The Water Wars by Cameron Stracher Page B

didn’t frighten me at all, although his eyes looked wild—one brown, one blue—and I could see them shining even in the darkness. His men hung back, as if they didn’t know whom he might strike next. There were eight of them, each bearded, each wearing the same combat outfit.
    “They’ll come after you,” I said. “Now that they know you’ve blown the dam.”
    “You’re an expert?” asked Nasri. “It’s twenty-five kilometers to Canada, and there’s clear passage all the way to Niagara.”
    Canada? Were Nasri and his men allied with the Canadians? If so it was a strange alliance. The Canadians had destroyed the environment, hoarding much of Earth’s water and killing thousands of species of fish and land animals. Years ago their prime minister had been indicted for environmental crimes by the world court, although he was never prosecuted after the court was destroyed in a terrorist attack and the chief justice was killed.
    “Shouldn’t be surprised,” said Nasri. “The Canadians need us, and we need the Canadians. Suits all our purposes.”
    “But what about when the war is over?”
    Nasri laughed—a short, sharp bark. “The war will never be over. Not as long as there’s water on Earth. Humans will fight for the last drop.”
    “I don’t believe it. Earth is too important.”
    “Ha! You’re an environmentalist.”
    “If being an environmentalist means blowing things up and killing people, I’d rather be a pirate.”
    Nasri stopped hopping and fixed me with a glare. “No one’s giving you a choice. Now get moving.” He pushed me hard toward his men.
    “I can’t walk anymore. I think my toes are broken.”
    Nasri signaled with one open hand, and a hover-carrier appeared as if from nowhere, pulling up beside him and floating silently. I had never seen a hover-carrier before. They were very expensive, owned only by the military and the wealthiest WABs. Fast, sleek, and silent, a hover-carrier could reach speeds of 250 kilometers an hour without kicking up any dust as it glided over the rocks and dirt. I couldn’t imagine how PELA could afford one, but before I could even ponder that riddle, two more hover-carriers glided to a halt beside the first. Men in camouflage jumped from the back and stood at attention, waiting for Nasri’s orders.
    “Search the bodies,” he said. “Take any weapons you find and all their personal effects. We’ll ransom them back to the families.”
    The men broke into groups and fanned out downriver. Nasri turned his attention to me. “Into the carrier,” he ordered.
    “Where are you taking me?”
    “You may still be valuable. Do you have all your teeth?” He fingered my mouth. I winced and pulled away.
    “The army knows we’re here.”
    “In Minnesota?”
    “We’re from Minnesota.”
    Nasri smiled. His teeth were small and flat, worn down like a desert rat’s. “Not likely,” he said. “Now get into the truck.”
    He shoved me roughly toward the hover-carrier. Another man grabbed my arm and yanked so hard that I practically fell into the back of the cargo hold. I stumbled, then regained my balance, but the man had already slammed the door shut behind me. I grabbed the handle. It would not open, and the glass was thick and obviously bulletproof. I pounded at it with my palms, but it barely made a sound. My nails hurt just trying to scratch it.
    I turned, and my eyes adjusted to the dark. I picked out boxes, weapons, and electronic equipment lining the shelves in the narrow hold. Many things were still wrapped, untouched, as if they had been newly purchased. There seemed to be no order, just rows of expensive items—loot from PELA operations. On the far wall I noticed a small machine with the name Bluewater stamped on it, which I assumed was the owner or manufacturer of the machine.
    Then I noticed something else as well—a body lying prone on the ground. A boy’s body. He was bloody and covered with mud. He didn’t move.
    “Will!” I