Watershed

by Jane Abbott

  The first two days passed without incident. She noticed the men never changed their positions: Burns took the lead and two followed, behind and each to a side, forming a triangle; then came the group, flanked by two others and, protecting the rear, the last two scouts. Even when the terrain began to change, the hills steeper and rockier, the thickets of dead trees more dense and the ground more hazardous, they kept in formation, their heads swivelling side to side, on the lookout for any movement. But apart from birds wheeling overhead – Sarah soon grew to loathe the mournful cries of gulls – there was nothing to be seen.

  They walked day and night, stopping for a couple of hours at midday to eat, drink, and distil any urine (she noticed the men shared a couple of strange little domed pots), and once more at night, longer so the group could snatch some sleep, before pressing on again. Unlike old Whitey, none of the men showed any interest in the children or, indeed, in the group. No questions were asked of them, and no answers were given. They kept to a narrow line at the cliff edge; further west was too rugged, Burns said, the old road too dangerous. Ahead loomed the mountains, rearing black to meet the brown sky, and the wind rolled down the foothills like boiled water, forcing them back so that every step was an effort. To the east yawned the deep chasm of the inlet, churning with its hungry sea, but on its other side, Sarah hoped, lay safety: a Citadel that teased her imaginings with promises of grandeur, convenience and security. If they had goats, and shortwave radios, what else might they have? Water, definitely. Fuel? Electricity perhaps? It was hard to know, because every time they tried to find out more, Burns and the others would smile vaguely and say they’d find out soon enough. Yes, she would, Sarah told herself, fiercely. She’d not be cheated now.

  They shuffled to a halt; ahead, Burns had stopped. Raising one hand, he twisted it to signal something – Sarah had no idea what – before crouching; the men behind him did the same; the rest stayed upright, the ones flanking the group moving closer in and herding them. Sarah sidled behind Daniel, sandwiching Jeremiah. He was asleep in his sling, arms and legs dangling, his head to one side. Briefly, she stroked his dark hair.

  Another flourish of Burns’s hand: fingers and thumb pressed together a few times, as though mimicking talking; then all five digits upright, spread wide, before closing into a fist; finally, two fingers raised.

  Filthy fuckin’ eaters, one of the men muttered. Five of ’em, twenty metres up. Sarah shivered, but the man grinned. Easy pickings, he said. They were upwind, and real busy. She shivered again, realising why. What should we do? Daniel whispered. Nothin’, the man replied. Burns will handle it.

  And he did. A quick nod to his right, and the man behind dropped to his elbows and knees, rifle out front, slithering towards the very lip of the cliff and forwards, moving more quickly over the rough ground than Sarah had thought possible. Burns and the third man waited for a few minutes before doing the same, straight towards the eaters. Two shots in quick succession, and then a third, even as Burns and the third man rose and ran forwards, swords drawn. Yells and howls, guttural sounds that raised the skin on her neck, a scream cut short. Then a long silence.

  Stay put, their guards told them, and left to join Burns. The other two behind moved up to take their places, everything unspoken and synchronised; a unit of men, singular of mind and purpose. Sarah could hear muttering ahead, grunting and cursing, thought she could see movement off to the right. Yes, she thought. Better the sea swallow the dead than anything else.

  Finally given the go ahead, they trudged on, passing the site in silence. The ground was darker than it should’ve been, sand churned with blood, but everything else had been cleared. The only sign of the scouts’ vengeance were the five crudely severed heads placed in a neat row along the top of a large rock; sawn-off hands had been crammed wrist-first into each open mouth, dirty dead fingers curling over chins, as though past meals were trying to prise their way out.

  Trees thinned out then thickened again; they wove a path up, always up, over the gnarled toes of the mountains, and as they climbed the night air grew more chill. Sarah felt pressed, by the scouts who prodded them on and on, by the wind that pushed and tore, by the spiny bones of the earth – those rising crags of rock and sand to their left – and by the abyss to their right.

  Any ambition that she might run to the pass had long since evaporated; it was enough that she was able to stand, to keep her feet moving, to keep Jeremiah quiet and reassure Daniel with a wan smile (which he couldn’t see through the rag over her face), that she was all right, still capable and still determined. Four days, she told herself. Then three, then two, then one. It’d soon be over. Soon over. Soon.

  You still got a way to go.

  Burns stopped just inside the last line of trees, and crouched again; this time the entire group was made to do the same. Ahead lay a wide clearing, its diameter a couple of hundred metres though it was hard to judge from their position on the ground, and the earth was blackened, trees torched to stumpy, sooty stalagmites. Halfway across, dividing the clearing, ran the remains of an old raised road, its edges crumbling, defined only by a twisted guard rail, and Sarah squinted to better see where it led: through more stumps, not burned but cut smooth, with the cliff shearing away to the right. On the far side it appeared to do the same, the road running a straight path between, continuing out across a narrowed gorge and disappearing behind some kind of blockade into the shelter of a rounded tunnel. A bridge.

  The pass, Burns told them. But first they had to run the gauntlet. He seemed briefly amused by his own words. The area had been deliberately cleared, he said, but no cover meant no cover. For anyone.

  Sarah stared at the bridge, and the stone tunnel. There was some kind of turret at the lip of it, above the barricaded entrance, offering a bird’s-eye view of the road and any who approached the pass. Was it manned? she wondered, and prayed it was. But that was all she could pray for. Trying not to think about what lay beyond that tunnel, she forced herself to focus only on what lay before it.

  It seemed quiet enough, Daniel commented, and it did; apart from the wind the clearing was eerily peaceful, like a graveyard, but Burns stared him down. Don’t be fooled, he said. They were out there all right. Every one of ’em waitin’ for a chance to get through that pass. Then he turned to one of the other men: Signal in. Give ’em our position.

  Shouldn’t we wait until dark? Daniel asked. Burns shook his head. No, he said, they’d need the light. That made sense, Sarah thought, eyeing all the stumps, the drifts of sand and, further ahead, at the start of the pass, low crumpled mounds that could only be bodies; if they had to run for it, better that they could see where they were going.

  The return message was as swift as it was confusing: godders, nine and twelve; they’d shield the north side on approach. The men exchanged looks. Crescent or cross, Burns wondered aloud, then grunted when the other man shrugged. A minute’s silence, before Burns turned to the group and said: Right, fast and straight to the pass. His scouts would flank north and rear. Eyeing them all carefully, he added: Keep it tight. No matter what happens, don’t scatter. And no one stops. Not us, not you. Anyone falls, you leave ’em. That clear?

  It wasn’t. After everything they’d suffered, Sarah couldn’t imagine abandoning any of the group. For any reason. But they all nodded mutely, accepting the order. Sarah helped secure Jeremiah more tightly to Daniel’s chest, binding arms and legs, papoosing him; despite the heat, he didn’t protest. When she was finished Daniel gripped her hands with his, squeezing them tight, telling her they’d make it, and she forced a smile, accepting his faith. Rachel refused Cutler’s offer to carry Ethan; the man might be stronger and faster, but he’d also make a more obvious target. The rest did as instructed; still crouched, every movement measured and quiet, they shed whatever they dared to lighten their loads.

  On three, Burns muttered, and they gathered themselves for the final push; a deep breath, running low from behind the trees, Sarah stumbling before finding her feet
, Daniel grabbing her arm, pulling her along, not slowing his pace to hers but urging her to keep up. She heard nothing but her own breath, the race of her heart, the beat of boots on sand as they dodged one stump, and another, trusting to the ground and her eyes, to the strength of Daniel’s hand, around a third stump, over the fourth, before the first shout sounded: Godders! And again: ’Ware, behind! And Burns’s deep cry: Move! Faster!

  She didn’t look back. There was no need, because what ranged ahead was frightening enough: from twelve o’clock, just as the message had said, poured a wave of bodies, spilling east in a storm of noise towards the pass. The turret was manned after all – she heard shots fired, warning but falling short.

  Don’t stop! Burns screamed, giving the group no time to doubt or hesitate. Sarah skirted another stump, cleared a rock, kept her gaze on the pass, on the sudden movement ahead: a stream of men surging out through the barricade – no, it was some sort of gate, she realised, bristling with wooden stakes and festooned with wire. And her heart surged too. Surely they’d come halfway? Another fifty metres, forty-nine, forty-eight – she counted strides instead of stumps – thirty, twenty-nine. Jeremiah bounced and bawled against Daniel’s chest, sounding a melody to the beat of Burns’s bellows and the steady rhythm of the gunshots ahead, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen – she reached the bank of the road topped with its line of men holding the pass against the horde, machine-gunning the first of the godders, spraying them with bullets as though with water. Five, four – a lone figure standing tall and straight in the very centre of the road, a sword in each hand, waiting calmly for the mob that chased them; Sarah saw the smile on his young face (a beautiful face, she thought bizarrely) and felt a sudden terror for him – what could one man possibly do? – before she was past and the man was gone, and she was still running to reach the road where it rose to meet the level of the bridge. Up, up, up! Burns yelled, and they scrambled on hands and feet, slipping on the loose earth of the bank, grabbing at the rail. One of the scouts helped Rachel, pushing or pulling her it was hard to tell. Banjo was first over, and the first to fall, Daniel leaping over him to avoid being pulled down too. Had Banjo tripped? No, there was blood. Sarah screamed, Cutler slowed to help; the scouts shoved him on. Don’t stop!

  Burns and the rest prodded and herded them out onto the bridge – Keep to the middle! Sarah could see why: the rails on either side had been knocked away and the wind howled up through the gorge, scouring the road, trying to push them to the edge and into the sea below. Their run slowed to a totter; bent and cowering, they clung together and moved as one, towards the mouth of the tunnel and the huge spiked gate that stood ajar; a man was framed in the opening, shouting and beckoning while above, safe in his eyrie, the sniper took down whatever followed. And then they were through, out of the wind and into sudden darkness that blinded. Shoved across to the side, out of the way, Sarah felt the hardness of stone, leaned into the cool of it with shaking arms and on legs that trembled; every breath was a struggle as she sobbed her relief and her fear. Her guilt too, when she remembered poor Banjo. Daniel hugged her, one-armed; with his other hand, he pulled at Jeremiah’s wrappings so he might let loose his wail.

  But they weren’t the only ones struggling; the scouts were bent over, hands on knees; men rushed around them, filling the tunnel with their calls and commands, the echoes as loud as the noise outside had been, which now bore down, was getting closer, rushing through the still-open gate and filling their ears with hate. Burns was panting and muttering, over and over: C’mon, c’mon, for fuck’s sake c’mon! And it seemed Cutler agreed. Why don’t they close the damned gate? he gasped; the other man turned on him, growling: Coz there are still good men out there!

  Yes, thought Sarah. Good men. The gunmen, and that other one, the one whose face she might almost have imagined, who’d stood apart, ready to greet the enemy with nothing more than a smile and his swords. But surely he must be dead? Like Banjo. Like so many others. Would there ever be an end to it?

  You still got a way to go.

  She began sobbing again.

  The welcome cool of stone had grown cold; not damp – nothing was damp any more – but chill, and her bones ached with it. Pushing away, she burrowed into Daniel’s warmth and they propped each other up, swaying with exhaustion. Jeremiah had ceased his crying and was taking comfort from his thumb, his eyes widening with every gunshot and scream, and Rachel clutched Ethan hard, stifling any struggles; Cutler leaned beside her, an arm around her shoulder. When had that happened? Sarah wondered, and then didn’t because the gloom of the tunnel suddenly deepened, the noise rose and fell again; shouts, the clamour of boots on stone, the boom and rattle of wood, and then blackness.

  ’Bout time, she heard Burns mutter. There was a whir, a faint rumble, and something flickered overhead, dim lights strung in a mess of cables and wires, and that smell, fumes to tickle her nose and prick her memory: diesel. They blinked, adjusting to the light, and to their new surroundings.

  The tunnel was shorter than she’d imagined. Another gate blocked the far entrance, and the area between had been sectioned, one side divided into open cubicles by wooden partitions, the other taken up with a jumble of tables and shelves, rough benches and, just to their right, a ladder climbing to a rough manhole that had been knocked through stone to the turret above; she could still hear the sniper busy with his target practice. Any remaining space on the ground was filled with people, most of them men, all of them grim-faced and none of them showing any interest in the bewildered group of four who stood apart, still guarded by Burns and his men.

  Was this part of the Citadel? Daniel asked. A snort from one of the scouts, and his short reply: No, the garrison. Burns wasn’t listening, Sarah noticed. He’d straightened and was craning to see past the melee at the gate; there was a sudden shout of laughter, and he smiled. Thank fuck, he said, to no one in particular. Then he gave a silent nod and the other scouts peeled away and headed down the tunnel.

  What happens now? Daniel tried again. We wait, Burns replied. For what? asked Cutler. This question was ignored as, at the sound of his name, Burns turned to face the man striding towards them, ahead of three others. Sarah started, recognising the symmetry of face, the sudden smile, warm this time, though his eyes shone black in the low light. The swords were sheathed, but it was clear he’d made good use of them; his hands and shirt were smeared dark with blood, and a spatter line marred one side of his face, which was bearded like the rest though his was shorter, cut neat. He couldn’t have been more than twenty or so, she thought. Too young for such deeds.

  Returning the man’s smile, and his grip, Burns said: You had me worried there for a minute.

  Someone had to pick up your mess, replied the young man before stepping aside, and Sarah gasped to see Banjo, suspended between two others, one foot held off the ground, his neck slicked red with blood; worse for wear, but alive. You dropped one, the man said, and added with a wide grin: Gettin’ careless, Burns.

  Burns shrugged. Figured you’d notice, he said, then jerked his head at the group: This is the rest of ’em.

  The banter done, the young man’s smile faded as he looked them over. His eyes were unfathomable, but his gaze lingered on Daniel, and on Rachel, before he said: Thought there were only five.

  Burns laughed and spread his hands: Surprise!

  A long silence, and the man nodded. It’ll slow things up some, he said, then gave a shrug, as though deciding the matter: Find them somewhere to rest. We head out tonight.

  He left as abruptly as he’d appeared, the men with him still carting Banjo; Sarah watched the four weave a path along the tunnel before ducking into one of the cubicles.

  Burns turned back to the group: Right. You heard the man. Time to rest up.

  Who was that? Sarah asked, and Burns gave her a quick smile, his warmest yet.

  The lieutenant, he said. Number two at the wall. He’s the one takin’ you down.

  The wall? she asked, though
it wasn’t what she wanted to.

  Don’t worry, you’ll see when you get there, said Burns, slipping back into old habits. Then, eyeing the four of them, reading their doubt, he added: and you will get there. There ain’t a better man for the job than young Garrick.

  Excerpt ~ Letter #10

  I suppose the big question is this: if our technology was advanced enough for us to explore deep space and cure the incurable, why couldn’t we just make more fresh water when we needed it? The answer is simple: because it was never ours to make. Perhaps there are some secrets only nature can know. I once read that the total volume of water in the world is constant; whatever its form (ice, water or cloud), wherever it is (land, sea or air), we can’t create it and we can’t make it disappear. All we can do is borrow and return, do what the Earth does and recycle, over and over. And after we’re gone, passed into a forgotten history, the water will remain.

  4

  Ignoring the familiar stirrings of guilt and regret, I refolded the paper carefully and retied the string. This was my ritual before every assignment, to read one of my grandmother’s letters, though it was hardly needed now. I knew everything she’d written, had committed it to memory, but rituals are important and we all had them. Kind of fatalistic, but reassuring too.

  She’d always said it came down to the water: too much one minute, not enough the next. Extreme weather, they’d called it. Climate change. A global catastrophe. And she reckoned that’d been the problem all along, every country so dependent on the next, one big greedy globe, that when the super-cells hit and there was no safe way to get all those Made-in-China’s (made in other places too, she said, most of them gone now) to where they were needed, everything started to fall apart.