Blood in the Water (7 page)

We pop
out only fifteen metres from the bank, and I basically crash us
right into the edge, having lost all sense of direction and
movement now that we’re above water. My neck tingles with fear, my
mind convinced the Serpent will come for us, chase us up to dry
land, until welcome hands are finally hauling us off the water and
over the barrier, onto the blessedly solid concrete.

I sit in a heap and shiver, choking on the snot caught in my
throat as people fuss over Cam.
At least I
got her body out of the water. She doesn’t have to stay under there
forever. She’s not lost. That wouldn’t be okay, being dead down
there, lost and alone.

Someone
shoves a hot cup of tea at me, slopping the liquid onto my hands in
a burning puddle. Tentatively, I lift it to my trembling lips and
take a sip. It’s sweet and milky and helps me to stop shaking. It
does nothing for the block of ice that’s replaced my inner organs,
though.

Ruble, and Cam. Cam’s partner? How many more?

My fixed
stare finally manages to provide some confusing information.
They’re bandaging Cam’s body. White, white bandages taking on muddy
rings of water from her sopping clothes and dripping hair. Why are
they bandaging her when she’s dead?

Because
she’s alive. She must be alive!

I
stumble to my numb feet and manage to stagger over to the flurry of
activity. I’m shunted out of the way, but persistently worm into a
small space near Cam’s unbandaged hand. Reaching out slowly, I
slide our fingers together, and soon both of my hands are wrapping
around her larger one, a hand-sandwich.

Open your eyes, Cam. Open them. C’mon. Be okay, you can’t be
beaten by an itty-bitty snakeling. Think what people will say! It
wasn’t even a big one.

I can’t
relax, can’t stop the tension quivering at the base of my spine.
There’s bile burning my throat, and I’m worried I’m going to vomit
all over the people trying to help my friend.

Cam
doesn’t open her eyes, but she does finally open her mouth. I
squeak, squeezing her hand tightly and bending down to hear her,
careful not to let my gross hair fall onto her cheek.

“
Hallie?” It’s barely a whisper. But it’s there.

She’s not dead. Thank you. Thank you.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I hold onto her with
both hands, refusing to let go for even a second.

“
I’m here, I’m here. Oh God, I thought you were dead. You
scared the shit out of me. Holy guacamole...”

She
groans, flinching as an
enthusiastic paramedic pushes another stitch through the bloody
meat of her thigh. “You shot me, you jerk.”

Warriors. As long as they aren’t dead, they’re
fine.

I laugh
and laugh, and lean down to kiss my best friend’s grimy forehead. I
stay standing by the stretcher, even as I see a limp body being
pulled from the water, the distinctive shock of hair dripping pink
onto the gray concrete. They lay him down with careful movements,
and cover his form with a black cloth.

I should go over, I know. But I don’t move. The paramedics
eventually insist that I get out of the way, and load Cam into an
ambulance. Another team comes in, one girl half carrying a boy, who
collapses as the medics run toward him. In the water a Serpent
dies, twisting and screaming in the river. Nobody asks me to go
back in, and I sit with a thick knot tangled in my guts.

How many breaches are left? Are they still coming? I should
be doing my duty.

But
I stay, sitting silently on the
hard ground with my hands locked in front of my bent knees. Louise
trudges over and slides into a heap next to me, thankfully
not
wrapping an arm
around my shoulders, or even touching me. Not asking me to get back
on a board and return to the water. There’s blood streaking her
arms.

My boots
squelch as I shift slightly, and a cold breeze cuts through my wet
clothes. We don’t move. We sit together, not looking at each other,
not saying a word, until the rest of the wan-faced team comes to
get her. Then the seven of them walk back to the van in a
group.

I feel
totally alone. They’d all known Ruble for years, maybe. I don’t
even know how long he’d been at the Protectorate. I knew him for
perhaps an hour. All I do know is that he was brave, and strong,
and that he saved me from an unpleasant death. He had a six-pack to
die for, and a tattoo of a swallow on the inside of his forearm. He
had a lip ring, and questionable hair-fashion choices. I don’t know
anything real about him, and now I never will. But Cam is alive.
And if I’d had the choice I’d have traded Ruble for Cam in a
second. That thought makes me sick to my stomach.

Thank you, universe, for not taking Cam.

I try
not to think of Ruble’s surprised face as he was swept out into the
water, but as I move forward, it is that very picture that drags me
from my warm bed in the morning in time for every single class, and
keeps me leaning over books when my eyes are gritty with
exhaustion. It was not my fault, I know. But next time ... I’ll be
ready.

Next time,
everyone
will come home.

Tash McAdam’s first writing
experience (a collaborative effort) came at the age of eight, and
included passing floppy discs back and forth with a best friend at
swimming lessons. Since then, Tash has spent time falling in
streams, out of trees, learning to juggle, dreaming about zombies,
dancing, painting, learning Karate, becoming a punk rock pianist,
and of course, writing.

Tash is a teacher in real life,
but dreams of being a full-time writer, and living a life of
never-ending travel. Though born in the hilly sheepland of Wales,
Tash has lived in South Korea and Chile but now calls Vancouver,
Canada home.

Visit the website or facebook for
news, gossip, and random tidbits about Tash’s
adventures.