Taken (Erin Bowman)

reservoirs?
    On the third day without water, I stumble upon a stagnant pond of filthy green slime. I drop to my knees in front of it. This? After all my searching? It’s too still, completely undrinkable. I pull Blaine’s body toward mine and hold his head in my lap. His lips are split and dry, his eyes struggling to stay open. I watch his chest heave, his breathing pattern erratic. I’ve failed the people I love. First Emma. Now Blaine.
    And then I hear something: a soft, delicate flutter. My heart flips over. I strain and listen harder. It sounds like the trickle of a stream.
    I follow the noise and discover that the green pond is being filled by the tiniest beads of water dripping down a rock face at its rear. There’s a very small opening in the stone, but I can see light on the other side. The sound, too, is coming from behind it.
    “Blaine,” I say. “Get up. You have to walk.”
    He mumbles something incoherent.
    “There’s water,” I explain. I want to tell him that I only need him to do this one thing and then I’ll carry him again, but forming the words requires too much effort.
    Blaine grunts as I pull him to his feet. Dirt and sweat cover his forehead.
    “Through here,” I say, pointing at the gap in the rock. He grimaces as we move forward, limping to keep weight off his bad leg. “Can you do it?”
    He coughs, but nods. I let go of him. He clenches his eyes shut, blinks several times, nods again. As soon as I turn my back on him, Blaine falls. The sound of him hitting the ground is sickening: a solid, dull crack.
    He’s fainted, his head striking a rock in the process. I drop beside him. “Blaine?” He doesn’t answer. I lift his head and my fingers grow sticky with blood. “Blaine!”
    Nothing.
    “You can’t do this! Not now. Not when we finally found it.” I shake him, curse him, yell his name, but he doesn’t respond. I press my ear to his chest and when I hear his heartbeat, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I fish a bandage from my bag and dress his wound, my hands shaking the entire time.
    I look back at the rock face. We still need water. I’ll have to go in alone, gather as much as possible. I take one last look at Blaine, and then force myself through the passageway. It is a tight squeeze and my fatigued state slows me significantly, but by the time I have scrambled through the gap, I am crying out with joy.
    Steep stone encloses me from all angles. From one of the highest peaks comes water, tumbling down in a magnificent spout and filling a freshwater pool at my feet. Water from this pool drips ever so slowly through the path I have just taken, but rushes out an opposite end of the enclosed area into what must be an impressive river.
    I don’t stop to explore the workings of the water’s natural course. Instead, I whisper my thanks that the Order has not discovered this resource and race into the shallow pool. I splash it on my face and drink anxiously. My arms feel heavy, the weight of bringing them to my mouth nearly unbearable, but the water tastes so good. The sound of the cascading falls is heavenly, the kick of the cool liquid in my stomach unreal. For the first time in days, I am hopeful.
    I drink until I can take no more, and then pull the canteen from my pack and fill it for Blaine.
    “Stop right there,” a voice commands.
    I freeze. My hands go above my head.
    I take what I expect to be my last breath, but the shot never comes. With my arms still held in surrender, I look up, searching for the intruder. About twenty paces away, standing near the narrow opening through which I just climbed, is a girl. She is my age, maybe a tad younger, and holds a gun in her arms, one of the long and slender varieties. Her eyes are focused, intense. She’s going to pull the trigger and I’ll be dead as quickly as the thief in Taem’s public square. But the girl pauses, lifts her face from her weapon. I watch as she takes aim for a second time and again hesitates to shoot.
    “You,” she says, barking at me. “What’s your name?” She marches up to me when I remain silent and presses the gun into my chest. “I asked you what your name is.” She is far shorter than me—shorter than Emma, even—with bright blond hair that is braided into a bun. “The boy outside. Is he your brother?”
    “You’re just going to kill us anyway,” I tell her. And it’s true. She thinks I’m the enemy. “You’re going to murder us, the way you murdered that