Chapter 1 - The Dry Silence
The heat tore me from sleep like a rough hand. I woke up with my mouth so dry that my tongue felt like sandpaper glued to the roof of my mouth. The ceiling fan creaked slowly, its blades cutting the hot air without changing anything—just pushing the same stifling warmth from one corner to the other. Sunlight pierced through the cracks in the blinds, cruel golden stripes on the apartment floor. My apartment, 501, in the Cidade Baixa neighborhood, had felt like a sealed oven for days.
I blinked hard, trying to chase away the remnants of the dream. In it, tall figures walked the empty streets of Porto Alegre, making no noise, leaving no footprints. Just a low, constant hum, like a distant swarm. They pointed at people, and people withered. They didn't die immediately—they dried up. They turned into husks, twisted branches, but they still moved a little, as if trying to remember what it was like to have water inside them.
I got up slowly. The floor burned my bare feet. I went to the window and opened the blind a centimeter. The street was too quiet. No cars passing, no dogs barking, no kids yelling "goal". Only the asphalt trembling with heat. The Guaíba River in the distance looked like a shallow, brown puddle, the levees of the north and central zones exposed like scars on the dry landscape, and the sky without a single cloud to offer hope.
The kitchen smelled of dry mold, the kind that comes when there isn't even enough humidity to create mildew. I opened the fridge: two half-empty water bottles, a piece of hardened bread, some fruit that had turned to stone. I grabbed a bottle and drank slowly, feeling every drop go down as if it were gold.
That was when I heard the noise outside. It wasn't a scream. It was worse: a muffled sound, like someone trying to breathe through a clogged straw.
I ran to the living room window. The kid from apartment 502—Felipe, about twelve years old, skinny, always with a beat-up soccer ball—was standing on the sidewalk. He held a garden hose wrapped around his left arm, as if he had tried to turn on the street faucet and given up. He was looking at the sky, motionless. The sun beat down on him, without mercy.
Suddenly, he dropped the hose. The plastic hit the ground with a dry thud. Felipe brought his hands to his neck, slowly. His fingers were trembling. I saw the skin on his hands wrinkle first like crumpled paper, then stretch tight. Veins popped out blue for a second, then vanished. His arms withered, his shoulders slumped. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just a weak hiss, like air escaping a flat tire.
His knees gave way. He fell sideways, his body contorting slowly. His fingers curled inward, like dry twigs trying to close. The t-shirt, once loose, now hung slack over a chest that barely rose. A slight tremor still moved him, as if he were fighting on the inside.
My heart beat so hard it hurt. I ran to the door but stopped with my hand on the doorknob. Something held me back. An instinct. A fear I couldn't explain. Instead of opening it, I put my eye to the peephole.
The street remained empty. No neighbors at the windows, no cars. Only Felipe there, twisted on the hot asphalt. And further away, on the corner, a tall shadow. Too thin. Trembling slightly, like a reflection in still water. It didn't move. It just watched.
A low hum began. I don't know where it came from—the air, my head, my chest. I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, the shadow was gone.
I locked the door twice. The latch clicked dryly. I backed up to the living room wall and slid down to the floor. The sweat I had when I woke up had already evaporated. My skin felt tight. My mouth went dry again.
Hours passed. Or minutes. Time felt thick, slow. I stayed there, listening to the silence of the building. Until there was a knock on the door—three firm, but calm taps.
I got up slowly, my heart racing again. I peeked through the peephole. It was Carlos, from the apartment next door. Mechanic at the shop on Felipe de Oliveira Street. Tall, sparse beard, always with a water bottle in his hand since the drought began. His t-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat—the only sweat I had seen on anyone in weeks.
"Paulo?" he called, voice low. "Open up, man."
I hesitated a second. Then I turned the key.
He entered quickly, without waiting for an invitation. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, as if to make sure it was locked.
"Did you see Felipe?" I asked, almost breathless.
He nodded. "I saw worse," he said. "At the shop, Mr. Zé was hit. Dried up right in front of my eyes. But... I didn't. I felt the cold, the beam, but nothing happened."
He pulled up his sleeve. His arm was intact, just sweaty. As if his body had refused it.
I looked at him. He looked at me.
Outside, the hum started again. Closer.
Chapter 2 - The Dry Apartment
Carlos rested his back against the closed door for a long time, as if he needed to feel the solid wood behind him. Sweat ran down his forehead and dripped onto the floor, leaving dark spots that evaporated almost instantly. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling too fast.
I stood in the middle of the room, a few meters away, not knowing what to say. The hum outside seemed to pulse along with our hearts.
"Do you have water?" he asked finally, wiping his face with the hem of his t-shirt.
I pointed to the kitchen. He walked past me and went straight to the fridge. He opened it, grabbed the remaining bottle, and drank half of it at once. His throat made noise as he swallowed, as if every drop hurt from being so necessary. When he finished, he offered the rest to me. I refused with a shake of my head. I still had a little in mine.
He leaned against the sink, looking out the small window. The air was stifling, but there was still a remnant of humidity—the smell of mold that stubbornly refused to die.
"Mr. Zé..." he began, voice hoarse. "He was in the parking lot of the shop building, under a car. I was next to him. Suddenly he stopped. Dropped the tool. Put his hands to his chest. His skin changed. Turned gray, wrinkled. He fell to the ground, contorting slowly. I... I felt it too. A dry cold."
"I looked to the side and saw one of them. Tall. Trembling. It pointed at me. The beam came. Blue, thin. It hit my shoulder." He touched the spot on his t-shirt, where the fabric was intact, just damp with sweat. "Nothing. As if I was wrong for them."
I sat down on the kitchen chair. My legs were shaking a little. The hum outside rose and fell, like a wave.
"Felipe... the kid..." I said. "It happened in the street. Same thing. Dried up in front of my eyes."
Carlos nodded slowly. He turned the sink faucet. Two brown drops dripped out, then nothing. He closed it tight.
"They don't come in," he said, quietly. "Mr. Zé was in the parking lot. I ran inside the building, locked the glass door. The thing stayed outside. It looked at me through the glass. Pointed the beam. The glass cracked a little, but didn't break. It didn't cross. Just stood there, waiting."
I looked at the apartment windows. All with curtains drawn, but the cracks let in stripes of hot light.
"Here too," I said. "The one I saw on the corner... watched Felipe dry up, then vanished. Didn't come to the door."
Carlos approached the living room window. He peeked through the slit in the curtain, careful. I joined him. The street remained empty. Felipe's body was still there, twisted on the sidewalk, but now motionless. No neighbors had appeared. No police car, fire truck. Nothing.
"The whole city is like this," he murmured. "On the way here, I saw two more. One in the square, another at the bus stop. All dry. But no one is running, no one screaming. Like everyone went into hiding."
The hum got louder suddenly. A car passed slowly on the street—an old VW Beetle, windows down. The driver, a middle-aged man, looked side to side, frightened. He stopped in front of the building. Looked at Felipe's body. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Suddenly, he brought his hands to the steering wheel. His body shrank into the seat. The skin on his face withered visibly. The car jerked forward, hit the curb, and stopped.
Outside, in the shadow of the building next door, a figure appeared. Tall. Thin. The silhouette trembling slightly in the heat. It raised its arm slowly. The thin beam shot out, pale blue, and hit the Beetle's windshield. The glass fogged up, then cracked. The man inside moved no more.
The figure turned its head in our direction. Slowly. As if it knew we were watching.
"It saw us," he whispered.
We ran to the kitchen, to the corner farthest from the street. We stayed there, leaning against the wall, listening. The hum pulsed now, closer. Footsteps? No. Just the air trembling.
Minutes passed. Or hours. The sun began to set, the light in the apartment turned orange, then gray. Carlos checked his cell phone. No signal. Mine neither. The power flickered once, twice, then went out for good. The apartment went dark, only the remaining twilight entering through the cracks.
"Let's test it," he said, voice low. "See if they really come in."
I lit a candle I found in the cupboard. The flame trembled, weak. We went to the front door. Carlos peeked through the peephole. The street was empty again. The Beetle stopped, the driver's door open. The man's body hanging out, dry.
The figure was now a few meters from the building entrance. Standing still. Looking straight at the door. Its skin glowed a little in the remaining light—moist, as if sweating in reverse.
Carlos took a deep breath. He opened the door just a crack. About ten centimeters. The hot air entered, dry as sandpaper.
The figure raised its arm immediately. The beam shot out. It hit the open door, on the wood. The paint bubbled, peeled. A smell of dry burning. But the door held.
The figure took a step forward. Another. Stopped exactly on the threshold. The outstretched hand touched the air above the step but didn't come down. As if there were a barrier. The silhouette trembled harder. The hum turned into a low moan, almost irritated.
Carlos closed the door slowly. I locked it. We both retreated to the wall.
Outside, silence. Then the hum moving away, slowly.
But it didn't disappear completely. It stayed there, in the distance, waiting.
The candle trembled on the table. The apartment was dark now. And the two of us there, not speaking, just listening to our own hearts and the hum that wouldn't go away.
Chapter 3 - The Signal
The candle had burned to the end, leaving only a stump of melted wax on the living room table. The house was plunged into a dense darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the moon entering through the cracks in the curtains. Carlos and I sat on the kitchen floor, backs against the wall opposite the window, not saying much.
The hum outside had diminished, but not vanished—now it was a constant background, like a poorly tuned radio. Sleep didn't come. Every noise in the building kept us awake and alert—a pop in the roof, the creaking of wood settling—made us lift our heads. Carlos fiddled with the empty bottle, turning it between his sweaty hands. I counted the seconds between one hum and another, trying to find a pattern that didn't exist.
It was near dawn, when the air began to get even heavier, that we heard the knocks. Three firm taps on the door, followed by a pause and two more. It wasn't the pattern of someone asking for help in desperation. It was methodical.
Carlos got up first, body tense. He grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer—the biggest one there was. I followed, heart racing again. We peeked through the peephole. Outside, in the dark hallway of the building, a short and stout figure. Sparse white beard, faded old Army cap. It was Mr. Ramos, from apartment 601. Always with a radio on.
"Paulo?" he called, voice hoarse but low. "I know you're in there. Open up. I need to talk before they come back."
We hesitated. Carlos looked at me. I nodded. I turned the key slowly and opened just a crack, the knife ready in his hand.
Mr. Ramos entered quickly, carrying an old backpack and a portable radio hissing with static. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, panting. His face was red, sweaty, but his deep-set eyes shone with something that wasn't just fear.
"You saw them," he said, not a question. "The tall figures. The dry beam."
Carlos lowered the knife a little. "We saw," I replied. "And you?"
He nodded, sitting on the kitchen chair without being invited. He opened the backpack and took out a thermos. Unscrewed it and drank a long sip of coffee—the strong smell filled the stuffy air.
"I was a radio operator. 80s, Amazon. I tuned into a frequency. A hum. Just like the one out there."
He turned on the portable radio. Turned the dial slowly until it stopped on a low hiss, with a hum rising and falling underneath. My stomach churned. It was the same sound.
"Strange transmission. Like running water. It spoke of humidity. Of coming to collect."
Carlos sat in the other chair, the knife still in his hand. "And then?"
Mr. Ramos looked at the window, as if checking if something was watching. "The next day, one appeared. We killed it with bullets. But before that, it dried up two soldiers. Command erased everything." He tapped the backpack. "It was a test. A probe. If the drought returned... more would come."
The hum on his radio rose in volume suddenly. He turned the dial fast, cutting it. The silence returned, heavy.
"Now there are many," he murmured. "The drought called them. The humidity left in us... attracts."
Carlos looked at me. My neck went cold.
"And you?" I asked Mr. Ramos. "Why didn't you dry up?"
He gave a bitter smile. "I was inside the radio shack, at the post. Doors closed. They didn't enter there. Same thing as here in the building."
Outside, the real hum—the one from the streets—began to grow again. Closer. As if answering the radio.
Mr. Ramos put the device away in his backpack. "They've learned since that time. They're stronger. Or more."
He stood up slowly. "Stay inside. Doors locked. But if the rain comes..."
He didn't finish. Just looked at us one last time and went to the door. Opened a crack, peeked into the hallway, left quickly for 601.
We locked it again. The hum pulsed stronger now, as if it had heard everything. Carlos leaned his head against the wall.
"A probe," he repeated, quietly.
I didn't answer. I just stood there listening to the sound grow, coming from all sides.
Chapter 4 - The Transmission
The low thunder rolled in the distance. It wasn't rain. It was water moving en masse. The levees opening. The ground shook.
Mr. Ramos looked through the crack in the curtain, then at us. "I'm going to transmit from the top floor," he said. "Maximum power. Someone outside the city will pick it up."
Carlos and I looked at each other. Going up to the top floor meant leaving the apartment, crossing the hallway, using the stairs. The figures could be in the building.
"I'll go with you," said Carlos.
Mr. Ramos shook his head. "I need someone down here. If I don't come back, transmit again. Frequency 143.350."
He took the backpack, the larger radio, the dismantled antenna. Opened the door slowly. The hallway was dark, empty. The hum came from outside, but weaker now. As if they were waiting for something.
Mr. Ramos left. The door closed behind him. We stood there, Carlos and I, listening to his footsteps going up the creaking stairs.
Minutes later, we heard the radio static coming from above. His voice, metallic, transmitting. "This is ex-operator Ramos, Porto Alegre. Non-human invasion. Army aware. Deliberate flooding plan. Recordings attached. Do not let them erase."
The hum outside exploded. Loud, angry. Beams cracked. One, two, three. The whole building shook.
Carlos ran to the window. Down below, the figures on the street were looking up. All of them. Arms raised. The beams shooting out in sequence, hitting the top of the building.
"He's up there!" shouted Carlos.
I ran to the door. Opened it. The hallway was full of smoke now. Smell of burning. I ran up the stairs, Carlos behind me.
On the top floor, the door to the terrace was open. Mr. Ramos was in the middle, the antenna extended, the radio hissing. His shoulder was bleeding—no, not bleeding. Drying. The skin cracked, gray.
"Signal got out!" he shouted when he saw us. "Someone picked it up!"
A figure was on the edge of the terrace. Climbing up slowly. Skin cracking in the dry air, but advancing.
Carlos and I ran. We grabbed Mr. Ramos by the arms and pulled him back to the stairs. The figure extended its arm. The beam shot out. It hit the antenna. Metal melted. Sparks flew.
We went down the stairs stumbling. Mr. Ramos could barely walk. His shoulder hung limp, dry as a branch.
When we reached the 5th floor, the thunder of the water was deafening. The floor shook hard. Sirens in the distance. The flood coming.
We entered Mr. Ramos's apartment, 601. He fell to the floor, panting. We poured water on him. The skin cracked, opened, but started to return.
"Signal... got out?" he murmured.
"It got out strong," said Carlos. "Someone picked it up."
Outside, the hum stopped suddenly. As if they had felt the water coming.
And the water came. Slowly, painfully.
Chapter 5 - The Water
The first beam came thick, electric-blue, and exploded the corner lamppost. Sparks rained down on the wet street. Yes, wet—the water was already licking the asphalt, rising fast. The levees of the north and central zones had opened completely. The Guaíba was overflowing. The flood was arriving.
Down below, on the street, the tall figures formed a tight circle. Fifteen, maybe more. Their skin shone intensely, as if sucking the last humidity from the air. The hum had turned into a low roar, vibrating in the walls of the building, making the windows shake.
But the water rose. And when it touched the feet of the first figure, it trembled violently. The skin cracked. The body collapsed into gray dust, carried away by the current.
Another tried to retreat, but the water was fast. It surrounded it. The hum turned into a high-pitched scream. Cracked and fell.
One by one, the figures collapsed. The gray dust floated in the dirty water, dissolving.
From apartment 601, on the 5th floor, I, Carlos, and Mr. Ramos watched through the window. The water already covered cars. Rising up the buildings. The level grew faster than we imagined.
"We need to go up," said Carlos.
We helped Mr. Ramos stand up. His shoulder was still gray, cracked, but he was walking. We went up to the top floor of the building. There were more people there—neighbors who had survived locked inside, scared. Mrs. Lúcia with her small granddaughter. The teenager Lucas. The young couple, Rafael and Ana.
The water reached the 3rd floor. The 4th. Stopped at the 5th.
We stayed there, on the top floor, waiting. The hum had vanished completely. Only the sound of the water, distant sirens, helicopters.
Hours later, an Army boat passed. They rescued us. Took us to a shelter in Viamão, outside the flood zone.
In the shelter, no one spoke about the figures. The soldiers said it had been an emergency evacuation. Just that. But Mr. Ramos had kept the recordings. He hid them on a flash drive he carried in his pocket.
The water receded slowly, days later. Leaving mud, debris, silence.
I returned to the building a week later. The apartment was destroyed. Toppled furniture, walls with watermarks. But empty. Safe.
On the street, no trace of gray dust. The rain had washed it all away.
Chapter 6 - What Remained
The levees had been opened deliberately—that was what they heard later. A decision from high command. The water began to recede slowly, days later. It left mud, debris, silence. From the top floor of the building, we saw the transformed city. Streets turned into brown rivers, piled-up cars, uprooted trees. Porto Alegre had turned into a wet ruin.
Army helicopters passed in formation, rescuing whoever was left. One of them landed on the terrace of the building next door. Soldiers got out, armed, faces grim. They took us in small groups. Didn't answer questions. Just ordered us to board.
In the shelter in Viamão, set up in a school gym, hundreds of people crowded onto sleeping mats. Whole families, crying children, old people staring at nothing. They distributed water, canned food, blankets. But no one spoke about what had happened before the flood.
I, Carlos, and Mr. Ramos stayed together. His shoulder was still bandaged, the gray skin hidden underneath. The doctors at the shelter didn't ask how he got the wound. Just treated it and released him.
At night, sitting in the corner of the gym, Mr. Ramos took a flash drive from the pocket of his wet pants. "I recorded everything," he murmured. "The transmissions, the audio from the streets, the hum. It's here."
He looked at me. "Keep this. If you need it one day."
I took the flash drive. Small, black, heavy as lead.
Carlos approached the gymnasium window. Outside, Army trucks passed in a convoy. Sirens cut through the night.
"Think anyone made it out?" he asked, voice low.
"I don't know," I replied.
Mr. Ramos closed his eyes. "The signal... did it get out?"
"It got out," said Carlos. "Someone heard it."
But no one came to ask. No journalists, no investigators. Only the Army controlling everything, evacuating, rebuilding.
A week later, the water had receded enough for us to return. The building was standing but destroyed on the inside. Toppled furniture, watermarks up to the 4th floor. Apartment 501 smelled of mold and mud.
On the street, no trace of gray dust. The rain had washed it all away.
Mr. Ramos stayed hospitalized longer. His shoulder healed crooked, but he survived. Carlos went back to the shop. Rebuilt what the water destroyed.
Felipe, the kid from 502, was buried in a closed coffin. The family said it was acute dehydration. More than two hundred bodies were found like that—dry, twisted. Officially: victims of the extreme drought before the emergency flood.
Life returned slowly. Shops reopened. Cars returned to the streets. The Guaíba went down to normal level.
But not the same.
Every now and then, I wake up at dawn. Mouth dry. Heart racing. And then I hear it.
Low. Constant. Rising and falling.
The hum returned.