Chapter 7: Crossing the Blackwater

Soon, the car stopped by the river.

That river is called the Blackwater River—this side is Canada’s Pine Creek, the other is Silver Hollow. The water was dark, moving slow and silent.

I didn’t know the river’s name then.

Now, I’ll never forget it. The memory gives me chills every time.

I swam back across the Blackwater River once—with someone else. He didn’t make it; he sank to the bottom and never came up. Survivor’s guilt hit me hard.

The driver didn’t go straight to the ferry, but pulled into a factory-like compound by the river, surrounded by corrugated iron sheets, with just a three-meter gap for a gate. The place looked abandoned, but there were signs of life—cigarette butts, muddy footprints.

The car stopped—I was ready to run, my heart pounding so loud I thought they’d hear it.

Two armed guards came out of a prefab hut, holding rifles. Their uniforms were mismatched, boots caked in mud.

They peered into the car, said something to the driver, then waved him on. The tension was thick, the air heavy with the smell of river water and gun oil.

The driver drove out to the riverbank. The guards stayed back, just watching, their eyes cold.

There was a small boat on the river, with planks at both ends for boarding. The motor sputtered, and the air was damp.

“Where is this?”

“You tell me!”

The driver ignored me. I watched as the boat slowly crossed to the other side, the water slapping against the hull.

When we landed, the driver didn’t get off—he went back with the boat, leaving me alone on the shore.

I dragged my luggage, looking around, heart pounding out of my chest. The world felt suddenly much bigger—and much more dangerous.

“Eric! Eric!”

Someone called my name. I looked over—Kev was waving, his grin forced and eyes darting.

Seeing him calmed me down a little. The whole journey had scared me half to death, and seeing a familiar face was a small comfort.

“Are you reliable or not? You scared me to death.”

“Just finished up, sorry, sorry.”

He took me to his car—this time he was driving, I sat up front. The seats smelled faintly of cologne and stale cigarettes, a weird comfort in a strange place.

Once I got in, I saw in the rearview mirror that the two guards had gotten into another car, following us not far behind. Their presence made my skin crawl.

I pointed at them. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry—they’re protecting us. There’s fighting here, not too safe.”

“What is this…”

“Ah, I’m doing pretty well now.”

I even admired Kev for a second—he was so successful, he had guards escorting him. But something felt off.

Then I thought, wait, since when is Canada at war?

“Where are we?”

“Silver Hollow.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.