by Stevens, GJ
Closing my eyes, I thought of the calm that would follow. Not having to run or hide, or constantly be on guard.
When the sounds of the scuffle didn’t vanish into nothingness, I opened my eyes, watching Sherlock pull away. I half expected Jess to rip out his throat.
Instead, Thompson gripped Sherlock’s gun around the barrel.
With the sharp smell of the gunshot and metallic tang of blood mixed with wet sewerage hanging in the air, I turned to the doorway and to Alex standing with Gibson looking over her shoulder.
Shaking with the cold, Alex leaned over to offer her hand. Getting to my feet, Jess stood staring our way, wiping blood on her sleeve. The guy she’d held lay at her feet in a heap.
Thompson spoke, but it took me a moment to understand the words. “The guy came at us with a shotgun. Carr set off a booby trap. The gas canister. She saved me,” he said, moving his hand from Sherlock’s chest and offering back his rifle.
“Again,” I said, looking Jess in the eye. “She saved you again.”
“Yes,” came Thompson’s reply as he nodded.
“Where’s Carr?” I asked, but Thompson only lowered his head.
With the bloodied shotgun in my hand, no one spoke as we helped each other to dry land. It was then I realised there was no sign of Cassie and I turned to study our small group in case I’d missed her. I lingered on our sorry sight and Jess covered in blood again, wiping the drying mess from her face with a rag Alex handed her.
Turning around to the sound of an engine, white smoke puffed into the air from the back of the cruiser and I spotted Shadow on board. The note of the engine rose and out from the door below the cabin, Cassie stepped out, barely acknowledging our presence on the towpath.
The water around the white hull came alive, teeming with creatures just below the surface, their effort making it appear as if the water were boiling.
Rushing the few steps to climb aboard, I was last in the line and watched as her hand went to the throttle and for the first time I knew I’d lost her; she was not the Cassie I had grown close to.
But then, as if she changed her mind, her hand hovered over the control, turning her head just enough to see my foot land on the deck and we were off. Thompson grabbed me by the scruff of my coat before the sudden speed could send me backwards into the teeming water.
Crowding the small deck with the two rucksacks at our feet, I tried to ignore the sound of what brushed past the hull as we cut through the water. Still with the shotgun in my hand, Alex and Jess ducked under the wheel deck, heading through the door and into the cabin.
Sherlock stood on the other side of the deck with his palm on his holstered pistol and brow furrowed, glaring in my direction. To his side, Thompson leaned out from the hull whilst looking ahead with one hand shielding his eyes from the winter sun and the other gripping a handrail.
Sherlock dropped his stare, stepping beside Thompson, leaning in to talk low to his ear.
I looked away, not interested in what he said, instead turning to Gibson standing the other side of the boat and following his look to the figures just underneath the water, caught by the slow current and drifting the same way as us.
As Gibson looked up, I moved at the same time, peering out to the horizon and realised we were on a canal with a river a stone’s throw over a short bank. If it weren’t for the horizon lined with the tall columns of smoke of varying shades of darkness and the hint of stench mixed with the smell of the water, we could have been on a leisurely trip.
The weight of the shotgun turned me away from the fantasy as I stared to the bloody boot-prints on the deck, then to the shaven fur on Shadow’s side, and then Cassie’s cold, expressionless face.
No. We were definitely not on a pleasure cruise.
Thompson’s raised voice dispelled the last of my thoughts, instead watching him with his face right up to Sherlock’s as he tried to keep his voice low. Turning away when Gibson did the same, I knew Sherlock would argue about Jess and how they could travel with someone like her. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was Thompson’s orders or Jess saving his life that stopped him from throwing her overboard when she stepped from the cabin.
“Do that again and I’ll take you down,” Thompson said, unable to keep his volume low as he stepped away from Sherlock, instead staring at me before looking to the shotgun whilst walking my way. “Have you handled one of these before?”
Shaking my head as he held out his hand, I hesitated at the offer. But stepping forward, I didn’t resist as he took the long gun with both hands and clicked the small safety switch into place. Nodding when he looked me in the eye to make sure I’d seen, he snapped the gun in the centre and an empty cartridge ejected from the barrel, flying out over the side and into the river with a splash.
A single brass-ended cylinder remained. “Did you find any more cartridges?”
Shaking my head, he snapped the gun closed, cradling it in the crook of his arm with the barrel pointing upward. I nodded to show I’d understood, and he handed it back so I could mirror the hold. Satisfied, he turned away, climbing the short steps to stand at Cassie’s side.
All the time, Sherlock had been looking my way, glaring back when our eyes met.
A gust of wind washed across my face, the effluent stench drawing away my concern that any moment Sherlock might push me into the water. With heads angled skyward and peering across the view, I could tell the others smelt it too.
Seeing the sign on the left bank, I caught Gibson nodding in its direction as the others turned their heads to read the words and put themselves at ease. Each soon looked to the plumes of smoke rising above the trees which hid all but the tallest utilitarian buildings of the sewerage treatment plant nestled on an island bisecting the river and the canal.
The ring of green did nothing to hide the stench pushed high by the fires.
As we passed, I covered my mouth, trying to hold back the pervasive odour, and as it eventually faded, my attention went to a tall bridge across our path. Despite the distance, I saw the roofs of stationary cars and vans end to end across its length, forming the same scene we’d seen so many times before, but on a much bigger scale. Eventually I turned away, grateful the eight blocked lanes of motorway weren’t in our way.
With the low drone of the boat’s engine the only sound, no voices cutting over, I couldn’t help but question if the others were thinking about the moment the cars ground to a halt. Like me, were they asking themselves what could have made the people leave their cars and walk away in the freezing cold? Or perhaps run for their lives?
Movement in my peripheral vision caught my eye, and I turned to the left, peering across the width of the river to settle on an animal at the far bank. Squinting for detail, I tried to figure if it was a dog or cat with its head down over a heap at its front. With nothing to give perspective to the size, it was as Thompson spoke the figure rose, standing tall to glare at us from across the water.
“Watch for contacts on the bridge.”
I turned away as it walked into the water, then as it tripped over, falling headfirst when the water reached its knees.
Could a life on the water solve our predicament?
Thompson repeated his words and I followed his instructions, looking up toward the great concrete bridge looming in front of us.
I left the shotgun cradled in my arms as Thompson and the others pointed their weapons upward. The percussive hum of the engine magnified as we passed the concrete edge, giving a brief respite from the danger of the unwanted falling on top of us.
With the bridge soon at our backs as we continued downstream, a splash from behind called us to turn and scour the deck for who’d fallen overboard. Instead of finding someone missing, we turned up to the small crowd at the edge of the bridge who noiselessly called for our blood and proved Thompson had been right with his caution.
With the bridge shrinking from my view, I turned to a boatyard on the other side of the river standing empty as we passed. I imagined
the river filled with tourists and pleasure seekers on a sunny day; the water teeming with traffic. In my daydream, families clustered on the banks with food laid out across their blankets.
Our course changed and the sweep of our journey heading to the left of the narrow channel drew my thoughts away. Taking the few steps, I climbed up to the small wheelhouse where Cassie didn’t look from the water ahead.
About to question the turn, I caught sight of the white of an upturned hull in the centre of the canal, silencing my question.
With her right hand dropping the throttle, we slowed as Cassie leaned forward, concentrating ahead as if trying to look below the surface of the water. With a deft touch to the controls, adjusting the turn of the wheel and the throttle, she seemed as if she’d piloted a boat for much of her life.
Perhaps she had. I had, after all, only known her for such a brief time.
“Shit,” she said, sending my eyes wide, the boat lurching to the left so violently as I rushed to grab at anything solid. A great boom reverberated from the hull as white water splashed high and we lurched to the side.
68
JESSICA
Searching the small cabin with the door swinging closed at my back, I heard Alex’s chattering teeth as I pulled up the tops of the bench seats, but found nothing warm to wrap her in, just space where the provisions should have been.
Shadow had followed us and sniffed around as I searched the cupboards on one side by the entrance and the other, a simple toilet, but they were empty too. Cursing the owners of the craft, I turned back to Alex with her arms wrapped around herself and took a chance.
Despite fearing how she would react, I took a long step toward her. When she didn’t reel back in horror, I wrapped my arms around her and gripped her hard against her shakes. And there we held, the shivers slowing and we were at peace, despite the raised voices the other side of the door. Nothing could end that time where we were the only two people alive.
“The camera,” Alex said, pulling away.
Still shaking, she pulled the rucksack from her shoulders and laid it to the seat, unclipping the clasps and pulling it open. She turned my way, smiling when inside she saw no water had got it and the camera sat safe and well, still nestled in the grey foam.
Clipping the case closed, she launched back into my arms, but the lurch of the boat to the side threw me backwards with Alex landing on top of me.
69
LOGAN
As I slammed into Cassie’s side, the motion sent the shotgun clattering to the deck, the boat groaning as the hull scraped over what lay just under the water. Trying to steady myself and grabbing for any handle, I paused beside Cassie with her warmth radiating through her clothes.
Reaching out with her right hand as the other held on to the boat, she pushed at my chest and I turned, gripping at the other side of the wheelhouse to pull away, despite the steep angle.
As quick as the change of direction came, we lurched the other way, violently coming upright with the motion sending us in the opposite direction. Cassie recovered before stumbling into my side and hit the throttle to hush the engine when the sound of a sudden splash in the water came from behind.
Turning to the sound, Cassie’s eyes widened with concern over who had fallen. When I didn’t see Alex or Jess, I tried to remember if they’d been on the deck moments before, just as Shadow bounded up from below where we stood, followed by the two women.
Looking back to the deck, I saw only two soldiers steadying themselves against the handrails.
“Man overboard,” they called in a well-drilled unison. Gibson had vanished.
“What happened?” Alex shouted as she rushed to the soldier’s side.
“We hit a sunken boat,” I said, as I leapt down the steps to scour the water, joined by Thompson, Sherlock and Alex.
My search caught on the white of the upturned hull disappearing from view in the murky water as we drifted away.
“There,” I called, pointing to a mop of long blonde hair near the edge of the canal, despite knowing the figure couldn’t have been Gibson with his close crop. A sudden fresh fear gripped tight in my stomach when I realised there were creatures under the water, even though we’d travelled far from where we’d taken the boat.
“Eight o’clock,” came the call, and heads turned just enough to see the dark hair of Gibson. The engine came to life and we jerked to a stop, watching as the pale figure burst from the water, but not splashing about in panic.
Despite the memory of the freezing water rushing back, I expected the soldiers to jump to his rescue. Neither did; instead, they stood to the edge and leaned over. Did they think he’d been bitten whilst under the water and turned already? Why else would they leave this man to fend for himself?
Stepping to the edge, questioning whether I should jump in instead, I looked to the water and saw movement a short distance the way we’d come.
I looked back to Gibson, watching with alarm as he dived under the surface again. Whatever he was doing it seemed he still had control, but not for long if the creatures spotted him.
With movement behind him rippling the water, short waves battered the sides of the hull as we sought any glimpse of other heads just below the surface.
“Gibson,” I called, more voices adding to the volume. Someone had to do something or we’d lose him, but as if not afflicted by the icy temperature, he was still under the water, searching for something on the canal bed.
The rifle. He’d been carrying one of the two remaining rifles and must have dropped it as he fell.
“Gibson,” the voices called again.
He’d been under so long, giving us no chance to tell him his life wasn’t worth the length of metal.
Just then, Gibson broke through the surface to a chorus of voices calling his name, but he didn’t seem to hear; instead, without a glance to the boat of people waving or the turbulent water whipped up by the dead walking below the surface, he dived back under.
A shot rang out loud from my side and I turned to see Thompson pointing his pistol toward the water, a wisp of smoke curling up from the end of the muzzle. Then another, this time to my right, Sherlock firing above Gibson’s position at shapes moving in the water. Blinking as I turned back, I hoped they were certain they knew where he would rise again.
Just as another shot rang out, the soaked black metal of the rifle raised out of the water with fingers curled around its middle. Gibson’s head rose soon after with his mouth wide, not waiting for the water to drain down his face as he pulled a quick breath. Glancing left and right before getting his bearings, he beamed as if he’d won a prize, but the elation fell away when he heard our muddle of voices screaming his name.
Rather than looking around, he lunged forward, paddling with the rifle in one hand as the other cut through the water. The engine tone rose, and we lurched back before coming to a stop close enough to lean down with Thompson by my side and reaching for a wrist each.
As I did, Sherlock knocked my hand out of the way and placed his grip on the cuff of Gibson’s black jacket, heaving him back to the deck.
Glaring in my direction, Sherlock spoke, but not to me.
“You should have left the rifle, you stupid twat,” he said, turning to the shivering soldier.
With water coursing down his face, Gibson glanced behind him to the murky brown, bristling with movement.
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” I said, and slapped him on the shoulder, ignoring Sherlock’s returning glare. Thompson shook his head and took the rifle from Gibson’s grip.
The engine note went high again and we moved off at an unhurried pace, much slower than we had before the crash. I watched as the water rippled under the surface.
Leaving Gibson to undress and wring out his clothes, changing into whatever spares they had left, despite what they’d told me when I asked. I headed back up the steps, picking up the shotgun and resting it in the cradle of my arm.
Peering out across the water, Cassie
kept her concentration fixed, scanning the width of the canal as we crept forward.
“Where d’you learn to drive a boat?” I asked once my nerves had settled. “Or do you pilot a boat? I’m never sure which it is.” My voice sounded timid as if we were on a first date, or chatting to a stranger and scrambling to make small talk.
I didn’t look around to catch Cassie’s reaction but when I couldn’t see her move in my peripheral vision, I felt a great weight over me.
The weight fell as she spoke, her words flat but at least she was engaging. “I don’t think it matters.”
When she spoke again, I had to push down the rising smile. “My dad taught me. We grew up with rivers and the sea all around us. He would take me out on a boat twice a year.”
“You had a boat?” I replied, still reeling that we were having a conversation.
She shrugged. “We’d just hire one for the day.” Glancing my way, I saw a hint of a smile before turning back to the water. In the brief moment, I caught a twinkle in her eye as if she was grateful for reliving a cherished childhood memory, but her smile soon dropped and she leaned forward again.
I turned ahead but couldn’t see anything that could have pulled her from the memory.
Then I remembered her parents were probably dead; lost in the melee of roadblocks in the early days.
“Ellie hated the water.” Cassie’s voice held back my thoughts. “But she would still come along. She didn’t have to, but she enjoyed the time with us. She’d take travel sickness tablets or be hanging over the edge for the entire day.” Cassie stopped as if about to add something else, but after a few moments she kept it to herself.
Moving her hand to the throttle, she cut the power. Ahead I saw the low bridge blocking our path and we drifted, slowing to the speed of the current.
