Watershed Read online

  Like most people I knew, I hated the Sea, hated everything about it: the cold of the water, the feel of it sucking and pushing me, so much stronger than I was; the brown of its foam and the sting of its salt, that tight prickle as it dried on my skin; the filth of it, full of debris, decades-old dead world remnants still floating in on every tide; its constant noise, never a whisper, always a roar; the murky blueness that teased and licked the brown crusted coastline. But most of all, I hated the dark turgid grey of it further out, where the waves swelled like mountains before falling away to nothing beneath the relentless rain, where anything smaller than a Catcher wouldn’t last more than a minute.

  I’d been on a Catcher once, during one of my early assignments, and without a doubt it’d been the worst month of my miserable life. You’d think a ship that big, with all its watery ballast, wouldn’t heave that much. You’d think the awe of watching its huge plates unfurl to channel water into the tanks below deck would overcome the stomach churning and the endless vomiting; that the wonder of standing under rain for the first time would outweigh any fear of being swept overboard. You’d think all that fresh water – more than I’d ever seen before, or ever would again – might compensate for the lip-shrinking, skin-scalding brine that coated everything sticky. But you’d be wrong. The only joy I got out of that assignment was killing the three fuckhead Disses who’d made it necessary for me to be there in the first place. I reckoned it was the only time I’d ever found pleasure in my job. And I’d happily take another flogging from Garrick before I went out there again.

  The Sea was one fucking scary place. Fucking big too. Endless. My shirt came away with a bit of rubbing and the water stung like hell. I examined the marks as best I could, prodding them gently, letting the blood ooze a bit. But there was no pus, and the flesh wasn’t too swollen. I bathed while I was there, using sand to rid my skin of grime, scrubbing my hair, scraping my beard back to stubble with the little knife I’d brought. Who knew when I’d next get a chance?

  Draping the shirt on a rock to dry, I sat in the shade of the cliffs, drawing my cloak around me to keep out the dust. I wasn’t alone. A few Guards wandered the cliff tops, making sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to and nothing more. Scavengers looted the shoreline, picking over any washed up rubbish; crabbers filled their baskets with the clawed crawlers and prised stubborn molluscs and mussels from rocks; kelpers pushed their luck on slippery sea-washed shelves, forking out thick clumps of seaweed and hanging them on makeshift racks to dry ready for the long haul back. Sure-footed, small-handed children scaled the cliffs to raid nests and net unwary birds; later, their prizes would be spruiked by greedy vendors in the Citadel at an inflated price; the children would be lucky to make a half-cup for their efforts. Off to the right a few daring souls balanced on the few small fishing platforms that were floated out on every tide to hook anything edible; a mess of long ropes and wires secured them to land, keeping them clear of the bigger swells and ensuring safe towage back to the shore. And to the southeast, much further out, just through the curtain of rain, I could make out a couple of Catchers, tiny as seabirds, rising up and falling down, their plates funnelled wide to gather every drop that fell. Just watching them made me nauseated, and I pulled a piece of saltfish from my pack to chew on slowly while I thought of the job ahead.

  I’d stayed up late, rereading the report, wondering what I was missing and worrying about the Council’s concern, as well as Garrick’s. Too many things weren’t adding up: his insistence that I wouldn’t go alone, the two missing Guards, the cruel interrogations that’d yielded nothing, the attack on the pumps and pipes that hadn’t actually done any real damage, the summons to the Tower. And then there were the numbers; the count was rising, Garrick had said, as though this insurgency presented a greater danger than any others before it. But from what I’d been able to work out, given the information I had, there were nowhere near enough Disses to warrant any kind of panic. Unless my earlier suspicion – the one I’d been trying so hard to dismiss – was right after all. Unless the report was wrong, and someone was lying.

  Excerpt ~ Letter #15

  I’ve watched men die who deserved to live, and men walk free who should be dead. I’ve seen cruel things happen to kind people, and bad things done to good. And this is what I’ve learned: it wasn’t the meek who inherited the earth.

  When Anna died, she took their luck.

  Tommo crashed through rotted floorboards while scouting an upstairs room, a freak accident that might have happened to any of them. His leg broke, high up, a compound fracture, Rachel said, and Sarah felt sick to see the splintered white of bone sticking out of his torn, bloodied flesh. She liked Tommo; he was quiet and serious, a younger version of Daniel, and he and Violet had grown close. They did their best to realign the bone, pulling his leg straight and binding a couple of the broken boards to his thigh; Tommo fainted long before they’d finished. But all of Jon’s concerns about what to do, his mutterings that they’d be better off leaving the man, came to nothing. Tommo bled out overnight, was dead before the rest of them woke. The vessels must’ve torn, Rachel explained. There was nothing they could’ve done. They all knew it was a merciful end, but Violet grieved. Sarah couldn’t help wishing it had happened to Jon.

  A month or so later they were ferreting around an old barn for anything useful: tools, plastic sheeting, containers, wire, anything that might’ve been overlooked or wasn’t broken. Daniel found a screwdriver, its long shaft rusted but still strong, and a torch, empty of batteries; Jon parted with two of his reluctantly, and the light beamed. Cutler pulled a fan belt from a tractor and managed to suck half a bottle of filthy water from the radiator. There was a generator in one corner but as it was too heavy to move and there was no fuel, they left it. A small coil of rope, the ends frayed and curled, was tucked into a rucksack; a tube was stripped from a bicycle tyre (the bike was long gone). Sarah discovered a small crate high on a corner shelf, stacked with rags. They were dusty but otherwise clean, and they’d suffice as nappies. When she shook them out, Jeremiah, who was strapped to her chest, sneezed and began to fuss. This was for his sake, she told him with a small smile. Hush. Hush now.

  They finished the search and, pleased with their finds, trooped out again. But Heather caught her foot on the door slide, tripping and falling hard against the jagged iron siding. The cut in her thigh was deep; they bandaged the wound before moving on. She limped just a little. It took only a few days for the spasms to start – she complained of a sore neck and stiffness, her speech slurred and she couldn’t swallow, not even water. The leg swelled and reddened, and they were forced to stop. On the fourth night she began to burn, her eyes fevered, her chest heaving with every laboured breath. By morning she was dead, the spasms so violent and uncontrolled she broke her own neck.

  Diseases that had once been slow to manifest were now swift to kill. The group began to take more care.

  The two men moved from room to room inside the house. Watching from a distance, Sarah could hear the crashing and breaking of furniture, their loud calls to each other, unafraid and uncaring of drawing attention. Which made them dangerous.

  The group debated what to do: retreat and go around, or wait until the men moved on? It’d been weeks since they’d been able to rest in any kind of shelter, and it could be longer still before they found another. Daniel, always cautious, voted to move on, but he was outnumbered.

  It was dusk before the men decided there was nothing left of any value, and the group watched them head south. The one in front carried his rifle level, the other had his slung over a shoulder; Sarah reflected on the cruel irony that those who had guns weren’t the ones who needed them.

  They waited another hour before moving in, sidling through the broken door. It wouldn’t shut, and Violet and Seb were assigned the first watch – one at the front, the other at the back – while the others rested together in the largest room.

  No chance was given to sound the alarm. The crack of
gunshots, and everyone scattered. Daniel herded Sarah and Rachel and their precious bundles across the hall into another room; pressing the knife into Sarah’s hand, he took point beside the door, and hissed for them to stay down. A high scream was cut short, and they heard voices they didn’t recognise, hate-filled and hateful – the men had returned. Or perhaps they’d never really left.

  Fuckin’ leave ’er. She’ll still be plenty warm when we’re done. Sarah squeezed her eyes tight and swallowed her horror. There was another curse, then the slow, soft scuff of footfalls. The hunt was on. In their dark corners, Sarah and Rachel shrank low. Sensing his mother’s panic, Ethan began to whimper. Rachel crushed him to her to quiet the noise. The longest pause. In there, one said.

  Sarah cradled Jeremiah’s head and counted the seconds; time slowed. She heard a board creak beneath a heavy boot, saw a sudden flash of light that blinded. A startled yelp, an angry curse, struggling and thrashing, and someone bellowed, before a gunshot deafened. Then another. The torch clattered to the floor; the light blinked out. Both babies were wailing now, and Sarah wanted to cry too, for Daniel. But she didn’t move and she didn’t call out. This is what they’d planned, what they had agreed: Jeremiah was all that mattered, and she must do whatever had to be done to keep him safe. She gripped the knife tighter.

  Shit! – it was Jon – Fucking shit!

  Another voice, Cutler’s: You okay? Everyone okay?

  Sarah crawled from her corner. Where was Daniel? Someone found the torch, and shook it; the light flickered before dulling to yellow. But it was enough. Daniel was on all fours on the floor, groaning and shaking his head. Grabbing the torch from Cutler, Sarah checked him over. One cheek was already swelling, his nose crooked and weeping blood, but he managed a half-smile; a brief kiss to Jeremiah’s head to calm him, and the baby was blooded.

  One of the intruders was sprawled in the hall. The second lay inside the room. The handle of Daniel’s screwdriver stuck out from his arm and there was a small hole in one side of his head, a much larger one in the other.

  Jon had finally proved his worth. But Violet was dead.

  Apples, Daniel said.

  Air-con, Sarah returned, quickly.

  Beer, he said, and they both sighed, remembering.

  They were playing a silly game Daniel had invented, each of them having to name something they missed. But they had been swapping memories for so long they’d begun to repeat themselves.

  He pointed straight up. There. Could she see it?

  Sarah couldn’t. His eyes were better than hers and the air was cloudy with dust. The tiny satellite passing overhead escaped her.

  What would happen to them all? she asked, nestling into the crook of his shoulder, burrowing to find warmth. Jeremiah lay between them, wrapped and content for now. Rachel had kept her promise, and he was thriving. They shared their food and water; she shared her milk. Tit for tat, literally.

  Daniel didn’t know; they’d probably stay up there with the rest of the space junk. Doomed like us, he said, and gave a quick squeeze, to comfort.

  Did he really think that? That they were doomed? she asked.

  Turning his head, he kissed hers. Didn’t she? Even now?

  There must be other places surviving better than they were, Sarah insisted. Other countries.

  Daniel shrugged beneath her head. If there were, they wouldn’t be the ones she’d expect, he said. They’d know if there were. Remember those last broadcasts? Sarah did, and shivered; Daniel gave a short sigh. They’d been doomed even before it happened, he told her. Too privileged, too first world, they’d had no chance of adjusting to being third.

  Except they weren’t even third world. They were worse than that. Fourth, maybe fifth, she said. Because that was how far they’d slipped. Yes, agreed Daniel. Jeremiah stirred and whimpered, and Sarah offered him her finger to suck on, willing him back to sleep.

  What would happen to him? she asked Daniel. Even if they found somewhere to settle, what sort of life could their grandson possibly have? The best they could give him, he replied. It was what Sarah had said when Anna was born, the same thing everyone who bore the burden of a child said: the best they could give him. Later, still thinking about it, she corrected herself. No, not a burden; Jeremiah was a blessing.

  Had it not been for the dust storm, and if Cutler hadn’t spotted the bowed shed almost obscured by driven sand; if they’d been forced to shelter out in the open before continuing on, passing out of range and beyond all knowledge, they would never have come across the old man with his strange tale of hope. And if they hadn’t listened, if they hadn’t followed his advice and his directions, if Jon hadn’t had the walkie-talkie and his compass, Sarah was almost certain they never would have reached the Citadel. It was a lot of ifs, but that’s how the world was, she thought. Not a ball at all, but an endless maze offering too many avenues.

  The towers of dust bore down, billowing black at their base and rising to orange-fired crests that curled and tumbled and snatched up the land, pushed to fury upon a screaming wind. There was no way to judge the speed of the storm, how long before it would envelop them, and Cutler’s shout, barely heard above the roar of air, his hand jabbing off to one side before the rest of them saw what he had – the small slope of roof atop a piled mound of sand – was their only salvation. Foregoing their usual caution, the group scrambled over the lip of the dune, slithering through what remained of the doorway, and piled headfirst into safety. So much sand had filled the interior they were forced to bend double while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. And that’s when they saw him, squatting in a corner, the shotgun propped on one knee, its muzzle pointed in their direction.

  Jon cursed, reaching for his own weapon, but the old man lifted the gun and shook his head. He wasn’t worth eatin’, he assured them, in case they was thinkin’ about it. And as he was real partial to what flesh he did have, he’d thank Jon to leave his weapon where it was. He had no quarrel with any of ’em.

  His voice was hoarse, worn-down and worn out, and his self-assessment hadn’t been exaggerated; not enough flesh on him to make soup, Sarah thought, even the savages might have passed him up. More than gaunt, he was emaciated.

  Daniel raised his hands to placate. They didn’t do that, he told the man.

  The shotgun didn’t waver, and the man smiled, gap-toothed. That’s what they all said, he replied, but he reckoned he’d seen ’nuff to know different.

  They didn’t do that, Daniel repeated, then added: and hadn’t all of them seen enough?

  There was no more talking while the man eyed them all, shifting his gaze to Sarah when Jeremiah squirmed and fretted in his sling, but the bellow of the wind outside made up for any silence. Then he gave a nod. Yeah, he reckoned Daniel might be right.

  Daniel lowered his hands slowly. So would he mind pointing that gun somewhere else then?

  The man wheezed a laugh and hoisted the weapon so it balanced upright on the butt. Damned thing was fucked, he told them. Barrel’s full o’ sand. Had no ammo neether. He stared at the gun morosely.

  The tension lessened considerably as everyone relaxed, and Jon gave a short laugh. It’d been a good bluff. So long as it worked, the man said, settling into his corner and jerking his head at Sarah. Besides, they had a kid. Anyone with a kid still with ’em was all right in his book. Two kids actually, Daniel told him, and Rachel shuffled forwards, giving a brief glimpse of Ethan. Well, would you look at that? the man said, and smiled again.

  His name was Whitey, on account of his hair. Born that colour and it’d be a safe bet it’d be the same when he died, he said with some pride. He’d been alone a long time, wandering aimlessly like them, until a few months back when he’d come across a couple of men. Didn’t like the look of ’em much, he said, but they shared space for a bit and the two let slip ’bout this place they’d heard of. A few days later, Whitey set out to find it; he’d been walking ever since.

  He didn’t mention what had happened to the men, and no
one asked. They were more interested in the rest of the story. What place?

  Whitey screwed up his eyes, as though deep in thought. Dunno, he said at last. All’s he knew it was northeast. Some kinda fortress they said; the town that wouldn’t die. The two men had heard it from some others who said the call had come out on a shortwave or somethin’. Coord’nates, must’ve been, ’cept the men didn’t know ’em. Keep goin’ ’til you reach the big water, they said, then up to the mountains and around. Helluva long way, but Whitey figured northeast was northeast. He’d find it sooner or later.

  What water? Daniel asked. There was no water. The sea was miles behind them surely? Whitey nodded and said: Yeah, but it’s moved in, hasn’t it? Found its way into all them low places. Just head northeast and they’d be sure to hit it. That’s all he knew.

  Daniel turned to Jon. Had he heard anything on that walkie-talkie of his? Jon would switch it on every now and then to scout for any trouble but, miserly with the weakening batteries, he never kept it going for long. Sarah wondered how many other things they’d missed. Now he shook his head and made his excuses: its range wasn’t that long, and did Daniel have any fucking idea how many channels there were?

  Whitey gave a snort. Channel wouldn’t matter any more; the call had gone out a long time ago. But there’d be others passin’ the message on, all’s they had to do was listen, he said. Then he cocked his head – in the dark, his white hair was a giveaway – and added that there weren’t no rush. Nothin’ was gunna get through this storm.

  They spent two days holed up with Whitey in the shed, keeping their movements to a minimum to conserve energy and water, and Sarah soon warmed to him. When he wasn’t swapping tales with the other men, he spent his time with her and Rachel, fascinated by the babies. Once, Sarah offered to let him hold Jeremiah and he took the child in his skeletal hands so gingerly, she laughed; Rachel wasn’t as trusting with Ethan. Whitey sat still, staring down at the child who stared up with equal interest. When Jeremiah’s small hand reached out to clutch a tangle of Whitey’s long hair, the old man smiled and whispered his name, over and over, Jeremiah, Jeremiah, Jeremiah, so it became almost a poem. After finally returning the baby, he stared at Sarah long and hard, and said: You make it to that fortress, hear? For the boy’s sake. But go careful. Coz we ain’t the only ones lookin’ for it.