Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy Page 6

  Something comes out from one of the openings, fast. It’s a man on a board. It has wheels and a large sheet of cloth attached to a pole. Catching the breeze, it drives him forward at great speed. I think it’s a man, wearing a large, olive green scarf, tightly wrapped around the nose and mouth, right up to the eyes to keep out the sand. I’m paralysed by fear. Taking out the sword, my back is tight against the rock. I hear it, it’s so close.

  Sweat runs down my shirt. I feel sick. Another second and it passes with a whoosh, two hundred yards in front of me. He doesn’t turn. He’s passed. I run for it, slipping before I can get a hold. Focus, Mercy. My hands are grazed as I scramble back up the rocks - Storm and Rags are already through.

  “It’s a sand buggy. It probably means there are no other vehicles here,” Storm says.

  I nod. I never saw a moving car anyway - only burned ones. During the mess, fuel ignited. Everything ignited, combusted by air and, by hand - Subs would burn anything. Johnny said it was sodium, mixed with air, causing immediate, catastrophic explosions – aftershocks forcing more material up through the earth. It was chaos. Some took advantage. Or tried. It’s hard to profit when nature bites back.

  I step back up. I need to watch. After ten minutes, he’s back. It’s back. Whatever it is. I’m assuming human. Subs lost the art of normal activity, long ago. It’s a defence force - an outpost. One thing’s for sure - we can’t go out on the beach, not here - not until we know who they are. I look around the cave. There are bones. Animal.

  It’s time to explore the other tunnel – if that’s what’s behind the rocks further back. If it’s another entrance on to the beach, it’ll be nearer. Or inside the town. It could be trouble but there’s little choice. Hounds will be watching the building. They know we went in. Out here we’re exposed. It’s an easy decision to head for the other route.

  *

  The large stones are easily removed as we displace enough to climb through – the tunnel’s been carved out like the others – I’m amazed. And grateful. Focus, Mercy, you’re not safe yet.

  After twenty yards the ceiling lowers. We change direction, again. The light fades. The ground is rock but well worn. Walls are grey-black in the dim light. Now it’s heading straight, not inland but parallel to the beach. Once again there’s more room as the tunnel widens. The air changes - musty but breathable. It must mean that this is a way to another opening - if it’s finished. We’ll find out soon enough.

  “Supercritical water, they said. On his phone before the grids went into meltdown. Dragon water,” Storm says, mumbling. “Like fire.”

  Storm talks to herself. I’ve heard it before - the story of the pressure that started the mess. We walk for half an hour. The air changes again. It’s not musty now. There’s a subtle shift in light as we head on a slight curve. I can taste smoke – not the acrid type that clogs the throat but still a taste.

  We pass another ladder. It’s rusted. I put my hand out, pulling down on it. It holds. There’s a sheet of boarding in place like at the other one we passed - as if it’s sealed. Storm darts me a look. We move on. Another bend to the left with more light. A blocked exit, or entrance. Again. Storm climbs, removing medium-sized rocks, making her arms shake with exertion.

  “Another cave,” she says.

  I nod, immediately looking through. At the mouth of the cave, it’s blocked. Again. This was done in a hurry. Not just rocks - metal sheeting, rotted timbers - anything to seal it quickly. There are large enough gaps to see through. Breakers crash in the distance. We have a few hours before the tide comes in - before the beach disappears.

  The sky goes black. Stormy black. Thunder crashes, booming with sudden intensity. I look through gaps in the sealed entrance. Everything is dark. Sky. Water. Beach. Everything. A rough, painted canvas – slapped on in pitch-black. I stare in wonder. Forked lightning jolts me out of the trance. Spitting, powerful electricity cuts the sky like a jagged knife. The taste of smoke almost disappears.

  The rain comes, torrential lines of unending silver streaks. The noise is deafening, hard water bouncing off the rock, the beach, the sea. I hear voices in the distance - perhaps five hundred yards away. I can’t see - there’s no visibility through or beyond the rain. An impenetrable curtain. It’s now or never.

  We’ll go in blind - go in when there’s a little chaos. People want to be dry, it’s their main concern. We’ll be under ponchos. Do they have such things? We’ll find out. We remove debris, creating a gap big enough to squeeze through. My heart is racing, beating against my chest like a persistent drum - matching the rhythm of the thunder. Focus, Mercy.

  We run. The sand is soft and wet, hampering our progress. It’s hard to see as stinging rain pelts my face like tiny stones. Storm’s poncho hood is pulled tight - mine’s come down. My hair is plastered to my face - I’m glad it’s short now. Rags just runs. He’s soaked and I hardly see him as he blends into the dark.

  Voices are now louder, urgent. They’re human. That’s something. The rain pounds. It’s not letting up. We need to get off the beach. If the tide comes in, we won’t hear it. It will swallow us. Quick. Deadly. I hear people ahead - climbing steps, running, slipping, shouting. Our weapons are hidden - Ghost is in Storm’s sack. The sword is strapped tight to me. It’s not ideal but it’s necessary.

  *

  We climb the steps, carefully. Visibility is horrendous. As we reach the top I stop. Stare. Storm takes my arm, moving us on. It’s a town. Many buildings are wrecked but a few are okay. They seem to have roofs - that’s luxury. Rags yelps as someone stands on his foot. I hear an exclamation - shock at hearing a dog.

  We walk quickly away from the beach. In the distance, the fires still burn, despite the onslaught of water. They’re belching smoke, struggling to maintain height during the downpour. On the other side, there are more. It’s a large, contained boundary.

  We’re in now. Two options. Head back and probably be noticed, when everyone is going away from the beach and be possibly drowned as the tide comes in. Back along the tunnel to be trapped in the domed building. By Hounds, intent on eating our necks. The other option is to stay, get our bearings. Survive. Find Alex. Reaching through the poncho, I feel the tags, cool against my clammy skin.

  We walk quickly as the fires become brighter, larger. Best not to get too close. I hear loud voices up ahead. Lights. For the first time in almost a week, I can see people. Through the pounding rain, they look just like us.

  Chapter Twelve

  We approach a large, square, red brick building, boarded with weather-stained plywood where it once held windows. Looking up, I can see it’s at least fifty feet high. Inside it’s lit by a few thick, odd-shaped candles. There are many people, sheltering from the rain. The building’s a wreck but it’s providing a little, temporary shelter – looks like it harbours the fire-stokers during downpours.

  At the doorway stands a girl, a similar age to us, shoulder-length brown hair plastered to her face by the water. She stares, wide-eyed and clearly interested. As the rain hammers down, I try my best to look friendly. She doesn’t. She looks at Rags, shocked. Violently shaking her head, she speaks to me.

  “You can’t,” she cries. “Not in here. You need to go. That thing - they won’t like it.”

  I don’t take it personally. The girl must take my silence as ignorance though.

  “Who are you?” she asks, suspiciously.

  “It’s a long story,” I reply, knowing that it’s not the answer she wanted. “We need shelter - for tonight.”

  She wears a long waxy coat, high collared, fastened with metal studs. Her face is thin, drawn. Even in this bad light I see large, bright, apple-green eyes. I never had an apple - I know about them though. As she joins us, no one else seems to have noticed. The streets are pretty much deserted now. Our new guide walks quickly. I’m grateful. But aware. I want to trust. I can’t trust. Anyone. I feel sick. Focus, Mercy. I bite my lip, swallowing bile. Focus.

  She takes us further up through th
e town, before we turn down narrow, cobbled streets, the rain making the cracked grey stone glisten. Smaller buildings rise on each side. Most are damaged. Badly. There is light in some of them. I notice something unnerving. We’re getting closer to the fires. They curve in a huge arc. It’s a boundary, just a few hundred yards away.

  The girl stops at a small building, part of a damaged terrace. Subdued light shines from within, reaching this side of the street through thick plastic sheeting, reinforced with wire. The door is metal, scratched and dented, like it’s been kicked repeatedly.

  “Wait here – I won’t be long,” she says.

  The door shuts with a dull thud as we stand there, not knowing what’s to come. I pray, silently but specifically for our safety. I hear a different voice – loud and firm. Not shouting but controlled. The door opens, slowly.

  A large man stands in front of us, at least a foot taller than Storm and me. He looks down, first at me, then at Storm, his shaved head reflecting light from the candle stub he’s holding. He frowns as he sees Rags. The deep voice almost vibrates. The accent is unfamiliar, the nasal tone from his bent, squashed nose making the words difficult to understand.

  “Come in, quickly. The dog needs to go straight out the back. There’s a shed. There aren’t many of them around - only the old ones.”

  I nod, wondering if he means Rags or the shed.

  “Nothing new is born - not anymore,” he continues, clearing his throat loudly as he spits onto the ground.

  “I know,” I say quietly. I didn’t know, but he just confirmed what I feared.

  His trousers and shirt are made of rough, thick wool - a wide, worn, brown leather belt sitting tight on his hips. He must be fifty, at least – it’s difficult to guess ages - I haven’t seen that many people to compare. Rags sits quietly in the shed, looking at me with his soft eyes. He understands. I know he does. I put some jerk on the floor, place water in a shallow cup. He looks at it once then curls up on the floor. The man closes the door - there are gaps so he’ll be okay. I follow the man back inside. I’m nervous.

  Storm sits on a long fabric-covered bench. The girl isn’t there but reappears a minute later with pieces of rubber and wood. An open fire crackles. I’m warming up. I remove my poncho as the girl heads off again, returning with some water in cups made of crockery. It’s familiar to me, but rare. I sit near Storm. The girl and the big man are opposite. Their seat is fabric too, similar in shape but with a different pattern, worn with use. The man’s small, darting eyes bore into mine.

  “Your voice,” he says. “The fact you walk through the street with a dog. Like I said before, they’re rare. And you know why. Where did you come from and how did you get in?”

  I start to tell him about the valley. The Hounds and Subs. I feel Storm’s knee press hard into mine as I reach the point where we arrive at the coast. I improvise. I say we clambered around, finding small caves. Watched the tides. Took the chance to enter when the storm broke. He looks half-convinced. A jagged scar runs across his forehead, like it’s been gashed by something metal and unyielding. I look at my water. I haven’t touched it. The man nods towards the cup.

  “It’s fine,” he says. “People clean it.”

  My eyes widen.

  “They’re okay, these people,” he continues. “An interfering lot but without them we wouldn’t survive for long.”

  I still feel sick. I want to talk but I can’t. I feel weird. I’m trying to be grateful but I keep feeling rushes of anger. It’s not like me. It is me. The girl fetches blankets. The man rises.

  “Get some rest. I’ll see to the dog later.” The tone’s not hostile but it doesn’t sound friendly, either.

  I don’t think about his words but I don’t like them either. I’m sick. Exhausted. My eyes shut, lids heavy with fatigue.

  *

  I dream of Rags - running over fields. Bright colours. Greens. Blues. The air is clean. Then the man. The big one. Standing in the field. He’s pointing a shotgun at Rags. I shout out, waking as I feel small hands at my chest. The paring knife aims for a strike. Storm grabs my arm before I plunge the blade into the girl’s neck.

  The girl is so shocked she stays frozen, slightly arched back as she recoils from the blade. My hand shakes as Storm releases my grip on the knife. Stinging eyes and a banging in my head frighten me. I would have stabbed her. Yes, I was half asleep but the rage was still present. My whole body is shaking now as sweat runs down my back. The man appears in the room, looking bewildered and angry. He quickly moves the girl away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was trying to read the tags.”

  I can’t speak. I try to form words, moving my lips but no sound emerges. I hear Storm’s voice but it echoes.

  “She drank some bad water. It’s made her sick. It was yesterday, early in the morning. She was trying to heal it. I didn’t have any. Had a bad feeling about it, though.”

  The man nods, a grave look on his face. He talks to Storm. Not me.

  “I’ll take her to the Sisters. They’ll know what to do. You know the sickness - what it can do. I can’t have this. Not her in this house, in this town. We’ll go now. The dog’s fine, just so long as he didn’t drink the water. If he did, you know what you need to do. He’ll have to stay here though. What are your names?” he asks.

  I just want him to shut up.

  “I’m Storm, this is Mercy. The dog is Rags – and no, he didn’t drink any.”

  The man sighs. “You’re taking a chance having the dog with you. A burden if you ask me.”

  I’m still numb as Storm’s reply falters and stutters in my head.

  “She grew attached to it. And he’s fearless.”

  The man’s mood seems to lighten a little. “Well,” he says, “sounds like Mercy does have feelings after all. Let’s see if they come back. I’m David. This is Carrie.”

  The confident girl from last night now looks a shivering wreck. I listen. I feel sick. I don’t like this man and I don’t trust him. At all. My chest constricts with a sharp pain as if I’m being squeezed. I try to stand. I’m angry. It’s not me. It’s me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The worst of the bad weather’s gone away although it’s still raining. The four of us turn left from the house, heading down the narrow streets, treading carefully on the still-wet, uneven cobbles. I feel a bit better but different. We’re heading away from the outer fires, back towards the sea. A moderate wind blows in my face. The smoke is back - the fires are recovering.

  I see a large building, this time intact. The walls are whitewashed but large grey patches, probably caused by smoke, break up the otherwise clean look. Faded metal signs suggest this may have been a hotel before the mess.

  Large troughs run through the building, coming in from an incline, directly from the sea. Ladies in navy blue, long dresses, stand at intervals. It’s busy. Storm whispers.

  “Religious,” she says. “The dresses are like nuns’ habits.”

  I nod. Focus, Mercy. It’s hard. I try but I’m confused. Strong but weak. The necks on the habits are high. The women pray. Intone. Healers, like me. Like I was, before. The man speaks quietly to a lady. She sits at a desk. Same outfit but older - her lined face at odds with the sparkling eyes. Green. Bright. My head throbs. I hear the words ‘dark water’. The old lady nods. She calls me over, looking deep into my eyes before telling me to follow her.

  We enter a room at the back. A large wooden cupboard is against the back wall. Light shines through but it’s weak, subdued. There’s no glass in the window frames – once more, clear plastic reinforced with steel mesh. She removes a silver cup from the top shelf. A swirl of engraved lettering runs around the top. I can’t read it but I know the language is unusual. She sees me trying to read.

  “It is Latin,” she says. “Sacred.”

  A glass jug sits on the middle shelf. Glass! Hardly any survived. It’s half full of water. She places the jug on a long, heavy, solid wood table in the middle of the room.
She sits, speaking to the water. Quietly. Gently. She pours some into the cup. The lip curls outwards. It’s elegant. Simple. Beautiful. She instructs me to sip.

  “Gratitude. Be thankful as you drink.” I look at her and nod.

  The water is cool. It tastes different. Mum brought something similar, on occasions. If I was sick. It made be better but it tired Mum. Mum’s dead. Focus, Mercy. I look at the old lady. She nods. Encourages me to take more. I drink. I’m grateful. Thankful. I feel calmer. My body feels different. It is different. Inside. I look up. She’s staring at me, smiling. I smile back. She speaks again.

  “I know you can heal. I see it. Be mindful of anger. Not the type caused by dark water but the natural rage. You need to defend yourself, I know that. Just do not forget your primary purpose. Why you are in this world. At this moment. To heal. Healing requires calmness, not anger.”

  “Yes.” It’s all I can say.

  I find Storm, David and Carrie waiting outside. My step is lighter. I reach out to Carrie and she lets me take her hands. I bite my lip. I want to cry. I don’t want to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her.

  She nods. Smiles. David looks at me darkly. I’m not surprised. He says he’s going to work later - it’s his turn. Many of the men guard the perimeter, stoking the fires. He warns us not to explore. Not on our own.

  “It’s not for tourists,” he says, gruffly. “We survive. That’s all we do.”

  It was the same in the valley. No real life. Treading water, healing it, treading it. I haven’t mentioned Alex. It’s the reason we’re here but I need to know more first. At least I know this is Eastsea - it was written on the top of the old lady’s papers. We’re in the right place. We head back to the house. On the way, I take in the sights. The few people I see walk with purpose, so different from last night. Fires burning. Not randomly but by design. The tide is still out. After five hundred yards, the beach is empty - the quicksand probably keeping people away. I shudder.