Fresh Waters

It begins as a slow thrum. Piercing through that silken murk, bringing with it an unwelcome itching. You try to push it away, return to that comfortable abyss, but it arrives stronger now, a deluge of pain which makes you bite down on a tongue you forgot you had, a roiling ache which thrusts the needling in your head above the waves.

Your eyes open. Guneir sighs, collapsing back into a chair. After a moment, he sits forward again, offering you a bottle. “Here. For the pain.” Two solitary pills rattle out. You gulp them down. “So…” you begin, “What did I miss?”

The Bastion is quiet, now. Empty enough that even in your hobbling state, still tripping people up with your makeshift crutches, your half a hand to lend is sorely needed. Is that why Guneir tried so hard to save you? It would’ve been fitting to be left to die, to join the ever-lengthening list of victims.

But no. Again, you live on. There is no point in speculating, so you do your best not to think about it. What could’ve happened if you had arrived now; with the place so short of hands, even little April and Mayes’ could have helped. No, there is no point in speculating.

You learn the numbers in bitter tones from Guneir. Six to the mountains. Two to the city. Two to the islands. Still leaving near enough twenty behind, but a loss of a third feels like more. You see the absences: a gap replacing the Relic Seeker’s stall; no pots and pans in the morning for Kathleen’s lessons; Shansa’s games of Parett lacking.

The water begins to run dry, with long hikes upstream in search of clean river planned. The remnants of the attack are slowly cleared away by Devo, body after body landing with a rhythmic thud through the day.

There never seems to be enough food. You overhear an argument between Eris and Mars which almost deteriorates into a scuffle, but stabilises at sharp glares. As you stumble, you spot piles of tins stacked within Eris’s tent.

On the second day, the generator fails. Loosha does her best to salvage it, but with a paucity of parts going spare, a quick fix is too much to hope for.

Your workshop is tidy as always, with perhaps a little more dust than usual, but everything comes with frustrating novelty. Even how to stand, how to walk, how to hold a tool becomes a challenge. More than once, you think you’re getting the hang of it till you end up on the floor, or knocking your leg in splintering agony or wobbling into a hammer to the thumb. The progress is not easy. Seeing it is even harder. But you have to convince yourself that it is there.

Your next check-in with Guneir is in his tent. ‘Ongoing observation’ in the infirmary, he says. His expression is flat rather than frowning, which you take as a good sign. Chris sits in the corner, sifting through a single sheet of paperwork. You almost feel like you’re in an impromptu interrogation with the brittle silence, until Devin enters to break it.

“Just got back with some water. The Saint’s coming back later with more.” He offers a small waterskin to Chris, who takes a large sip before passing it to Guneir. Devin looks about to interrupt but before he can reclaim it, Guneir has drained the last drops.

“Sorry,” he apologises to you perfunctorily, “There wasn’t much left.”
“I have another,” Devin tosses one to you, which you almost catch while almost tumbling off the bed. You recover it with an embarrassed mumble and take a sip. It is unpleasantly warm, but your lips and throat don’t mind much. You restrain yourself before it all disappears and hand it back gratefully. Perhaps the lack of coordination is down to dehydration? An easy excuse, anyway.

The Saint’s return, later in the day, does come with a barrel full of freshwater. The squabbling and clamouring for it is refreshing: for the first time since you woke up the Bastion feels alive again. It is a stopgap, but a vital one.

Yet on the edge of the crowd, you cannot help but feel alone. There is not a glance towards you, no sympathetic path cleared for you. Not a glance at each other either. Just single-minded approach, before dispersal, one by one. Returning to their singular problems in global isolation. Once the crowd clears, you walk up to claim your share. The barrel is just the wrong height and you have to do an awkward slouch to lean over and drink.

The water is tasteless. Apt, for this place now.

You wonder when, if ever, you will find a community once again.

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