by Tash McAdam
“Ready?”
I nod, leaning into him a little as we set off again. A grid pattern search, I realize belatedly. I bet he told me that while I was busy not paying attention. We head back and forth across the river three times before my hands flare up, alerting us to the presence of another breach.
This one is a little hairier; there’s nothing in sight and I’m feeling pretty good about it until a Serpent surprises us from behind the rift. Since there’s no way to see through to the other side of our own dimension, it’s a pretty good hiding spot, but I don’t think the Serpent planned it. It unfurls and noses toward us, huge fangs somehow sparkling even in the lacklustre illumination. Diamond teeth, as though they’re creating their own light. I’m about to yell out a warning when Ruble lifts his gun and unloads two bullets into its jaw.
I feel a little sorry for it as it groans loudly enough to rattle my eardrums and spins away.
Do they even eat people? Do we have to kill them, or can we just send them home? I’m sorry, Falcor!
It doesn’t return, thank goodness, and I manage to seal the breach without further incident, although I insist we look on both sides of it before I close it, just in case.
My third breach of the day is deeper. Much deeper. As we descend, my breathing starts coming harshly, and Ruble’s muscles are jumping; obviously he’s also less-than partial to the claustrophobic sensation of thousands of gallons of water pressing down on our heads.
And this one feels worse from the very beginning. I’m almost not surprised when the monster strikes.
I’M HALFWAY THROUGH CLOSING THE breach, and soaked to the biceps, when a flash of movement catches my attention a breath before the violent impact throws me headfirst into the freezing water. I tumble sideways, flung off the board so I’m drenched to the waist, and the board spins up and away from my feet. I lose all sense of direction in a split second.
I’m about to die, I realize suddenly.
The only information that could help orient me is the glow of my hands, and there’s no way to follow that anywhere but to the breach. I choke on a mouthful of water that tastes like rust and sewage, panicked thoughts flooding my mind. Then a strong hand fists the collar of my jacket and hauls me back into the haven of the skimmer.
I’m gasping and kneeling, with Ruble crouched over me, steadying our rocking vessel with his feet, when the Serpent returns.
It’s huge. We don’t stand a chance, and the breach still isn’t closed, so if we run we’ll have to come back. Its mouth gapes, rings of muscle contracting as I look right down its throat, fangs as long as my forearm glistening with the iridescent colours of gasoline. The beast screams as it rushes toward us, water frothing in its wake, and I’m crushed down onto the ephemeral base of our bubble, curled in a ball.
Ruble straddles my shoulder, clenching firm thigh muscles around my chest, pinning me in place while he equalizes the board. He’s amazing, taking aim at the monster with breathtaking calm, and managing to squeeze off four rapid shots before pressing his hand to the control patch and forcing us upward. My eyes are glued to the trajectory of the bullets as they spiral through the murky liquid, smashing into the Serpent’s throat lining and bursting into bright purple blood splatters. I even see one collide dramatically with a tooth, which splinters into fragments.
It feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Bullet time. The Serpent bucks and flails, spinning downward in a mass of blood and bubbles.
Punctured lung? Do Serpents breathe air?
Then the world speeds up again and we’re moving toward the surface, flying through the water. I’ve just begun to believe that we’ve escaped when I see disaster approaching. The body of the snake has passed under us, but the tail thrusts through the water, smashing into our bubble at shoulder height. It passes over my head, so that I actually feel the air move, and slams into Ruble’s torso with such intense speed that even he can’t react in time. He’s dashed out of the bubble, out of the pocket of air before I even realize, let alone react.
The last thing I see is his abjectly shocked face, mouth wide, silver air streaming over his thick lips and catching in his tangled hair before he disappears into the murk. I scream, and the Serpent plunges into the darkness after him, leaving me huddled against the thin salvation offered by the board, wondering what will happen. Will someone come? They’ll come, right? But how would they know? Shakily, I take stock of the immediate vicinity. Nothing in any direction—only the misty light of my weaver hands. If I close the breach below me, even that will go out.
I can’t do it. I want to—to do my duty as a weaver—but I can’t bear to leave myself in darkness. Gravity glues my feet to the board and I get out my gun, holding it in one hand while I shuffle forward carefully, to press my other hand to the marked area on my lonely bubble.
It takes four spins—four bile-inducing, terror-causing spins that almost spew me out into the water—before I get the feel of it, and manage to slowly guide the craft upward. When I surface, the sunlight a benediction for my fear-chilled skin, I realize I’ve drifted heavily downriver. I squint across the glinting water, trying to get my bearings.
To my left, the stomach-twistingly familiar figure of Cam is hacking with a great sword as tall as she is, her skimmer zooming in for the huge weapon to send up a spout of blood, then zipping away. I watch, wondering what to do. Bubbles are skittering all over the surface of the water, but I can’t see anyone swimming. Or floating. Anyone that could be Ruble.
Swiping the water off my face, and determinedly hooking my soaked, ratty hair behind my ears, I turn the bubble, scanning the surface. No luck. Swapping my gun for my phone, I fumble with the buttons and fire off a quick text requesting back up. Then I force my vessel to head, in fits and starts, toward where Ruble disappeared, trying to peer through the dark water.
I’VE ALMOST MADE IT TO the other side when a yell I recognize pierces my ears. A yell that stabs right through my sternum and into my guts, filling them with ice. I’ve turned the board and headed toward the sound before my conscious brain has caught up.
Cam is floundering on the surface of the water—not a good swimmer, but able to keep afloat thanks to her preternatural speed. There is no sign of her board or teammate, but there is a Serpent. It doesn’t look so big—about six metres in length, and only as thick around as a solidly built man. But it’s heading straight for Cam, just under the surface of the water, an ominous V-shaped wake marking its passage.
I almost punch my hand right through the control panel in my fear. My bubble leans forward dramatically, my feet slipping before finding purchase. The Serpent rears up, flaring a dangerous-looking red collar out around its gaping jaws, and strikes down with its blunt nose, the green-gray water splashing up as it collides with Cam’s struggling form and plunges them both under. I reach the disturbance only seconds later, the waves lapping up the sides of my bubble and rocking the fragile board.
Nononononononononononononono!
I can barely think past the roaring in my ears, the redness washing over my vision. Sick with fury, I drive the skimmer under, hands working confidently on the control panel, because to fail is to let my friend die. The water welcomes me, moves for me, and I plough through it, following the frothy, bubbling trail. I pull my gun out with a steady hand and aim down, ahead of me into the darkness.
The Serpent seems to coalesce, rather than simply becoming visible. It’s in front of me, worrying at Cam’s ragdoll form. Red blood—human blood—is discolouring the water in ugly florets. Screaming my rage, I shoot haphazardly, squatting down and sending my bubble hurtling toward my friend. The Serpent recoils, the bullets shocking it, the water flattening the projectiles into mushroom-headed pieces of metal that rip and tear into its scaled side.
Somehow feeling perfectly in control of my vehicle, I bend my knees and angle my approach so that Cam’s drifting form flies through the front of my bubble and under my steering arm, slamming into me with the speed of my travel. The impact almost
knocks me clear off the board, but I manage to hold my footing through a sliding, pants-wetting moment. I grab her collar, leaving her limp legs trailing outside the safe zone, and don’t look down at the blood sloshing over my feet, or at the insistent glow of my hands. I don’t look at anything except the six-inch patch of magic that controls our movement, sending us back upward.
We pop out only fifteen metres from the bank, and I basically crash us right into the edge, having lost all sense of direction and movement now that we’re above water. My neck tingles with fear, my mind convinced the Serpent will come for us, chase us up to dry land, until welcome hands are finally hauling us off the water and over the barrier, onto the blessedly solid concrete.
I sit in a heap and shiver, choking on the snot caught in my throat as people fuss over Cam. At least I got her body out of the water. She doesn’t have to stay under there forever. She’s not lost. That wouldn’t be okay, being dead down there, lost and alone.
Someone shoves a hot cup of tea at me, slopping the liquid onto my hands in a burning puddle. Tentatively, I lift it to my trembling lips and take a sip. It’s sweet and milky and helps me to stop shaking. It does nothing for the block of ice that’s replaced my inner organs, though.
Ruble, and Cam. Cam’s partner? How many more?
My fixed stare finally manages to provide some confusing information. They’re bandaging Cam’s body. White, white bandages taking on muddy rings of water from her sopping clothes and dripping hair. Why are they bandaging her when she’s dead?
Because she’s alive. She must be alive!
I stumble to my numb feet and manage to stagger over to the flurry of activity. I’m shunted out of the way, but persistently worm into a small space near Cam’s unbandaged hand. Reaching out slowly, I slide our fingers together, and soon both of my hands are wrapping around her larger one, a hand-sandwich.
Open your eyes, Cam. Open them. C’mon. Be okay, you can’t be beaten by an itty-bitty snakeling. Think what people will say! It wasn’t even a big one.
I can’t relax, can’t stop the tension quivering at the base of my spine. There’s bile burning my throat, and I’m worried I’m going to vomit all over the people trying to help my friend.
Cam doesn’t open her eyes, but she does finally open her mouth. I squeak, squeezing her hand tightly and bending down to hear her, careful not to let my gross hair fall onto her cheek.
“Hallie?” It’s barely a whisper. But it’s there.
She’s not dead. Thank you. Thank you. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I hold onto her with both hands, refusing to let go for even a second.
“I’m here, I’m here. Oh God, I thought you were dead. You scared the shit out of me. Holy guacamole...”
She groans, flinching as an enthusiastic paramedic pushes another stitch through the bloody meat of her thigh. “You shot me, you jerk.”
Warriors. As long as they aren’t dead, they’re fine.
I laugh and laugh, and lean down to kiss my best friend’s grimy forehead. I stay standing by the stretcher, even as I see a limp body being pulled from the water, the distinctive shock of hair dripping pink onto the gray concrete. They lay him down with careful movements, and cover his form with a black cloth.
I should go over, I know. But I don’t move. The paramedics eventually insist that I get out of the way, and load Cam into an ambulance. Another team comes in, one girl half carrying a boy, who collapses as the medics run toward him. In the water a Serpent dies, twisting and screaming in the river. Nobody asks me to go back in, and I sit with a thick knot tangled in my guts.
How many breaches are left? Are they still coming? I should be doing my duty.
But I stay, sitting silently on the hard ground with my hands locked in front of my bent knees. Louise trudges over and slides into a heap next to me, thankfully not wrapping an arm around my shoulders, or even touching me. Not asking me to get back on a board and return to the water. There’s blood streaking her arms.
My boots squelch as I shift slightly, and a cold breeze cuts through my wet clothes. We don’t move. We sit together, not looking at each other, not saying a word, until the rest of the wan-faced team comes to get her. Then the seven of them walk back to the van in a group.
I feel totally alone. They’d all known Ruble for years, maybe. I don’t even know how long he’d been at the Protectorate. I knew him for perhaps an hour. All I do know is that he was brave, and strong, and that he saved me from an unpleasant death. He had a six-pack to die for, and a tattoo of a swallow on the inside of his forearm. He had a lip ring, and questionable hair-fashion choices. I don’t know anything real about him, and now I never will. But Cam is alive. And if I’d had the choice I’d have traded Ruble for Cam in a second. That thought makes me sick to my stomach.
Thank you, universe, for not taking Cam.
I try not to think of Ruble’s surprised face as he was swept out into the water, but as I move forward, it is that very picture that drags me from my warm bed in the morning in time for every single class, and keeps me leaning over books when my eyes are gritty with exhaustion. It was not my fault, I know. But next time ... I’ll be ready.
Next time, everyone will come home.
Tash McAdam’s first writing experience (a collaborative effort) came at the age of eight, and included passing floppy discs back and forth with a best friend at swimming lessons. Since then, Tash has spent time falling in streams, out of trees, learning to juggle, dreaming about zombies, dancing, painting, learning Karate, becoming a punk rock pianist, and of course, writing.
Tash is a teacher in real life, but dreams of being a full-time writer, and living a life of never-ending travel. Though born in the hilly sheepland of Wales, Tash has lived in South Korea and Chile but now calls Vancouver, Canada home.
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