The deepest shadows between the buildings moved, flitted around, stopped momentarily and then moved again. People. Going about their business, whatever that might be. Masked, covered, shielded in the dark carapace of SunGear.
“They blew the bridge,” said Vin. “Keeping it all for themselves, keeping the Funbos, the Beppies, the whole krig for themselves.”
Not to mention SunGear and large amounts of easily accessible food, drink and hope. But I didn’t mention that to Vin. The Beppies were enough for him.
“Next bridge,” said Vin. “They can’t have blown them all.” He turned and walked away, continuing on the strip along the river. “Walked” was generous; we’d been moving for half an hour or so and Vin’s progress, hindered by his seizing muscles, was now more of a tilt forward. But his legs kept moving, kept churning along the Geocrete, and I followed silently.
Of course they’d blown them all. By the fourth ruin, even Vin’s strength couldn’t keep him moving any more. He slumped down, first in a stiff-legged sitting position that he couldn’t maintain. Groaning, he toppled onto his side, his arms frozen against his chest, his legs starting to curl up towards his belly.
I looked around, studying the buildings that lined the Geocrete riverbank on our side, looking, without hope, for a door that would open. I’d scanned every building we’d walked past as we circled the river, but I hadn’t seen a single one we could get into — StayClosed windows and doors had sold big in this suburb. Probably for safety since they lived so close to the Other Side. It was the same in the streets we’d walked as we approached the river — we’d found our last enter-able store hours ago. Vin couldn’t make it back that far. I wasn’t even sure I could.
That was when I noticed the people. The first people I’d seen on our side of the river for hours — well, the first living people.
There were about twenty of them, 50 meters or so further along the riverbank, in a neat line, dipping containers attached to long cords or wires into the river and then passing them back along the line. At the end of the line, a couple more people loaded the containers on to a metal trolley, with two shelves and little wheels underneath. When the trolley was filled with containers of all shapes and sizes — Metallo bowls, plastic boxes, TuffChina jugs, and those were just the ones I recognized — the two people loading the trolley would push it away, and two more people would appear from the shade between the buildings with an empty one.
There was something odd about the people. I raised my hand to shield my eyes a little from the rising sun. They were smaller than I was used to. Most of them were hunched over; some moved awkwardly, as if their bodies were twisted. Olds. They were a group of Olds who must have gained permission to escape their 100-year Disposal for some reason – which meant most were probably veterans of the Illusory Wars.
They moved slowly, but rhythmically; not rushing, with a plodding rhythm even an Old could likely keep up for hours. Not just that, but they moved with purpose. They were working towards something that didn’t involve crossing the river.
I was immediately interested in finding out what they were up to — but I was also envious of the water they were hauling up. I longed more than ever for the cool of the water to escape the pain in my skin, even just for a moment.
My legs were moving before I’d even thought it through. As I drew closer to the group, one of the men at the front of the line raised a hand and said something I couldn’t hear. Immediately the person at the front hauled up a container, only half full, and everybody in the line apart from the man who’d raised his hand withdrew silently into the shadows between the buildings.
The man who waited was less bowed over than most of them. He stood, legs slightly apart, both hands in his pockets, relaxed, as if he was waiting for a ‘cino at a café machine. His hair was silvery colored and his skin was only slightly pink. These people had shelter, and it was somewhere not too far from here.
I stopped a few meters away from him.
He nodded at me. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. I was wondering if I might borrow one of your containers of water.” I held out one of my dark red, blistered hands. “Just to soak a bit. And for my friend —” I tilted my head back at Vin.
He hesitated for a moment and then beckoned to the shadows. A hunched lady scurried forward, bearing a small Metallo bowl of brown water, handed it to the man and then scurried back. He held it out to me. “It will only help for a moment,” he advised.
“I’ll take a moment.” I carried the bowl carefully over to Vin and scattered some water over his face. I couldn’t see his hands, enfolded somewhere against his chest. I wet my hand again and dripped water over his head and the back of his neck, then did the same to my own head and neck. It smelt bad. I wondered if it would kill us if we drank it. Not that we had much choice. I held the bowl to Vin’s mouth; he mumbled something, and then tried to drink. Most of the water spilled. Despite the color and the smell, I drank the rest, then carried the bowl back.
The Olds were back in their line, hauling, passing, filling. The old man stepped out of line to receive the bowl, and another Old stepped forward and another back to smoothly fill the gap.
I thanked him for the water and we stood together for a moment, watching the Other Siders. There was no fear now, no flitting between buildings. They walked on the other side
