Sophie Littlefield - Horizon

“Roger’s our best swimmer,” Dor continued, reaching for Cass’s hand. She didn’t think he was even aware of touching her, and in that moment she understood she was his mooring, the source of his steady courage. “No one else could have gotten as far as he has.”

No one else could bring him back in-that’s what he was saying. Around him the voices had turned imploring- Roger, go, you can do it -but when his girlfriend screamed his name again, he finally shook the water from his eyes and resumed his weak strokes.

The canoe came closer. Only a matter of inches, but closer.

“This is taking too long,” Dor muttered. Cass looked where he was looking, saw Glynnis pat her jacket frantically for more ammo, knew she wasn’t finding it. Saw John using his paddle less accurately now, his arms shivering-they had to be in excruciating pain, his muscles in revolt.

Roger cried out, a guttural, almost inhuman sound of desperation. He flung out his arm on the water and stroked. Again and again, he drew himself painfully against the drag of the water, and he came closer.

“You can do it,” the crowd screamed.

“Roger! Roger!”

“Come on, just a little farther!”

When he was ten yards out, people threw themselves into the water, half a dozen of them, women and men, some of them linking arms. They splashed and yelped at the cold and hands grasped the canoe and others cradled Roger, who seemed to slip into unconsciousness, his eyes rolling back in his head, and Cass knew she could not spend one more moment worrying about him-she had to give all her attention to the canoe, which was being handed along the row of people in the water. It was dragged up on the shore, tugged onto the hard-packed mud.

“Get in, get in, Cass-I’ll push us off.”

She didn’t hesitate, but stepped nimbly over the prow, feeling the canoe bottom grind against the silty bank, then steadying herself as it listed sharply. Dor’s strong hands gripped the edges to steady it, and then others did too.

There was shouting from the path. Hank and Dana ran toward them, Dana looking as though he was about to have a stroke, his face beet-red and his fine hair waving in the breeze.

They were carrying the boxes of ammunition, half a dozen guns. Dor released the canoe and ran to meet them, taking armfuls of weapons. He was back in seconds, but the panicked swell of cries from the crowd told Cass they were running out of time.

Across the river, emboldened now that Glynnis had stopped shooting, more of the Beaters were taking to the river. Fifteen of them, maybe, in twos and threes, they waded and shuffled and stumbled into the water, plunged forward, went under, came up gasping and shrieking. John and Glynnis had retreated ten feet or so, but the crush of Beaters in the water made their craft look impossibly vulnerable.

Dor swung his body into the canoe and jammed his oar into the shallow water, pushing them away from the shore. A dozen hands seized the canoe walls and when they were free of the land it felt for a second as if they were weightless, suspended in air, in nothing-and then the current found them and tugged and Dor dipped his oar into the water and they were off.

Their speed belied the fact that Dor was far more powerful than John. His navigation skills were not as precise, but he was heading them straight for the other shore and Cass knew that accuracy was not his goal.

“Get the.22-that one,” he yelled. “That ditty bag, it’s got the shells. When I pull up close, get them in their canoe but, Cass-make sure you don’t miss. We only get one shot.”

She carefully reached for the weapons, aware of how easy it would be to tip over; if they did, all was lost. But the canoe glided on. Closer, she could make out individual Beaters’ cries, and then John, talking steadily, intently, slurring; she caught the words “hold on” and “brave” and saw that Glynnis’s head was bowed and her eyes closed, as though she was praying.

So focused was John that when Dor shouted his name he startled, glancing wildly around, his eyes going wide when he saw them. Utter, loose-limbed exhaustion radiated from his body, and steam rose off his back. He stared dumbly at Dor.

“We’re coming in,” Dor yelled. “We’ve got the shells. A hundred, hundred-fifty rounds. And the.22, I don’t know what there is in the way of ammo. Enough to make this a fair fight, anyway.”

Cass held the ditty bag, felt its weight in her hands. Past John and Glynnis, she saw a Beater sink into the water up to its chin and ears, like a beaver or an otter. It churned the water in front of it and then she realized that its feet were not touching the bottom, it was keeping itself afloat-swimming-and it was coming closer.

“Oh, God,” she said softly.

“I see it,” Dor muttered through gritted teeth. “Don’t say anything until you get this shit safely in their boat. I mean it, Cass. Knowing can’t help them.”

If Cass alerted John and Glynnis of the approaching Beater, they might panic-rock the canoe too far, miss when Cass tossed the weapons-and then they wouldn’t stand a chance against it, that’s what Dor was saying. Cass nodded grimly.

“Be ready, be ready,” she whispered, and her eyes locked on Glynnis’s. Five yards, three-it was like softball, twenty years ago when she played on the U-12 team, waiting in the dugout for her team to bat.

And then the canoes pulled even. Cass held the bag aloft with trembling hands, and Glynnis reached; her hands closed on the bag, tugged, and then she had it, and Cass seized the.22 and held it out by the barrel, and Glynnis took that too, and then it was only a matter of the extra magazines, and Cass lifted them from the bottom of the boat and-

“What the hell!” John roared, turning, as the Beater caught up with the canoe and slapped at it with desperate hands. It was close enough that Cass could see that it was recently turned. Only the hair along its hairline had been pulled out of its scalp, and its face was still recognizable, barely bruised or lacerated, the face of a young man. The fresh wounds on its forearms were very much like those she’d found on herself when she woke in the field.

She shivered with the realization that she could be among this throng, or one like it, if she hadn’t recovered from the fever. She could be one of these single-minded things, throwing itself into the water, driven by flesh hunger. Who knew what things she had done-

Her attention jerked back with the thudding sound of John bringing an oar blade down on the Beater’s head, but by the second blow the thing had already slipped below the surface, and the oar slapped harmlessly on the water, splashing him and Glynnis instead.

The canoe was slammed from the bottom, the Beater trying to claw its way back to the surface. It popped up a second later, its wet, greasy head dripping cold water, its hands paddling air.

Then its scrabbling fingers found the lip of the canoe and gave a yank.

Glynnis screamed, and an answering roar came from the far shore, all the people of New Eden helpless to do anything but watch. Cass cried out, too, but no sound came from her; her throat was sealed with terror, her body frozen.

The gun fell from her shaking hands. It hit the water with a little splash and was gone, heavy metal sinking indifferently into the depths.

Oh my god

oh my god

oh my god

“Oh my God,” Cass gasped, watching the gun disappear.

She had failed. She had allowed the old fears to drift up from the place where she had banished them, and the fears had made her clumsy. She had failed John and Glynnis and she had failed Dor and the pain of her failure burst through her body-

“It doesn’t matter!” Dor shouted at her, his hand reaching for hers. His touch was warm, even in the frigid air he was warm, all determination and life, and she responded, snapped back to attention and forced herself to forget about the lost gun.