2010-02-07 11:50:05 UTC
Water. The word itself describes its purpose. Water. Water. Water. Like the thud of a man’s heart, it gives life. It dominates our every thought, this eternal thirst. We cannot rest, cannot sit still. Always searching, yearning for the soft, cool fluid that can release from this sensation. But there is none.
Every day we bury the past deeper, every day a fragment of hope flutters away. Our minds wander, like the nomads that we have become. No more creativity, original thought or depth. Just survival.
We load up the trucks, piling all we have onto our backs. Every day we snake across the country, scouring the land for some form of nourishment. We roll through the scrub, seeing homes abandoned, settlements desecrated.
Living in fear of seeing others in this desolate place, we strain our eyes for any movement on the horizon. Bandits teem the roads, preying on travellers. Most just steal food, water or petrol; but other dark, more macabre rumours float to the surface. Talk of people who have gone mad with hunger, eating anything that they can find. Anyone that they can find.
A sudden halt. The engines judders to silence. Cries of objection, but we are silenced with a swift hand movement. The Leader wants us to be quiet. We listen, hearing the blood pumping in our ears. Then over the silence, emerges a very faint noise, thrown by the wind. So tenuous that it weaves in and out of ear shot, so that if you listened too closely you could almost miss it. A sound so desired, so craved for, that it is almost incomprehensible. The sonorous trickling of running water.
I snap open my eyes, to see the steady realisation dawn on every member of the party’s faces. And then to see something else descend. The eight people furtively glance at each other, out of the corner of their eyes. So subtly that it would be almost impossible to perceive. The eyes of each person, huddled in the rear of that truck, shifted as a completely new sensation overcame their bodies.
Exasperation, replaced with this new feeling. Blood rushing to my head, heart beat quickening. My hands begin to quiver, ever so slightly, and my palms to become cold and to sweat. Whipping my head around, I suddenly shoot up, jumping off the back of the truck. Bolting as fast as is possible, I run. I don’t know where, I don’t know why and I don’t know how. Not knowing where the sound is coming from, just blindly running.
And then, just as suddenly as it materialized, it dissipates. I come to my senses, and look around. The truck is about 100m away, but the area seems deserted. It seems that everyone else has left, running manically the way that I did.
I run back to the truck, the embryo of an idea forming in my mind. Glancing furtively around, I creep stealthily towards the truck. It has been abandoned for the promise of water.
The idea only half-formed, taking root far too quickly for the consequences to sink in. Opening the door to the truck, I step up so as to clamber into the cab.
Suddenly, my weight is pulled out from beneath me, as I thump to the hard, packed earth. Winded, I see the cold, glinting eyes of the Leader peering out from underneath the truck. Face contorted from desperation, he slithers over to where I lie, prostrated on the scrub. Then something shifts inside me, in the pit of my stomach something moves. I am overcome with utter rage, fury at the situation. I have to get that water, and here is this man stopping me. I deserve it more than anyone else. No one else can have it.
My muscles clench, and I lurch towards the man. My instincts take over, half human and half beast, I fight. Skin, hair, flesh. Ripping at anything that I can find. Ears, face, eyes. Anything I can reach. All consciousness leaves me, as my mind detaches itself from my body. Not thinking, just doing. Instinct dominating intellect. I can not control my actions; cannot stop as my hands tighten around his throat, or as his limbs thrash frenziedly. Cannot stop as his flailing subsides to twitching, or as his twitching ceases.
I roll into the dust beside him, and lie there panting. As my heart rate slows, a wave of nausea washes over me. What I have done is irreversible. The only person who has ever shown me any compassion or affection is dead. The person who fed me, clothed me and nursed me when I got cholera, is dead. The person who taught me about this harsh life on the plains, about survival in this desolate place, is dead and it is all down to me. I have killed my brother.
As I turn to get up, another figure looms above me, blocking out the sun. There is a sudden flicker of movement, and a flash of silver, as the shadow darts towards my belly. And then suddenly there are small tendrils of warmth are creeping across my front, and white noise in my ears. I am overcome with sudden lethargy, as if I am melting into the ground.
As I lie there in the