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MidReal Story
The Water's Last Stand
Scenario:One monk carries water to drink, two monks lift water to drink, three monks have no water to drink.
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Samson Lee
Lily Chen
Oliver Wang
One monk carries water to drink, two monks lift water to drink, three monks have no water to drink.
The saying echoes in my mind as I pick up the buckets.
I’m the monk who carries water, though my name is Samson Lee.
I walk a well-trodden path down the mountainside and through the forest.
To my left, a cold river gurgles over rocks and pebbles.
To my right, the forest is thick with trees and vines, suffocating everything beneath.
I carry the empty buckets down to the river and fill them to the brim.
Then I haul them back up to the monastery along the same path.
The weight of the water pulls at my arms, pulling me back down the mountain, but I don’t stumble.
After all, I’m a monk.
I’m determined, selfless, and disciplined.
I’m also a liar.
Samson Lee is not a monk, despite what the abbot tells me.
He’s not even Chinese—though it’s a good name for a monk and will help me fit in here at this remote monastery.
My real name is Sam Dryden.
I used to work for an organization called the SBR, which stands for Strategic Biohazard Response and Defense.
As an agent of the SBR, it was my job to battle dangerous pathogens—diseases that could kill millions of people if they ever got out of control.
Which is exactly what happened in a small village located in Yunnan Province in southwestern China.
A deadly virus escaped from a nearby research facility through a series of mishaps and oversights.
The virus was highly contagious and had no known cure.
The SBR sent a team of agents—including me—to help deal with the outbreak and contain the spread of the virus while they developed a vaccine.
I was part of a team that flew to China on a chartered plane.
We wore containment suits on the flight over to make sure we didn’t bring any of the virus with us.
When we landed in Beijing, however, we discovered that it was too late.
The virus had already spread through much of the country and was infecting—and killing—thousands of people.
The Chinese government quarantined the city and sent everyone back to their respective homes or to makeshift hospitals.
Our plane was commandeered by the Chinese military, and we were ordered to stay in China and help with the containment and cleanup efforts.
As days turned into weeks, we realized that we might never be allowed to go home.
So a few of us decided to escape.
We took a small boat down the Yangtze River, then traveled on foot through the mountains until we reached this remote monastery.
The monks here are kind-hearted people who open their doors to anyone in need.
When we arrived at the monastery, I told them that my name was Samson Lee and that I had come to join their order.
They welcomed me with open arms and didn’t ask any questions.
I guess they had more important things to worry about.
We’re located in a remote part of southern Qinghai Province, high in the mountains and far from any roads or towns.
The monastery is surrounded by tall peaks and thick forests, which help keep us isolated from the rest of the world.
It’s a beautiful place to live, even if it is a little remote.
My friends and I have been here for several weeks now, living in the attic of one of the temple buildings.
We help out with chores whenever we can, but the monks do most of the work themselves.
Today my friends Oliver and Lily are helping me fetch water from the river.
The sun is high in the sky, and its rays beat down on us like a hammer.
It’s so hot that I can feel the sweat trickling down my back before I’ve taken a single step.
The buckets feel even heavier than usual as I pick them up and start down the path.
I glance at Lily as she fills her buckets with water.
She’s small and petite with long black hair that she wears in a braid.
Despite her thin frame, she’s surprisingly agile—and resourceful.
Oliver is already halfway down the mountain with his buckets, moving with a slow but steady pace.
He’s tall and muscular with a shaved head and a thick beard that covers his jawline.
He’s also incredibly strong-willed and wise beyond his years.
Oliver is the monk who has no water to drink, though his real name is Oliver Wang.
I’m the monk who carries water, while Lily is the monk who lifts water to drink.
We all have our roles to play here, and we play them well.
The path winds its way down the mountain, and I follow it as it twists and turns through the trees and underbrush.
The river is still far away, but I can hear its faint gurgling sound in the distance, like a siren song calling me home.
The river used to be much bigger than this, flowing fast and deep through the valley and past the monastery on its way to the sea.
But now it’s just a shadow of its former self, with most of the water evaporating into thin air or seeping into the ground before it ever reaches us.
The river is our only source of water, and it’s drying up fast.
If something doesn’t change soon, we’ll all be in big trouble.
I walk for what seems like hours, my feet moving almost automatically as I follow the path down to the riverbank below.
The buckets grow heavier with each passing step, dragging me down as if I were carrying two lead weights instead of two buckets filled with water.
I try to ignore the weight and focus on my breathing, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything but the buckets and the path ahead of me.
The sun beats down on my face, making my skin feel hot and tight, while the air grows thick and heavy around me, like a blanket that’s been wrapped around my head and shoulders, suffocating everything in its path.
I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until I finally reach the riverbank below.
The river is so low that I can see the rocks on the bottom, which are exposed like the bones of some long-dead creature that’s been left to rot in the sun.
The river trickles down the mountain in a thin stream, moving so slowly that it hardly seems to move at all.
