Tainted

I sit in the cargo hold of an overturned lorry, my legs pulled tightly to my body so that the droplets of rain seeping through the cracks can’t touch me. It has been falling in torrents for hours, like waterfalls pouring from the sky. I doubt it will let up any time soon. 

I listen to the soothing sound of rushing water flowing down the motorway-turned-river. Water was once a wonderful thing. Now it’s deadly. 

Leaning my head against the corrugated metal, I pull the toggles of my hood so that the fabric tightens around my face, leaving just the merest amount of my flesh exposed. Caution is key. I can’t have come all this way, just to have the rain taint me now.

For over a week I have travelled by foot, exhausted and low on rations, making my way toward the city of London, where I am told there is hope for people like me. 

People like me: young, fertile, and untainted by the water. 

People willing to participate in the Repopulation Initiative. 

It’s not ideal. It’s nothing like the life I had imagined for myself. But I’ll be safe there. I’ll have protection from the scavengers. And I won’t starve to death. 

The spill that poisoned our waters and destroyed our ecosystem, our agriculture, and our communities, wiped out around 80% of the world’s population. Of those that remain, 98% have been tainted by the water; their genetic material mutated. Their offspring will be deformed and disease ridden; they will not survive. 

Only an estimated 2% of us remain pure. I am one of that 2%. 

I hope. 

I wake before I even realise that I had fallen asleep. Welcomed by the sound of silence: the rain has stopped. 

I rise and peer tentatively out of the open end of the container. A residual droplet of water falls from the roof and lands on my shoulder, narrowly missing my cheek. Instantly the plastic outer lining of my coat sizzles and turns the fabric from green to black. 

The waters have subsided. What was a gushing river when I fell asleep is now a canal, only one inch deep. 

I tuck the sleeves of my coat into my leather gloves, and tighten up the straps at my wrist, then check that my trousers are still tucked into my boots. I wear at least three layers of clothing and as much leather as possible. I sweat profusely from the heat, but you can never be too safe. 

Less than a day’s journeying left now. 

I hop down from the container and step lightly, so as to keep the water from splashing onto my legs. 

A few miles further down the road, I am so parched my throat feels raw. Overcome with exhaustion, I feel like my feet are weighted with sandbags and my body is unwilling to fight.  Rest alone isn’t enough. I need sustenance. I am normally very disciplined with managing my rations, but I am worn through and have barely anything left: just a handful of almonds that jingle around inside a metal tin in my rucksack. I should wait a few more miles before I eat, but I don’t have the strength for discipline anymore. 

I stumble to the side of the road, taking a leather mat out of my bag and throwing it over a flat-topped stone. The soles of my feet are so tender that they throb even as I sit down, and I wince. I thought I’d have grown used to the pain by now. 

Twenty-two almonds. I’ll relish each one. 

I pop the first into my mouth and contemplate what it will be like to be a part of the Repopulation Initiative. I try not to ruminate about the logistics of repopulation, but instead, think of the sensation of going to bed on a full stomach and being able to wash in their abundance of clean, safe water. My heavy heart lifts at the thought of it. 

I jolt, alerted by the sound of thunder; an aggressive, local rumble which seems to roar down the road in pursuit of me. Hastily I twist the lid back onto the can, protecting my remaining eighteen almonds, and search for shelter. 

The nearest option is a red, three door car, parked diagonally across the motorway lanes. I approach it, and seconds before I wrap my fingers around the handle, I retreat back with repulsion. Inside, face pressed against the wheel, is the slowly decaying corpse of a young woman. Her skin is swollen and blistered, and a red smear of blood forms a line between her nose and lips. 

I step backwards, staggering over my own feet, and search for another option. There’s another car, silver, a few hundred meters down the road, pulled over at the hard shoulder. I run toward it. 

I’m halfway there when I realise that the continuous low grumble of thunder is, in fact, not thunder at all. It’s worse than thunder. 

Scavengers. 

I see them approaching from half a mile away. A group of three of them, wild-looking expressions on their faces and cackles of hysterical laughter. They push a shopping trolley, loaded with things I can’t quite make out. 

I hesitate, only for half a second, but it’s too late. They’ve seen me. 

They screech with excitement, coming toward me at speed. Two men and a woman. One of the men runs a few paces and then steps onto the trolly, riding it for the next few meters. The other two run alongside him, arms flailing. 

I run too. Straight past the silver car; I don’t need shelter. I need to outrun them, lose them somehow. It won’t be easy along the straight path of the motorway. 

To my right there is a huge field populated with dead corn. Crisp, brown towers of withered crops - tall enough to conceal me, and then some. 

It’s my best hope. 

I turn sharply and head for the field, leaping over the wooden fence that now separates me from the deranged people who hunt me. 

Into the maze of maize I go, my face pressed into the crook of my elbow to protect my skin from any residual rain resting on the plants. They brush against me, attacking me from all sides, but I keep running until I am deep enough that I feel lost, and so surely the scavengers have lost me too.

I reach a small clearing, less than a metre square, and drop to my knees, gasping for breath and dry heaving. Terrified. Exhausted. Thirsty. So, so thirsty. 

I pull my rucksack into my lap and take out the metal container which contains the last of my cleansed water. I unscrew the cap with a desperation I have never known, and pour the rest of the liquid into my mouth. It is nothing more than a few drops.

It takes all of my strength not to scream out in frustration. I press my forehead against my knees, listening to the sound of my laboured breaths. They are so loud that I don’t hear them approaching until it’s too late.

The man who pushed the trolley looms over me, his face blackened with dirt and the teeth behind his grimacing smile look as though they haven’t been brushed for years. 

I scoot backwards in the soil, only to find my back pressed against the legs of his female companion. Her blonde hair hangs in greasy locks around her face. 

Instinctively, I grasp tightly onto my bag, and she grabs my shoulders. 

The third scavenger - the other male - wraps his grungy fingers around the straps of my rucksack, pulling tightly as he unsuccessfully tries to pry it from my hands. 

I refuse to let go. Everything I own is in that bag. Everything I have to protect me from the taint is in that bag. All I have left to remind me of my life before this chaos is in that bag. 

I won’t concede. 

“Let go, little girl,” he says. His breath is sour and makes me gag. 

I ignore him, squeezing my eyes shut and holding on ever more tightly, as if by sheer stubbornness I can make them go away. 

“Come on, darling,” says the woman, “it’s not worth it. Give up the bag and we’ll be on our merry way.”

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. 

“Fine,” says the first man. “We’ll do this the hard way.” 

From his pocket he takes out a plastic bottle, half filled with a murky brown liquid. Tainted water. 

My stomach lurches, and I kick back in a desperate attempt to escape, digging the heels of my feet into the ground and pushing into the woman behind me with all my might. But it’s no use. I am too weak. She doesn’t budge. 

“Last chance, dear,” says the man, rattling the bottle in his hand. 

My grandmother used to call me dear, but not with the same sinister undertones. 

I squirm, tossing my shoulders violently from one side to the other, trying to free myself from the woman’s grasp. She hisses through her teeth and wraps her forearm around my neck so that it presses tightly under my chin. 

The other man sits on my ankles, and his hands clamp around my calves. Nothing I do is enough to shift him. 

“Don’t say we didn’t give you a chance,” says the man with the dirty teeth. 

He unscrews the cap from the bottle and holds it inches away from my forehead, a menacing smile on his face. 

I stare up at the water, and the particles of dirt that float around on its surface, as the bottle tilts gradually upward, the poison eeking slowly toward the hole. Toward my face.

If a single drop lands on me, I’ll be tainted. I won’t be able to participate in the Repopulation Initiative. I won’t be fed. I won’t be safe. I’ll be done for. 

“Fine!” I shout, letting go of the bag and pushing it onto the floor beside me. 

Instantly, the bottle is withdrawn. I am released. And my attackers disappear with my bag, leaving me crying in the dirt. 

I cry for minutes. Hours. I don’t know. It feels endless. 

But eventually I run out of tears. I run out of energy to sob. 

Drained of sorrow, and drained of fear, I have nothing left but determination. Determination to keep going. 

I pull myself to my aching feet and follow the path of broken corn out of the field; the scavengers were careless on their departure. 

The searing sun is high in the sky, but not directly overhead. It must be early afternoon. I sigh. I’d be nearly there by now if it weren’t for the set back. I’d have a little more food knocking around in my hollow belly, too. 

Despite my aggravation, I take a deep breath, straighten up, and continue on my way to London. 

Several hours later I find myself in the centre of the city I have always admired, having almost entirely forgotten about my missing rucksack and near-taint experience. 

I am too awed by the landmarks surrounding me to be concerned with such things, though their appeal is somewhat dampened by the circumstances. 

Hyde Park: its once lush green fields are now a sad shade of brown. The trees turned black through poisoned water. Buckingham Palace: now entirely deserted, with no royalty left to serve. The House of Parliament: equally desolate. Big Ben: silent. 

Half way across Westminster Bridge, I pause to look down at the water. A boat lingers in the middle of the river, drifting aimlessly with the current. Whoever lies dead inside… I hope they didn’t suffer for too long. 

As expected for the capital, there are a good deal of scavengers and tainted people living on the streets. Though they are less wretched than those I encountered on my journey here. More just broken souls. 

A number of young women huddle in corners, wrapped in sleeping bags, all hope lost in their joyless expressions. I suspect they also journeyed here for the Repopulation Initiative, only to find that they were not pure after all. I swallow hard. It’s really impossible to know for sure until they test you. 

The thought makes my stomach ache, and I no longer have any desire to ramble through the city, taking in the sights. I came here for a reason, afterall. 

I march determinedly along roads lined with glass buildings and towering skyscrapers, and after some time, doubt creeps into my mind. I don’t know London well, and my map was taken by the scavengers back on the motorway, along with all of my other possessions. It’s easy to make out London from a distance, standing on a hill and studying the skyline… but up close it’s a different matter entirely.  

I have no idea where I am. 

I walk along a narrow street with red brick buildings on either side. The left of the road is cordoned off and behind the barriers there’s a multi-storey scaffolding. My eyes travel up the metal frame, following it all of the way to the top of the building, where there is a square hole in the wall in place of a window. 

On the periphery of my vision, I catch sight of the sky: overcast with dark grey clouds that carry caution. 

I stumble over an uneven paving slab as I pick up my pace, keeping my eyes on the sky and praying that the rain holds off just a little longer.  

A little further down the street, I come to a crossroads. I look to my left, and there it is: The Shard. 

A ninety-five storey, glass skyscraper that pierces the sky like a knife. Once offices and restaurants and hotels; now the European headquarters for the Repopulation Initiative. My safe haven. 

And I’m nearly there. 

A low grumble tears through the clouds, and I glance up at the now black sky. 

Though I don’t have the energy to do it, I somehow break into a run. 

Five minutes and I’ll be there, I tell myself. Just keep running. 

Run toward hope. 

Run toward salvation. 

My feet pound against the pavement, the impact of each step sending painful reverberations shooting up my spine. 

Keep running. Keep running. 

Four more minutes. 

Keep going. Make it there and this will be the last pain you ever have to feel. 

Three minutes. 

I am so close now that I have to crane my neck upwards to see the tip of the Shard’s spike, where low lying, black clouds cradle the glass. 

Two more minutes. 

The air changes; feels cold. It snaps at my cheeks tauntingly. 

I push myself into a sprint, sheer panic is the only thing pushing me forward. 

One more minute.

One minute of clear road between me and safety. 

I see two security guards at the entrance, and behind them are the screening machines they will use to ensure that I am good breeding stock. To ensure that I am pure. 

Thirty seconds. 

I am so close now. I am so close. 

The guards have seen me. They beckon me toward them, holding open the doors of my new home. Once I am in, I never have to leave. I’ll never have to fear the rain, I’ll never have to fear anything, ever again. 

I allow myself to smile. The movement pulling muscles that haven’t been used that way in a long time. It’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter. 

I’m going to make it. 

I am. 

I am…

… but then I feel it. 

A single droplet. 

It hits my cheek with more power than it could possibly carry. Molecules of water splashing out over my skin. I feel the sizzle as it burns into my flesh, burrowing deeper. Claiming my purity. Stealing my hope. 

I drop to my knees. 

Seconds later the rain lashes down in sheets of searing pain, engulfing everything in its path. Including me.

The toxic liquid masks my face, penetrates my eyelids and blinds me. I can’t tell where the rain ends and my tears begin, but that’s unimportant. My skin prickles with blistering heat, like the water is boiling me alive. 

I scream in agony. High-pitched cries tearing from my throat until I realise that there is no point in fighting anymore. 

With trembling limbs, I lie down in the darkness, listening to the soothing sound of the rain tip-tapping against the pavement. 

Water was once a wonderful thing. Now it’s deadly.