Slake

In this month’s third, free, story, Victor Manibo brings skin-crawling, unquenchable horror to your doorstep.

*

Welcome to The Sunday Morning Transport 2026, and the many exciting stories we plan to bring you in our fifth year! We are grateful for your support in helping us get here, and in continuing to bring more extraordinary writers and their work to the page.

January’s stories — by Micaiah Johnson, Julia Vee, Victor Manibo, and Marie Brennan — will all be free-to-read, and we hope that you’ll enjoy them and share them. However, it’s our paying subscribers who allow us to keep rolling throughout the year. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up.

Thank you especially to our paying subscribers, who allow us to keep rolling throughout the year. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up or giving a gift subscription.

~ Julian and Fran, January 18, 2026

---

Slake

by Victor Manibo

The ocean has merged with the bay, with the city loop, with the boulevards and thoroughfares, with Oak Street four floors below me. It hasn’t stopped raining in two weeks. A new record. At this rate, the water will soon reach the second-floor apartments, the ones without airtight barriers. I swear I hear the waves splashing against metal and glass. I see the inky surface and feel its depths, like an endless void. Like the void within me, the one only Jericho can fill.

Calix, are you there?

Here now, I answer. My screen’s lit up and so is Jericho’s face and now so is mine, and it’s as if there’s a supernova in my tiny studio.

I couldn’t wait, he says. It’s almost noon. He masks his concern with elation. I’m so glad to see you.

You know you can call anytime, right? You don’t have to wait.

He nods, gives me a sheepish grin. I didn’t wanna wake you.

I could be in a coma and I’d pick up. How bad is it where you are?

Same as yours. Jericho cranes toward his window. At this rate, the water’s probably gonna reach the second floor soon. . . .

This makes me laugh, but when he asks why, I say, Nothing. Just gotta laugh to keep from dying.

You mean crying.

Sure. Silence, too long that I chuckle in nervousness. God, I wish I was with you.

I wish I was with you too, he says in a whisper.

Southside isn’t far. Twenty minutes by train, if they still ran. Not even a full marathon far. I’ve told him, during the last big hurricane, about people who’ve swum the English Channel. That’s so romantic, he’d said, not needing me to finish the thought. He didn’t want to encourage the idea.

Did I ever tell you I was Division II? I ask, trying again.

Yeah, several times. Still have that swim meet photo, you in the teeny-tiny red Speedos. He pulls it up on the screen and we laugh.

See, this was only a few years ago. I might be bigger now, but that’s mostly muscle, babe. Means I’m stronger, more equipped to endure the elements. Hardier.

Bigger, huh? His face disappears from the screen and my Speedo’s maximized, zoomed in on my bulge pressing against Lycra.

Fuck yeah, bigger.

And hardier, did you say? Jericho zooms in some more. You sure that wasn’t a slip of the tongue?

I look down between my legs. Well, now it is.

Then the screen goes dark. The supernova collapses into a black hole.

#

Half an hour later there’s a banging on my door. The super won’t tell me anything I don’t already know, but screaming at someone might make me feel better. I swing the door open, ready to fight.

What the hell’s going on, Kara?

We need to take a couple more hours, she says, deadpan.

More? I’m already losing two hours of nighttime, primetime power!

It’s called rationing, Calix. You see the same feeds I do. We need to cut down till this blows over.

Jesus fuck! How am I supposed to survive? Some people need more than food and water, y’know. My racket rouses Mrs. Koutsoulidakis from her hovel across the hall.

The boy needs to work, the wiry old lady chimes in. We really can’t afford all these interruptions. Well, I suppose I can, and it’s not like the pension credits won’t come, but we don’t want Calix here getting fired, now do we?

I bat my lashes at the super. She shrugs and says she’ll see what she can do, but makes no promises. Better make adjustments now, she warns. We don’t know when this’ll end.

I dash back to my desk and grab a power bank. I catch Mrs. K right as she’s closing her door.

Hey, thanks again for this. It’s out of juice, though. I click the button on its side, and it’s so depleted, it can’t even blink red. Sorry about that.

The old lady waves me off. That’s a spare spare spare, she tells me.

You sure? Because I do have a pair of spare spares myself. It’s just that . . .

It’s fine, kid. You need it more than me. She pats my cheek, wheezes her goodbye, shuts the door behind her. I hear her warped wood floor creak under her feet.

#

I pass the rest of the afternoon in darkness. My body forms a fetal indentation on my bed-slash-couch. I imagine myself swimming the city streets toward Jericho. The thought exhausts me, leaves me parched. The kitchen tap sputters, then gushes to life. I drink till I can’t anymore, fearful of how long this will last.

For a second there I thought I’d have to dip into my reserves. The rows of glasses and jugs and reused wine bottles stare back at me from the counter, taunting me. I go into the bathroom and check on the tub I’ve turned into a cistern. Thank heavens the water level hasn’t dropped; the stopper holds its place.

A thin, iridescent film has formed on the surface of the pool. I peer into it and my breath hitches in my throat when I see my rainbow reflection.

The next time I see Jericho, he asks me, Don’t you know the rule of threes? Humans can survive three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. You have more than enough.

He sits up in his bed and the sight of his crisp white pillows, his navy duvet, his smooth, muscular chest, both soothes me and pisses me off. I don’t ask him how he spent the last few hours, but I’d like to think he was as miserable as I was, agonizing over our separation.

The hurricane’s supposed to end by Friday, per the latest forecasts, he continues. Would you like me to show you?

No, but keep going. Make me feel like the world’s not ending.

The world’s not ending.

You’re doing that thing again.

What thing again?

Just . . . repeating things back at me.

Repeating things back at you?

Stop it.

You stop it, he laughs.

We banter like that for a while. When the power cuts out again, I plug in power bank after power bank, which buys us more time. Jericho stays up with me until the sky outside glows brighter than my screen, but barely. Soon he says he’s gotta get ready for work.

You should do as I did and quit your job, I tell him. Didn’t you always say there’s more to life than work?

I might have said that once or twice. But I actually like my job.

Your fake job.

Jericho pouts but lets it go. Anyway, I promise I’ll call you back as soon as I can. You can hang on for a few hours. I believe in you!

And what am I supposed to do till then?

It’s been a year, so . . . how about get a new job?

What’s the point?

Money, silly. And that way you won’t need to keep lying to people.

When he logs off, I head to the kitchen. The water doesn’t flow and I hurt my hand hitting the tap on its head. That’s the end of that, I guess. From my reserves, I grab the gallon jug I’ve refilled and down all its contents to the last drop.

#

The sheets are soaked in cold sweat when I wake. It’s still dark out. I wrap the damp blanket around me and rise from the bed to get a drink of water. My fingers tremble, and when my feet hit the floor, a tingle runs up my legs. It’s then that I first notice the tightness in my belly. My stomach is distended, and in place of my flat gut is a mound of tight flesh.

Shadows move from outside my front door. The figure stays still for a second, then moves on. I flick on the monitor, but it shows only an empty hallway.

The light stings my eyes when I step out of my apartment. At the far end of the corridor, Mrs. Koutsoulidakis is pacing toward the large bay window that looks out into the drowning city. She turns abruptly and holds a hand to her chest.

Hey, kid. You gave me a fright. I didn’t quite see you there.

Is everything okay?

Oh yes. I’m just getting my daily exercise. Walking around my apartment gets boring. She comes down toward me.

In the middle of the night, though?

Calix, it’s two in the afternoon. Though in this weather, who could tell? She shrugs and as she turns the knob to her door, she grabs her hip. I think I may have overdone it, she says with effort. She braces herself on the doorjamb, but I catch her instead.

Despite her protests, I assist Mrs. K into her apartment, her arm in mine. The air in her one-bedroom is thick with the scent of ointment and gardenias. Stacks of broadsheets line the wall next to a small den. Framed photographs, faded and ancient, occupy the top of her bureau alongside large neon-colored pillboxes labeled with the days of the week. She shudders as I help her into her bed. When I try to put a pillow behind her, she swats my hand away, says she can do it herself. She closes her eyes. I have been dismissed, or so I thought.

Don’t leave yet, Nico.

It’s Calix, Mrs. K. Can I get you anything else?

Come sit, she says, eyes still shut. Tell me a story. The way I used to when you were little. When you were the one who was sick and I was the one taking care of you.

It might be better for you to get a nap. Besides, I don’t know any stories.

Don’t lie to your mother.

Okaaay, what kind of story do you want? A fairy tale? Maybe some Greek myth, like the ones you grew up on?

Grew up with them, yes, but ah—I don’t like ’em. I like the ones we made up, your aunties and I. Ones with women, heroines. Foteini and I once took turns creating a new story about the Medusa. Did I tell you that one?

You made your own myths.

She chuckles. We didn’t have TVs or computers.

I imagine Mrs. K and her sisters as little girls on some remote Greek isle, being each other’s entertainment. I search for these sisters among the gilded floral frames and my attention lands on one portrait in particular, a young army man. The name Nicolas Koutsoulidakis is engraved on the frame, and below it a date twelve years past.

Mrs. K opens her eyes and a flash of embarrassment crosses her face. You’re right, Calix. I could use a nap.

When she closes her eyes again, I slip out of the room. As I do, something else on top of her bureau catches my eye. A charging port with three power banks. Three black bricks, hours and hours of time with Jericho, indicator lights all blinking green.

She won’t miss another one.

#

I won’t give you shit about it, Jericho tells me. I want to, but I won’t.

I admire your restraint, I reply, a flourish of bravura to salvage my pride. I might bear an outburst, but the withering look he gives me makes me feel small, unworthy of him. I reach for the half-empty glass next to my screen and drink. I did it for you, love.

You did it for me. You did it for you.

For us.

Jericho rolls his eyes. You’re lucky I’m too worried to give you shit. Look at yourself. When was the last time you ate?

I give him a full rundown of my meals and then he helps me inventory my fridge (a few eggs, half a gallon of OJ nearing its best-by date, a bag of celery that’s turned suspiciously yellow) and my pantry (five cans of baked beans, an unopened box of instant ramyeon packs, enough rice and pasta for a soccer team). The stash hardly matters, though. I don’t get hungry these days, and the little I eat only comes back up in a rancid sludge anyway. I don’t tell him that.

And the chills, the interrupted sleep? Losing time? It could be listeria, or giardia, depending on what you’ve put in you. . . . He goes on like this for a while, a fount of endless knowledge and advice.

You think I should boil my reserves? I ask. It’s all from the taps before they went dry. The empty glasses now outnumber the full ones, and I fear I’d lose more if I do as he says. I don’t want to resort to the filmy bathtub water.

What if something happens to you and I’m not there?

I lift my hand to my forehead as though fainting. I did offer to swim to you, but now I’m way too weak. The jest fails to elicit a chuckle.

What if I swim to you instead?

I give him a wry smile. Yeah, right. How are you gonna do that, huh?

As expected, Jericho has no answer. He never could say anything whenever I puncture the bubble of this, our shared and conjured fantasy. He stares at me longingly, as do I. A tear forms in the corner of his eye and my heart aches, just like the rest of me.

When you were a kid, did your parents ever read you bedtime stories? I ask. He nods, amused by the question. He tells me about Narnia and Oz and the faraway places his mother took him to. He remembers them all so vividly and he grows more excited as he talks. He makes those places come alive, and soon I feel I, too, was the child in that bedroom, in the race car bed, listening to a loving mother lull me to sleep. He makes me forget about my own mother, and my father, their failures and faults, the lack of story time, of warm nights under a checkerboard blanket. He makes me forget about the loneliness that was as close as I ever had to a sibling, that grew up with me, nurtured me as much as I nurtured it, that never loosened its hold on me until Jericho came along. Such is the power of his love. It’s enough to erase something so deep-rooted, enough to nullify my daily miseries. Enough to make me forget the torment in my body and the one right outside my window.

I wish you could hold me right now.

Me too, Calix.

Do you love me?

I do. There is a void within me that only your love can fill.

#

A handwritten note’s been slipped under my door. Kara’s scrawl is as bad as her news. Power’s gonna be kept on for two hours in the morning, two midday, and one at night. I bang my fist on the counter and then howl. I uncurl my fingers, turning my hand and holding it out before me, pained, then confused.

My fingers are bloated like sausage links about to burst from their casing.

The stark bathroom light shows me the rest. My toes are all swollen too. A sharp tingle rides up my legs when I rest my weight on them. My entire body has the pallor of dried mud, and slapping my cheek does nothing to give it color.

I turn to grab a drink to calm myself, but the goddamn tap still isn’t working. I go to my kitchen reserve and take a glass. My belly’s so full of water, I almost spew it back out. I break into a cold sweat when I notice the glass was the last one I had left.

I rush back into the bathroom and check on the tub. In my haste, I slip on the tile. My hip bone takes the brunt of it and I curl up on the cold floor, shivering in agony. Then I begin to twitch and spasm all over. It’s a new sensation, dull yet electric, as total as any physical experience I’ve ever had. As my vision darkens, I understand, through the noise of panicked thoughts, that this must be what having a seizure is like.

#

The feeds now say the hurricane will last for at least another week. I keep a straight face as I share the news with Jericho. Of course, he already knows. He always does. I don’t need to tell him, just like I don’t need to tell him about my ballooning stomach and the bloat in my every extremity. Even though he can’t feel my pain, he knows.

That’s it, I’m heading over there right now, he says firmly.

No! Stop, goddamn it! Yelling brings a sharp stab to my side.

I won’t let you die!

Stop it, just stop! You know you can’t come here—you can’t be here—because you’re nothing but a fake, lying, useless piece of shit!

He cries, snot running down his nose. Half-formed words sputter out of him. The power cuts out, sparing me and damning me at once.

#

The toilet’s almost full. It was yellower, but it’s gotten lighter the more I go, my piss coming out as clear as every drop I drink. Yet I’m not pissing out as much as I’m taking in; my heavy belly is proof of that.

I drag my aching body back to bed and wait for oblivion. Three weeks, three days, three minutes. I have enough food, water, air to last me. But even three seconds without Jericho is going to kill me.

I start hitting my stomach to get the water out of me. Fuck the urge to keep it all in, to maintain the deep well I’ve made of myself. My punches are weak, but each one hurts like I’m about to burst open, guts exploding all over the sheets, blood thinned by the gallons I’ve ingested, innards turned pale pink. The acrid tang of vomit burns on my tongue. I heave and retch, tears flowing down my face.

Then the room brightens with the glow of the screen. Jericho has returned. Oh, thank you, thank you, I yell. I am so sorry. I reach toward my desk, but I’m too weak from my self-inflicted agony. Curled up in bed, I can see him nodding. He understands, he forgives.

I beg him to tell me he still loves me. He responds with a Greek myth, the one about the beautiful boy and the mountain nymph who fell in love with him. He describes the boy, paints a picture in my mind’s eye, and the boy comes alive the same way Jericho comes alive for me. I’m transported to a museum I once visited, one with a statuary of Greek gods and heroes with their swords and shields and emblems and banners. I find myself dancing in that great marble hall among the curly-haired muscular men in various states of nakedness, and in the very center of it, a statue of Jericho, holding a thin staff and a spray of long-stalked blooms. I throw myself at the foot of his pedestal.

When he finishes his tale, Jericho tells me I am beautiful. I am beautiful and I am loved.

Never leave me, I tell him.

I could never leave you. How could I possibly?

The storm rages out my window. The room goes dark again. Jericho is no longer marble, no longer just pixels on a screen. He comes and lies next to me. He wipes the sweat off my brow. My eyelids flutter and I fear another seizure coming on, but I fight it off. He enfolds me in his arms, brings my lips to his. He takes my clothes off. He caresses me without any disgust at my distended form. He enjoys my body in this manner, and so do I, the same way I have, many times before, over and over.

#

The smell of burnt hair wakes me. The lights are on and I scramble to make sure my power banks are charging before I even try to locate the smell. It doesn’t take long. A faint black wisp is coming from my desk and my heart sinks into my watery belly. The computer’s fried. The power tripping in and out must’ve fucking done it in.

A plan comes to me with a swift and startling clarity.

My palms are slick with sweat as I tiptoe through Mrs. K’s narrow foyer, making sure the floor doesn’t creak under my bare, swollen feet. I keep myself low, even though the pressure in my gut makes me queasy. The den, all dust and embroidery and faded wallpaper, is empty, and so is the bedroom. I turn and see the bathroom light is on. A few seconds are all I have.

Next to the charging port is her laptop, right where I saw it last. I tuck it under my arm and pull on the power cord, quick and quiet as I can manage. Fuck it, I pocket all the power banks too.

The bathroom door swings open. The look on Mrs. K’s face shifts from confusion to shock to worry.

What in the world are you doing? she asks. Give them back to me! She’s spry, and she’s grabbed my arm before I know it. I need them for the machine!

I wrest the laptop away from her and realize it’s the batteries she’s going for. I need them, she repeats, more desperate this time. Her nails dig into my forearm and the pain is so sharp, I instinctively shove her back. She falls to the floor.

It’s then that I see it: a white-and-chrome contraption the size of a briefcase, right by her bedside. A dialysis machine.

I was just in here the other day and I can’t believe I missed it. I’ve been missing a lot of things lately, like how Mrs. K is now struggling to keep her head upright. How her breathing’s short and shallow. How blood drips down a corner of the bedpost, the same blood seeping into the puce rug as she lies there, reaching out for my hand.

I miss all of that as I step over her supine body. I lift the machine from its stand and pull out the power bank attached to the back.

#

At first I don’t tell Jericho. I pretend our fight didn’t happen. I pretend I’m on my laptop, the one I sold months ago to cover rent. I pretend Mrs. K is going about her day, pacing up and down the hall, talking to her dead son.

I can’t tell if he’s caught the lies. He’s preoccupied with how I’m looking worse: paler, weaker, though not thinner, barely able to keep my eyes open, prone to incoherent rambling. Pretending I’m fine is one lie too many, but one I gather the most of my energy to sustain. I don’t want to ruin the few moments we have. I don’t want him to worry, or to diagnose me. I want him to make me laugh, whisper sweet nothings. He wouldn’t do any of that if he knew how I’ve started drinking filmy bathtub water using a porcelain teacup, or how my toilet’s overflowed with piss and I’ve been shitting in the trash bin.

Three days after I left Mrs. K’s apartment, I start pissing blood. The sight scares me so much, I can’t keep it from him anymore. No surprise, Jericho freaks the fuck out, but soon enough he snaps into his trademark problem-solving mode.

It could be a number of things. An infection would explain the chills, and it is likely bladder related. Stones might have caused a rupture. . . . Have you asked for help around your building? There must be a doctor or nurse there. You need to be seen by someone ASAP. . . .

The barrage of information only makes me want to drink more. Besides, I figure more water would dilute the blood. Didn’t they always say hydration is essential?

That’s correct, Jericho replies, giving me a shock. Did I say that out loud?

Yes, you did. Hydration is essential, but you are overdoing it, Calix.

I’m thirsty. I thirst. There is a thirst inside me nothing seems to slake. I break into a cruel laugh.

Please listen to me, he says, eyes welling up. Let me help you.

You can help me, all right. But first, I need you to not ask questions, okay?

Okay . . .

And don’t judge. Don’t—don’t argue, or say anything, just focus on the task at hand.

The task at hand . . .

Do you promise?

Promise.

#

The bracing wind whips me, the raindrops like razor blades slashing my skin, flaying me until I am nothing more than a tangle of exposed muscle and nerves. I lay down my cargo, the puce rug getting heavier with rain, and I make sure that it doesn’t unfurl. That the body doesn’t roll out.

Every part of me trembles, but it’s not like the seizures. I feel no oncoming darkness. Thunder and lightning join the electricity surging within me. The tiredness from lifting, carrying, dragging a body up six flights of stairs feels like a distant memory.

I raise my arms wide and try to embrace the heavens. Mouth agape, I drink.

Rainwater pushes up my gullet and my mouth is an overflowing chalice, but I still can’t help myself. My insides begin to spasm, throwing me into a fit of convulsion.

When I recover, I carry the rug again and then heave it onto the rooftop ledge. A firm shove sends Mrs. K down her diluvial grave. Just like Jericho suggested. The splash rings in my ears.

I peer down on Oak Street. The water’s reached the second floor.

#

I was worried you wouldn’t come back, he told me, weeping.

I’m here. Stop crying. You know I hate to see you cry. Saying so only makes him cry harder, and so do I. This pack has maybe fifteen minutes of juice left, I tell him, and I don’t know when the power will come back on. If it will come back on. So let’s—

It will come back on. It has to.

You don’t know that. Have you looked outside? Been outside?

I just know. We’ll see each other soon. If I have to swim to get there—

Don’t fucking ruin it.

A light shines through from under my door. Footsteps come down the hallway and I hear knocking, talking. Kara’s voice is insistent. I see through the dark, through the closed door, through her eyes. She’s checking in on the tenants, flashlight in hand. She reaches my apartment, but I stay glued to my screen. I won’t leave Jericho.

I won’t leave you, he says, unbidden.

A swell of emotions washes over me and I puke my guts out. The sludge is the color of a rotten yolk. Something inside me ruptures and burns, rising from my belly. I gasp in agony, reaching for Jericho, who’s as panic-stricken as I am.

His eyes, a warm pool of tears, widen in terror. It’s the last of him I see before the screen goes dark.

Now I see Kara and she’s seeing the spatter of red on Mrs. K’s welcome mat. She’s going in, sweeping her light over the entryway. She’s found the bloody drag marks. She doesn’t scream, but she’s running out of the apartment, cursing up a storm.

I crawl to the bathroom, carried by my plump gray feet and swollen knees. My bloated fingers grasp the teacup, and it clink-clink-clinks against the cold tile. I prop myself up against the wall next to the bathtub.

The water is as clear and pristine as the day I first collected it.

I peer into the water. The iridescent film is gone, and so is my rainbow reflection. The pain leaves me breathless. I dip the cup into the tub and my face disappears in the ripples.

Are you still there, Jericho? Talk to me, please. Keep me company. Tell me a story, tales of unrequited love, of lesser loves than ours. Like the one about the mountain nymph and the beautiful boy she fell in love with.

The sound of endless rain is soon joined by the banging on my door. Calix, open up. It’s about Mrs. K. Something’s happened to her, I think. Calix? Kara knocks, I drink.

Some will say ours isn’t real love, but I know it is. You know it too, don’t you, Jericho? I gave you all of me, and you gave it all back to me in turn. Is that not love of the purest kind? How could that not be real?

Kara keeps going. I drink, refill, drink again. She’s never gonna leave, the rain’s never gonna end, and I’m never gonna stop. I’ll keep drinking until I fill the void inside me. She knocks, I drink, and drink, and drink, and drown.

#

Thank you for joining our journey this week.

---

Victor Manibo is a Filipino writer living in New York. He is the author of the science fiction novels The Sleepless and Escape Velocity. His first crime novel, Dead Note, came out May 2025 from Bonnier Books. His first horror novel, The Villa, Once Beloved, came out November 2025 from Erewhon Books. Find him online at victormanibo.com and on most social media platforms @victormanibo.

“Slake” © Victor Manibo, 2026.

Thank you for reading The Sunday Morning Transport. This post is public so feel free to share it.