Watershed (4 page)

They gave the camp a wide berth. Word had filtered back: closed, diseased, more dead than living,
stay away, stay away
. Those who didn't believe, most of them families, kept to their course. Sarah and Daniel didn't. The next was the same, not disease this time, but violence. Even from a distance Sarah could see the black columns clouding the wind, could hear gunshots and yells, the cries of triumph and the screams for mercy; discordant bells tolling humanity's sad end. Keep moving, they were told. Head for higher ground.

There was no order to their long march, no one who was willing to take charge even if others had agreed. Day or night, dawn or dusk, they walked when they had the strength, rested when they didn't, each of them a part of a miserable whole, and when one fell the others closed in tighter, bunching together to rid themselves of the memory, of the space that had been occupied. Time was measured not by the passing of sun or moon, but by the count of steps, meals, draughts of water, with every brief triumph and each dismal failure, by weariness, and by death, until any need for its accounting had become utterly redundant.

Decent shelter that would last them longer than a few days was hard to find; any suitable caves, grottos or broken buildings were already occupied and guarded fiercely against intrusion. So, more often than not, they would simply spoon together in shallow, sweaty scrapes beneath spinneys of dead thorns and sticks, with their bellies empty and their backs to the wind, before picking themselves up and moving on again.

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.