The Salt Fever
Title
The Salt Fever
Creator
Jotherlene Cabrera
Date
04/23/2026
Text
Miami in 2087 is an archipelago. The remains of the city have long been covered in water, or barely hovering above it, due to sea level slowly rising over the years. People were forced to adapt—to change their modes of living.
Roofs became gardens. Boats replaced cars. Communities turned smaller, more dependent on each other and less trusting of those outside.
As sea level rose, Palmetto Bay slowly split into two areas: North Palm, the drier, unimpacted land. South Palm, ridden with water.
Mariana Reyes guides her skiff between two submerged stop signs in South Palm, the vibrant red barely visible under the green color of the water. Her lithe body leans forward slightly, brown eyes scanning the water for any movement.
Behind her, Diego holds onto a crate, knuckles white. “You ever think about how weird this is?” he asks.
She doesn’t turn. “Every day.”
“No, like… you probably saw this as what it was. A road, right?”
“Are you calling me old?” She peers over her shoulder, a brow lifting at him.
His expression pales. “No—no, I’m not! I just, um, I was—”
“I’m kidding,” Mariana cuts in before he can panic, an almost imperceptible smile crossing her face. “I remember. And in a way, it’s still a road. A very watery one.”
Diego huffs a laugh. The tension in his shoulders eases, and when his eyes move, he quickly calls, “Left.”
She guides the boat around a drifting panel of wood, feeling the boat scrape something lightly. Mariana doesn’t stop to look; she could easily assume she’d scraped over something, like a mailbox.
“You think it’s him again?” he asks after a long moment of rotors cutting water.
She didn’t have to ask to know who he meant: Mr. Alvarez. Keeping her eyes forward, she replies, “That’s what his wife said.”
“He’s been wandering, right?”
“Yes.”
“At night?”
“And during the day.”
Diego shifts uneasily. “That’s not just, like, stress or something.”
“No,” she confirms, “it’s not.”
The Alvarez home stands slightly above the water on stilts like a water bungalow.
Nearby, there’s a floating dock tied down with thick ropes and a boat parked near it. Already waiting there is a black-haired girl, and Diego’s entire face seems to light up at the sight of her crouched low, tying a knot.
“Lena!” He waves like a madman.
Her expression is flat. “You’re late
again, Di.”
“Uhh… water traffic. Duh,” he replies quickly.
She rolls her eyes and doesn’t entertain it. Only when Mariana steps off the boat and approaches her does the girl stand, making eye-contact.
“How is he?”
“Not good,” Lena says. “He was outside earlier. Just standing there. Didn’t respond when I called him.”
Mariana’s chest tightens. “Did he recognize you?”
“No.”
That’s new. Very much new.
When they enter the house, the air is thick with humidity and salt that stings the eyes. Diego blinks furiously to try to relieve it.
Mrs. Alvarez sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug. “He didn’t sleep,” she mumbles tiredly. “The entire night. He was… he was just staring out the window.”
“Did he say anything, Mrs. Alvarez?” Mariana asks gently.
A shake of her head. “Just one thing.”
“What was it?”
“He said… the water is watching him.”
Diego shifts behind her uncomfortably, looking at Lena with a wincing expression. She smacks his shoulder.
“Where is he now?” The nurse coaxes.
Mrs. Alvarez doesn’t reply. She just uses her chin to gesture over to a half-open door. With one final look, Mariana is the first to walk over, steadying a hand on the knob and slowly opening it with a loud creak.
He’s standing in a corner.
Not pacing, not sitting, not laying in bed. Just standing with his back to the door, head tilted.
“Mr. Alvarez?”
No response. She steps closer.
“Rafael?”
A pause. Then, a slow turn, his eyes locking onto her immediately. The whites have turned a harsh pink, the pupils themselves engulfing the color of his blue irises. It’s a black pit. “Water,” he finally speaks, voice sounding scraped raw.
“There’s water everywhere, sir,” Mariana keeps her gentle tone. But her heart feels like it’s being wrapped and clenched by a snake, beats faltering. Something is off. She feels uneasy. Her palms are clammy.
He shakes his head, faster this time. “No. Not that water.”
Diego frowns. “What does that even—”
Mariana raises a hand to shut him up. “Can you tell me what you mean?”
Mr. Alvarez takes a step forward. Then another. His hands jerk at his sides. “They’re in it,” he replies.
“Who?”
An unsettling smile forms on his lips. “Everyone.”
And then he lunges for her, hand outstretched. On pure instinct, Diego grabs him first, something nearby hitting the ground with a dull crash as he struggles to hold the older man down. “Mariana!”
She moves immediately, grabbing her medical bag. She doesn’t rummage; her hands quickly land on the sedative kit.
Mr. Alvarez thrashes in his grip with surprising strength, movements jerky. “They’re in the water!” A strangled shout, voice cracking. “They’re inside it! Inside all of it!”
The needle sinks in. Slowly, his body slackens, and Diego finally lets go. He stands, looking down to see his eyes open. Watching.
“Ew, what the fu—”
Lena smacks him on the back of the head.
Eventually, they all made it to the clinic that sat on a higher block, its foundation having been lifted when water levels slowly shifted and floods became more frequent. It used to be an urgent care center. Now, it was a spot for everything in the community. A clinic, a meeting point, a supply hub.
Mariana spread her notes across the table. Diego hovered nearby, shuddering when he thinks back on the open eyes and the weird jerky movements.
He breaks the silence. “That wasn’t normal. Like at all.”
“It wasn’t.” A nod from Mariana.
“He was strong. Like, awfully strong for a sixty-something year old man.”
“Adrenaline,” she supplies automatically, eying her notes.
But Diego shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t adrenaline, it couldn’t have been.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she taps her pen on the paper. “Confusion. Paranoia. Fixation on water,” a murmur, as if she’s thinking aloud to herself. “That’s three cases now.”
“Four, actually,” Lena says from the doorway, looking grim. Both of them look up. “South Palm reported one this morning. Same symptoms, same… weirdness about the water.”
“Something’s going on.” Mariana frowns, gripping the edge of the table.
The clock is a ticking time bomb. Mariana made her calls, Lena helped with anything, and Diego sat there scribbling notes and doodles onto a sheet of paper.
Eventually it’s almost sunset, a rudder sounds outside before cutting off abruptly. Diego’s head peeks outside and spots Dr. Patrick Moore instantly.
He’s barely tying off his boat on the dock before speeding over to the front clinic, the younger kid having already retreated inside to safety.
“Tell me everything,” his sharp voice carries into the room, fingers adjusting his flimsy glasses before stepping inside the little room the rest are in. The white sterile lights flicker overhead.
Mariana does. She walks him through each case, each symptom, each detail that doesn’t really fit. Patrick paces as he listens, expressions tightening with every new piece of information.
He only stops when she’s finished. “It’s the water,” he finally says.
Dramatic.
Diego blinks. “That’s a big assumption.”
”It’s not an assumption,” he snaps. “It’s a pattern.”
”Then explain it.” Lena crosses her arms.
Patrick exhales sharply, forcing his thoughts to calm to something normal. To something he can formulate into a response. “Harmful algal blooms have been getting worse by the decade. Warmer temperatures, still water, nutrients—Miami is perfect for it now.”
”Not to be rude, but we all know about red tide.” Diego deadpans.
”It’s not just red tide,” a huff. “This is something more… present. It’s almost concentrated.”
Mariana frowns. “That doesn’t explain the behavior. So what if algae blooms worsen? It shouldn’t make people go delirious.”
The look that crosses the chemist’s face is almost solemn. “Because I don’t think it’s just algae anymore.”
Silence. So loud, you can hear the light fixtures buzzing. The hum of the small refridgerator tucked into the corner. The drip of the old faucet.
“What?” Lena is the first to break the bubble.
“Algae blooms are toxins. Algal toxins. They interact with this bacteria, maybe with viral agents that adapt to these conditions.”
Diego stares. And stares. And stares some more. “You’re saying…” he pauses to raise a brow, “the environment made a new disease?”
”I’m saying it was made possible.”
”And we’ve been eating from the water. Drinking.” Lena’s voice is almost hushed, the revelation and its meaning terrifying. This changes the way they function. The way they adapt. Too many variables would have to change, too many things would have to be done. And where could they get food that wasn’t from their waters? They needed meat. Not just produce.
Days passed. More cases rose. Those people slowly disappeared and diminished. Mariana was on her boat again, Diego steering, as she looked at the water. They’d received another alert of a familiar case popping up, Ms. Delfox, an intelligent, resourceful lady in her mid-thirties.
Mariana held up a hand. “Hold. I see something weird.”
She leans in more. And when her eyes sharpen, her entire face shifts: horror. Mouth agape, brows lifted, and eyes widened.
Diego stills. “What?” He’s already moving. “Mariana, what is it—“
He peers over her shoulder and stops talking. There, floating along the water on his back, is Mr. Alvarez… or what remained of him. His blood-red eyes are wide open, mouth agape to reveal yellowing teeth and black gums. And his body… the torso was swelled up like a human-sized marshmallow, skin colored a sick green-purple hue.
Diego gags. He steps back, hand shooting up over his mouth, turning. “What the fuck,” he mumbles, eyes glaring holes at the floor of the boat. “What the actual fuck.”
“…Contact Dr. Patrick. We need to go back to the clinic, and now.” Her voice is firm despite the horrifying sight. “This is… this is worse than we thought.”
And within twenty minutes, the pair got off the boat with shaky legs, Mariana reaching down to tie it to the wooden dock. Patrick was waiting there, looking concerned. She marches right up to him, telling him to follow with a sharp jerk of her head.
He doesn’t hesitate to oblige.
“We have to tell our community. Before it all escalates.”
A firm nod.
”Dr. Moore… Mr. Alvarez was…” She runs a hand through her straight brown locks. “He was in the water. Facing up, eyes opened, swollen beyond belief. He looked like he’d rupture at any given moment. He was rotting like a dead person left in water too long.”
He stills. “…That bad?”
”Yeah. That bad.”
Diego’s just standing by, listening with a terse expression on his face.
Their talk stretched on for hours into the night, discussing everything as best they could. The perceived virus, the safety of the community, resources, living, cases, and most importantly: alerting everyone.
Panic wouldn’t help at all in this case. It might cause a divide. But without telling anyone, it’d only lead to an increase in cases due to the lack of knowledge.
That’s how they found themselves standing on the largest rooftop in the neighborhood. Lanterns flickered in the humid air, casting yellow lights and deep shadows on the tense faces of those who came. The water below reflected everything back as if taunting the situation.
Mariana stands at the edge, staring out into the murky, dark surface. Her expression is unreadable. When Patrick comes over, her head tilts the slightest bit in his direction.
“You need to tell them,” he murmurs.
She doesn’t bother making eye contact with him. “The truth. I know.”
”So why haven’t you?”
”What if they panic, Patrick?” She finally turns, eyeing him with a line between her brows.
”What happens if you don’t tell them, then? More cases? More deaths?”
”That’s…” A sigh. She doesn’t bother because she knows he’s right. What not telling them meant.
Mariana turns to face everyone gathered there, stepping forward, steady voice carrying into the night. “There’s something happening,” she begins, other voices quieting. “We’ve… we’ve seen plenty of cases with unusual symptoms. Confusion, aggression, disorientation, and… fixture to water.”
Silence.
She continues, “We are still investigating. But we believe it may be linked to…” Mariana eyes Patrick. He nods. She looks back at the sea of uneasy faces. “…to environmental exposure.”
”Exposure to what, Mari?” Someone calls.
She hesitates. Then: “The water.”
Voices rise. Questions are shot out. People try to move toward her, fear already spreading fast like she expected. But it was needed. They all needed to be on the same page if they wanted to move forward. To do something.
That very same night, a storm hit. It slammed hard into the neighborhood with violent winds and heavy rain, pulling the tide higher with a flood. The skies were tucked behind big, monstrous clouds, gray in color and thick.
People lost power within minutes. Backup systems in the clinic flickered before failing, and the panic only worsened from there.
A patient was already screaming their throat dry. Inhuman, high, neverending. “They’re in the water!” Her voice carries. “They’re inside it! All of it!”
”Mariana!” Diego warns, trying his best to hold down the screaming woman. A hand swipes at him and he barely manages to pull his head back. “Jesus—“
She rushes over and fumbles with her bag. But Patrick is already there, plunging the syringe into the woman’s arm. Within seconds, the screaming stops, and she eventually slumps. Mariana breathes heavily. Diego lets her go, laying her gently onto the floor.
The morning light, riddled with remnants of thick gray clouds, illuminated the mess left behind by the massive storm. The clinic was flooded. Other homes in the neighborhood were too. Docks had missing planks, some boats having drifted further thanks to rope that had loosened in the night.
That was contamination. Everyone healthy—uninfected—moved up the clinic to the rooftop, all thanks to Lena’s “kind” demand to move up because of the water entering buildings.
That rooftop quickly became their new temporary center. Small, few tents stretched across the surface. Tarps flapped in the wind. Beds were made of folded bedsheets for pillows and whatever cover one had.
It wasn’t nice in the slightest, but it’s what they had to deal with for the timebeing. It worked.
Patrick had long left to his lab to test water samples relentlessly, hands shaking with exhaustion but refusing to stop. Bags were thick beneath his eyes, glasses askew, but he continued out of concern and obsession. He’d never seen anything like this in the plenty of years in his speciality.
Mariana was too busy to check on him, managing things at the rooftop. But Lena?
”You look like hell.”
Patrick doesn’t look up. “Thanks,” comes his dry remark, his head tilting to look up at a dish stained green in the light.
”Have you slept?”
”I’ve been trying to figure out how the—“
”Patrick,” she cuts him off. “Have you slept?”
He sets it down gently. Looks up. Adjusts his glasses. “No.”
”Mariana would kill you.”
”I know.”
”I could tell her,” she threatens, stepping to observe his workbench. Open notebooks, scribbled notes, sharpies, glass vials and petri dishes.
“I know.” He looks at the green dish again. “Please don’t.”
Lena smirks at that. “I’ll see. Any progress?” Her hand gestures to the sprawl of materials.
”Yes. I tried this filtration method and some heat. It’s… the only thing that’s worked, even if it’s not very effective.”
”It’s a start.” She nods, a small piece of hope blossoming in her chest. “I’ll leave you to it. And no, I won’t tell Mari, as long as you get us something good soon.”
”Thanks.” He gets back to work.
She leans against the door. ”And Patrick?”
A hum.
”Sleep. We don’t want you turning delirious, too.”
She hears a faint snort as she closes the door behind her and makes her way back to the clinic rooftop to continue helping with rationing supplies and managing all exchanges and items.
It’d been days of trying to ration scarce produce, make meals, and distribute other small items. Lena was exhausted at the effort, especially running on such low energy. Diego tried to help with small candies.
The effort was very much appreciated. But candy didn’t fix everything. What helped was when Patrick, looking like an absolute unkempt mad scientist, came running onto the rooftop through the twin doors, bursting through. “I’ve got something!” He whisper-shouts when he finally sees Mariana.
”What?” She turns, eyes wide. “You do? What is it?” Her body leans in closer to eye the small vial in his hand, both of them tucked away into a little corner by a big tent.
“This,” he starts, “is me enhancing filtration methods and combining extreme heat into the mixture to help manage the toxins. Maybe even reducing them plenty.”
”Are you sure? This is…” She gestures vaguely at his vial. He doesn’t care.
”It’s not perfect. But it helps, I’ve tested it three times and it’s passed all tests.”
Another flicker of hope. As long as it was somewhat effective, they could do this. From here, they could develop a more permanent solution, and then figure out the body of water itself.
It’s a start.
A reassuring one.
WORKS CITED
Akter, Sabiha, et al. “Synergistic Effect of Nitrate Exposure and Heatwaves on the Growth, and
Metabolic Activity of Microalgae, Chlamydomonas reinhardtii, and Pseudokirchneriella
subcapitata.” Scientific Reports, vol. 14, 2024, Article 2764. Nature,
https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-024-53198-7
Liu, JM., Zhao, HY., Emmanuel, C. et al. “Interdisciplinary strategies for the management of
harmful algal blooms: prospects & comprehensive review.” Discov Environ 3, 93 (2025).
https://doi.org/10.1007/s44274-025-00304-9
Roofs became gardens. Boats replaced cars. Communities turned smaller, more dependent on each other and less trusting of those outside.
As sea level rose, Palmetto Bay slowly split into two areas: North Palm, the drier, unimpacted land. South Palm, ridden with water.
Mariana Reyes guides her skiff between two submerged stop signs in South Palm, the vibrant red barely visible under the green color of the water. Her lithe body leans forward slightly, brown eyes scanning the water for any movement.
Behind her, Diego holds onto a crate, knuckles white. “You ever think about how weird this is?” he asks.
She doesn’t turn. “Every day.”
“No, like… you probably saw this as what it was. A road, right?”
“Are you calling me old?” She peers over her shoulder, a brow lifting at him.
His expression pales. “No—no, I’m not! I just, um, I was—”
“I’m kidding,” Mariana cuts in before he can panic, an almost imperceptible smile crossing her face. “I remember. And in a way, it’s still a road. A very watery one.”
Diego huffs a laugh. The tension in his shoulders eases, and when his eyes move, he quickly calls, “Left.”
She guides the boat around a drifting panel of wood, feeling the boat scrape something lightly. Mariana doesn’t stop to look; she could easily assume she’d scraped over something, like a mailbox.
“You think it’s him again?” he asks after a long moment of rotors cutting water.
She didn’t have to ask to know who he meant: Mr. Alvarez. Keeping her eyes forward, she replies, “That’s what his wife said.”
“He’s been wandering, right?”
“Yes.”
“At night?”
“And during the day.”
Diego shifts uneasily. “That’s not just, like, stress or something.”
“No,” she confirms, “it’s not.”
The Alvarez home stands slightly above the water on stilts like a water bungalow.
Nearby, there’s a floating dock tied down with thick ropes and a boat parked near it. Already waiting there is a black-haired girl, and Diego’s entire face seems to light up at the sight of her crouched low, tying a knot.
“Lena!” He waves like a madman.
Her expression is flat. “You’re late
again, Di.”
“Uhh… water traffic. Duh,” he replies quickly.
She rolls her eyes and doesn’t entertain it. Only when Mariana steps off the boat and approaches her does the girl stand, making eye-contact.
“How is he?”
“Not good,” Lena says. “He was outside earlier. Just standing there. Didn’t respond when I called him.”
Mariana’s chest tightens. “Did he recognize you?”
“No.”
That’s new. Very much new.
When they enter the house, the air is thick with humidity and salt that stings the eyes. Diego blinks furiously to try to relieve it.
Mrs. Alvarez sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug. “He didn’t sleep,” she mumbles tiredly. “The entire night. He was… he was just staring out the window.”
“Did he say anything, Mrs. Alvarez?” Mariana asks gently.
A shake of her head. “Just one thing.”
“What was it?”
“He said… the water is watching him.”
Diego shifts behind her uncomfortably, looking at Lena with a wincing expression. She smacks his shoulder.
“Where is he now?” The nurse coaxes.
Mrs. Alvarez doesn’t reply. She just uses her chin to gesture over to a half-open door. With one final look, Mariana is the first to walk over, steadying a hand on the knob and slowly opening it with a loud creak.
He’s standing in a corner.
Not pacing, not sitting, not laying in bed. Just standing with his back to the door, head tilted.
“Mr. Alvarez?”
No response. She steps closer.
“Rafael?”
A pause. Then, a slow turn, his eyes locking onto her immediately. The whites have turned a harsh pink, the pupils themselves engulfing the color of his blue irises. It’s a black pit. “Water,” he finally speaks, voice sounding scraped raw.
“There’s water everywhere, sir,” Mariana keeps her gentle tone. But her heart feels like it’s being wrapped and clenched by a snake, beats faltering. Something is off. She feels uneasy. Her palms are clammy.
He shakes his head, faster this time. “No. Not that water.”
Diego frowns. “What does that even—”
Mariana raises a hand to shut him up. “Can you tell me what you mean?”
Mr. Alvarez takes a step forward. Then another. His hands jerk at his sides. “They’re in it,” he replies.
“Who?”
An unsettling smile forms on his lips. “Everyone.”
And then he lunges for her, hand outstretched. On pure instinct, Diego grabs him first, something nearby hitting the ground with a dull crash as he struggles to hold the older man down. “Mariana!”
She moves immediately, grabbing her medical bag. She doesn’t rummage; her hands quickly land on the sedative kit.
Mr. Alvarez thrashes in his grip with surprising strength, movements jerky. “They’re in the water!” A strangled shout, voice cracking. “They’re inside it! Inside all of it!”
The needle sinks in. Slowly, his body slackens, and Diego finally lets go. He stands, looking down to see his eyes open. Watching.
“Ew, what the fu—”
Lena smacks him on the back of the head.
Eventually, they all made it to the clinic that sat on a higher block, its foundation having been lifted when water levels slowly shifted and floods became more frequent. It used to be an urgent care center. Now, it was a spot for everything in the community. A clinic, a meeting point, a supply hub.
Mariana spread her notes across the table. Diego hovered nearby, shuddering when he thinks back on the open eyes and the weird jerky movements.
He breaks the silence. “That wasn’t normal. Like at all.”
“It wasn’t.” A nod from Mariana.
“He was strong. Like, awfully strong for a sixty-something year old man.”
“Adrenaline,” she supplies automatically, eying her notes.
But Diego shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t adrenaline, it couldn’t have been.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she taps her pen on the paper. “Confusion. Paranoia. Fixation on water,” a murmur, as if she’s thinking aloud to herself. “That’s three cases now.”
“Four, actually,” Lena says from the doorway, looking grim. Both of them look up. “South Palm reported one this morning. Same symptoms, same… weirdness about the water.”
“Something’s going on.” Mariana frowns, gripping the edge of the table.
The clock is a ticking time bomb. Mariana made her calls, Lena helped with anything, and Diego sat there scribbling notes and doodles onto a sheet of paper.
Eventually it’s almost sunset, a rudder sounds outside before cutting off abruptly. Diego’s head peeks outside and spots Dr. Patrick Moore instantly.
He’s barely tying off his boat on the dock before speeding over to the front clinic, the younger kid having already retreated inside to safety.
“Tell me everything,” his sharp voice carries into the room, fingers adjusting his flimsy glasses before stepping inside the little room the rest are in. The white sterile lights flicker overhead.
Mariana does. She walks him through each case, each symptom, each detail that doesn’t really fit. Patrick paces as he listens, expressions tightening with every new piece of information.
He only stops when she’s finished. “It’s the water,” he finally says.
Dramatic.
Diego blinks. “That’s a big assumption.”
”It’s not an assumption,” he snaps. “It’s a pattern.”
”Then explain it.” Lena crosses her arms.
Patrick exhales sharply, forcing his thoughts to calm to something normal. To something he can formulate into a response. “Harmful algal blooms have been getting worse by the decade. Warmer temperatures, still water, nutrients—Miami is perfect for it now.”
”Not to be rude, but we all know about red tide.” Diego deadpans.
”It’s not just red tide,” a huff. “This is something more… present. It’s almost concentrated.”
Mariana frowns. “That doesn’t explain the behavior. So what if algae blooms worsen? It shouldn’t make people go delirious.”
The look that crosses the chemist’s face is almost solemn. “Because I don’t think it’s just algae anymore.”
Silence. So loud, you can hear the light fixtures buzzing. The hum of the small refridgerator tucked into the corner. The drip of the old faucet.
“What?” Lena is the first to break the bubble.
“Algae blooms are toxins. Algal toxins. They interact with this bacteria, maybe with viral agents that adapt to these conditions.”
Diego stares. And stares. And stares some more. “You’re saying…” he pauses to raise a brow, “the environment made a new disease?”
”I’m saying it was made possible.”
”And we’ve been eating from the water. Drinking.” Lena’s voice is almost hushed, the revelation and its meaning terrifying. This changes the way they function. The way they adapt. Too many variables would have to change, too many things would have to be done. And where could they get food that wasn’t from their waters? They needed meat. Not just produce.
Days passed. More cases rose. Those people slowly disappeared and diminished. Mariana was on her boat again, Diego steering, as she looked at the water. They’d received another alert of a familiar case popping up, Ms. Delfox, an intelligent, resourceful lady in her mid-thirties.
Mariana held up a hand. “Hold. I see something weird.”
She leans in more. And when her eyes sharpen, her entire face shifts: horror. Mouth agape, brows lifted, and eyes widened.
Diego stills. “What?” He’s already moving. “Mariana, what is it—“
He peers over her shoulder and stops talking. There, floating along the water on his back, is Mr. Alvarez… or what remained of him. His blood-red eyes are wide open, mouth agape to reveal yellowing teeth and black gums. And his body… the torso was swelled up like a human-sized marshmallow, skin colored a sick green-purple hue.
Diego gags. He steps back, hand shooting up over his mouth, turning. “What the fuck,” he mumbles, eyes glaring holes at the floor of the boat. “What the actual fuck.”
“…Contact Dr. Patrick. We need to go back to the clinic, and now.” Her voice is firm despite the horrifying sight. “This is… this is worse than we thought.”
And within twenty minutes, the pair got off the boat with shaky legs, Mariana reaching down to tie it to the wooden dock. Patrick was waiting there, looking concerned. She marches right up to him, telling him to follow with a sharp jerk of her head.
He doesn’t hesitate to oblige.
“We have to tell our community. Before it all escalates.”
A firm nod.
”Dr. Moore… Mr. Alvarez was…” She runs a hand through her straight brown locks. “He was in the water. Facing up, eyes opened, swollen beyond belief. He looked like he’d rupture at any given moment. He was rotting like a dead person left in water too long.”
He stills. “…That bad?”
”Yeah. That bad.”
Diego’s just standing by, listening with a terse expression on his face.
Their talk stretched on for hours into the night, discussing everything as best they could. The perceived virus, the safety of the community, resources, living, cases, and most importantly: alerting everyone.
Panic wouldn’t help at all in this case. It might cause a divide. But without telling anyone, it’d only lead to an increase in cases due to the lack of knowledge.
That’s how they found themselves standing on the largest rooftop in the neighborhood. Lanterns flickered in the humid air, casting yellow lights and deep shadows on the tense faces of those who came. The water below reflected everything back as if taunting the situation.
Mariana stands at the edge, staring out into the murky, dark surface. Her expression is unreadable. When Patrick comes over, her head tilts the slightest bit in his direction.
“You need to tell them,” he murmurs.
She doesn’t bother making eye contact with him. “The truth. I know.”
”So why haven’t you?”
”What if they panic, Patrick?” She finally turns, eyeing him with a line between her brows.
”What happens if you don’t tell them, then? More cases? More deaths?”
”That’s…” A sigh. She doesn’t bother because she knows he’s right. What not telling them meant.
Mariana turns to face everyone gathered there, stepping forward, steady voice carrying into the night. “There’s something happening,” she begins, other voices quieting. “We’ve… we’ve seen plenty of cases with unusual symptoms. Confusion, aggression, disorientation, and… fixture to water.”
Silence.
She continues, “We are still investigating. But we believe it may be linked to…” Mariana eyes Patrick. He nods. She looks back at the sea of uneasy faces. “…to environmental exposure.”
”Exposure to what, Mari?” Someone calls.
She hesitates. Then: “The water.”
Voices rise. Questions are shot out. People try to move toward her, fear already spreading fast like she expected. But it was needed. They all needed to be on the same page if they wanted to move forward. To do something.
That very same night, a storm hit. It slammed hard into the neighborhood with violent winds and heavy rain, pulling the tide higher with a flood. The skies were tucked behind big, monstrous clouds, gray in color and thick.
People lost power within minutes. Backup systems in the clinic flickered before failing, and the panic only worsened from there.
A patient was already screaming their throat dry. Inhuman, high, neverending. “They’re in the water!” Her voice carries. “They’re inside it! All of it!”
”Mariana!” Diego warns, trying his best to hold down the screaming woman. A hand swipes at him and he barely manages to pull his head back. “Jesus—“
She rushes over and fumbles with her bag. But Patrick is already there, plunging the syringe into the woman’s arm. Within seconds, the screaming stops, and she eventually slumps. Mariana breathes heavily. Diego lets her go, laying her gently onto the floor.
The morning light, riddled with remnants of thick gray clouds, illuminated the mess left behind by the massive storm. The clinic was flooded. Other homes in the neighborhood were too. Docks had missing planks, some boats having drifted further thanks to rope that had loosened in the night.
That was contamination. Everyone healthy—uninfected—moved up the clinic to the rooftop, all thanks to Lena’s “kind” demand to move up because of the water entering buildings.
That rooftop quickly became their new temporary center. Small, few tents stretched across the surface. Tarps flapped in the wind. Beds were made of folded bedsheets for pillows and whatever cover one had.
It wasn’t nice in the slightest, but it’s what they had to deal with for the timebeing. It worked.
Patrick had long left to his lab to test water samples relentlessly, hands shaking with exhaustion but refusing to stop. Bags were thick beneath his eyes, glasses askew, but he continued out of concern and obsession. He’d never seen anything like this in the plenty of years in his speciality.
Mariana was too busy to check on him, managing things at the rooftop. But Lena?
”You look like hell.”
Patrick doesn’t look up. “Thanks,” comes his dry remark, his head tilting to look up at a dish stained green in the light.
”Have you slept?”
”I’ve been trying to figure out how the—“
”Patrick,” she cuts him off. “Have you slept?”
He sets it down gently. Looks up. Adjusts his glasses. “No.”
”Mariana would kill you.”
”I know.”
”I could tell her,” she threatens, stepping to observe his workbench. Open notebooks, scribbled notes, sharpies, glass vials and petri dishes.
“I know.” He looks at the green dish again. “Please don’t.”
Lena smirks at that. “I’ll see. Any progress?” Her hand gestures to the sprawl of materials.
”Yes. I tried this filtration method and some heat. It’s… the only thing that’s worked, even if it’s not very effective.”
”It’s a start.” She nods, a small piece of hope blossoming in her chest. “I’ll leave you to it. And no, I won’t tell Mari, as long as you get us something good soon.”
”Thanks.” He gets back to work.
She leans against the door. ”And Patrick?”
A hum.
”Sleep. We don’t want you turning delirious, too.”
She hears a faint snort as she closes the door behind her and makes her way back to the clinic rooftop to continue helping with rationing supplies and managing all exchanges and items.
It’d been days of trying to ration scarce produce, make meals, and distribute other small items. Lena was exhausted at the effort, especially running on such low energy. Diego tried to help with small candies.
The effort was very much appreciated. But candy didn’t fix everything. What helped was when Patrick, looking like an absolute unkempt mad scientist, came running onto the rooftop through the twin doors, bursting through. “I’ve got something!” He whisper-shouts when he finally sees Mariana.
”What?” She turns, eyes wide. “You do? What is it?” Her body leans in closer to eye the small vial in his hand, both of them tucked away into a little corner by a big tent.
“This,” he starts, “is me enhancing filtration methods and combining extreme heat into the mixture to help manage the toxins. Maybe even reducing them plenty.”
”Are you sure? This is…” She gestures vaguely at his vial. He doesn’t care.
”It’s not perfect. But it helps, I’ve tested it three times and it’s passed all tests.”
Another flicker of hope. As long as it was somewhat effective, they could do this. From here, they could develop a more permanent solution, and then figure out the body of water itself.
It’s a start.
A reassuring one.
WORKS CITED
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https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-024-53198-7
Liu, JM., Zhao, HY., Emmanuel, C. et al. “Interdisciplinary strategies for the management of
harmful algal blooms: prospects & comprehensive review.” Discov Environ 3, 93 (2025).
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Collection
Citation
Jotherlene Cabrera, “The Salt Fever,” Everything Speaks To Me , accessed September 18, 2026, https://everythingspeakstome.com/items/show/454.