When We Shed Civilization

Chapter 36

The water receiving Beth's falling body was soft and warm. Its blackness swallowed her in a complete lack of sound and light.

She kicked her legs and paddled her arms, breaching the surface seconds later.

The stench coming with her first breath made her gag. She had once found a dead cat in a field under the domes of Seaside, its body swarming with flies, the smell of her death thick and palpable. The water of the river smelled the same, but denser, more solid. Back then, she had run to Corinna —her trainer and ersatz-mother—seeking solace. But this time, she had no escape.

Holding her chin up, she paddled hard to keep it above the waterline. She felt strangely heavy in the water, lacking buoyancy, and gravity tried its best to pull her under.

The liquid felt oily between her fingers—was it water at all?

You can't swim in oil, her grandpa had once told her.

She trod the water frantically. Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut. It didn't make a difference—they still itched, and the world behind her lids was just as dark as the one outside.

Her treading kept her afloat, barely.

As she opened her eyes again, the image of the moonlit shorelines resolved, blurry at first, but becoming clearer by the moment. The river's steady pace had carried her away from the bridge, which hung as a grayish structure across the nearly black sky behind her.

The others had to be up there.

What would they think?

She had abandoned Burt.

Why had she done it?

Just out of spite for what he had done to her in front of those savages?

The savages she had killed.

An uber-savage she was.

Why did she struggle for her life and tread these foul waters at all? She could just give in now. Stop fighting and let the broth claim her. Yet her limbs kept on moving, making an effort to keep her head in the air.

Primeval instincts had kicked in. The mind was but a varnish covering them—no wonder this world had abandoned civilization.

And then, the itching began.

It started between her legs—with a heat that wasn't warmth but a burning. Then it moved upwards, wrapping her back and breasts into its poisonous touch.

Clenching her mouth shut, she tried to get her bearings. The opposite shore, the one they had hoped to gain by crossing the bridge, was impossibly far away. The moon hung above it, calling her. She turned herself towards it and kicked the water.

Her strokes made her clothes chafe her skin, adding to the pain of whatever was causing the burning.

A wave washed against her face. Water or tears made the moonlit landscape fall apart.

Some of the liquid entered her mouth and made her cough. Straining to keep her head in the air, she kicked her legs harder.

The river became oilier with each stroke, requiring violent treads to push her mouth above its surface for a quick gasp of air.

She saw nothing through her still teary eyes.

Her heart was laboring as if burdened by an effort harder than swimming.

Striking the water once more, she fought for another breath—and failed. Frantic, she struggled, kicking as hard as she could, but she gained no air.

The sound of her heartbeat tuned into the gurgling noise of her struggles, and it became louder with each boom.

Her hands hit something hard, inches below the surface. She tried to gain purchase, but its surface was slick and slimy and escaped her grasp. She tried again, moving along its elongate shape until she found a protruding branch. Grabbing it, she pushed down, gaining height herself and breaching the surface.

Air.

Groping the object, she found more branches along a smooth trunk. It had to be a dead tree, carried by the water, hardly able to stay afloat itself but having enough lift to hold her up.

For a moment, she just breathed.

She had forgotten about the itching and burning, but it was still there, encasing her like a second skin now—a stiff and thick one, stifling her.

She kicked her legs, doubting she'd be able to nudge the tree towards the shore. Doubting it was worth the effort.

She didn't deserve survival.

Yet she swam on, too stubborn to give up.

Suddenly, the tree moved, spinning about its length. A branch rose from the water and hit her face. She lost her hold.

She went under and swallowed water. Her stomach convulsed.

Her knee crashed into something below her.

The ground. Her hands found it, too, and she pushed herself up.

She couldn't see, wasn't sure if her burning eyes were open at all. Yet she stood, the oily water up to her hips. Step by step, she walked uphill. A feeling somewhere between burning and numbness still clung to her skin, but her feet were made for walking the ground, and that's what they did as if with a will of their own. They took her out of the river onto an unseen shore.

When she was free of the water, she went down on her knees and then on her hands.

The heaving came with spams cramping her stomach and bringing up acid.

When her body finally calmed down, she wiped her face and lifted her gaze, looking out onto the river that had almost swallowed her.

Lethargic waves moved over its surface, adding to the queasiness that grew in her bowels. The ripples reflected the light of the moon hanging over the other shore.

The other shore—the one she had hoped to gain. She hadn't crossed the river.

For a moment, she just stared at the water. Then, her body convulsed again, and bile rose into her mouth. Gagging, she was sick once more, the cramps combining with her sobbing.

After that, she just sat on her knees, staring at the mocking moon.

A rustle behind her made her freeze. She turned to face a wall that ran along the pebbled riverbank. Its grayish, ancient stones were bright against the round, black outlet of a large drain pipe, at least one yard in diameter.

Nothing moved, and the noise was gone, but her motion made her head spin with dizziness.

Its water is venom, it kills quickly and without mercy. That's what Jethro had said about the river.

With that thought, Beth fell over. A painful cramp in her stomach made her curl up.

She was facing the wall now, but it wasn't just gray and black anymore. Luminous dots sprinkled it—blood-colored fireflies conjured up by a poisoned brain. Most of them danced and swirled without control or pattern. Only two stayed in place, unmoving, like a pair of eyes staring at her from the darkness of the drain pipe.

Then blackness shut down her thinking.