The Mountains of Ararat

Raindrop. Coerna. Grant. Nio. Alvydas. Perhaps a disappointing line-up, but the status quo is always the easy option for people who cannot be bothered to think.

Still, a guard, a medic, a survivor, a tinker and a believer. And a leader, of course. What else do you need?

At first, you decide to try and cut straight for the mountains, avoiding the contaminated part of the river. But thirst gets the better of you in the first day and you divert the group towards fresh water. Thankfully, the hours of marching are enough to take you beyond any contamination.

You follow the river upstream from here, the clean water bolstering morale for the rest of the day. The next obstacle assaults your nose before your eyes. The familiar smell of decay. The water is still just as clear, and your gaze turns to examine the environment. It meets a grey structure, stark through the trees. It curves, from grey sand to grey sky, outlining what must be Peregrine’s power plant.

You approach, with caution, until you see the first bones. Old, matted with yellow grass in a pile of bodies surrounding the structure. The smell is far worse than it ought to be, given the age.

Mouldy blue intersperses the ivory: mushrooms which emanate a rancid smell worse than that of the bodies. Grant pronounces them ‘evidently inedible’. Not that it needs much spelling out. Nodding to Grant and Raindrop, you begin the circuitous detour around.

The hazards of relying upon the work of others. Your attempt will not be marred by such flaws.

You leave the site behind in the hands of the mushrooms.

You find yourself consulting Grant more than you'd like, but his expeditions into the area are hard to ignore as credit to his advice. And his affable nature begins to warm to you. Despite leading a patrol, he seems happy, if not relieved, to defer to you, only offering the occasional advice or plea to go scavenging for boiled sweets. On watch with him, the pattering of rain combines with his stories of patrols gone wrong mixed in with book reviews to have an oddly calming effect.

You feel satisfied, almost hopeful, with the expedition so far. Vindicated, most of all. All that was needed was a steady hand – your hand – to guide things.

The next day is spent in the rain along the riverbank, searching for a permanent site. Looking into the valley, you can see the clouds petering out towards the speck that is the Bastion, denying them reprieve for now. You look further, to the other spot which refused you, that university now lying in ruins, no doubt. And beyond, to the hazy grey on the horizon which must be the sea and the vanishing dots which might be the islands of Anastius and Horasa.

Back, now, to the peaks clambering above you, holding back the worst of the rain. At least, until-

A sudden shift.

A distant rumbling.

It looks like dust settling from here, but the sound echoing betrays the weight of the landslide. It crashes down towards you, rolling closer and closer and closer-

Until it stops. It feels close enough that you can see the pebbles. But it has stopped.

And then comes the deluge.

Almost snowy, in all its foam, roiling and rumbling with haughty disregard for the limits of the banks. You see, in crashing support, a flood of crimson which tumbles like an ungainly ballet dancer plummeting towards the front row.

There is just enough time for Grant to drag you all behind an outcrop before the thundering is all around you. It sweeps the ground clean of topsoil, taking your legs with it. The tumult carries you downriver but the river is gone, your vision replaced by a red mist. Your head dips under the seas incarnadine and the metallic tang of rust fills your mouth. The trees of green turn red around you, their branches snapping under your grasp.

It might be minutes or seconds or hours, but eventually you feel the flow begin to lessen, your tired legs carrying some power through the current. And then your boot finds the soft squelch of mud. You drag yourself to ground that resembles a jacuzzi rather than a paddling pool.

The others appear, one by one, as you scan the area, trying to find the lay of the land beneath watery pink.

There is a familiar square a few miles away.

The Bastion does not dismiss you so easily.

Only one of you receives the grace of banishment. Grant S. Odys floats face down, the water stained redder around him.

Leaving behind – whether, on some distant cloud, he realises it or not – the salvage of a society which might yet be.

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