Positive by David Wellington

down to the tile floor of the bathroom and put my head in my hands. I had no idea what I was going to do. I still thought the looters were after me, though that seemed less and less important as my lips grew drier and burned even more. If I died of thirst, it didn’t matter if they found me. The thought even occurred to me that they would have water, and that it might be better to give myself up than die of dehydration.
    I was starving, too, though the hunger was just a distraction from how dry I felt.
    The one consolation of this physical distress was that I had no time to think about anything else. Not what had happened to the government driver who was supposed to pick me up, or how I would get to Ohio now. Not that my whole world had turned on me and spat me out like a seed from between its teeth. Not what had happened to my family. Not even how scared or lonely or desperate I felt.
    I had to have water.
    By the time I came out of the restroom, it was almost full dark outside. A little blue light came through the plate-­glass windows at the front of the library. Not enough to do anything by. I went behind the desk and pulled open drawers, because there had to be water here. I was certain of it—­I wanted it so badly it had to be true. The drawers were full of old papers and office supplies, which I rifled through with desperate fingers. The bottom drawer held a woman’s leather purse and I grabbed it up, tore open its clasps, and dumped its contents on the desk. A thousand tiny bugs scampered everywhere across the wood veneer and I jumped back. I had imagined a sealed bottle of water inside the purse, imagined it so clearly I felt betrayed when it wasn’t there. I did find one thing that should have excited me more than it did. There was a crumpled pack of cigarettes that I ignored, but tucked inside was a bright orange plastic lighter. The fuel inside hadn’t all evaporated. I flicked its wheel and it lit up the room, scaring the bugs further.
    It was dark enough that I had to use the lighter just to find the makings of a torch. An old sweater full of moth holes hung on the back of a chair behind the desk. The chair was made of wood—­I broke off one leg and wrapped the sweater around it. Without oil or anything to get it going it took a long time to light the sweater, but eventually I had light, flickering, guttering, orange light that made me feel a little better.
    If I could have stood outside the library and watched myself do all this, I would have seen what I’d just done, though. Those broad plate-­glass windows had contained only darkness for twenty years. When I lit my torch, the light beamed out into the streets of Fort Lee like a beacon. Like a signal to any eye that might see: Something is alive in here. Come and get it.

 
    CHAPTER 13
    T here was plenty of the library yet to explore in my search for water. Torch in hand, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, which was filled with more bookshelves and lined with small reading rooms. Behind a locked door—­easily forced—­I found an office full of papers and old, dead computer equipment.
    Not a drop of water, though.
    I was getting desperate, and it was affecting my judgment. I was moving fast, waving my torch around and leaving black smoke stains on the ceiling tiles. I’m surprised, looking back, that I didn’t set the place on fire.
    I went back down to the main floor and sat in a chair and just cried for a while, even though I knew that would only dehydrate me further. I don’t know how long it took me to realize that the building might have a basement.
    I’d spent my whole life in a city that was flooded at its foundations, and this simple fact had failed to occur to me the whole time I spent running around that library, desperate for a drink. When I did finally think of it, my eyes went wide and I considered slapping myself.
    The basement door was locked, but I kicked it open