by G. P. Moss
“Well, we used to trade sometimes, often just talk. We knew of you, of course. Johnny also knew that when your mum died, you’d leave - try to find a way to fix this mess, whether you really wanted to or not. I couldn’t let you go alone. So, here I am, Mercy Anne Browne!”
That old scoundrel. He wasn’t as drunk as he seemed.
“Storm, I’m not used to much company, but I’m not complaining - thanks again.”
“Okay, enough thanking - of me, anyhow - let’s get moving. Lead the way,” she says, grinning again, a full set of white teeth proving her land really isn’t all dead.
Only the second day. As the shock of the attack starts to subside, we move together but a few feet apart. Four eyes now. We talk little. Focussing on our surroundings, we’re on high alert. Storm carries a sack too, along with the strange-looking bow - I never saw one before but I’ve heard of them. I find a large, heavy stone for sharpening, swiping my sword over and over until I’m satisfied. Testing it on shrub, it slices through, nice and clean.
We walk fast. This place creeps me out. I’m glad she’s here. Everything is dead. Two hours in, there are no more Subs. That we can see. There are more factories though. This time, we’re further away. Still, my sword’s ready. The bow’s ready.
Ghost, she calls it. It uses black, carbon steel bolts. She retrieved the four, from the Subs’ head and necks. Pulled them out, just like that. Didn’t even flinch. She scares me. Comforts me. I scan for movement. Ahead. Left. Right.
I sneak glances at Storm. Her hair is jet black, tied back with a thin silver band. A narrow nose and strong jawline gives her a warrior look but soft, pale green eyes soften it. She’s taller than me, probably five-eleven. We’re both slim but not skinny - my eyes are darker green and my nose is a little shorter. A black sleeveless tech-shirt shows defined muscles - lean and tough. Matching deep black trousers taper to high boots - unlike mine, these look military issue. Thoughts back, Mercy. I feel my stride, picking it up. Storm matches the pace. We need water, and soon. Not just for us either. For this. The land. The mess.
A few hundred yards away, loud screaming sounds emerge from a concreted area, littered with burnt buses. A large rectangular brick building sits nearby, its roof still partly intact with twisted, corrugated iron. We move away. I see Subs - lots of them. They bang. They shout, running around like demented chickens. My breaths come fast. Dry. Hot. I struggle to get enough… air. Something spots my face. It’s rain. We grab long nylon ponchos from the sacks.
The Subs dash around, screaming like madmen – it’s what they are. They’re running inside. My iron-filing breaths behave, for once. We half-run, carefully. It’s not too slippery as the ground’s still as hard as rock. I see a bridge ahead. It looks rotten. There’s water, its flow sluggish. It should be quicker - it’s sick. It’s a wide stream, twenty or so foot across. A small river. I look down but can’t guess the depth so I use a stick. It keeps going. I won’t heal here, not this side. Not with them nearby. We need to cross. A swooping black shape shrieks overhead.
I grab the left handrail. It’s rotten. Mouldy, paint-flecked wood comes off in my hand. I reach to the right. Hold. Left foot forward. Right. The plank starts to snap. As my left foot gets a grip, I pull my right foot from mid-air and swing again. I’m almost there. Looking quickly around, I see that Storm’s on the bank, standing just in her underwear. As I reach the other side, I hear a dull thump. It’s her sack, landing on the bank. I stand there, incredulous.
“You’re never swimming in that? At least let me heal first. It’s dead, Storm. It can harm.”
I place my hand in. Focus. Intone, pray, thank. She’s already in the water. Stupid girl! Thoughts back. To heal. She’s almost there. Just a few feet more. A piercing scream fills the air. Something has her. Thrashing white foam mixed with blood is all I see. The bowie’s ready in my hand. Part fish, part huge, jagged teeth emerge. I throw the knife, hard. I see Storm’s hand. I pull, dragging her up the bank. I’ve no time to see if the healing worked. Or, if that thing is dead. Storm’s right foot is bloody. I see cuts on her legs. I quickly bind her foot, packing it with sage leaves. She’ll be okay. I hope. She’s shaking. Both our hearts beat quick. Too quick. I speak slowly, firmly.
“Storm, we’ve got to move. Fast. Now!”
She nods. She can’t speak but manages to put her clothes back on, her face crumpling with the pain in her foot.
The shouts have piqued the interest of the Subs. They’re coming. I hear spine-jolting screams. I look at Storm. She tells me to run.
“No!” I shout.
If we die, we die together. We prepare to fight even though I can see that Storm’s in incredible pain. I lost the bowie - it’s the sword for me now - Storm has Ghost. The crossbow’s ready in thirty seconds. The Subs are close. They’re at the bridge, waiting impatiently for others to cross, tripping over each other in their haste and taste for blood.
They’re in the river. More are on the bridge. We take deep, even breaths. The Subs’ hunger for death drives them heavy footed, all at once. As the rotten bridge collapses under the strain, the Subs in the water are attacked. They’re all in the water. Huge spouts of dirty cream foam shoot into the air as cries become louder, sharper. Then muffled, quiet. Whatever attacked Storm has friends. She was lucky. We were lucky. She grins. A twisted grimace.
“Thanks for staying.”
“Come on, girl trouble, we still should get out of here.” I’m not angry with her – just relieved.
Chapter Four
We’re tired. I’m tired. Storm is exhausted. And injured. We need distance and safety.
“You know they hate fire,” Storm says.
“I know,” I say. “It’s odd. I heard they used to burn everything.”
“They did. Something happened. They seem to keep away now. But who knows? They might still have a taste for flame around here.”
Seem? Seem won’t cut it. We’ll see – hopefully we won’t find out the hard way. We have flints. The earth and scrub is dry. Death-dry. We just need cover.
I can see quite a way ahead. There’s no sound from behind. Vast plains of green-black fields tease out the way ahead. Compass, sun, compass. We’re on course.
Dotted around, as far as I can see, are more of the offending fracking and geothermal wells. The great future of world energy that became the worst enemy this planet has ever seen - at least since the disappearance of the dinosaurs.
Storm grins but I know she’s hurting. Drilling buildings look damaged beyond repair. They’re wrecked like everything else. I scan the area, constantly. We traipse land flat as board. Up ahead, I see what look like tracks. Rail tracks. This is good. There may be brick sheds again. This time will be different. There’ll be fire.
We’re close to woodland again, on a diagonal, to our left. There should be water to heal. Now we know that monsters dwell there too. I never saw land this bad. This dead. There’s a stream. I get to work. Intone, pray, thank. It makes me sick but I usually recover quickly. It’s bad. Sulfides. Ammonia. Arsenic. Mercury. Others, perhaps.
My hand stays in. I heave. I’m so sick, I want to cry. I focus. If I don’t leave, I’ll die. I’m lucky but not stupid. I hope it’s enough. Storm looks bad. We need shelter, fast. There’s no rain but her foot is wet. I need to dress it properly or she’ll lose it.
I see a small brick structure. An old work shed. Perfect, if it’s empty. It’s padlocked. That’s good. Storm sits while I look around. I need a pole - something to jemmy the lock. I don’t want wood splitting, not here.
I go about twenty yards, searching in a quick, thorough sweep. A rusted, sharp-ended stake lies near the track. For the first time, I notice something else. Some of the track is buckled. From quakes, no doubt. I slot the sharp end in. Yanking it down, it shocks my wrist but pops the lock. I’m in. Dust isn’t the word. I clear the worst. I help Storm in - she’s hobbling now. I can see that putting pressure on the foot is agony. She sits on the bench as I clean her wound.
“I’m sorry, it will get better.”
*
Taking a flint and striker, I prepare the boundary fire. Stones. Brush. Bracken. Wood. We need a barrier. Between the night, and us.
The flames flicker before a whoosh and the barrier’s alive with heat and colour. This fire’s different - it’s not holding Mum. I bite my lip hard, look around, before boiling comfrey leaves in a battered, old tin pot on the fire – the natural antiseptic helps wound recovery.
I’m hurting her but the salve will work. I hope. I take clean cloth from the sack. Tying the bandage firm but not too tight, I pray I’ve done enough to save her foot.
I secure the door. I prepare the sword, and Ghost. I miss the bowie. There’s a paring knife in the sack. It’s small, razor-sharp, and better than nothing. There’s a jagged crack in the board, where the window used to be. When things were…different – until the day I was born – the day all this pointless death and destruction began.
*
A thin, yellow sliver of light enters, receding as the sun goes down. I focus on our situation, breathing slowly - deep, long breaths. Storm’s asleep. Black loose braids that I never noticed before, glisten with sweat as the poison works its way out. The fever was much worse but it’s subsided. I know I should sleep properly. I daren’t, snoozing instead.
A rustling sound teases my brain, though it seems far away. I think. I doze. I dream of Mum. Smiles and gratitude. She raised me in this with no complaints, ever. Just instruction, and love. I wake and I feel the cold deep in my bones. The fire’s down. We need more heat. Storm needs it, to aid the healing. I head outside, nervous and freezing.
The fire’s low, as I thought. Jumping over the stones, I start gathering dry wood, not too close to the trees. A sound alerts me to the fact I’m half asleep. Fully awake now, I fling the wood on the fire, returning for more. My eyes are set on the forest, huge oaks, and birch trees, solid in their massive huddle. There’s definite movement, the rustle of leaves and a sudden snap of a dry branch confirming it.
I release the sword. As I swing two arcs, right then left, a black shape emerges. It’s a dog, a shock of white fur showing on its belly. My breathing is steady as I prepare to fight. From here I see its eyes. They’re misty, not red with disease. It looks at me, turns and lies down. The shed door opens. I can feel Storm behind me, to the right. She’s locked a bolt. I raise my hand.
“Stop!” I shout.
“They’re all turned, Mercy,” she replies, urgently. “I’m taking it out.”
“Wait, please! It’s different, like Johnny’s. The one that died.”
The dog gets up, glancing at me nervously before slinking away. Storm’s fever’s gone. She looks better.
“If it’s not diseased, it’s meat,” she says. “We could have cooked it.”
“There’s plenty of soy jerk in my sack to last us for months.”
“Me too, but meat is meat.” She looks annoyed.
“Well, it’s gone. Anyway, it looks like one of those Border Collie types to me. It reminds me so much of Johnny’s - much younger of course,” I say, clearly steering the conversation away from eating dog meat.
Storm grins. “Glad you like jerk. I found a small stash in the shed. Hope it lasts, like, a couple of decades!”
“It’ll be fine - natural acids. Lasts for…I don’t know. Ages, anyway. I’ve been eating it for almost seventeen years so far – from when I could chew. For real food, we need to heal - it’s why I’m here, why we’re here.”
“Still think we should’ve shot it,” Storm says, muttering.
Searching the shed, I find a thick, orange nylon jacket hanging from a hook. Emptying the pockets, my heart quickens. A notebook, black, spiral bound. CRG is stamped on the front in bold gold block lettering. The bottom of the back cover says China Railway Group in smaller, but still exquisite, golden inlaid print.
Running my fingers across the cloth-like board, its texture reminds me of the fine weave of Mum’s silk scarf – her ‘eccentric, guilty pleasure’, she called it. Inside the book is a handwritten name - ‘Michael Thompson, Engineer.’ Several pages of writing take up a quarter of the journal. Turning quickly to the final entry, I read, conscious that I’m holding my breath. ‘Tons of noise. Explosions. Feel sick. Must find Holly.’
Holly? It’s capitalised. Must be a name. A wife, maybe, or daughter. Poor man. Poor everyone. Realising I’ve crunched my lip, again, I ignore the sharp pain as I continue to search other pockets. I find three pens, an amazing, rare discovery. There’s a board, holding a piece of paper with a sprung, silver metal clip. I test the pens. After a while, they work. I take the clip and the paper, putting them carefully into one of the sack pockets.
Storm shares out the jerk. Vacuum sealed, it’s in good condition. We’ve been here too long. We need to keep moving if we’re to find water to heal. For us. For the land.
*
A new day. Storm walks with less pain as we focus, looking for signs of life. Where the ground’s dead, we don’t want signs of life. It only means trouble. We find a stream. There had to be one close to the woods. The water’s no good. Better than the last one, but still dangerous. I pray, intone, thank. There’s sickness. It’s brief and I’m grateful.
A couple of hundred yards to the left there’s sound and movement. I look at Storm. She shakes her head. It’s the dog, drinking peacefully. I don’t know how it’s survived this long. Must be springs somewhere. Safe water. I look again but not for too long. I’ve no doubt that it’s a Border Collie. It looks up before looking away, wandering off out of sight. Scooping a handful of water, I smell the liquid before tasting it. It’s better, already.
We fill the water bottles, filtering through charcoal to be sure it’s safe. Setting off, I’m pleased with the progress we’re making. Cut and bruised we may be, but still thankful. I turn briefly. The dog follows, out of sight. But I know - I sense it - it’s not diseased. It would have attacked by now. It’s not like the others. They can’t help it. For them it’s a parasitic need to kill and destroy.
Chapter Five
As we walk, I glance at Storm. She knows what I’m thinking and is not amused.
“It could be useful,” I say. “Johnny’s dog was a great companion. They were never attacked,” I add, more hopeful than sure.
“They were attacked, especially in the early days,” she says. “He was Special Ops, before the mess. That guy had resources. Things we can only dream of – weapons mainly. Most of the ammunition’s probably gone now. And, he’s drinking more, now the land’s healing. The water’s better. His grog’s better so maybe his memory’s worse. There are less Subs, I think. They’re dying off, getting killed. It’s a good job, since Johnny boy isn’t what he used to be. Back to the hound. If he. Or she. It, tags along, we will need to feed it. It’s hard enough to get fresh meat as it is. It’s all I’m saying,” she finishes, taking a long, deep, breath.
“It’s a dog, not a Hound,” I say, defensively.
“Whatever,” she replies.
I don’t argue for long – it’s too distracting. I focus on our direction. Compass, sun, compass. A whole day of marching. Storm has more pressure on her foot but it holds. I’m grateful as it’s necessary to keep moving, pushing forward. To linger is to die. Storm is almost twenty-one years old. She remembers something, a life shift. There was a bungalow with a twenty-foot back garden. They grew rhubarb – she remembers eating it raw, dipping the long sticks in sweet white sugar. Her memories. Then this.
Mum educated me, in survival, and history. What she could remember of it. It was a lot. There was a fight inside her to protect me, and to prepare me. She believed others would do the same. I hope she’s right. Mum’s gone.
Thick columns of smoke in the distance. Fires. There could be normal people. As opposed to the ‘eating your neck off’ kind. Storm advises caution. Theoretically, fire now equals no Subs but she’s not one hundred per cent sure. It worked at the shed. Perhaps. Maybe there weren�
�t any anyway. Human defences? If we get too close, we may be in a lot of trouble. There could be firearms and no one is expecting us. Could, should, would. This is not where our journey will end. It looks…hopeful. It’s not just hard browns there – I see greens too. Distant soils look lighter. Maybe it’s an illusion.
We decide to stay clear. Wells are scarce around this part. Half a mile back, there were many more, mostly on their sides, blown away with immense pressure from deep underground. There were too many, with too much pressure. The earth cracked, moved, exploding with a force never seen before. Two and a half days walking and I’m guessing we’ve covered at least sixty miles. It’s not bad, considering the odd mishap.
We skirt the fires, moving fast. The flames seem spaced apart like sentry posts. I don’t hear excitement, shouting. It’s quiet and the land looks cleaner, not baked dry with sun and poison. It gives me hope. What I need to remember though is that these may as well be prison camps. You can leave, like us, but be prepared to fight to survive. Or stay living out your life in fear. Better to try or to die trying. Right now, we’re living - for us and hopefully for others in the future.
A wide stream meanders from the far right. It curls around the cleaner land, separating us from the boundary fires, if that’s what they are. Further up it curves to the left. We won’t have to cross but I want to check it for purity, to see if I’m sick. I dip my arm. I feel…fine.
Scooping a little, I sniff it before tasting. It’s good. We change the charcoal, filling the bottles. I look to my right. Less than one hundred yards away, the dog is at the edge of the water, where the stream curves. It’s drinking. Looking at me briefly, it looks away. It’s shabby - probably been through a nightmare, like us. Maybe worse.
Suddenly it jumps into the stream. I don’t laugh like I used to when Johnny’s dog hit the water. I can’t shout, it’s too dangerous to draw attention. I wave my arms until it’s back on the bank. My heart slows to a normal rhythm. I just worried about a dog.
