The Dark Water

by Seth Fishman

  A single soldier steps into the garage with his gun raised, the barrel shifting back and forth until it settles on the truck. It’s not Gutierrez, that much is clear, but for Jimmy, that’s probably a bad thing. He ducks, his breath coming heavy, looking for a garage clicker or something. No good, there’s nothing. Does someone in the control room usually let everyone out of the lot?

  The soldier’s close, fifteen yards or so, approaching from the side.

  Screw it, Jimmy thinks, putting the truck in gear and slamming on the gas.

  The tires spin, and the soldier shoots. The passenger-side window shatters, and Jimmy screams like a girl. The truck heaves forward, and Jimmy can feel the ping of bullet after bullet smashing into the cab. There’s a pop and the truck lists. The soldier hit a tire. For a fleeting moment, Jimmy’s big hands on the wheels, trying to get control of the truck, he finds himself impressed. It always pisses him off in movies when the bad guys don’t shoot out the tires.

  That’s about all he has time to think, as the truck swerves straight for the massive metal doors. Jimmy closes his eyes. Why didn’t he put on his seat belt?

  There’s a noise, a heavy grind, then a piercing shriek above his head, but no collision, and Jimmy peeks his eyes open to see that he’s made it through the doors. There must have been sensors kicking on as he got close. He was moving fast, though, so the cab scraped across the bottom of the doors, but suddenly he’s hobbling down a long empty drive, still in the Cave, with another huge door in front of him. The double doors must be a safety precaution, and Jimmy curses Mr. Kish for thinking of it.

  The soldier keeps firing, but Jimmy doesn’t take his eyes off the road this time. As he gets closer, the front doors to the Cave slide up from the ground. Behind him, he sees three soldiers now, sprinting down the long tunnel.

  “Come on come on!” Jimmy shouts, banging the steering wheel. He can’t squeak under the door yet, but he can’t stop. He taps the breaks, sending shudders through the truck, the gate lifted high enough to see beyond the Cave.

  It’s morning outside, the sun shining bright against the snow-covered everything. The mountains are visible. The trees bent by heavy snow. The air is crisp and whips right into the tunnel and cab, freezing him up.

  But it’s not the cold air that catches his breath. It’s the tank.

  The barrel is facing right at him, a gaping hole ready to take down the doors or rip open his face. On top of the tank, on a small turret, is a soldier in a white hazmat suit. He’s staring at Jimmy, confused. Then he looks behind the truck, probably watching his friends waving him down.

  More shots ping into the back of the cab, shattering glass.

  The gate hits the roof and Jimmy hurls the truck forward, swerving off the road and around the beast. On the other side of the tank are a half dozen soldiers—also hazmatted—and three cop cars. One of them has SHERIFF splayed across its side. The men are standing behind their open doors to protect themselves. Everything seems to stop when Jimmy comes into view, frozen in a moment before one cop draws his gun.

  Jimmy watches, almost in disbelief, but of course they’d think he’s doing something wrong, trying to bulldoze past them from the Cave. One officer’s got a beard and a large, dark green wide-brimmed hat that matches his parka. Jimmy’s seen him in Fenton plenty of times—the cop even yelled at him once—but doesn’t know his name. The officer aims his gun and Jimmy swears he can see him close one eye to get a better bead, but then there’s a shot and it’s not from the cop.

  The soldier on the tank fires his M240 at Jimmy’s truck, the bullets coming so fast and hitting so hard that the tires completely give and Jimmy swerves right off the road and into a tree, smashing out every bit of glass remaining. The seat belt digs into his neck, cutting him, and his vision goes hazy.

  Another shot and Jimmy ducks. Out of the driver’s-side window he sees that the bearded cop’s protecting him now, that the cop has shot the soldier on the tank’s machine gun, knocking him from his perch.

  “Come on,” the cop shouts to Jimmy.

  Jimmy stumbles out of the truck, still dazed from the wreck. His head aches, but he manages to use the truck’s frame as cover, and slips his way in a wobbly dash to the police cars. An officer’s been hit, lying flat on the dirty snow. Another’s screaming into his walkie-talkie.

  “Get in, get in!” yet another cop yells, and Jimmy does, right into the back. It’s loud, bullets smacking into the car like punches, but the cruisers are built to withstand bullets—to a point. The car doors slam and two cops are in and the car’s moving, reversing like mad.

  “What’s happening?” one of them screeches, the one in the passenger seat. He’s younger, black, with a rookie-clean face and wide, terrified eyes. He’s firing blindly out the window.

  “Stop that,” the bearded cop says. “Just reload and calm down.”

  Bullets thunk into the hood, a few whiz by, but inside it’s quiet. The bearded cop spins the wheel and they fishtail fast down the road toward the highway and Fenton. Jimmy looks behind him through the glass. They’ve rounded a bend and the road’s empty.

  Beard is grim, his hands tight on the steering wheel. Rookie breathes hard, his hands tight on the gun.

  “I’m sorry,” Jimmy says, unable to think exactly what he’s sorry for. But it’s what came to his mind, an instinct after years of getting in trouble.

  “You’re from the Cave?” Beard asks, looking at Jimmy through the rearview mirror with eyes so blue they shine.

  “Yeah, but I go to Westbrook.”

  The two cops exchange glances, nothing subtle about it.

  “I don’t have the virus,” Jimmy says, raising his hands in the air. They hit a bump, swerve, keep on going.

  “So, what, you’re a teacher who goes to Westbrook?”

  Jimmy looks down at himself, his aged body. “Oh, right, yeah. Um, no—I had the virus but I was cured. I’m a student there.” He leans forward and the rookie cop fidgets with the gun. “Listen, lots of stuff happened at Westbrook. You probably know that by now. And the aqueduct—”

  “We know about the aqueduct,” Beard says grimly.

  “Then what were you doing at the Cave?”

  “They said they were National Guard,” Beard replies, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “They had documentation. They warned us about the outbreak. Who else would they be? We thought they were here to help. And they did, they helped us close the roads all around Fenton. But they’ve been giving us the runaround for hours about the Cave and then you come flying and they start shooting.”

  “The radios and cell towers are down,” Rookie adds. “There’s tanks at checkpoints on the highway in and out. But we weren’t told what the outbreak is from. They didn’t tell us anything.” He looks past Jimmy out the window, back the way they came. “They’re dead, Woods, aren’t they?”

  “Our boys back there? Probably,” Woods replies, his voice stone. “Kid, what’s your name?”

  “Jimmy Diaz. My dad’s Chris Diaz.”

  Woods slams on the breaks and pulls over. “What the fuck kind of game are you playing here, son?” he asks, turning in his seat. His mouth quivers he’s so angry.

  Jimmy’s confused. “Officer Woods, I’ve seen you around Fenton for years. You caught me toilet papering Jenny Mila’s house in seventh grade.”

  “I know Jimmy Diaz. I definitely know his old man. I don’t know you.”

  “The virus. It’s real. I don’t have it anymore though. It made me older. It ages you until you die. But I got healed at this age so that’s why I look this way.”

  Woods looks dubious; Rookie—his badge says his name is Hendricks—downright incredulous.

  “Ya we’ve seen the virus, we know. But you expect me to believe you’re Jimmy Diaz? The same boy who goes to Westbrook? Where does your daddy live?”

  Jimmy snorts. “One twenty-ei
ght Cedar Boulevard. He’s always wearing a white cowboy hat and he owns half the developments in town and he’s got that small lot just outside of Fenton, with the albino horse he says he’ll stud. He calls it Wanker and tells everyone so. That’s my dad.”

  “You’re really Chris’s son, huh?” Woods repeats, blinking a lot as if to make sure Jimmy’s real.

  “Listen, Officer Woods. I know this is strange. But this is really me. Those soldiers aren’t good guys. We gotta get to the aqueduct to meet up with Odessa Cohle—she got infected and looks older like me. We have to get there now.”

  Woods puts the car back into gear, shaking his head slowly. “No, son, we’re going to see your father.”

  Jimmy slams his big hands on the seat, freaking Hendricks out. “You’re not listening to me! We have to get there. I’m really Jimmy Diaz, you have to believe me. We have to help Odessa. If we don’t, the virus might spread to Fenton.”

  Those blue eyes stare for a moment, and it’s clear Woods is debating what to say next. “Son, we’re going to your father because the virus already has.”

  14

  ARCOS’S CHAMBERS ARE, LIKE RANDT’S, ON THE TOP floor of the building. Palu escorts us past plush sitting rooms filled with comfy-looking chairs and small trees and burning gas fire pits, like a manicured indoor campground. There’s even grass, thick and green and soft underfoot.

  Along the far side of the room is a curving glass wall, bent along the edge of the spherical building. The floor drops off into a wide pool, an indoor/outdoor one, with water still and pristine. It flows under the glass window and to a wooden deck outside, where we can make out the shape of a figure standing with a towel over his shoulders. He’s smaller than most Keepers should be, and is leaning over the railing taking in the view, not a care in the world.

  “I guess Brayden lived,” Rob says.

  He’s right, of course. My mind is having trouble believing my eyes. I guess I was just expecting him to be cut and torn and tortured, bleeding all over some white bed somewhere. I shiver, equal parts exhausted and uncertain. What am I supposed to do about him? How does he expect me to act?

  Palu motions to a door in the glass, not the invisible type Randt had, but one with a good old-fashioned door handle made of thousands of rubies. “Arcos will be here shortly,” she says, ushering us through. “You may partake of the water.”

  “Thank you, Palu,” Jo says. The Keeper seems to appreciate this, because her lips turn upward, almost a smile, before she takes a seat in a chair, staring, blank-faced, our way.

  Brayden’s watching me. His brown eyes are cautious, and below them are a pair of angry red lines, the remnants of the cuts Straoc left. What kind of pain was he in when he woke? No, I chastise myself, more important things first. I take Dad’s hand and sit him down next to the pool and help him drink, then pour some water on his cuts.

  “Dangerous what you did in there,” I say to Dad. It’s weird, taking care of him, washing his blood from his wounds.

  He laughs. “What’s this? My daughter lecturing me about safety?”

  I stare him down. “I guess so.”

  “Maybe I deserve it,” he replies, putting his arm around me. “While I’m not too pleased to see you in danger, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “You should’ve told me. Even yesterday, back in the Cave, you should’ve told me you were coming here.”

  He scratches his head, managing to look abashed. “I’m sorry, Mia. I am. I wanted to protect you.” He pauses. “I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be coming back.”

  I look away. I don’t want him to see my face. I don’t want him to see how much it hurts me that he was willing to leave me like that, knowing the risks. To distract myself I pool water in my hands and splash it on my face.

  The water is cool and clean and, like before, immediately soothes me. Dad’s wound is already closing, and down the line I can see Lisa twisting her torso back and forth, testing her ribs. Suddenly, Brayden’s right behind me. I can feel it. I can see his bare feet in the periphery of my vision. He needs to cut his toenails.

  I don’t know what to say, because I don’t know how I feel.

  “Mia,” Brayden begins, but then stops, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Jo and Rob both look my way. Jo nods encouragingly, steadying me with her gaze.

  “Sutton sent you after us, didn’t he?” I ask. If I think Brayden’s lying, I’m done with him.

  “Yeah, he did,” he says, not hesitating a beat.

  “How’d he know to follow us? How’d he know to send you through the well?” Dad asks, his eyes strangely intense. A part of me is annoyed—this is my interrogation, but it’s also the question I wondered next so I let it slide.

  Brayden shrugs; his bare chest is smaller than I had imagined, less built. His six-pack looks like the product of a good metabolism, not workouts. He’s skinny and dwarfed by the towel wrapped around his shoulders. “He said he could read the map too. He said you told him about the source.”

  Dad manages to appear shocked. What, did he not realize he told Sutton about this place? Even if he didn’t tell Sutton how to get here, I figured it out; why couldn’t Sutton? Dad shakes his head. Before he asks something else though, before I let this get away from me, I stand up and get in Brayden’s face. Brayden retreats to the railing.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, my voice leaving no room for confusion. It’s angry and hurt and desperate for answers all at once.

  “To get the source.” Brayden doesn’t blink. Again, no trace of a lie. He holds my gaze. The cold around me shifts. “Mia,” he says, licking his lips, “I did what I had to do to save my family.”

  “Are they saved?” I ask, anger mixed with genuine curiosity. “Did your deal with Sutton pay off? Were our lives a fair trade?”

  His gaze wavers, breaks. A part of me feels sympathy. His parents are most likely dead, aged to a husk of themselves by the virus, tied and bound in their basement at Furbish Manor by Sutton’s men. But overriding it all is a growing burn. If Brayden hadn’t betrayed us and let Sutton in, we’d not be stuck here. We’d be gathering water and figuring out a way to help everyone, his parents included.

  “You realize,” I continue, “that we can never trust you again?”

  “I don’t really expect you to. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here because of my parents, and because Sutton has a gun. And now my body feels like it’s been cut in half and put back together. I’ll probably have nightmares forever because this water doesn’t wipe away what I just went through. So I’ll say I’m sorry and you can believe me or not, but as soon as I get a chance, I’m going to get the fuck out of here.”

  “And what, go back to Sutton?” Jo chimes in, her voice laced with disgust.

  He shakes his head. “No, I’ll lie to him. Say there’s nothing down here. And then leave.” He turns away from us, leans on the railing. “It’s impossible, how everything has gone to shit.”

  It’s like he just dismissed me. I’m breathing hard, I realize, and I take a moment to pull myself together. Dad stands up, and gingerly puts his hand on my shoulder. Jo turns away to give us some privacy, and joins Rob and Lisa farther down the balcony. I hear the wheeze in my dad’s breath.

  “You okay?” I ask, because I realize I don’t know. It’s crazy to think that Dad started this when he was my age, and now he’s here, in the thick of it, with me.

  But he doesn’t answer. He’s looking off into the distance, past Brayden, into the city.

  Suddenly Brayden stiffens. “Guys . . .”

  “What?” I ask, but see it clear enough. The others come too. Even Palu, standing a full head taller than any of us.

  Across Capian we see smoke, black and thick, a column of it rising from the walls of a tower. There’s no discernible fire, just an all-consuming smoke. It’s so dark and thick that the empty black sky above us appears to be reachin
g down to swallow the building whole.

  Lisa groans beside us. Her home is burning.

  “You did this,” Lisa mutters, her hands twisting hard against the railing. Rob opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. Her face is numb, clearly in a state of shock. Lisa rounds on Palu. “You did this. You keep me here and use it to attack my father.”

  To her credit, Palu doesn’t bat an eye. “I did not. That does not make sense, girl. Nor do I know who did.”

  “But I do,” comes a voice behind us: Arcos steps outside. He’s geared up, his bulky frame crammed inside the tight red suit he’s wearing. Two spears are strapped to his back, parallel to each other and at an angle to his body. His face is painted blood red and he looks half terrifying, half ridiculous.

  Behind him, through the glass, four Keepers wait. They’re more heavily armed, with just one line of paint streaked across their pale faces. Palu stands ramrod straight, at attention.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asks. His voice is stronger, and his cheeks are flushed with life. The water’s worked wonders on him.

  Arcos’s large eyes roam him up and down.

  “Feileen’s clan, they have decided they must move now to secure their place in the city. They have taken offense at the death of their leader. They move to take the source.”

  “And they blame my father?” Lisa asks.

  Arcos raises an eyebrow. “Should they not?”

  “You dare,” she snarls, stepping forward, but Palu is there, a stiff arm pressing her back.

  Arcos isn’t pleased, but the fat Keeper’s gaze drifts over his city. Distracted.

  “Do not worry, young one. Your father is not the sole beneficiary of their distress. We too have fallen under their scrutiny.” He points back over the railing and there they are, plain as day, hundreds of Keepers running fast through the maze of streets. They’re wearing black, but their spears glitter in the gas lamps and glowlights like fireflies. Distant shouts float up to the balcony. Cries of alarm as they come nearer.