by Jane Abbott
Survival became their only work; forced labour, and with no résumés required. Had they been, Sarah could have filled pages with the new skills she’d acquired. They’d have made little impression in the old world – there’d been no call for knowing the best way to skin a lizard, or how to break open the delicate skulls of birds without leaving fine splinters of bone in the tiny brains – but here, in this foreign and forsaken place, they counted for everything.
Plucking feathers from a stoned crow and knotting them together to make an eye shield? Tick. Able to drink hot urine and eat the dulled eyes popped from prey without vomiting? Tick. Overturning rocks or other objects at dawn to suck on any dew that might’ve dampened the undersides? Tick. Using a forked stick to catch a fork-tongued serpent, pinning its head to the earth while its body writhed in helpless fury? Tick. Smearing chapped lips and chafed hands with any fat scraped from carcasses? Tick. Opening a newfound tin can without tools? Tick. Knowing what was worth scavenging (and later carrying) and what wasn’t? Tick.
Oh yes, they’d become masters at their new trade, and every day was a workday.
They finally found a camp – already crowded but free at least from contagion and undue strife – wrestled their place, were pushed into a filthy, torn tent with five others, and told the rules. There was water, drawn from a tank hidden deep beneath them, and there was food. Not enough, but more than they’d been used to, doled out by grim-faced soldiers, ladle in one hand, gun in the other.
But there was nothing to do. No tasks, everything carried out by the ones in charge; no way to relieve the boredom or the fear, and no books to be found. Not a single one, though she’d looked, and asked. Sarah thought longingly of the ones she’d left behind, hers and Daniel’s, filling every shelf. Why had they bothered to save them at all? She wondered what had become of them, if anyone else had rescued them, or made use of them, before the sea had claimed its bounty.
But it seemed that even here, for all the barked orders and the queuing for meals, for the listlessness of each day and the dread of every night, time wouldn’t settle or re-establish its rhythm. The only way she knew any had passed was when she looked at Anna, each time seeming a little taller, a little bigger, a little older, although Sarah couldn’t remember her age (she no longer even knew her own). Old enough that she’d started to bleed – not regularly; nothing was regular any more – not old enough that her body had finished reshaping itself.
Everything blurred, became a drugged dream, and they were the sheep, herded and corralled within by shepherd soldiers who kept them safe from the wolves that ranged without. And they were safe, Sarah reminded herself daily. For now. Until one day when she couldn’t find Anna anywhere. Not inside the tent, not outside either. Surely she’d been there a minute ago? Or had it been an hour, or half a day? Sarah didn’t know. All she knew was that a lamb had strayed – her lamb – and the cold sickness in her mother-heart warned her that perhaps the wolves weren’t only outside the fence. She shouted for her daughter, then screamed, while Daniel grabbed at everyone: Where is she? Where is she! But in their slow stupor, no one had noticed what happened to the girl with the pretty smile.
It took them hours to find her, battered and bruised and bleeding behind a long-disused army van. Soldiers claimed innocence with careless shrugs, onlookers muttered and circled, but no one knew anything. No one wanted to know anything; it wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened.
That night, supporting Anna between them, hushing her moans and her new fears, Sarah and Daniel picked a path between the dozing sheep, and slipped out through a gate that was pushed open for them by a lone old soldier. He hung his head as they passed.
It didn’t take long. Their trio swelled to five, then eight, then twelve; stragglers like them who emerged, filthy and frightened, from dark hollows. Again, there was no official leader, though Jon might have thought otherwise. Sarah had hoped Daniel would take charge, but he seemed content to follow, helping her and helping Anna, keeping them close. It was Jon who had the walkie-talkie and the binoculars and the compass. And the gun. But Daniel spoke up when he needed to, when he thought it was right. As he had when they found Rachel.
They crouched in the dirt for hours, scanning the tiny town, waiting for any telltale movement or sound, until Jon finally nodded and gave the signal. Staying together, a single unit, they crept into the first house, Daniel and Jon taking the lead, Cutler and Tommo bringing up the rear, peering around walls and through doors before venturing further into rooms.
Their search always followed the same pattern: kitchen first, then any bathrooms. They’d turn every tap, smashing any unbroken pipes, hoping for just a trickle of rusty water, moving on when their efforts were unrewarded. Because there were other things to be found, something overlooked – a pebble of biscuit or a tin that’d rolled under a counter; a wedge of soap, a cloth or a scattering of aspirin tablets. Once, tucked into a covered hole in the wall behind a fridge, they’d found four large bottles of water. All of them had stood and stared, unbelieving, not daring to blink in case they disappeared, before Daniel had opened one and shared it around. That had been a good day, but they were rare. Because others had already plundered and what remained was ruined and useless – the work of people who were so scared and angered at having nothing they left nothing for others either.
In the very last house, at the end of the pitted road, they found Rachel, feral and wild-haired, waving a knife, the baby boxed behind her. Daniel was patient and reassuring, but it was the sight of Anna with her rounded belly, already so prominent on her thin body, that finally convinced Rachel to lower the weapon. They weren’t taking a fucking baby, Jon protested. One squawk and the game would be up. A couple of others nodded their agreement, but Sarah thought, Game? This was no game. Well, they weren’t leaving them, Daniel replied calmly, but Sarah recognised the tone. He looked at Anna and said what all of them already knew: This wouldn’t be the only one, so they’d better get used to it.
It was Sarah who gave Rachel some of her precious water, wiping a little over her face to clean it, while Jon watched, scowling. It was Daniel who stripped an old bed of its filthy sheets, tearing them into wide strips to make a sling so Rachel could carry her child. She thanked him.
Daniel nodded, and smiled at the baby. What was its name? he asked.
Ethan, she said. After his father. She started to cry.
Sarah worried about Anna. She walked when she was told to, ate what they gave her, drank when they reminded her. But she rarely spoke and she wouldn’t smile any more, for Sarah or for Daniel. She avoided the men in the group, particularly Jon, and stayed close to the women, dogging her mother.
When Rachel asked, Sarah could only tell her what she’d surmised; Anna wouldn’t speak of what had happened. Rachel tried to comfort: it must’ve been terrifying; she was so young. Yes, Sarah replied, watching Rachel hold Ethan to her breast. Soon Anna would be doing the same thing, but Sarah couldn’t imagine it because Anna was like a child herself. She was the one who needed care.
How far along was she? Rachel asked. Sarah wasn’t sure, though she’d tried to keep track. Six months? It was more a question than an answer.
Rachel nodded and switched her son to her other breast. Her offer was tentative; she could take a look at the girl, if Sarah liked, and if Anna would let her. Her mother had been a nurse and had taught her some things, before – you know … She finished as they all did, not saying the words. Then she frowned and asked, What about medical supplies? Just a few bandages, Sarah replied. Some antiseptic cream, probably not very antiseptic now, she acknowledged. No, Rachel agreed. Alcohol would be better. But urine could work too, if it was fresh. Any needles, strong thread of any kind? Sarah shook her head, not wanting to think why she’d asked.
Find some, Rachel told her. They never did.
Anna and Rachel watched from a distance while the others moved carefully, fanning out to circle the carcasses; three waited upwind, the rest slithered in to s
lowly close the net. Sarah blinked away the flies that bit at the soft skin around her eyes, drawn by her sweat; she didn’t dare brush at them, knowing any sudden movement might alert their prey. They’d learned that the hard way, and patience was everything.
They’d watched the birds for over an hour before beginning the hunt, ensuring the eagles had gorged themselves enough to slow their getaway, the weight of flesh in their bellies too heavy to lift. A few smaller carrion birds – hawks and kites – danced around the perimeter, but their attempts to approach would elicit screeches, the lunge of hooked beaks and a wild flapping of bigger wings, and they’d scuttle to safety. Even amid the chaos, there was a pecking order.
It was strange to think that this desolation, which had wiped out so much, might provide for others. Most of the smaller birds – the seed- and pollen-eaters, the finches, the wrens, the tiny swallows, all the brightly coloured chitterers and flitterers – had long gone. But the large ones, whose greater wingspans could withstand the buffeting of the wind and offered safe passage out to the rain, the ones that rejoiced in the tearing and gulping of rotting meat, had readily adapted.
Did she care that she was about to kill these majestic creatures, gold of eye and bronze of feather, so fearless and fearsome? Did she worry that, with any luck, she might soon be feasting on a bird that had itself feasted upon a dead person? No, she didn’t. The Sarah of old might have – she who’d studied the arts so she could man phones for a living; she who’d insisted Daniel release the mangy cur he’d once brought home (oh, what she wouldn’t give to feast on that dog now!) – but not her. She was a seasoned hand at this and her longing for meat, for the watery tang of blood and the slippery grind of flesh between her teeth, outweighed any old niceties.
She was sick of grubbing the ground for anything edible, sick of having to pinch her nose to guard against the distasteful crunch of hard-shelled beetles and roaches and the slick white paste of their innards coating her tongue. She was tired of overturning rocks in the hope of uncovering a lizard or snake; of digging sticks, ape-like, into ant nests to fish for angry mites, crushing them between her fingers and wincing at their sting before sucking in the sharp, vinegary mess. No, this was better, the reward greater, and it didn’t matter that they’d been reduced to such prehistoric tactics, stones their only weapons, strategy their only advantage.
But it was risky too. Their prey might not be mammoth, but it was razor-beaked and razor-taloned. And there was danger too in their own actions; a hurled rock could easily miss its target and hit another in the group; it had happened before.
Gripping her rock tightly, she dragged herself another foot or so, and stopped, waiting for the signal. The shrill wind, the quickening ker-thud of her heart upon the dead ground; she rejoiced in their song, age-old, primeval.
Cutler led the charge, launching himself forwards with a yell and the first throw of stone, Violet and Banjo just seconds later, startling the eagles and driving them low on slow wings, the wide wedge of their tails fanning out but unable to gain the lift they needed. His aim was true; one of the birds was knocked sideways and it flapped wildly, trying to right itself. Another pounding from Violet grounded it. The other screamed and pinioned to face the wind, desperate to gain height, but it was too late. Daniel threw, clipping the end of one wing, then ducked to avoid the outstretched talons. Sarah whirled; there was the plush thump of her stone hitting the bird, a quick puff of feathers, and Tommo raced across, beating it with one stone, then again with another, crushing bone. A last feeble flap, an attempt to crawl, a final smash of rock to head, and it was two for two.
Grinning, swaying, they whooped their victory, this triumphant, desperate tribe. Overhead, the hawks and kites circled and cried, made once again to wait.
There was nowhere to shelter. Just brittle brush and low dunes dirtied orange by the fading light. They should’ve stopped two days ago at the old farmhouse – taken scant refuge behind its broken walls – but they’d walked too far and it was impossible to return. Sarah had been counting on a few more weeks with Anna showing no signs of discomfort, but nature was done warning them; things would happen her way, in her time. How many lessons did they need?
They crammed wads of cloth into Anna’s mouth for her to bite down on, but the pain was too great, each wave cresting higher than the last, and nothing could muffle her agony. Jon told them to shut her up or he’d do it himself; Daniel growled at him to back off. They all knew the risks: the savages were out there and ready to hunt. But Jon’s fear was infectious – a ripple, an unspoken agreement; the group was impatient for it to be over and the noise to stop.
Anna screamed again, straining, her stick legs splayed, knees up, but there was nothing, the opening no wider than it had been hours ago, too small for any delivery, and dry now, so dry. Without water there could be no life. Daniel clutched her hand and supported her head, murmuring encouragement, while Sarah and Rachel did the same at her feet, but it was no use.
Rachel inserted two fingers, turning them gently, feeling for anything, before shaking her head. With her other hand, she pressed Anna’s groin. Her pulse was slowing, she said. She couldn’t be sure, perhaps the baby had breeched. If it was still alive. Their only chance was to cut her.
No! Sarah cried. There’s still time. Try again, Anna. Again, sweetheart. You need to push. You have to push! But Anna moaned, defeated.
Rachel pulled her knife, and moved to the girl’s side. She needed the light, she insisted. If she didn’t do it now, they’d lose them both. As well as the rest of them, Jon muttered. Anna rolled her head, feeling for the gag and pulling it out, before stiffening with another contraction. Her unmuffled scream was weaker. Sarah couldn’t see for her tears. She couldn’t see Anna’s face, or Daniel’s, though she looked to him as she always had, seeking reassurance. But the decision wasn’t his to make.
Do it, Anna whispered. Get it out.
No! Sarah cried. Anna was too young to understand, too young –
Please, Mama, I can’t. Please save it.
Rachel gave a quick nod. Go to her, she told Sarah. Be with her.
Stifling her sobs, Sarah crawled up to sit with Daniel, while someone else took her place at Anna’s feet, pulling the girl’s legs straight and pinning them. Rachel lifted Anna’s shirt, exposing the belly, stretched huge with its promise. Briefly, she cupped Anna’s cheek: I’m sorry, little one. Bending, Daniel kissed his daughter’s forehead, just once, then pressed his large hand over her mouth. Okay, he told Rachel. The dirty knife did its job; the skin peeled back, relieved of its tightness. And there was so much blood.
Anna screamed again, her mouth wide under that hand, her neck corded, eyes bulging. Slicing again, deeper, Rachel worked quickly, digging into the thin body, feeling for the baby that wouldn’t come. And there, finally, was the water, what was left of the fluid that had buoyed him within her. Pulled through the viscera into dryness, he was small and silent and still, until Rachel slapped him, rubbing his tiny chest so he bawled in protest. Jon scuffled again, scowling, angry and worried. Waste of time, he said. It’d die without a mother. No, replied Rachel. She would feed him.
She placed the baby gently onto Anna’s chest, lifting one of the girl’s hands to caress the dark head of her son, and Sarah and Daniel propped her up so she could see him perched across her small breasts while her belly lay open to the wind. Already the flies were gathering. Rachel pulled down the shirt, covering her.
Anna stared blindly at the small damp head. Mama, she said. Sing me that song. The one you used to …
Sarah choked, and then began, squeezing tuneless words through gritted teeth; Anna closed her eyes. Yes, she whispered. Jeremiah.
Rachel wasted no time, knotting the cord with a bit of twine before cutting it. Gathering up the baby, she pulled aside her own shirt and held him to her full-veined breast, pinching the big nipple into his tiny mouth. When he latched on, greedy, she looked up with a sad smile. He was strong, she told them. Ethan would have to l
earn to share.
Daniel and Sarah didn’t move, and they didn’t speak. Together they sat on the dust, in the dusk, nursing their dead daughter while another nursed her son.
Everyone helped bury her, even Jon. It was the least they could do, having done nothing.
2
We’re all of us creatures of habit, and it never occurred to me to waste my new allowance washing the marks. Instead, I went into the Citadel, handing over a half vat for a girl and purging myself in a different way. It was a steep price for a night of indulgence, and I’d probably overpaid, but it’d been a long time between fucks and it was worth every drop to be able to forget, for a few hours at least, about that other girl, the one I’d given to Garrick, the one whose screams would stay with me for the next few days, as they always did. And I kept my shirt on the whole time.
Watchmen didn’t get any special privileges for their work. It’s not like we chose to join, enticed by promises of fame or fortune. Truth is, most didn’t even know who we were, or what we did, and that’s what set us apart. If you wanted the uniform, and the grudging respect that went with it, you joined the Guard, but even then there was no guarantee you wouldn’t end up in the Watch. If you could read and write, you were in; if you could kill, quick and quiet, and weren’t too bothered by remorse, you were in; if you had a debt needed paying – and most of us did – you were in; and, most important of all, if you didn’t stand out in a crowd, had nothing people might remember after seeing your face, you were in. Whether you wanted to be, or not.
We all looked much the same. Average height, average weight, hair cut short; none of us too tall, or too broad, some of us dark-skinned, some of us fair, some young, some older. Just men, same as any other. But no women. They could join the Guard if they wanted, if they thought they were good enough and strong enough and man enough. But none of them had what it took to be a Watchman, and never while Garrick was in charge. They had other things though, and we kept our own whorehouse in the underground compound we called home. I never used it, knowing where those men and women had come from, and how they’d been broken. I preferred the houses in the Citadel. More expensive, but guilt-free.