PREVIEW: The Edge of Water
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Karen McSpadden's short story "The Edge of Water" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Karen McSpadden |
Blue-gray curls of incense drifted listlessly under a decrepit fan and sweetened the
thick air. Wooden benches lined the walls, except for the back of the room where the
woman scratched at her scab-covered arms while she flipped through the State
newspaper. I squirmed on the bench and tried to ignore the latest round of vaccine
welts that itched like fire ants crawling up my sleeve. It didn’t help that my worker’s
uniform clung to my arms and legs like a second skin in the damp heat.
My eyes flitted between her and the old man across the room who sat rigid as a piece
of lumber in his wheelchair. The only signs of life were his sandpaper breathing and the
thin line of blood continually dribbling from the left corner of his mouth, which the
young woman beside him wiped every few moments. I wondered how many times she
had done it before, and if some part of her was relieved that she wouldn’t have to do
it again.
The orange card in my pocket pressed against my thigh, and I imagined the letters
sinking into my skin, like a tattoo. Notice of Selection for Central Clinic Research
Project T11V, to begin 07/13/39. Departure from Terminal B at 0600. Failure to appear
at Departure considered a Class I Offense. Please bring Selection Card and all current
identification papers.
The clinicals were part of the survival deal the government stuck on us after the plague
outbreak, and I supposed they considered it fair trade. They gave us the vaccines that,
in theory, ensured the virus stayed dormant. In return, we lived in their quarantine
sectors, worked their factories, and some of us got to play lab rat every now and then.
The official storyline was a search for a cure, but we all heard stories of what the
bodies looked like when they were piled in the disposal trucks. The smoke from behind
the complex was visible for miles. No one came back. If you tried to hide, or run, the
black squads found you and carted you back, after a session or two in the silent rooms—
although the name was a bit incorrect. Sometimes the screams filtered up from the
sewer grates. Noah and I had survived a year, an unbelievable grace. Some people didn’
t last a week.
I touched the sweaty copper cross resting in the hollow of my neck, my fingers playing
with the chain like a rosary. It’s not you, God, it’s me. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, or
that You’re not enough, it’s that I can’t die in that place. Not like that. I can’t be that
old man, or worse. Hey, You’re the all-knowing one, you’ve seen what they do there.
Tell Noah it’s not him. It’s me.
“Next.” The old woman croaked, “next please.”
I walked up to the desk, pretending this was something trivial, like a hair appointment.
“Anibeth Darger. I’m here for a consultation.”
She adjusted her eye patch without so much as looking up from her paper. “He’s in the
back. Second door on the left.”
I pushed through the heavy orange curtain behind her into a hallway so narrow my
shoulders brushed the walls. The door stood partly open, and the man sitting behind
the desk waved me into the room.
I expected a low-budget version of the government doctors, all cold formality and lab
coat starch, but this man wore a loose gray tunic shirt with the sleeves rolled back to
his elbows, a damp rim of sweat around his neck. His smile flashed against his coffee-
dark skin like a camera
bulk. He looked more like the janitor in our building than a death merchant.
“You must be Anibeth.” He gestured towards the chair. “A good name, although I’m
sure it’s not yours.”
thick air. Wooden benches lined the walls, except for the back of the room where the
woman scratched at her scab-covered arms while she flipped through the State
newspaper. I squirmed on the bench and tried to ignore the latest round of vaccine
welts that itched like fire ants crawling up my sleeve. It didn’t help that my worker’s
uniform clung to my arms and legs like a second skin in the damp heat.
My eyes flitted between her and the old man across the room who sat rigid as a piece
of lumber in his wheelchair. The only signs of life were his sandpaper breathing and the
thin line of blood continually dribbling from the left corner of his mouth, which the
young woman beside him wiped every few moments. I wondered how many times she
had done it before, and if some part of her was relieved that she wouldn’t have to do
it again.
The orange card in my pocket pressed against my thigh, and I imagined the letters
sinking into my skin, like a tattoo. Notice of Selection for Central Clinic Research
Project T11V, to begin 07/13/39. Departure from Terminal B at 0600. Failure to appear
at Departure considered a Class I Offense. Please bring Selection Card and all current
identification papers.
The clinicals were part of the survival deal the government stuck on us after the plague
outbreak, and I supposed they considered it fair trade. They gave us the vaccines that,
in theory, ensured the virus stayed dormant. In return, we lived in their quarantine
sectors, worked their factories, and some of us got to play lab rat every now and then.
The official storyline was a search for a cure, but we all heard stories of what the
bodies looked like when they were piled in the disposal trucks. The smoke from behind
the complex was visible for miles. No one came back. If you tried to hide, or run, the
black squads found you and carted you back, after a session or two in the silent rooms—
although the name was a bit incorrect. Sometimes the screams filtered up from the
sewer grates. Noah and I had survived a year, an unbelievable grace. Some people didn’
t last a week.
I touched the sweaty copper cross resting in the hollow of my neck, my fingers playing
with the chain like a rosary. It’s not you, God, it’s me. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, or
that You’re not enough, it’s that I can’t die in that place. Not like that. I can’t be that
old man, or worse. Hey, You’re the all-knowing one, you’ve seen what they do there.
Tell Noah it’s not him. It’s me.
“Next.” The old woman croaked, “next please.”
I walked up to the desk, pretending this was something trivial, like a hair appointment.
“Anibeth Darger. I’m here for a consultation.”
She adjusted her eye patch without so much as looking up from her paper. “He’s in the
back. Second door on the left.”
I pushed through the heavy orange curtain behind her into a hallway so narrow my
shoulders brushed the walls. The door stood partly open, and the man sitting behind
the desk waved me into the room.
I expected a low-budget version of the government doctors, all cold formality and lab
coat starch, but this man wore a loose gray tunic shirt with the sleeves rolled back to
his elbows, a damp rim of sweat around his neck. His smile flashed against his coffee-
dark skin like a camera
bulk. He looked more like the janitor in our building than a death merchant.
“You must be Anibeth.” He gestured towards the chair. “A good name, although I’m
sure it’s not yours.”
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
WHEN THEY PULLED JOHNNY’S body out of the river, I sat on a
bench in the front room of the death house, waiting for the
one-eyed woman behind the counter to call my name. If it
weren’t for his eighteen-story swan dive, I would have erased
myself, just as Johnny did, only in a way more calculating than
his leap through thin air. I once thought that I would be unable
to betray Noah in that way. I was wrong. I ended up in that
waiting room easily enough.
bench in the front room of the death house, waiting for the
one-eyed woman behind the counter to call my name. If it
weren’t for his eighteen-story swan dive, I would have erased
myself, just as Johnny did, only in a way more calculating than
his leap through thin air. I once thought that I would be unable
to betray Noah in that way. I was wrong. I ended up in that
waiting room easily enough.
