pipes converge here, throbbing with contaminated water.

Control panels blink erratically beside a wheel larger than a man, labeled **MAIN RESERVOIR FEED**. Rainwater streams down the walls from cracked conduits above.

A figure steps from the shadows—Dr. Akari, the station's lead engineer, her face gaunt under the emergency lights. One hand grips a wrench; the other is wrapped in dripping bandages where her pinky finger should be. "You shouldn't be here," she rasps, her voice raw. "This place is a tomb."

Rain drips from a fractured pipe above, dissolving a patch of her lab coat sleeve. She doesn't flinch. "You knew," you shout over the pipes' roar, pointing at Arthur's notebook. "You're pumping Crystal-X into the water!"

Dr. Akari's wrench clangs against the wet floor. "We were ordered to dilute it! Containment protocol!" Her bandaged hand trembles as another droplet lands on her wrist. The fabric darkens, then unravels silently.

"The runoff... it bonds with water molecules. Turns them corrosive." She staggers toward the valve wheel. "Help me shut it down before..."

A droplet lands on her temple. Her scream cuts off as her left eye vanishes—a wet, hollow socket staring at you. Dr. Akari collapses against the valve wheel, her dissolving fingers scrabbling at the rusted metal. "Turn... it..." she gurgles through half-gone lips.

You leap forward, grabbing the icy wheel beside her crumbling hand. Muscles strain as you heave clockwise. Rust flakes away as ancient gears shriek in protest. Outside, the pipes shudder violently—a deep, metallic groan echoing through the station.

Dr. Akari’s remaining eye locks onto yours, desperate. "Too... late..." she rasps. Her jaw dissolves mid-sentence, silencing her forever. Her bandaged hand slips from the wheel, collapsing into empty cloth beside her lab coat.

The valve groans louder, resisting. You throw your full weight against it. Rust flakes bite into your palms as the wheel inches forward.

"Come on!" you gasp, muscles burning. With a final metallic shriek, the valve slams shut. The pipes shudder violently—then fall silent.

Outside, the rain's drumming softens. Through a grimy window, you watch street puddles stop bubbling. "It... stopped?" you questioningly whisper.

Dr. Akari's lab coat lies crumpled beside the valve wheel, still damp. You kneel, pulling Arthur's notebook from your jacket. Rainwater smears the ink, but you carefully tear out page seventeen—the reservoir map—and tuck it into her empty sleeve pocket. "Rest now," you murmur. "Arthur too."

Outside, the silence feels thick. No screams. No dissolving limbs. Just the soft patter of rain turning ordinary again. Through the grimy window, you see a woman tentatively step into a puddle outside the station fence. She stares at her intact ankles, then bursts into relieved sobs, collapsing to her knees in the water. "It's over!" she shrieks to the empty street. "It's just water!"

You slump against the valve wheel, exhaustion hitting like a physical blow. The notebook feels heavier in your hands—Arthur’s frantic scribbles, Mrs. Henderson’s terror, the bookseller’s haunted eyes. Dr. Akari’s empty coat lies beside you, the torn map page peeking from its sleeve.

"It's over," you repeat with relief. "It's finally over!"

THE END