Watershed (15 page)

‘Last question,' she said, relaxing a little, as I'd hoped.

‘What did Cade mean, back in the tunnel, when he said you'd know what to do?'

She didn't blink, but her shrug was forced and her voice low. ‘Just reminding me to follow orders.'

‘Which are?'

‘Uh-uh. Only three questions, remember?'

‘Well played, Alex.' She'd caught me out at my own game, though I smiled, making light of it. But when she smiled too, I longed to wipe it from her smug face. ‘Speaking of orders, those Guards of yours are gunna have to wait.'

Her smile faded. Job done. ‘What d'you mean?'

I stretched out my legs, along with the truth. ‘I mean, I've got a rebellion to put down. Kinda takes priority, you know? So if anything happens to those Guards before I can get to them, it's not my problem.'

‘The Council might have something to say about that.'

‘Council's not here, are they?'

‘The Council is everywhere, Watchman,' she said. But my sudden stare alerted her. She'd said too much, and she smiled again, trying to cover her mistake. ‘Damn it. I should've used one of my questions to ask your name.'

‘Yeah, you should've,' I agreed. Her strange remark would keep for another time. Lying down, I drew my cloak around me. ‘Get some sleep, Alex.'

At the edge of the hollow, she grumbled and rolled restlessly, trying to get comfortable in the cold, and I foresaw another disrupted night.

‘For fuck's sake, get your arse over here,' I snapped. ‘You'll stay warmer if we sleep together.' It took a minute for her to completely misunderstand and I almost laughed out loud. ‘Don't worry, I'm not into boys,' I told her. When she didn't reply – because what could she say? – I added, ‘Suit yourself. But if you wake me tonight, for any fucking reason at all, I'll kill you.'

Closing my eyes to her startled silence, I quickly fell asleep. I was used to the bitterness, the miserable discomfort, the hard
ground with its pockets of dust and its sharp rocks. More importantly, I was accustomed to sleeping alone, without the warmth of another body to stave off any chill. And in the end that's what woke me. But I didn't kill her.

I don't know when she'd changed her mind. I hadn't heard her move, not even to use the pot, but at some point she'd crawled across and burrowed against me, sliding under my cloak. The tree trunk was behind me and Alex, with all her layers, was like another in front, and I was trapped. I lay still, my breathing shallow, enjoying her warmth. My face was pressed to the back of her head, and I could smell dust and the stale sweat of her hood. At some point I'd shifted, throwing an arm over her, and my hand was pressed to her stomach.

I spread my fingers slowly. Just a little ways up and I could cup her breasts. I knew they were there, somewhere under all those clothes. A handspan down and I'd be able to slide my fingers between her legs. The thought pushed blood to all the wrong places and I felt myself stiffen.

Fuck!
But no.

I'd never just lain with a woman, not without doing what came naturally, and it felt odd not to take what was available. But I wasn't yet ready to reveal what I knew about her. So I rested there with her against me and, tightening my grip, pulling her to me, I closed my mind to the possibilities and my ears to the voice that kept hissing,
Jem, you fucking idiot, this ain't part of the plan.

When I woke again she was gone, lying in her usual place a few feet away, and for a moment I wondered if I'd dreamed the whole thing. Then, remembering the warmth of her and feeling myself hard and aching, I knew I hadn't.

It was just light, the sun beginning its slow climb up behind the mountains to reach the roof of the world. Deciding it was time,
because we were running low on water, I dug a deep hole and lit a small fire under the pot, crouching to warm my hands over it, watching as the contents simmered and the cylinder slowly filled, drop by drop. The smell of burning wood was kind of comforting, but I kept an eye on the thin stream of smoke and, carefully heating a knife, scraped at my beard to cut it short again.

‘You could have lit this last night,' Alex grumbled, moving close to sit cross-legged, holding out her hands while the rest of her shivered.

Good morning to you too.

‘We'll do your pot next,' I said.

I let her watch me with the knife and wonder why I hadn't commented on her own lack of a beard. Coz she should have wondered. It was one of the most obvious things about her.

‘Sleep well?' I asked her, when I'd finished.

She nodded. ‘I guess you did too, seeing I'm still in one piece.' Real cheeky, but she'd keep.

‘Yep. Best sleep I've had for a while,' I told her, smiling when she frowned. ‘You ready to do some serious walking? If we move out early enough, we should be in reach of the settlement later tonight, and we can head in the next day.'

Her face lit up; she was over the travelling. And so was I, though for different reasons.

We waited only long enough for the water to cool before drinking some, storing the rest, and striking camp. I picked up the pace, pushing her on, and altered our direction slightly south so we'd enter by the main road, just like any other travellers. We stopped once to rest and refuel, before moving on again. She didn't make any protest but I knew I was tiring her out, and I smiled whenever she stumbled or tripped, her soft curses getting more heated each time. Good. I needed her on edge, irritable enough to forget to be cautious.

Pulling up at last in a clearing atop a small bluff, I watched her find a spot and sink to the ground with relief. I reckoned we were less than a half-day's journey to the settlement, and in the quiet I imagined I could make out the echoes of so-called civilisation. It'd been a few years since I'd been there, but at the end of the day the settlements were much the same: not as big as the Citadel, but just as dirty.

This one was larger than the others though, flourishing quickly with all the custom from the crews and Guards stationed at the Port, supplying drink and whores to a bunch of lonely men. But that wasn't why it'd been established. Like the garrison in the northwest, the Hills had been set up to shield the Port from any northern raids. Later, with its proximity to the coast and all that saltbush and flax, as well as easier access to the water brought in on the Catchers, it'd evolved into a herding and farming district. They'd still kept the garrison though, its Guards poking around and harassing the herders, checking on every goat and grain stalk because they had fuck all else to do. Anything grown between the walls of the Citadel, as well as in the other settlements, was just a backup, a necessary supplement to the supplies brought down from the Hills; this was the place everyone depended on for survival, and the reason why even the smallest hint of an uprising was taken so seriously.

Unshedding her pack, Alex wiped her face on her sleeve, before looking around, getting her bearings; I watched her and said nothing. The mood was different, the air charged with expectation. I knew why, but maybe she did too, because when she finally spoke she sounded nervous.

‘Where are we, exactly?'

‘A few hours east of the main gate.'

She frowned a little, probably thinking of the settlement, with all its relative comforts and its safety, just within reach.
Not yet, Alex.

‘What happens tomorrow? How do I find you when the time comes to rescue the Guards?' she asked.

Crossing over, I crouched to face her, keeping close. ‘You don't.'

‘But I need –'

‘No. We enter separately. You do your thing and I do mine. When I'm ready, I'll let you know.'

Instead of shrinking back, she sat up straighter. ‘That wasn't the plan.'

‘Maybe not yours. But it is mine. And you need to learn to follow orders.'

‘I have my orders. And they don't come from you,' she said, lowering her voice, digging in for a fight.

‘Fuck your orders. Unless you tell me what's really going on, what you know, I'll treat this job like any other. And that means I work alone.'

She eyed me, and the frown deepened to a mutinous scowl. ‘I can't.'

‘Can't or won't?'

‘Both.' But she sneered when she said it, and that was a mistake.

Flicking out a hand, I smacked her across the face, before throwing my weight forwards and pinning her beneath me, one forearm high across her chest, pressing her throat and choking her, my other hand feeling for the knife she wore at her hip. Drawing it out, I dug it into her side and she froze.

‘Now, let's start again, shall we? What d'you know?' My face was so close to hers, I only had to whisper the words.

‘Nothing,' she gasped.

Easing the pressure on her throat a little, I prodded the knife just under her ribs, not enough to puncture but promising pain. ‘Like hell. Cade said you knew what to do. What d'you know?' When she didn't reply, I slid my arm down, over the swell of her breasts and squeezed gently. ‘Why are you here, Alex? Why you?'

I waited for her to cave, spill what I needed, maybe start pleading for her life, but she did none of those things. She didn't seem shocked that I'd guessed, her eyes showed no fear, and when she shifted it wasn't to struggle or beat me off, as I'd thought. It was slow and deliberate, the slightest lifting of her hips beneath me, rubbing my thigh. And I didn't question it, because suddenly all I could think about was what was hiding under all those layers.

‘So will you kill me now, Watchman?' she asked softly.

Shifting my weight, sliding a knee up between her legs, I pushed hard against her. ‘Not yet.'
Not just yet, Alex.

For a minute we lay there, me pressing her to the earth, our breath fogging the air between us in white puffs. She didn't speak, just kept nudging into me, so soft, so suggestive, and making me so damned hard. I stared at her face, pale and grey in the moonlight; saw her mouth curve when she felt my stiffening cock. So I ground against her again, letting her feel it some more, and she moaned, parting her lips, drawing my gaze.

It was easy enough to fuck a girl, and there wasn't much that was intimate about it, especially when you had to pay for it. But it'd been a long time since I'd kissed one. Too long. Alex's mouth was right there, enticing and inviting. Still cupping her breast, kneading it, I used my knee to spread her beneath me. And I ignored that voice in my head, the one that kept screaming at me,
Jem, be careful! This ain't part of the plan.

Screw the plan.

Fuck Alex. That was a better plan.

But first I was going to kiss her.

I touched my mouth to hers and she sighed, breathing into me, sucking me down. Her lips were soft and cold and dry, salty but sweet too, and when she opened up to me and I tasted her, liquid silk with its promise of things to come, I ached to get inside her. Keeping the knife in place because I wasn't a complete idiot, I shoved my other hand down between us, fumbling with the ties of
her trousers. Her hand slid across my shoulders before she grasped the back of my neck and pulled me closer. A mating of mouths, hot and slippery wet, that pre-fuck dance of tongues; this was what I'd been missing. And it felt so damned good.

Wrestling the ties open, I yanked at her trousers, feeling with my fingers between her thighs, almost growling with pleasure when they slid so easily inside her. Then, for the second time that week, there was a cracking pain in my head, and the world blacked out.

Excerpt ~ Letter #5

 

Whenever we're faced with something new, we can only measure it by what we already know. My first impression when we came to the Citadel was that we'd stumbled onto the set of an old end-of-world movie, but I know you won't understand. You can't, because you'll never know the things I did. We are indeed from two different worlds and my memories are alien.

It was far from the Promised Land.

There were goats, certainly, and camels – many more than they'd seen at the garrison – and more people too, hundreds, maybe even thousands, just as there'd been in the camps, all of them hemmed in by a huge circular wall which was barely that: a precarious piling of anything that could be hoisted or thrown or carried, just junk on junk, snarled together, the tangle broken in four places by massive frames of timber or steel – in some places, both – that supported the gates. But aside from a few generators, used sparingly to light the nightly approach of enemies, it seemed there was no power, little fuel and food, and no water that hadn't first been recycled and distilled.

As usual when faced with new circumstances, it was a case of last in least served, and it took them a while to settle, to find any kind of comfort in the presence of others who all appeared to know more and understand better, who had already found their places, who had duties to perform and little time to waste inducting the newcomers. And perhaps they should've enjoyed that brief anonymity more than they did, because once processed they were given scant time to enjoy anything.

The welcome, when it came, involved little fanfare and took a whole morning, the rules listed tediously by two heavyset young men. Jeremiah, disliking them on sight, refused to be comforted, and bawled loudly through the entire process, making it even more tiresome.

The Citadel was run by the council. They made all the decisions, for the good of everyone. If Sarah or Daniel had a problem,
they were to take it to the guards to sort out. That's us, one of them said. We take care of everything inside the wall. Understood? Daniel and Sarah both nodded.

They'd be given a job to do, and they'd be expected to do it. Everyone worked and everyone helped. That's the way it was and they'd soon get the idea. Understood?

There was a water allowance, half a vat for each of them – a
vat
, repeated one of the men, when Sarah asked; he offered nothing further – and they'd get a bit more for their work. They could waste it, if they were that stupid, or they could trade it for other things. Like food. Or blankets.

A barter system? Daniel asked, intrigued.

The guard's smile was cold. Call it whatever you want, he said. They were still sorting out a few issues so no one could abuse it, but for now, it was what it was. Any changes, they'd be told. And expected to follow. Understood? Oh, and they might wanna get themselves a knife, the other man added. A big one, and sharp. Just in case. As suggestions went, it wasn't very reassuring.

They'd had knives, Daniel pointed out. They'd been taken away.

The guards shrugged, and one said: Well, they would be, wouldn't they?

So why can't we just get them back? Daniel pushed.

Both men leaned in then, as though trying to menace. Coz you ain't the only ones here. This place is ready to burst and that means we got no time to put up with any nonsense. You don't like it, feel free to leave. We'll even open those gates for you. We know you ain't godders, else you wouldn't be here, but don't even think of converting, or getting any other fancy ideas. It'll only make trouble, and we don't like trouble. Do what you're told, and everything will be just fine. You understand?

Sarah and Daniel nodded again and, seemingly satisfied, the men handed them three frayed strips of green material. Wear 'em on your wrists, said one. The kid too. They let us know which
district you're from, and without 'em you can't get your water. Understand?

Which district was green? Daniel asked, fingering the material.

Southwest, a guard replied. Still a mess, but they'd just have to find themselves some space until things were sorted. Might take some time. Understood?

They were made to wait until another man hurried in to give all three of them a cursory examination: hair for lice, teeth for rot, eyes for jaundice, limbs for any sign of rickets or injuries or old scars, every fault noted down. Jeremiah struggled in Sarah's arms when he was poked, and clamped down hard on the finger that was shoved into his mouth. Little shit, the man growled, noting that down too before he hurried out again.

Then, with the telling done, the questions followed: Where had they come from, and who'd accompanied them? How many had they lost along the way, and what were the circumstances? How had they managed to survive, what had they eaten? What had they seen that might be of interest? How had they heard about the Citadel? Had they made their own way to the pass, or had someone brought them in? – when they mentioned Burns and the lieutenant, both men looked at each other (a little furtively, Sarah thought). Never heard of 'em, muttered one, but the other made a note of it anyway – What could either of them do that was of use? Did Daniel know anything about building, or mechanics, or any sort of trade, could he read or write, had they brought any books – their packs were opened, the contents checked – did Sarah know how to weave or sew or how to tan a hide, was she any kind of healer, had she ever herded goats before, what did she know about growing things? The interrogation dragged on, the search for information exhausting. Their reply to the last – had either of them killed anyone? – seemed to disappoint and, following a whispered discussion and a perusal of the list in front of them, the two men finally scribbled something on a couple of pieces of paper
and handed one to each of them, along with terse instructions to take themselves over to
that
building where they'd be sorted out with identification numbers and told where to go. Then it was Rachel and Cutler's turn.

So it was that Cutler found himself helping to ransack what remained of the old town, dragging the spoils in through the gates to be sorted by others; Rachel's skills saw her patching the wounded and tending to the sick; Daniel learned how to construct buildings from wood and rubble and old bent nails, his intellect wasted, only his muscles required, while Sarah joined a team of women who sifted mindlessly through mounds of material, sorting them by colour and thickness, unravelling threads and winding them onto sticks ready for reuse; when there was no material to collect and sort, they made use of plastic and stringy fibres stripped from flax until their fingers bled. Such medieval labour was rewarded with water, scant shelter, the security of the wall, and a vague guarantee of safety: the promise that others would defend so they might live. And suddenly they were back to square one, hunters and gatherers, except there was nothing to hunt and so little to gather.

But any regrets or doubts they might have had were, if not dispelled, at least eased with the later news that filtered through in snatches and whispers and contradictory half-truths: the garrison had been breached – seized and overrun – they'd lost the pass – no, they'd regained it, but at a terrible cost. Remembering the lieutenant and Burns, the gauntlet and the bridge, those heavily armed scouts and the impregnability of the tunnel, Sarah found the rumours hard to believe. But she couldn't help her selfish relief that they at least had made it through before the breach, that they'd finally found sanctuary, however primitive, and however harsh. Those who died were the ones who gave up, too exhausted to fight for their place. But Sarah and Daniel fought. They fought because they'd come too far not to. They fought for Jeremiah.

Except it wasn't the Promised Land, and not everyone was happy.

Sarah turned slowly in the centre of the room, surveying it with quiet pride. As promised, the mess of the southwest district had been slowly sorted and they'd secured their own dwelling at last. Not one Daniel had worked on – a good thing, he'd joked – but a small room downstairs in the corner of a wooden building, with just a single hole in one wall and a door in another.

No bigger than five square metres – Sarah had paced it out, twice – two corners were taken up by lumpy mats filled with sand, one for her and Daniel, a smaller one for Jeremiah; coverlets were badly stitched cloth and any old blankets they'd been able to buy; pillows were sacks stuffed with rags and plastic bags that rustled nightly beneath heads. There was a small hearth lined with bits of stone and mud set into one wall, a pointless luxury because Sarah knew they'd never light it; with the crosswind that blew in through the hole and out through the open door, the room already simmered. Daniel had tacked a square of cloth over the hole to keep out the afternoon sun and the worst of the dust. In front of the hearth stood the rough table and the three rougher chairs he'd made, all of them wobbling on uneven legs. But to the right of the window, suspended from the raftered ceiling, was his best work: a couple of little shelves that he'd nailed to a frame and covered with some hessian. Above it hung the container of seawater they refilled every few days, with its four thin hoses that dripped just enough moisture onto the cloth to keep any cheese and meat from going bad before it could be eaten. And in the corner, by the door, stood the barrel into which they emptied their rations of water each week; a single jug and three cups sat on the lid.

Yes, she was proud of this place; proud of the odd assortment of pots and utensils and plates; proud of the mat that she'd found
at market, which she'd spent an hour haggling over, wearing down the vendor until he was glad to agree to her offer of four cups if only to get rid of her; proud of Daniel's improvements; proud of the broom she'd made herself with clumps of sedge that did nothing but shift old dust to make room for the next day's coating; proud of the little lamps they'd battened to metal plates on the wall, so the flames might reflect more light. This was their new home, and it was wonderful. She could hear others around and above her, every creak, every footstep, every cough and sniffle and snort, every cry and every moan, but the noise didn't disturb. It brought comfort. These were the sounds of others who'd survived just as they had.

Jeremiah and Ethan sprouted in the dust, with the other children and the flies, fourth-world progeny, dirty and skinny and lucky to be alive. She'd been pleased for their continued friendship, just as she'd been happy for her own with Rachel. The two babies had become the boys she'd expected: Jeremiah stronger and more daring, Ethan cautious and gentle. Jeremiah never begrudged having to look out for his friend, to protect him from other, bigger children; the changed world ensured bullies abounded, and the two would often return from their play with Jeremiah bruised and Ethan in tears.

Meanwhile, in the backdrop to their young trials, there grew an increasing order, even vision, as the Citadel spread outwards and upwards, gathering strength with the new outer wall and the raising, stone by heavy stone, of the great central tower. Laws, charters of rights and of wrongs, were written down and read out, all of them heard and understood if never actually seen. And now there were other places, settlements like the garrison – one high in the east, the other south and to the west – and there was talk of the new port, of boats going out to sea, past the old city to catch the rain; they were calling for builders, crew, anyone.

It was dichotomous, Daniel was fond of saying. Juxtaposing. A fortress that offered ready safety while punishing any who
dared disobey; a society that promised equality yet thrived on division; a governing body that overlooked differences of language and colour and culture, but overrode faith; a place where the most coveted commodity had become their only means of trade. It was as though they'd passed through a mirror into a reflection and were disappointed to discover that it wasn't a reversal of what had been, but a copy, a strange exaggeration of all their worst faults. Nothing had changed, he said. People never changed.

He'd greyed even more, his voice tired. That's what survival did to a person, Sarah thought: it aged them. She was glad they had no mirror so she didn't have to face her own reflection.

But someone had to make the decisions, she reasoned every time Daniel voiced his doubts; someone had to plan ahead. Like they had with the books? And the water? The fuel? The taggings? All the rules, made by a council no one ever saw? All the punishments, carried out by guards everyone feared? Daniel would vary his reminders depending on that day's concern, never quite sneering, though his contempt might be justified. Because he was right, and it seemed that every increasingly ambitious plan brought another increasingly oppressive law. And there was no arguing that the loss of books hadn't been a terrible blow.

When the order had been announced, urging people to find and surrender what books they had, or could find – and not just books; magazines, pamphlets, scraps of paper, anything that had been scribed and drawn upon – so a great library could be amassed, a collection of knowledge that could never be lost and from which they would all benefit, she'd thought it a fine idea. But once all those written words had been gathered and seized and stored in the tower – just as they'd taken any fuel and stored it at the new port – any promise of a library had vanished, the tower closed to everyone except its guards and the strange Keepers, and Sarah, like others, had soon realised her foolishness.