The Water Wars by Cameron Stracher Page A

land. I stood and waved, summoning it to draw close. I didn’t care about the danger or who might be near. Nothing could be worse than staying out all night alone in the soaked and broken land. A light meant people, and people would mean food, water, dry clothes. I jumped up, trying to catch the beams with my hands. But the light danced and shimmied, never resting in any one place for long. Several times it arced above my head, then fell short just before my feet. It seemed to have a mind of its own, sniffing out the corners of the earth in search of something only it knew. Then for several minutes it disappeared entirely, and I thought I was doomed. But it reemerged in a different position—closer and more intense. I broke into a run, trying to capture it before it disappeared again.
    I heard the men, then—loud voices shouting and the crackling of radios. I heard something else too that made me stop in my tracks: gunfire. Short staccato bursts. I had never heard gunfire before, but it was unmistakable. Each bullet was clear, crisp, and final. A string of them together sounded like balloons popping in a frenzied burst. I turned to run, but it was too late; the light caught me, and I was frozen in its glare.
    Two gloved hands grabbed me and threw me roughly to the ground. I didn’t even try to fight; I just lay there, silently waiting for the end. Then the light was upon me, so bright I couldn’t even open my eyes. I heard a voice, but I couldn’t understand the words. Kee-ay-too , the voice said. Kee-ay-too?
    It’s French, I thought. The men were Canadian. Had the truce between Minnesota and Canada been broken? Were the countries at war? The world was too large and complex to grasp. The intricate allegiances of governments and people seemed to flutter as unpredictability as that butterfly in the jet stream. I was just a girl trying to find my brother, my friend, and my way home.
    Then in perfect English, the voice said, “Who are you?”
    I opened my eyes, but I still could not see.
    “Who are you?” the voice repeated again.
    “Vera,” I said.
    “How did you get here?”
    “The pirates brought me.”
    “Shut off the damned light,” said the voice.
    The world was plunged back into night. Now I could see the man standing over me. He wore a green beret, a dark green shirt, and green camouflage pants. The men surrounding him were dressed similarly. I assumed they were wearing the uniform of the Canadian army, or maybe the Water Guard. Will would know if he were here. I fought back another round of tears.
    “Who are you? ” I asked.
    “The People’s Environmental Liberation Army,” the man said proudly.
    I had heard of PELA but thought the organization was just a horror story told by shakers to frighten kids. PELA did terrible things—bombing desalinization plants, poisoning reservoirs, kidnapping and killing WAB ministers, burning oil supplies. They made pirates look like respectable citizens. Now I was in their hands.
    “Did you blow up the dam?”
    “Of course we blew up the dam,” said the man. He seemed offended that I might think otherwise.
    “And kill all those pirates?”
    “Most definitely.”
    “And what about the Minnesotans?”
    “They’re dead too.”
    I took in all this information. It was almost too much to bear. My father once told us that all people believed in the same God, although each had a different name for Him. But Will said there was no God, just a need for people to believe. Wherever they were, I hoped Ali and the pirates were at peace.
    “Are you the leader?” I asked.
    “I’m Nasri,” said the man. “Chief environmental scientist.”
    “You’re not much of a scientist.”
    “Who do you think invented those explosives? Ordinary dynamite or C4 couldn’t blow such a structure.”
    Nasri was practically hopping on one foot, as if he couldn’t wait to get going in some race. He was small and wiry with a short beard and stubbly hair. Once I got a good look at him, he