Persistence Is Its Own Reward

Your barrel - or what will soon be your barrel - is currently being commandeered by Verity Lowell, who is partway through a lengthy blessing over the bullets it contains. You've long since tuned out her words, content enough to wait with blank face while she does whatever it is she's doing.

Mars Scott catches your eye. They've been watching Verity (or, more likely, the bullets) and are doing a much worse job of concealing their irritation. They sidle up next to you. 'You here for a blessing of your own, or…?'

'No. I'm going to take the barrel once she's done.'

'Huh.' A thought crosses their face, somewhere between mischief and duty. 'I'm trying to keep her hands off those bullets, so…' They look at Verity's face, eyes lowered and rapt in prayer, and quickly move to kick over the barrel. 'Take it!'

You see their face fall when Verity's blessing continues, unperturbed by the spilled bullets, and they realise they'll need to listen to more of her Bulwark drivel. Not your problem - the barrel's empty now, and though it is heavier than you expected, you're glad for the sturdiness. This is exactly what you need.

Miles into your hike, slowed but barely by the weight of the barrel, and the river still stinks of death. Though its colour is closer now to the clear glass you're looking for, it's still contaminated.

You're accompanied on your journey. Devin B. Frogg, mostly silent, save for when he calls his snuffling coyote Remus to heel every now and then. He's looking for clear water too, but you sense his heart isn't in it, not like yours would be if you had one. He veers off, moving to the river with a bottle outstretched.

'No,' you tell him. 'It smells of death. It's not safe yet.'

He doesn't care; he shrugs. 'I'm sure it's fine.' You don't stop him. Your arms are occupied by the barrel, and his bottle is too small to kill more than one or two people with its infected contents anyway. Remus keens, yelping pitifully, unwilling to go near the water.

You continue alone. The river runs clear, but you still smell death. Your only company is the crisp crunch of your armoured feet against the river's bank; even the birds have ceased their cries.

Hours must have passed by now, though you've not bothered to track the time. If you cannot find clean water soon, you will need to return empty-handed. This, of course, is the advantage of keeping your plans close to your chest; no-one will be disappointed; there will be no outrage to subdue.

Hours must have passed by now, but the smell grows stronger. You narrow your eyes, scouring the surface of the river for evidence of rotting debris, but it seems clear as anything. Your gaze rises, looking instead for some other source of the sickening scent, and meets a structure in the distance. Following the grand grey curves of the tower before you from grey sky to grey sand, you recognise the shape of a power plant. Nuclear, you think. You remember that Peregrine had mentioned one nearby. You wonder if you've ever seen one before.

Your eyes adjust to the distance, and quickly find the source of the smell. Surrounding the structure is an unmistakeable mass of corpses, long-dead; mostly bones. Strange, for bodies so old to smell so awful.

You move closer, keeping the barrel close by, and spot strange shapes littered between the bodies. Grey-blue lumps, mottled with dark spots and wrinkled skin, seem to sprout from the ground. Mushrooms, though not ones you recognise, and more putrid than the bodies. You cover your nose and stumble back to the river, the smell dissipating; the water is clean, then, even if the surroundings are not.

You start a fire with matches and dry twigs, balancing a metal bowl above it and filling it with water. Not much time has really passed between the horde and now, but you are still surprised by how clear and cold this water, free of rot, is. The water slowly begins to roil, although it seems impossible something so pure could make you sick even without this precautioh. You ponder the bodies. Killed by the mushrooms? Or is this simply a fungus drawn to mass graves? Perhaps you could take a specimen - though not today.

Once the water reaches a loud, rumbling boil, you lift the bowl from the fire and let it cool. You sip a little and prepare to wait again, in anticipation of an answer.

In the distance sits the mountain range that some hopeless hopefuls have decided to find a new home in. You can almost see small shapes moving between crags, dwarfed by the great stone behemoths they think will save them. A distant rumbling, then, not unlike the sound your water made over the fire, and the maybe-shapes are pushed back by something. A landslide? You can't be sure; you can't even be sure you saw the group at all; and even if you did, you can't do anything about it.

If they're dead, then at least you're not. No sign of infection; no strange taste. This water is safe, or as safe as it can be.

You begin the long walk to the Bastion.

The Bastion flocks to your supply like birds to crumbs, squawking and flapping and fighting for a morsel. Once they've had their fill and taken more for cooking and watering crops, there is still some left over. With persistence, this could be enough to supply the stragglers here until the next rainfall.

Your arms ache. It's not a sensation you're familiar with.

You think of the flood in the mountains, and the necrotic smell of the river. Water gives, and it takes away.

You've taken away, and now you give. How long will that last?

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