Watershed (6 page)

‘No,' he agreed. ‘So?' It wasn't a challenge; he would've read the report himself. But maybe he was hoping I'd noticed something he might've missed that he could take upstairs to appease the overlords.

‘So maybe there aren't as many as the Tower thinks.' There was another explanation, but I didn't want to consider that. We all saw shadows before every assignment.

He nodded again, then asked, ‘What about the Guards?'

‘Two killed, barely a struggle, so two attackers striking together. Nothing unusual, and nothing to worry about. There's no shortage of knives around, and from what I can make out their throats were hacked, not slit. Botched job. Amateurs. The two who were taken haven't been found, but if there's a hideout of some kind there's
no way a horde of people could trek in and out of it without one of our informants getting wind of it. My guess, it's a small group of idiots who are just acting out. Tell the Council to relax. This is an easy job. I can handle it on my own.'

He gave a grunt. ‘Tell 'em yourself. They wanna see us both.'

I sat back, and met his stare. As far as I knew, no Watchman except Garrick had ever gone up to the Tower. And I could see he wasn't too happy about the order either. ‘When?' I asked.

‘Two nights. Make sure you're packed and ready to go.' Standing, he glanced at my shirt, still stuck to my chest in places, the stains now a dirty brown. ‘And for fuck's sake, clean yourself up.'

Picking up his plate, he tipped its contents onto mine. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached over and scooped up his discarded mouthful, dropping it on top of the pile and stirring it into the mix with a long finger. ‘Eat up, Jem. Something tells me you're gunna need it.'

A week was the minimum break between assignments, though we could usually rely on two or more. I'd once spent almost three months unassigned – just enough time to stir a man crazy and by the time I was released again I'd have gladly killed anyone, Diss or otherwise. But two days gave me no time, so the morning after Garrick had come and messed with my meal, I headed down to the shore.

Each of the four districts had its own public baths – rows of old tubs and barrels made available for bathing or washing, screened off from passers-by. People were entitled to use it weekly, if they chose, queuing up until a tub was free before being ushered inside by a Guard and handed a single bucket of seawater. It was always a good idea to get there early coz those tubs filled real quick with brown sludge, and bathing in another man's filth wasn't exactly a cleansing experience. I'd been dragged to the baths plenty of times as a kid, made to stand naked while my grandmother scrubbed
me down, but in plain view of everyone else, as well as the Guards who kept watch over proceedings, there was no privacy for a marked Watchman. And we had no facilities of our own to use; it was hard enough bringing in enough fresh water as well as carting out our waste without drawing attention. So we made use of the Sea when we could.

Of all the tunnels winding their way through the compound, only seven would actually get you out of the place; the rest had been blocked to become a maze where a man could easily lose his way. All of us had been dispatched on occasion to search for a new raw who hadn't reported for duty; usually we found them cowering and blubbing at the end of some dark dead end, terrified not of having got lost but of Garrick's resulting disparagement and wrath. And I reckon that showed they had more sense than most.

But as difficult as it was for us to get out, it was almost impossible for any intruders to find their way in. Four main tunnels, double barred with old sluice gates that could be rolled across if necessary and the heavily-boarded outer doors, led beyond the walls of the Citadel, each opening above ravines or basins that would've once held water but were now nothing more than dustbowls; the exit doors were hidden, close enough to each of the roads that star-pointed north, south, east and west from the Citadel but not so close that a casual observer could follow our comings and goings. Two vertical tunnels, up a couple of long iron ladders, would get you into the Citadel itself. All six exits were guarded day and night by shifts of sentries, everyone's ins and outs recorded for Garrick to check at his leisure. The seventh was just a long circular climb to the top of the Tower, a locked open-bar gate at its base and, reportedly, a sturdy iron-strapped door at the top, Garrick the only one with keys to both.

Taking the south tunnel and checking out with the sentries, I paused inside the small cavern to pull the cowl up over my nose and the hood down to shield my eyes, before squeezing through a
narrow crevice in the face of granite. Even protected, and despite the early hour, I had to squint to adjust to the sudden brightness. But worse was the heat, hitting hard, like a fist in my stomach, driving out the air and almost bending me double, the dry choking my throat.

The trek was downhill, most of it steep. Preferring my own company, I avoided the road and picked a trail along the ridge of the deep gorge, clambering over the remains of the old weir wall and making my way down into the winding gully that'd been carved long ago by a river's spill to the Sea. But even there in the dead dusty pit of the earth, its voice heightened to a raucous moan, the wind still found a way to blow and tease, a whore of a thing that'd sucked the world dry and now demanded double for the service.

The rising sun soon beat back any shade offered by the steep sides of the canyon, long shadows shrinking to nothing under its red baleful glare. The base of the old waterway was mostly ground grit and rock, my path hindered in a few places by tumbles of dislodged boulders and spills of sand. And every now and then, under the grit, beneath the tread of my boots, I'd feel the newer bedrock of bone, scattered and broken and long forgotten. Stopping only twice to drink, I made good time, arriving a few hours before midsun. The return journey would be harder and hotter but the exercise would do me good, readying muscles for the journey to the Hills.

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.