Free Watershed by Jane Abbott

valley so vast, clouded by salted air so thick, they couldn’t sight the further shore; couldn’t even be certain there was one. Sarah tried to imagine what lay beneath: towns perhaps, farms with neat wire fences and rotting posts, old roads weighed by sunken vehicles, long dead carcasses and bones picked clean by fish. From the heights the water appeared calmer than she remembered but with no passage down the sheer cliffs, there was no way to check. Instead, they turned north to the hazed shadow of the mountains, just as Whitey had told them to, and pressed on, ever cautious.

    Thinking back, she couldn’t be sure what it was that first woke her – the grind of sand beneath boots or Rachel’s startled yelp, high and fearful. They’d sought cover from the sun beneath a straggle of grey bushes spiked with thorns and black berries – Banjo tried one but quickly spat it out – and had clumped together to wait out the heat. Daniel had taken watch but, as exhausted as the rest of them, he must have fallen asleep, and now they’d been caught out. Bleary-eyed and dazed, Sarah blinked against the sun’s glare, but felt cold. So cold. How hateful was fate, to have led them this far, only to catch them out at the last?
    She counted seven men, swathed in cloaks and other ragged bits, faces wrapped, eyes shadowed, but weapons drawn; makeshift swords and long knives; one aimed his rifle at Daniel. Hugging Jeremiah to her and trying not to think of Nat, Sarah prayed for a merciful end. Ethan snuffled and cried; Jeremiah gurgled and laughed and squirmed in her arms.
    We have children, she heard Daniel say, his voice calm but brittle.
    We ain’t blind, replied one of the men, but still none of them made a move, didn’t fall, voracious and rabid, upon the small captive group, as Sarah had imagined.
    Daniel tried again, ever reasonable, ever rational: We’re looking for the town. On the other side of the water. The town that wouldn’t die.
    A nod, and Sarah shivered as she felt the man’s piercing gaze strip her bare before sliding across to Rachel. Hearing Cutler shift behind her, Sarah willed him not to do anything. At least not until the last.
    The man’s reply was slow: Seems everyone’s lookin’ for that place. Godders, eaters. And the rest. But them on the pass are real choosy now about who gets through. So which are you? he asked, still eyeing them all. Godders or eaters? Or maybe both?
    Daniel shook his head and rose to his knees; one of the others stepped forwards, machete raised but though he held up his hands, Daniel didn’t cower. Neither, he answered. We have children.
    There was another tense silence, longer this time, even the babies quieting their fussing while the wind whooped and whistled, but Sarah didn’t hear it; her ears were filled with the beat of her blood. Then another curt nod and the first man turned to the one beside him.
    Signal ahead and tell him to hold up, he said. We’re bringin’ in five more.

    Their weapons were taken. A precaution, they were told, and they wouldn’t need ’em any more. In return, they were given water and a little food – some kind of flatbread, stale and gritty (Sarah tore a piece for Jeremiah to chew) and some strips of stiff, salted meat. Goat, the man said. When they hesitated, he smiled and repeated:It’s goat. We ain’t eaters either. He’d removed the scarf from his face; like Daniel, like all men, he was heavily bearded, and his face was lean and dark, the right side puckered, the eye closed over with melted flesh. At Sarah’s stare, he smiled again and tapped at the scar. Namesake, he said. Burns.
    Who are you? Daniel asked him.
    Scouts, he replied. Sent out through the pass to track down anything of worth: supplies, people, didn’t much matter. Some things they brought back, others they didn’t. Sarah shivered; there was no need to ask his meaning.