Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  There’s water here and it’s not as dark. I won’t taste it - not yet. Until I heal. I Kneel, pray, intone. I know it takes time. Long after we leave, it will begin its real redemption. But, our human race caused this. All of it. Greed. Pressure to supply. Eventually it was a different pressure – massive, destructive - a manic daisy chain that never snapped. If it had, destruction could have been isolated. There was no weak link - as if it had been planned. Architecturally sound.

  Healing can be learnt - Storm knows how. She hasn’t done it often but in her land in the north, there were powerful healers too. She has her own set of skills. A warrior. She protects. We filter the water as Rags takes a long drink. His stomach is strong, like ours. We move on.

  The stream takes a gentle curve to the left. I check our position. Compass, sun, compass. We’re okay. Across to the right, I stare at huge, off-white concrete hulks in the distance. Too large for a village – possibly a town. That is somewhere we don’t want to be right now – at least until we’ve found Alex. I’m grateful we’re heading away.

  This area’s not so bad - over there could be very different. Will be different. Plenty of things for Subs to enjoy. To smash. To kill - if there’s any life left. They ceased to be human, long ago. This was no chemical imbalance - it was chemical replacement. If they’re not wiped out, humans have no chance. We know the Subs grow old, like us. We don’t know if they can reproduce - I hope not. We don’t have the time to wait until they die of old age - they’ll kill us before then. Focus, Mercy.

  I feel Rags brush my leg. He reduces my stress. I don’t know why - he just does. It’s hard to judge the distance of the presumed town – it could be a few miles away but I don’t see boundary fires. It’s quiet. Storm’s features are set hard. She’s alert, more than usual. Ghost is fully loaded, spare bolts to hand. This far, we’ve either been very lucky, or we’re becoming battle-hardened. Both probably. We’re ready, in case - loading our luck.

  The railway track must have led over there at some time. No way are we following it as it’s now off course, most likely heading to hell. There are hours of marching ahead for us to make good progress. We need momentum - it keeps us alive. The air smells cleaner, fresher. Dust has taken years to dissipate, or to settle. I need to decide to either remain on this course or to move more to the east. We can reach the coast, follow it down. I’ve never seen the sea before.

  *

  I’ve decided - the coast it is. I change our course, with a new determination - a significant shift in thinking. We’re getting closer. It’ll be tricky but I want to hit the coast in daylight to get our bearings. It will have its own dangers - unique, no doubt. We’re strong. Resolute. But we’re not an army. We’ve walked several hours without anything attacking us. To me, that’s a good day.

  There’s a thump of excitement in my chest - nervous excitement, for the first time since leaving the valley. I’m getting closer. It doesn’t occur to me that Alex may be dead, or somewhere far away. Or both. I’ve never seen him but I have a description. It’s been many years since Mum saw him.

  He could have changed. Would have. Like Johnny. A decorated veteran before the mess. Smart, clean cut - allegedly. Now his hair is straggly, sometimes tied back or tucked into his collar. Those times…he’d be on one of his walks. Nowadays, he doesn’t call himself a veteran. He’s a participant. His words. He participates in more than he lets on, I’m sure. Drinks…and participates. I’m grateful for him. So was Mum. He helped keep us safe. And never asked for anything…ever.

  Mum helped the whole valley and beyond. Her healing, teaching, instructing me. My skills were partly taught, partly honed by faith. A whole lot of focus and self-discipline, too. Focus, Mercy. Mum’s dead. I’m on my own. No, I’m not. Storm’s here. And Rags. I’m grateful. But I’m alone.

  I figure on a ninety-degree shift in direction. Too little and we’ll miss it. Too much, we backtrack. The key is momentum. We need to move faster. I look at Storm - she doesn’t grimace but I know it doesn’t mean there’s no pain. She’s tough - I need her. I also need her to march with me. Rags will go all day. He’s due another of his excursions.

  Passing over old farmland, I see that once again, the soil is more brown than black. It’s hopeful. We skirt buildings, as far as we dare without losing too much ground. It’s quiet and there’s no cover around here. Subs, Hounds - they can be anywhere. We should spot them though. One thing I know. If there are more than six Subs, we’re in deep trouble. Four we’ve dealt with. We didn’t expect Hound intervention that time in the forest. It saved us though I can’t find it in my heart to be thankful for them, somehow.

  We’ve seen a smaller railway track but it twisted and turned - Storm said not to expect sheds along these tracks. Too small, too short, she reckons. I hope she’s wrong. They’re not without their dangers. Without them though, we’d have suffered more - they gave us rest and shelter. But now we march.

  I want to find a place to rest before dusk - I have a feeling we’ll hit the coast tomorrow. Early or mid-morning would be best, to suss it out. We’ll be going in blind - perhaps that’s better.

  We’ve walked for another six hours or so, passing streams along the way – healing, refilling. They were much clearer, and fresher – it gives me great hope. We’re climbing slightly. I want to carry on but we should rest soon. No shelter in darkness could mean disaster, including death. We can’t take that chance - I have responsibilities. Storm is wiser, tougher. A protector. But it’s my journey - she’s my responsibility.

  We pass many old farm buildings but they’re becoming fewer now so we’ll take the chance. Marching all day, we need to refuel ourselves. There’s no sight of a coastal area yet – the birds look the same – grey-brown, jittery, and small. No black birds, thankfully. No sign of Subs today either – my heart could gladly sing for that.

  A couple of buildings stand close to a hill. A stone house looks wrecked - empty rotted wooden window frames look bare and useless, the black-slate roof completely caved in. A long, dark barn is nearby. We decide to inspect it as Storm holds Ghost, a mistrusting scowl on her face. Her crossbow’s loaded - my sword is out. She’ll fire a bolt towards the open barn door, from thirty yards.

  Rags sits near me, focussing on the door. There’s a sudden whoosh as the steel starts and completes its journey in a couple of seconds. It sticks in the wood, splintering the immediate area. I hold my breath. The sound is sudden, unusual, frightening. Unexpected. Into the air fly hundreds of creatures. My heart is racing as adrenalin pumps through my body. Storm relaxes.

  “Bats,” she says.

  Chapter Eight

  My heart’s loyal beat is returning to normal. Normal? I wonder what that is nowadays. Storm grins, as usual - except when killer-fish grab her feet. We don’t rush, approaching the barn with caution. It should be fine but we don’t take chances. Ever. Storm holds Ghost, her grip firm enough to make her veins bulge. Pointing straight, I don’t arc. Just hold, ready. I throw a small rock inside. Nothing happens. Just to make sure, I throw again, further this time. Storm nods.

  We enter. It’s darker than I expected. There’s a high window to the right, another halfway up on the other side. The barn is part timber, part iron sections. The windows are intact, encased in wire mesh, protecting the glass from tremors. It’s closer to the coast - perhaps they had it easier here. Easier. Not the best word to describe it. Couldn’t have been that easy - there’s no one around. The bats use it - I’m wondering if anything else stops by.

  This place is large. To circle it with fire and stone will require time but we need to have protection. The large wood and iron doors won’t close properly - they’re warped and damaged - the hinges rusted and twisted. I think again, harder. There’s no need to encircle the whole place. We check the back – sealed, just the one entrance. Two curved rows of stones at the front will be enough - close enough to stop things sneaking through but not too close to burn down the barn, with us in it.

  We set to work
- there are good sized rocks available. We bring brushwood. Rags helps, dragging old broken fence posts for the fire. I find dry, slightly rotted timber at the back of the barn. Anything that will burn, we use. It’s a balance. The same fire that repels the Subs and Hounds will also attract attention. Johnny taught me one thing. Even if they’re human. Even if you know they’re not Subs. Do. Not. Trust. Ever. Unless someone clearly risks their life for you. Until then, they’re not your friend.

  There are less birds now that dusk is creeping in. We’re tired - time to light up. The doors won’t shut completely, but enough to keep any gusts out. We roll an ancient, busted-up tractor in front of the doors. We tried it but it didn’t start - the clutch engaged though - Storm knew how. I want us to have a very early start tomorrow. Better to sleep now. If we wake in the dark before dawn, we can clean our kit, organise. We have the torch.

  I wake frequently. Through the gap in the doors I still see flames though they’re much lower now. Storm sleeps on. Rags wakes when I do. He’s next to me but doesn’t crowd my space. I can hear the wind. It seems to carry momentum, shoved in by great forces. Sometimes it’s a roar. It’s different. I’m sure we’re on course for the coast. I reckon I’ve slept four or five hours already, on and off. Even if I manage no more, it’s okay, I can handle that.

  I think of Mum. I had time to get used to her dying. She was ill for a while. All that healing. All the sickness. Not the brief bouts as I heal on the move. Long, sustained periods when all had given up hope. Except her. Praying. Intoning. For her it was a duty. Forty-one years old. I bite my lip, drawing blood. One day I will cry. Not for me. For her. For now, I have a job to do. I feel the responsibility. Nobody told me I had to do it - I just know it’s the only thing to do. The night changes, lightening slightly. I check my sack. Storm stirs.

  We move the tractor to the side. Small flames flicker but it’s mostly embers left - red hot, unfriendly if we’re not careful. Storm goes through the small gap. I follow. The sun hasn’t risen yet but there’s some light. It’s enough. I think I know which way we should go. It’s not enough - I need to be sure. With no sun to check, I use the compass. I will half trust it, for a little while. If we’re off when the sun rises, we can correct our course. An old compass and gut feeling.

  I’m aware we’re vulnerable in this low light. Where there’s shrub, dew clings to our boots. It’s weird - the grasses aren’t dead. They’re not that healthy either. The glistening dew is present but it looks like it’s trying to be separate, like it doesn’t belong. It’s healthy water that doesn’t want to be contaminated. It’s stony here, for a farm.

  We head what I believe is south-east from our diverted course. The incline is levelling out. It’s the fifth day. I thought it would take five. Mum thought it would be five. I think Johnny told her. It does feel different though.

  There’s sudden movement to the right. I see a dog shape. I raise my hand but Storm already saw it. Ghost is ready. I draw my sword, arcing. Right. Left. Rags stands still - his fur isn’t raised this time. A thin shaft of light reflects off its face as it turns before hurrying on its way. A fox. I breathe easy. Easier. Fox is good. If there was danger, it wouldn’t be out. I’ve seen them before, in the valley. They weren’t corrupted - still very shy. It’s lighter now. Sunrise. I can check our course. Compass, sun, compass - I wasn’t far off.

  We head down a dirt road that led to the farm. There are houses - they’ve been damaged but not as much as the majority we’ve come across. There are wells in the distance - six, I can see. They’ve collapsed - not blown apart like most we’ve seen. Just fallen, buckled. It means less pressure, less poison - probably why the ground is better. I want to check the buildings - it’s tempting.

  “No way,” Storm says. “One, we need to keep moving. Two, anyone, anything, could be living there.”

  She’s right. We have food, water, clothing. A torch. Luxury. We move away from the houses. They’re large, spaced apart. There’s no glass in the windows and the roofs are only semi-intact. No cars, not even burnt husks. We walk fast - I can see water in the distance - it could be a river. It takes us half an hour to reach it. I’m nervous. Storm grins but I know she is too. This isn’t a stream and the last river almost killed her. That thing inside it. The water was dark though, murky. This looks much clearer.

  A rusty, blue iron footbridge straddles the water. Some supports are buckled. It looks okay though, if we’re quick. I need to heal. It shouldn’t hurt, too much. I take a stick, gently moving the water away so it ripples, making only a slight disturbance. Water needs to be calm. I pray, intone, thank. Storm stands ready, in case of trouble. Rags watches - he’s statue-still. I only focus on the task, the gratitude. It’s done.

  I’m still sick but it’s quick, better. I smell the water before tasting. I go to filter. Storm shakes her head. Rags doesn’t drink. I’m puzzled, looking back at the water. Parts are dark that I never noticed before. I want to try again but Storm shakes her head, signalling urgently with her hand that we need to move.

  We cross the bridge, quickly, with no problems. I turn as a splashing sound interrupts the silence. Fish. From what I can see, they look normal. But I wonder. I’ll pass on eating one. Arsenic. Mercury. Ammonia. Hydrogen Sulfide. It was released to the air, the land, the water. I don’t know how long it lasts or if it’s leaving us. Airborne particles haven’t affected me but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I think of Mum. I bite my lip, digging through the soft flesh until it bleeds. Focus, Mercy.

  We pick up our step, marching on. The sun is fully up. We can walk the whole day if we’re lucky - if nothing wants to kill us. The ground is softer but still easy to walk on – it feels more alive as it yields to the pressure of my boots. I briefly think of the horrors we’ve met so far.

  In the valley, I was protected, most of the time, by Johnny and others, sometimes Mum. They carried out deeds. Dark deeds. To keep me safe. I was taught as much history as possible - as much knowledge as they thought I could handle. Mum spoke of a great need - for leaders and healers. Johnny showed me weapons he’d salvaged. There was hardly any ammunition. But I know stuff. I can strip down a nine millimetre and I’m familiar with shotguns. Mostly it was sword training. To arc, slice, run through. When I left, it was time. Momentum keeps me sane. I’ll look for Alex. He’ll know. I’m scared. Brave. Scared. Focus, Mercy.

  I touch the tags. I’ll know when we’re near the coast. It’ll smell different. The air. I’ll taste the salt - better than sulfides. We’re well past the houses. Ahead, grasslands are all I see to the horizon. We’re on an island - the land can’t go on forever. We lengthen our strides.

  Around three hours we’ve walked, without any distractions. There appears to be a break on the horizon. A faint call. Caw-caw, like a gull. We’ve seen them before, occasionally. Ones and twos. In the valley, they were rare. I see them in the distance. They are gulls. I know we’re close, I feel it right through my body like a persistent tingle.

  We move fast past some bunker-type buildings. Long. Domed. Storm says they’re military. There’s no sound apart from the gulls. It feels like I’m being watched. Storm notices my unease. I tell her my fears. She thinks they’re abandoned.

  “Seventeen years, Mercy. Either they moved on or they’re dead.”

  If I find him. When I find Alex, I hope he’s organised. I need him to help. To travel back, clean the valleys, piece by piece. In the short time it took, this mess has created things, replacing the true order. That will be the test - to heal and to fight. In the buildings, the forests, the rivers.

  I can hardly believe my eyes. A clear break. No land. Storm grins. I smile. A big, wide smile for the first time I ever reached the end of land. New sounds fill my ears, even from a distance. From a few hundred yards, I hear the whoosh, crash, whoosh of foaming waves. Storm looks on as we hurry.

  “Something’s wrong,” she says. “It should be clear, right across. Some is but some isn’t – parts are darker, patchier than I expected.�
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  I don’t know what I expected. A bustling port? I don’t see any cranes, large ships, or anything else I’ve been told to expect. The edge of the land is fenced. Was fenced. Much of it is buckled. I look over, through a gap in the twisted wood and wire. I lose my mouth in the pit of my stomach. I feel dizzy - it’s a long way down. It’s not sheer but it’s close. Rock and sand.

  Storm reckons the tide is on its way out. A burnt-out car is wedged in the mud at the bottom. As the sun shines, the colour lightens, making the dark patches look less extreme. There’s some sand. It’s dirty but not all mud.

  This is coastline, stretching all around the island, for thousands of miles. We’ll follow it now, for a few hours. There should be signs of the town soon. I’m not used to lots of people - if there are any. If it’s full of Subs, and if we survive, we’ll have to go back. To what though? I won’t be the same. I’m the same grateful but I’m different. I had to kill, or be killed. It was easy, automatic and it scares me.

  Rags has found a slope he can handle. He’s heading down to the beach. I talk to Storm as we walk the cliff edge. We will try to find a base. Away. But close enough. We’ll fight hard. We won’t be stupid, won’t take unnecessary risks. I’ve known Storm for only a few days and I know one thing. She’ll die for me and I’ll die for her. I know it. I didn’t have time to think about it, to learn to trust her. My gut says she’s true. I trust my gut. Always have. It’s never let me down. Ever.

  Chapter Nine

  I look at the sea, amazed at its power, its beauty - even though it’s patchy with black slicks.

  “It’s probably oil,” Storm says.

  As we walk, I see dark stains on rocks, looking like they’ve been coated by the waves. As the tide recedes there’s evidence of debris, rusted machinery - some things I’ve never seen before. Could be from wrecked ships - I don’t know. There’s a way down - it’s still steep but should be okay. We tread slowly, carefully. The rock is easy to grab, holding my feet well. Storm goes quicker, like she’s used to it. Ghost is on her back. It only takes a few minutes for us to reach the bottom.