Generation Witch Year One

by Schuyler Thorpe

  Tillie’s eyes narrowed a bit upon hearing that news.

  “The Seventh…Arm—is here? In the city proper?”

  “Some remnants—yes. But mostly for detached guard duty.”

  The other girl nodded subjectively. “Well, that shouldn’t pose too much of a problem—providing it’s just a bunch of light sentry units to deal with.”

  “The Regency Council scaled that divisional arm down for other actions over the years since the Tampico Incident. Nobody wants a repeat of that—least of all the Underground or the Resistance.”

  Tillie nodded in silent understanding—knowing full well what she was talking about. It was part of her family history from so long ago—before she was even born. Her father—then her uncle—regaled her stories of valor and heroism for all to hear and see. But the fight was a bloody one to be sure.

  So many died on both sides. No clear victor was declared and the area was sealed off and declared a Hazard Level X Zone.

  Right in the heart of the Ohio River Valley.

  “—but anyways—I happened to spot you in the lunch room and was about to come over and say hi, but some of my friends told me that we don’t associate ourselves with your kind—if you’ll excuse the storied sentiment.”

  Tillie shrugged regardless. “It’s okay. Magical familiars like us have always been on the receiving end of everyone’s grief these days.” She said.

  Teena stepped forward for a second, her hand out in a warm and welcoming gesture. Then she pulled back instinctively because of personal boundaries and also because of the stories about witches not like being touched by outsiders.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know. We’re all fighting for the exact same cause here.”

  “But the blame must be cast somewhere,” the other girl staunchly reminded her.

  “For a time, I remembered when the magical kinsfolk where all to blame—before the magical familiars began to rise up and make their mark on human civilization once again—splitting the triumvirate right down the middle: Human, half-ling, magical kinsfolk…”

  Teena nodded somberly. “And then the blame games started up over the years—in times of famine, drought, war, pestilence…”

  Tillie nodded slowly. “That’s why we strove to separate ourselves from all contact with the outside world—before people realized how much of a valuable asset we were as a whole. Then they started to create rules, boundaries, amends for the way we were all treated.

  “And for a time, it worked. Until the Great War. Then everything we had worked so hard for fell apart in the end—leaving people like us adrift in a sea of distrust and hatred. Suspicion. Blame—even with the Witch’s Guilds to back us up with. It was never enough.”

  This time Teena made her move and reached out for the troubled young girl.

  “You’re among friends here, Tillie. Allies too—if it comes to that. But you and your familiars are not alone in this fight.”

  “I wish that were true, Teena, but you saw how everyone reacted to our presence here at the women’s mission. It wasn’t a warm welcome by any stretch. I could see the faces of distrust, fear, apprehension…it was more than I could stomach coming in. That’s why I largely avoided everyone and stuck to myself out here.” The girl said, encompassing the hallway in general.

  “At least here, nobody can see me. Interact with me and so on. This way, no misunderstandings would start up and I would stay out of the range of fire. And trouble—for my mother’s sake. And that of her friend.”

  Teena wore a troubled look of her own.

  “Do you really believe that, Tillie Gunderson? People always have had a natural mistrust of things—in their every day dealings with life. You can’t possibly think your situation is that unique—even if you are a magical familiar. Or do you prefer being called a witch instead?”

  “Either is fine.” Tillie relented softly.

  Teena smiled briefly, before hitting on a most wonderful idea.

  “Would you permit me a small boon then?” She propositioned—before taking her hand into hers.

  Tillie was startled by her sudden intrusion but couldn’t say anything as the other woman led her down the hall—past a series of doors—and out the nearest emergency exit which led to a courtyard, a garden, and a play area for the children.

  “Follow me,” Teena said with a bit of authority in her face—giving the teenage girl a strong motive to do as she was told. The stone path before them stretched at least a good fifty feet and the closer they got to the adjoining building—where the pair could hear the laughter of children and teenagers alike.

  But Tillie couldn’t tell if the noises coming from behind the door were human, half-ling, or magical kinsfolk.

  “You may not know this, but present day circumstance has thrown everyone together in one single melting pot of culture, society, and tradition.” Teena was telling her as she reached the front door and opened it easily enough.

  A powerful blast of warmth helped chase away the dampness and chill she still felt since coming to Level One.

  From here, she could hear the chatter and laughter of everyone inside and the girl was starting to wonder what was going on.

  “It’s a party,” Teena explained as she stepped forth and inside the recreational complex. “The whole lower level was transformed the other day to celebrate a dozen parties all at once. It’s been quite a spectacle to say the least.”

  “Birthday…parties?” Tillie echoed in awe. “Real…birthday parties?”

  The other woman nodded. “What else would there be? There are a cause for celebration—even in these dark times. It helps remind all of us what we’ve gained and what had been lost, taken, or stolen by force.”

  Tillie was beside herself. This was one thing she never had the chance to experience for herself because it was never a tradition amongst magical familiars like herself or her family—due in part to the restrictions her mother put into place when she was little.

  “I’ve never…had one.” She confessed openly. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Teena nodded in full sympathy of her problem. “Now is your chance, Tillie Gunderson. Not just the party itself, but the experience. And this can be whatever you wish it to be. Your mother doesn’t have to know.”

  “She’s asleep,” the girl said with a bit of guilt in her voice. “But I’m afraid if she were to find out—”

  “I will be the first to tell her,” Teena promised. “After all, it was my idea from the start. And no harm ever came from sharing a richly rewarding experience—now is there?”

  Tillie chuckled nervously. “You don’t know my mother like I do. She may be a High Witch with great power, but she’s still…mom. And I have to obey her.”

  Teena nodded respectfully. “Then it will be your decision then, Tillie Gunderson. I will not force the issue on your mother’s behalf.”

  Tillie sighed miserably—knowing that she was torn between the rules and some of her most innermost desires—a curiously human fault derived from her late father over the years.

  But the way things were going…the way things were now…? Surely something like this could be easily overlooked as a simple learning experience as well as a chance to socialize with others of her age group.

  Tillie nodded mostly to herself. Seemed logical enough.

  “Okay. Maybe one slice of cake,” she decided right then and there. Glancing over at Teena, she asked: “There is cake, isn’t there?”

  The élan woman smiled. “All you could possibly want and more.” She hinted generously.

  The other girl grinned.

  “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

  “Follow me,” Teena beckoned. “The first party room is this way. And I believe they might have some cake left over.”

  Tillie did as she was told—with more excitement and spring in her step—as she was about to enter a world that had been previously denied to her.

  Forbidden in many respects.

 
; But maybe tonight, things would change for the better.

  If only for one night…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Just A Friend

  In the lipid darkness illuminated only by some passing street lights and a drawn shade, Charlie’s alarm clock went off next to the makeshift night stand that used to part of two shipping crates and an old piece of floorboard which he had rescued from an old dump site out near the Barrows—cleaned it up and polished it and then started using it as a table of sorts for all kinds of things:

  A few knick knacks which he bought with his work credits, an old picture frame showing himself with a couple of his work friends near the old Pine Street exit, an old pottery vase with a few flowers which had survived these past few days intact, and an old stereo system which was still playing some classic mid-21st century orchestra music on low volume.

  The older boy rolled over with his sheet and blanket wrapped around the lower half of his body and tried his best to find the source of the noise before palming the thing into blessed silence.

  Normally, this would be his usual wakeup call before he started the graveyard shift on the surface level as a lookout with the current shift leader as backup, but tonight and part of tomorrow was his split days off.

  So he had some much needed time to himself as far as things went.

  And normally, he would be spending some part of his day off at the local club and dance bar—with some friends. Or at the arcades playing the latest game sim.

  But as soon as the cobwebs cleared from his brain, his immediate thoughts went back to Tillie Gunderson and her current situation and privately wondered if he should try and visit her or not—depending on where her current living assignment was.

  And knowing Felix as he did, that would be at the Mercy Street Women’s Mission on Level Two. But as far as he was aware, no boys were allowed visiting rights by either the assistant manager or head manager.

  Oh, well. It was a nice thought while that lasted.

  Pushing thoughts of Tillie out of his mind, Charlie groaned as he sat up—feeling the pain and aches in his body. Stiffness as well.

  No matter how he tried to rationalize it, the human body was never meant to sleep on a lumpy mattress held together by a simple twin-sized box spring.

  Of course, in his life, the lap of luxury was only a passing dream—a young boy’s fantasy—but Charlie never had much use for such things because life for him was too unpredictable as is and could be cut short at any time.

  Fresh pain and agony tore through his left wrist—ghost pain from over the years—but it hurt like a mother in the cold or damp weather. And in the chilled storage room that he had managed to convert to a bedroom on his own with the help of a few friends and one of his former bosses.

  But the abandoned building he was in served as a stark reminder to the past struggles of humanity as there were torn advertisements and newsprint from an earlier age—some prior to the Great War.

  Charlie moaned softly as he gingerly massaged his wrist. But the ice pick feelings and the sharp pain that radiated, throbbed, and pulsed in agony became a reminder of a past life which he tried so hard to forget.

  The young man’s childhood was never a happy one and it was constantly fraught with danger and chaos. It had become something of a miracle on how he managed to survive through it on his own—after being abandoned to it as a baby before being found by that Resistance patrol so long ago?

  Once the pain started to subside a bit, he began shaking his hand to get rid of the cold numbing feelings coursing through his affected arm—ending all the way to his shoulder where a hidden battle injury awaited him.

  An old shrapnel wound from about nine years ago when he was caught out in the middle of a firefight between elements of the Resistance and the armies of the Seventh Arm.

  A missile strike hit him close by and his body had been hit head on with bits of unexploded ordinance while a second missile strike ended up with an excruciating shoulder injury that could’ve gone from bad to worse if someone didn’t find him writhing on the ground and bleeding from his wounds in the process.

  He didn’t remember what happened after that—the day a blur, a haze of pain and fog. But he woke up hours later with bandages around his shoulder, and temporary dressings along different parts of his body.

  But like his wrist, his shoulder gave him no respite, delivered no mercy during the cold weather spells, the chill of a damp room, or even ice water itself.

  So Charlie sat there hunched over on the edge of his bed and moaning quietly to beat the band.

  “Wonderful,” he hissed out loud. “Of all the times for these old wounds of mine to act up…”

  Just when things were starting to get interesting too!

  But the fault wasn’t entirely his. Life of being part of the Underground came with its own price to paid. Never mind what it would actually cost being part of the Resistance.

  For now, he was just content to doing his part. He couldn’t ask for anything more than that. Not even for the hint or promise of starting a friendship with that cute sixteen year old witch.

  But the more he thought about it, the more Charlie was starting to think he was just crazy enough to go through it—not knowing the full history behind every magical familiar which sometimes crossed his path in both story or legend.

  Truth be told…he wasn’t alive when the last group came blowing through Level One so long ago. Oh he heard enough from the stories of the old timers and the written ledgers and reports that he sometimes read when no one was looking.

  But the rest had been laid to history and myth. But he always wanted to know what it would be like to meet up with one again?

  What kind of a reaction would he have in their very first meeting?

  Charlie sighed. So, okay. He found out purely by accident the night before last. But it wasn’t like he had planned the little rendezvous. The shit storm with the Belshire Riots was bad enough to put most of Old New York already on edge.

  And nobody really knew if anyone in the Witch’s Guild down by Lower Tam would actually survive the onslaught. So the news reports, the stories, word on the street—it all pointed to a mass exodus of all magical familiars still living on Long Island.

  Those that remained behind—? Choose to do so at the cost of their own life.

  Then she came along. Like a bolt out of the blue. Charlie thought to himself, while rubbing the inside of his wrist thoughtfully. The added pressure was doing wonders for the old injury—one stemming from the day the patrol found him wrapped up in wadded cloth; on broken glass and metal and crying out into the night.

  A true magical familiar.

  And an inquisitive one. The young man thought that most witches were quiet, aloof, or even reserved—private folk whom didn’t talk much—but Tillie was warm, affectionate, open, inquisitive, and very curious.

  Too curious for her own good.

  Even if he spilled the beans, told the truth about himself, Tillie wouldn’t have been able to do anything anyways. So he led her to believe that nothing could be done in the strictest sense to keep her from doing something egregiously stupid and inherently dangerous.

  Plus…

  He needed to protect and shelter her from the crap going off topside. This part of the city would be quickly overrun and occupied by the armies of the Third Watch and if his suspicions were even more on the money—The Seventh Arm.

  Getting up, Charlie put on his slippers and walked over to the small inset window sill where he had a few plastic liters of fresh water and a teapot where he could make his own brand of tea.

  Something in the mint and orange department.

  Turning on the pot, he opened the top and took out the used tea bags and then went fishing for the tin in the dim light and found out—his fingers expertly selecting what was on his mind and putting three tea bags in the holding tray.

  Then he snapped it shut, closed the lid, and pushed the right button to get the process started.

&n
bsp; In about five minutes, he would have a fresh cup and after the night and day he had—he was going to need it.

  Charlie then drew back the heavy blinds—letting in some bright light at first which blinded him, then gave him a moment to adjust to the intensity of such, before the moment passed and he could see again.

  “Okay, so it’s just the nearby construction teams working on that drainage culvert again.” He mused, wishing they had dimmers, but because there was no natural light in this part of Level One, powerful lighting systems had to be used in lieu of street lights.

  But he still couldn’t see anyone down below. This part of the street had been sectioned off—again—so that meant no visible foot traffic for as far as he could see.

  The young man sighed and went to the center of the room to turn the overhead light on with a snap of the lamp string and a more diffused light filled the area which made things even better by comparison.

  From here, he could see his work and study desk, the few bookshelves that he managed to cart up here by himself over the past few years and his collection of metal vi-bars stacked up against a slab of sheet rock and granite.

  He still hadn’t figured out what to do with those just yet—except maybe turn them into another one of his art projects that he had going in the corner over there next to the second bay window—where his assorted collection of tools lay; along with pressurized canisters of flammable gas for his torch, mask, face shield, and heavy duty gloves. (Which also worked in a pinch as Winters gloves when temperatures in the underground city really went south—despite the heat exchangers in the old South Bend Tunnel.)

  Going back to the window sill, he took out another one of his favorite clear blue coffee mugs and a small bottle of powdered milk/coffee creamer—that was part of a shipment from Albany a couple months back—and went to work making himself some of the fresh hot tea that wafted up through the pot‘s vent.

  Pouring himself a cup, he took an edible pre-wrapped Cinno-Mint stick from the cup holder next to the pot and dipped it into the concoction and then added the creamer which he then used the thing to stir it. Since the stick was easily biodegradable in hot water, it wouldn’t be more than a minute before the end of it became wet and soggy and that would be his cue to start sucking on it like no tomorrow. (Which added a few needed calories to his already meager diet of granola rations, packs of freeze-dried meat and vegetables, along with some instant noodles—when he could get them from the vendor kiosk two blocks down.)