Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  I realise something. I’m not armed. I never even realised. I need to be armed.

  The rain has stopped. To the right, several hundred yards away, the waves chop and change, snarl then soften. You can’t make out the true colours. Only once the tide is in, when the water settles. Now it’s a collage of foamy swirls. Crashing, moving, receding, advancing. A chaotic nature, doing its thing.

  Sea salt stings my face as a strong breeze carries it inland. I still taste the smoke. I wonder if it’s always present. How dangerous it is to our lungs. The fires keep out the Subs and Hounds. They’re the immediate killers. With everything else, there’s a chance. There’s scant evidence that this was a port. The buckled remains of rusted cranes can be seen in the distance but I don’t see any ships – maybe they were carried far away, crewless and left to the whim of the ocean.

  I listen to Carrie. Intently. I need to know everything. She explains the Sisters’ work. All the water drunk here. All of it’s purified by them. Prayers. Intonations. I know it works. Alone I only manage small amounts. But here. Wow. Supplies for a whole town. One thing I notice is there aren’t many people, unless they’re all inside. Looking at most of the buildings, I doubt it. David doesn’t say much, just stares out to sea.

  Apart from outcrops of rock, the coastline runs in a curve. An inverted ‘S’. It’s flat here. Beyond the valley back home are hills, mountains – north-east and north-west. I never went. One day I will, perhaps. I think of Alex. Wonder. Hope. If he’s here. What he’s like. I tell David we’re here looking for people, like us. It’s partly true. He just grunts.

  We reach the house. In the daylight, I see that either side is damaged. The walls are pebble-dashed. Brown. Grey. Black. Smoky. I walk right through. Carrie opens the back door. Rags looks up but doesn’t move.

  It’s early afternoon. David leaves for the boundary, to the stretch we saw on our approach, before the hut we entered, leading to the tunnel. He looks heavier, padded, armed. Most of it is fire maintenance and observation. The heat keeps things away, but they’re out there. Carrie explains the problem.

  “This is containment, it’s all it is. The Subs and Hounds are free but people are trapped. To move forward, to clear, heal, they’ll have to leave, eventually. It’s a big problem. Massive. They’ve tried to leave before. Reconnaissance parties. Attacked. It’s the speed. The hatred. Things out there are different. Monstrous killing machines.”

  We know. We met them.

  “Did you go with them?” Storm asks.

  Carrie looks at her, like she’s crazy.

  “No way,” she says, shuddering. “A few came back, from the South. Injured. Shocked. Some still want to try. For the North. Here is all I know, all I can remember. It’s the older ones. They remember what life was like before the mess. They lost people they love. They won’t forget. Ever.”

  I nod. I need to meet others. Find Alex. If he’s alive. I feel he is. In the valley, it was okay, relatively safe. Because of Johnny. Mum. Others. Mum’s dead. As they’ll all be one day. Treading water - it’s just an existence. To do or to die trying is the only way. To heal. I took a chance even though I never wanted to leave the valley. Not really. It was the right thing to do though. Mum was right. She knew what she was doing. Mum’s dead. I’m not.

  I feel my teeth touch my bottom lip. I stop. No more. A jolt rushes through my body. A current, revitalising me with new energy. I need to explore. I ask Carrie.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We check our sacks. Carrie agrees to show us around but not the northern boundary though - they’ll be busier than usual and won’t welcome any interruptions. Last night’s storm dampened the fires. It’s more dangerous now.

  “David’s my dad,” she says. “Well, stepdad. They rotate in shifts. Working at different boundaries keeps them sharper. Complacency kills, you know.”

  I nod. I know. We walk as a tight bunch, the three of us. I don’t know why but I feel like a child who’s been let out to play with the big people – perhaps it’s David’s attitude. This time we head south-west, away from the sea. I taste the now familiar smoke, trying to ignore the feeling of an extra layer to my mouth. Even from here I can tell they’re struggling to maintain the fires as I see the steam rising.

  “Where are the young people?” I ask Carrie.

  “Oh, there are some, our age - they’re around. Everyone’s busy. I help too, with the soil. The food. We can grow vegetables. Some. Thanks to the Sisters. I’ll be back at it, tomorrow. You can come, if you like. There’s another girl, a little older. Twenty-two, or three, I think. Holly. Works hard. Kind of sad though.”

  My heart constricts. The girl in the journal? It could be someone else.

  “Why is she sad?” I ask, as casually as I can. My heart starts thumping hard.

  “Her father never came home. She was young but still remembers him.”

  I breathe, deeply, willing the tightness in my chest to leave. I say nothing. I haven’t looked at the notebook for a while. There’ll be more to read. But of significance? Just before the mess and after it is all that matters. The tide is coming in, growling as the breakers crash onto rocks and sand. The southern boundary is close - people are rushing back and forth with fuel for the fires. I ask Carrie about sustainability.

  “Sometimes, the boundaries have to be extended. Extra fuel means extra resources. The town’s only so big. Dangerous work.”

  I shudder, thinking of the Hounds.

  We don’t get too close as Carrie doesn’t want the workers distracted. I glimpse an occasional face. Most of them wear large cotton scarves wrapped around their faces like the one I saw on the sand surfer. I ask Carrie if there are women at the fires.

  “There are some. Widows of the fallen. That’s what we call them. It’s respectful.”

  I touch the tags. An image of Mum immediately comes to my mind. I push it away, gently, on an imaginary cloud. It isn’t disrespect. Grief is a luxury. A burden. I’ll deal with it later. I glance at Storm. She looks all around. Panoramic, taking it all in. Appraising. I know she’s looking for weaknesses. Blind spots. The first few hundred yards in from the sea is rocks. Extra protection. Anything coming from there will be seen. The grey-black jagged shapes rise from the water like a giant, immovable beast.

  Many of the perimeter guards wear combat fatigues. Tough, quick drying. Desert-brown. Olive-green. The camouflage isn’t the issue. Hellhounds smell you, whatever colour you’re wearing. Subs are bent on destruction, whatever is in their way. In the valley, close quarters fighting saw huge casualties.

  There was another problem too. Some of those who weren’t affected by disease, took advantage. Or tried. Greed. Selfishness. Nastiness. The worst human traits came to the surface. True personalities were forced up. Nobody was trusted. People stopped going to their churches for help – the places of worship that were still standing. False prophets, fake redeemers. It wasn’t greed though that enabled adaptation. It was love. Honour. Selflessness. Charity. In the middle of sickening devastation, kindness persevered.

  A light rain blows in from the sea. With dampened smoke comes the tangy taste of salt. I raise my eyes high. The sky is different since yesterday’s storm. Shifty, jumpy and unsettled. Clouds aren’t drifting. They dart around, changing colour. Light reflects at odd angles. It’s weird, unnerving. I look along the boundary. People have briefly stopped to look up. They’ve noticed it too but they have priorities, to move quickly to raise the fire levels.

  We walk further up, heading west. No wonder the streets are empty. It really is a prison, where all the inhabitants are guards. A constant state of siege. Carrie doesn’t look troubled. She doesn’t know any different. We follow the boundary around. It curves, running west for half a mile. My chest hurts. I need to ask.

  “Carrie, have you heard of Alex Nowak?”

  She stops. Looks at me, puzzled. My heart races.

  “Alex? Sure. Everyone knows him. Why?”

  I remember to breathe. I can hardly believe
it. That he’s alive. She said knows. Not knew.

  “It’s why we’re here. To find him. He’s a friend of my dad. Was. My dad was killed, in the military, just before I was born. Mum said I should go to him, once she’d died. To join something. To help.”

  Carrie raises an eyebrow as a light rain patters my face.

  “Good luck with that, Mercy. He’s a one-man band that guy. Travels a lot. Yes, travels. Never know when he’ll show up or when he’ll leave. A real maverick. Dad says he’s useful but I don’t think he likes him. He brings news, and, stuff. I think he brings weapons but I’m not sure. I wouldn’t describe him as an organiser. I hope you won’t be too disappointed.”

  The more Carrie talks, the more interested I am. She continues.

  “He keeps to himself. Like I said. Good luck.”

  “Is he here now?” I ask.

  “I’m sure he’s away, but like I said, who knows? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. He walks on the beach, stares out to sea. Just stares, for ages. If I hear he’s back, I’ll let you know. We have a spare room upstairs. You’ll have to share though. I’ll ask Dad.”

  I smile, nodding my thanks. I never expected this kindness. I need to calm down. My heart still beats too fast. I focus on my breaths. Deep. Slow. Storm’s eyes are everywhere - eagle eyes. I never saw an eagle. Mum said they’re a massive version of a kestrel, which I’ve seen. The sky still bothers me. As I breath, the air feels thicker, heavier. I don’t mention it. I already freaked them out earlier. I’ll leave paranoia from my list of transgressions.

  We walk carefully along the ancient cobbled streets, back to the house. The moderate but persistent rain has made the cracked stones slippery, even with our decent boots. The beach is submerged now. An old rust and concrete promenade becomes the new boundary. Carrie tells me there have been no attacks from the sea. Yet. To do such a thing would require planning. Subs and Hounds don’t plan. They pounce on a whim. They can trap and wait but they become bored, moving on to something else to satisfy their thirst for death.

  When the tide starts to turn, people are busy. Fires need to be made in new places, quickly. Carrie likes to talk. I’m glad. It means I don’t have to. I’m excited and nervous. Alex must be something. A survivor. Resourceful. I haven’t seen him yet and some things already bother me. He may reject me. He may not return this time. Mum educated me to heal, to protect, to facilitate change – not to be a mercenary. I could have stayed in the valley, treading water with minimal drama. Focus, Mercy.

  I watch my breathing, letting the thoughts drift away. I need to be grateful. I am. I really am. We’re near the house. I glance at Storm. At Carrie. I’m lucky. I am. I go straight through, to Rags. He’s never over-excited, just happy. Me too. Carrie shows us the spare room.

  David has not returned yet. She says it’ll be okay, she’s sure. The stairs are wooden. They’ve been repaired. A lot. The bedroom faces the rear of the house. The shed door is open, allowing me to see Rags from here. A cracked paved area ends in a high wall. Over it I see other houses, mostly ruins. Most of those standing are missing roofs. I sort my sack, re-wrapping the herbs. Storm brings me my sword. My knife. I hadn’t thought about them much.

  Through plastic and wire, I look up at the sky. The earlier disjointed clouds seem to be merging, growing darker. An involuntary chill runs through me. Storm watches it too. A smell of cooking vegetables makes my nose twitch. Carrie is boiling carrots and onions. It’s a treat. Water isn’t rationed but it’s used sparingly. The Sisters work hard enough. It isn’t winter yet but it’s starting to feel like it. I add an extra layer. A woollen pullover, a prized possession. Storm is checking her stuff. We need to focus. Be ready, always. She checks the mechanism on Ghost. I watch. I could assemble it myself now.

  The wind has changed direction. Rain hammers the plastic window. Stops. Hammers again. It’s hard to see cloud now that darkness has fallen. The front door opens. I hear voices - David talking to Carrie. A quick conversation. Muffled. Carrie knocks on the bedroom door.

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  She looks relieved. So am I. “Dad said you can stay. Just for a little while, until we find you somewhere. Everybody works here. We’ll find you something. Both of you.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  I think otherwise. I hope I find Alex soon. I need to know. I didn’t come here to swap one place for another. I’m being ungrateful. No, I’m focussing. Candles throw light up the stairs. They give off a strange smell. In the valley, we had a large stash. There’s some in my bag. I ask Carrie about the ones here.

  “A mixture,” she says. “Fats and oils.”

  I pass her one of mine. David shakes his head.

  “Shop bought!” he exclaims. “Haven’t seen them for years!”

  “An old warehouse,” I explain. “These were in a cellar. Mum found them - boxes and boxes. A lifeline.”

  “We had loads here, too,” he says. “They weren’t used wisely though. People thought electricity supplies would be restored. Can you imagine? There was no grid left. Pylons. Substations. All of them destroyed.”

  I nod. I’m familiar with the grim story. He looks at me, intently. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I try not to shake.

  “Carrie said you’re here to find Alex Nowak.”

  I nod.

  “Mercy, he’s been gone for a month, at least. That’s a long time, even for him. Wonderful escape artist that he is, he may have pushed his luck too far this time. Who knows?”

  David doesn’t seem too bothered.

  “Do you know where he went?” I ask, my voice small, strained.

  David looks thoughtful, before speaking.

  “He never says, and that’s if anybody sees him. I know it’s south, sometimes south-west. Follows the coast. He never goes north, I don’t know why. I think it’s the merchandise. He’s dodgy - has the scars to prove it. I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for him.”

  *

  I sleep fitfully. Alex arrives. Bloody, gravely injured. He’s trying to speak to me. I put my ear close to his mouth. Blood bubbles on his breath. His lips force painful words. Slowly. Clearly. ‘There’s… no... hope. Go home… Alice.’ It’s a bad dream. My head aches. Heavy. Groggy. It felt so real. I don’t know anyone called Alice. It’s not real, Mercy. Storm is asleep, breathing easily, as always. There’s no one calmer. I’m lucky. Despite the broken sleep, I feel better. Since the visit to the Sisters, Carrie has told me the old lady’s name is Maria.

  “She’s in charge. The Sisters had to flee from outside the town. They were attacked. Many died. Alex was one of the rescuers,” she says.

  I don’t know a lot about him. Mum said he worked with Dad. They were close friends, that he’s dependable. There was no mention of revolutionary or maverick or other ‘undependable’ descriptions. Times change. He came just before the mess. With Johnny. He brought Dad’s tags. Johnny stayed, Alex left, just after I was born.

  We have some cold carrot for breakfast. It’s good – makes a change from jerk. I’m grateful. David left early to help at the fires. They’re still low - depleted again after more rain. It’s stopped now but the air is still heavy - feels like pressure is building. Pressure is bad. I try extra hard to breathe properly.

  Instead of heading along the coast, we go inland, just a few hundred yards to the vegetable gardens. An extra wall of stone protection keeps the worst of the sea winds off. Carrie’s wearing olive combats - her working gear. She has boots like Storm’s. Thick soled. Military. The gardens are large. A few people our age work the land, fixing bamboo poles or turning soil. Irrigation is by hand. Slow, laborious. It works though, all possible through the toil of the Sisters.

  Carrie heads over to a woman pulling weeds. She’s of a slight build. Medium height with auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail. We follow, careful not to crush the precious plants.

  “This is Holly,” Carrie says.

  The girl looks at me, her eyes dark brown with hazel tints. She nods briefly,
without smiling. I smile at her but she carries on ripping out the unwanted leaves. We move further along as we’ve come to work in the garden. As I swing the sack from my back, I speak quietly to Carrie.

  “What’s her father’s name?”

  She looks at me quizzically.

  “I don’t know. She never mentions him. She was five, I think. Maybe six. He didn’t make it home. Presumed dead. Missing in action. Or inaction. Gone. It crushed her. Her mum got sick.”

  I stare, swallowing as my mouth turns sand-dry.

  “Yes. Dead sick. Dark water. Dad says she went crazy, killing. She was killed. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s nothing. I saw a name on some paper. Ages ago. Just a first name. I’m sure it’s common enough.”

  I move away, to stop the conversation. Carrie shrugs, starts weeding. Storm’s already at it, further along. I get down. Work hard. The tension in my body feels wired, strung tight, oppressive. The work helps. Even with the heavy air, it’s good. After a few hours, we head for water. Carrie brought extra skins. Holly comes too, at a distance.

  At the old hotel, we wait. Sister Maria sees me, her broad smile a welcome sight. I notice her smiling at Holly. After the smile, a frown. It was so quick but I saw it. She takes me back through to the office, gives me some more of her special water.

  “I feel fine,” I tell her. “The sickness, it’s gone.”

  She looks at me with bright, intelligent eyes.

  “I hear you are looking for Alex, my dear. I will not ask why. People generally do not dare to travel outside of their fire boundaries. He does. And, so have you.”

  We didn’t have fire, I think to myself.

  Sister Maria continues, with obvious care.

  “I just want to say something. If you need him to accompany you, think carefully. He has done wonderful things. Lifesaving things. However, he always goes alone, since Alice died. He will always help but try not to give him obligations, dear. It will hamper you. Both of you.”

  For a minute, I’m dumbstruck.

  “Who is Alice?” I ask.