by T. K. Malone
They broke for a rest midmorning, choosing to soak up the sun’s warmth on the flat granite rocks of the riverbank. Molly huddled in a tight group with Sticks, Kenny and Gino. Byron disappeared into the trees and Connor chose to sit alone in the sun. Molly’s earlier words had played on his mind. Well, he thought, he assumed it was his mind and he assumed they were his thoughts. He again looked up at the sky and tried to make sense of where he was, or more importantly, where he was going. More than ever, he felt aloof, apart from the rest of them, different somehow.
“Won’t do you any good.” Byron’s words cut through his melancholy. “Stewing; it won’t do you any good.” The librarian sat next to him.
Connor glanced at Byron, who looked tired and haggard, the remnants of his wispy gray hair gently blowing around his face in the light morning breeze. His eyes were propped up on gray bags which matched the hue of the rocks around them.
“Maybe it’s all I’ve got?”
Byron slumped. “Smoke?”
“You got some?”
“Yeah, found a precious roll of Saggers back at the cabin. Shoot, but that would have been a great place to sit out the apocalypse. Fishing: I think I might have learned about that, or at least the basics. Read a few books which featured a lot of fishing.”
“What’s it like, having all that information inside your head?”
Byron smiled. “Me? Do you still not realize what you have in your own? The knowledge of the world, a canned history. Sable, Connor, knows everything there is to know—everything which wasn’t lost.” He put an arm around Connor. “You just need to plow on through.”
“Plow on through?”
“Connor, what can I say? No one has ever had the feelings you’re experiencing. No one can possibly know what to say to you. Your skin heals itself, and I suspect your whole body will, too. Somehow you have to contain her, come to some sort of bargain.”
Connor took a draw on his smoke. “I’m not even sure who I am any more, Byron, but I feel no threat from her.”
Byron patted his shoulder. “Not yet, Connor, no, maybe not, not as yet, but unless you reach an accord of some kind, internal conflict will ensue. How you’ve contained her thus far is beyond me. I wonder if she somehow depends on you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But the thing is, Byron, she’s been pretty quiet of late. It’s like she’s busy, like she’s…”
Byron raised his eyebrows. “Quiet? Is it possible she’s learning through your own new experiences?” He drummed his fingers on his leg. “I think that must be it. The compound, this place, everything, it will all act as… No, it will complement her existing references. I’ve no doubt, at her inception, and during her nurturing, she’d have been fed the details, the very composition, of all possible habitats, of the distribution of tree sizes, say, everything about the sequoia, but she’ll never have seen one bend in the breeze, nor smelled its fragrance, you know, that sort of thing. Everything you’re going through will be adding to her database—everything.” He smiled and pulled Connor close. “Imagine, just this scene before us now: the river, the rocks, the shrubs and grass, every kind of moss and lichen—everything. Just imagine it.” Byron sat up and patted his wispy hair down. “We never stop learning, Connor.” He jumped up then bent to pat Connor on his shoulder. “Best thing you can do is just be yourself. She might well learn enough from that alone.”
“Enough?”
“Enough,” Byron whispered under his breath.
11
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 10 days
Location: Aldertown
Kenny crouched with his back against the rocky bank. Connor waited, then scrambled up and squatted next to him.
“Bit of bad luck,” Kenny said. “Who knew Aldertown was built this close to the river. Well, relatively close.” He looked up.
Gino and Sticks had gone ahead, the rest of the group waiting the agreed thirty minutes before starting the climb. If there were no gunshots, it could be presumed to be safe. Risky, but Sticks had said it was that or double back on their long trek until another way could be found.
“What do you reckon? A hundred feet more?” Kenny muttered.
“About that.”
“Thought Sticks said there was a better trail half way. Can’t see it myself. Why would there be a path down, anyway?”
“To get water?” Connor glanced upriver, its gradient here sending the water cascading down, its spray billowing out and forming a mist above it.
“You think those bikers will have moved on?” Kenny asked, as though it had been the first question to rise from the turmoil of his nervousness.
“We haven’t heard a whisper for hours. Let’s hope, eh?”
“Not like we’ve got a lot of choice. That’ll teach me to open my mouth and come up with a plan.”
“How’s your arm?”
Kenny shrugged. “Peculiarly better. Expected it to hurt for weeks. Seems like being around you is a cure-all. Right, let’s get moving.”
Connor pushed himself up. Kenny had a habit of rambling when nervous, clearly now anxious about the climb. But the man had courage, that was plain to see. Even though he was scared, he went on, anyway.
It turned out that Sticks was right. The path up widened a little, and though steep, rocky, and treacherous, it was definitely easier going. Kenny stopped every time it twisted back on itself, then took a long breath and lamented his very existence before setting off again. Though slow, they steadily snaked up the slope. Behind them, Molly and Byron had already started the climb. Sticks idea had been to separate them, to “Spread out the targets” as he’d put it. Connor couldn’t be sure, but he thought Byron had chosen Molly as a climbing companion so he could have a word with her.
Three quarters of the way up, Kenny stopped and sat on a projecting spur of rock. Connor slouched down beside him. “Water?”
“Please,” said Kenny. “You know, back down there, I forgot to ask.” He took the bottle from Connor. “How’re you doing out here, you know, with Sable in your head? Everything okay?”
Connor snorted. “Byron worried? Asked you to have a chat with me, did he?”
“No, don’t need to be asked.” He took a slurp on the bottle.
“Well, I’m doing fine.” Connor pulled out a couple of smokes. “Snitched these from Byron; you want one?”
“No, but you go ahead. Having enough trouble breathing as it is. Thing is, how the hell would you even know if you were okay?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I mean, everyone thinks you’ve got this humongous AI in you and that it’s important in some way, and they’re all watching you, watching your every move, but how would they know if you’re changing? How would you know?”
“I still don’t entirely get what you’re getting at.”
“This,” said Kenny, and he swept his arm around. “This is all new to us all—not just to you. And the underground, that was the same, and yet all eyes were on you. Glad they aren’t on me, though; I’m a wreck. I shake and feel sick most of the time, yet I’m constantly hungry. My head aches like a bitch, as do my legs and feet, and, well, man, don’t get me started on my feet.”
For the first time in a while, Connor smiled. “Glad it’s not just me. It was safe in the city, wasn’t it?”
“To be honest, I liked it. Oh, I know what Byron thinks. Did he tell you that shit about a bird in a cage? Me? Give me a fucking cage, anytime. A cage, a comfy sofa, a big fuck-off screen and a takeout flown to my window by drone; I’d settle for that. What’s not to like?”
Connor took a drag on his smoke. “Now you put it that way…” and he laughed. “What have we got instead?”
Kenny grunted. “Shot at, nearly blown up, buried alive, starved to death, and chased by a gang of bikers. Say, about that, wasn’t your brother the black market in the city? Molly told me he had a bar or something. Can’t you get…?” and Kenny shuffled around. “Wouldn’t he know…”
“D
oubt they’d have heard of Zac, but then I don’t really know. Him and Billy took things in from the outside, but after my accident, well, he never talked about it with me. I always assumed he liked that I’d made a life on the grid, despite what he was always going on about in the bar. I always reckoned he didn’t want me getting involved.”
“Shame, not that it’d help—after killing their friends and that. Ain’t quite the kid he looks, though, Sticks. Now, is he?”
“Sure isn’t.”
“How old do you reckon he is?”
Connor shrugged.
“Twenty-seven, and he don’t look a day over eighteen. Maybe that’s the country air, eh?” Kenny stood, looked over the edge and immediately drew back. “Shit, I wish I hadn’t done that.” He put his hand on his heart. “For God’s sake, don’t look down. They’re catching up, though, so we’d best get moving.” He set off up the steep trail, muttering, “I like Molly, like her a lot”.
Connor finished his smoke and sighed. Kenny was right: the city did have its plus points. Out here, everything was… He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Sharp” kept springing to mind, sharp and dangerous. He didn’t look down, or across the valley. Though used to the skyscrapers of Black City, he felt more confident when he was just looking at nothing more than the path before his feet.
“And blisters,” Kenny shouted back. “I never got blisters in the city. Now my blisters have blisters of their own. Give me Byron’s cage any time.”
Blisters, Connor wondered, shouldn’t he also have blisters? And was Kenny right? Was Connor just feeling odd because he wasn’t in the city? That didn’t explain him healing so rapidly, though, but then, come to think of it, he rarely got ill, rarely if ever hurt himself. No, he thought, he’d never got ill, not since…
A small parapet wall marked the end of their climb. Gino was sitting on it, the pump-action resting lazily across his knees.
“Took your time,” he said and jumped up. “The others following?”
“Any sign?”
“Of the bikers? Nope, and that’s a worry in itself. Guess they’re hunting somewhere, just not here. Watch out,” he said as he offered Kenny a hand over the wall. “Something’s dragged a fresh body outta its grave. What’s left’s a bit gruesome. Stinks ‘n all.”
Connor heard Kenny gasp and saw the big man bury his nose in the crook of his elbow. As Connor himself drew level with the top of the wall, he did the same before looking beyond, at the devastation which was Aldertown. The corpse looked as though it had been pulled from its grave, its top half stripped of most of its flesh, and the stench, man, oh, man, Connor thought, he’d never smelled anything like it.
Beyond it stood the remains of many buildings, little more than heaps of rubble, the town of Aldertown now no more than two lines of bombed-out buildings blackened by fire. Connor could see Sticks threading his way through them, running in an easy-paced crouch.
“C'mon, there’s a house up the way they didn’t bother with. It’s part collapsed, but should offer some shelter if nothing else.”
“What the hell?” said Molly.
“I think I’m…gonna…puke,” Byron said between retches.
Molly stood back, paintbrush in hand, and admired her handiwork. “There,” she said, “now we’re officially a gang. I’ve wanted to be in one since Byron explained what they were, and, certainly after Joe’s memorial, I thought we could do with a base. This can be it, until we leave for the preppers' place, of course.”
She looked around the basement, at Kenny lying on its only bed, whining about his feet the whole time. Byron was perched on its edge, his head in his hands, appearing to sleep where he sat. Gino had cleared a space by what used to be the stairs; he, too, looked exhausted. Connor grabbed the paintbrush and dipped it into Molly’s pot of whitewash.
“You’ve forgotten one person,” he said.
“Sticks, Gino, Molly, Connor, Byron, and Kenny—”
“Why am I last?” Kenny asked.
“Someone’s gotta be,” Gino muttered. “Be thankful you ain’t Joe. Bet he woulda just liked to have got his name on there, last or not.”
“I…” but then Kenny clearly thought better of it.
“Sable?” Molly suggested.
“Yep,” said Connor. “She’s been with me all the way.” He put his arm around Molly. “And don’t worry, I’m not losing my marbles, just accepting what I’ve got inside me.”
“Freakin’ weird,” Gino sighed.
Connor wrote her name next to his on the basement wall. “There,” and he seemed oblivious to the questioning looks he was getting from everyone. Sticks poked his head through a hole above them, where the basement window had been.
“Man, you should see what I’ve found.” He threw a couple of rolls of smokes down on the floor between them, then shouted for Kenny to move.
“Was just getting comfortable,” he whined, but sat up, anyway.
“Here,” said Sticks, and he passed him a couple of bottles of whiskey. “Weren’t much food—not that we could use. Some potatoes ‘n that in a garden. We’re gonna have to eat ‘em raw—can’t risk a fire. There’s carrots, too, and some onions—god help us all.”
“Raw food and whiskey,” Byron muttered. “The stuff of kings.”
“Tons of money, too.” Sticks was beaming as he waved a huge wad of money around. “Hey, Gino, we’re finally rich when money don’t matter.”
“Sounds about right.”
Sticks didn’t reply, only dropped the money and held his hands out at his sides.
“Oh, no you’re not—son,” a voice sounded out. “Now, what say you reverse out of that there hole and be a good soldier and kneel with your hands behind your back.”
Gino grabbed his gun.
“No, no, no, soldier number two,” the voice boomed down at Gino, and a face appeared in the hole, its eyes wide and its black eyebrows arched. “You out next, soldier number two, and please don’t think about doing anything…sudden-like.” He scratched his curly hair. “Now you’ve got nothing you can rightly do, just come on out here. If you don’t, I ain’t afeared to light a fire and flush you out.” He flashed a look at Molly. “All ‘cept you, darling; I’ve got no intention of singeing your pretty body. Name’s Nathan, by the way; Nathan Grimes. Come on up, soldier boy, or yer man out here gets it.”
Gino dropped his gun and got to his feet. He clambered up onto the bed and pulled himself out through the hole. Grimes’s head disappeared, replaced by the back of his boots. “Now which one of you killed my men?” they could hear him say. “I’ve been watching you all day, and I know that the others aren’t soldiers. I also know you aren’t good ones. A good soldier would have just hidden up and waited us out. A good soldier wouldn’t have come up with that dumb-fuck plan to hug the river. So, which one was it?”
“It was me. I killed ‘em both,” Sticks’ voice said, and Connor heard Gino protest, but Sticks went on to say, “I killed ‘em both. Let the others go.”
A single shot rang out, followed by the thud of something falling to the ground. Grimes’ face reappeared in the hole. “Now, one at a time, and ladies last. We’ll have that body cleared up in no time. And what was your name?” he said, grinning at Molly. “Oh, hang on, but it’s written on the wall, isn’t it? Molly, I’m guessing you’re Molly, because you certainly don’t look like a Sable.”
He cocked his head and pointed at her. “One,” then he pointed at Connor, “two,” and soon he’d counted to four. “Plus one outside alive and one dead, that makes six,” at which he read from the wall: “Molly, Byron, Connor…Sable, Sticks, Gino…and Kenny makes seven. So, tell me, Molly, where’s Sable got to?”
“If you’ve been following us,” Byron stated, “as you say you have, Mr. Grimes, then you’d know there are only six of us.”
Grimes smiled and rubbed at his stubble. “And you are?”
“Byron.”
“Well, Byron, there are only five of you now. Now, y’all gonna have
to come outta there. I’m gettin’ me a backache leaning down here and talking like this. One at a time, please, and I think we’ll have the delightful Molly first this time. Tell me, how come a load of civilians are dressed up in army gear? Nope, wait; tell me when you get out,” and he backed up.
Molly shrugged off Grimes’ helping hand when she disappeared through the hole, followed by Kenny and then Byron. When Connor came to pull himself through last, a pool of blood met his gaze, from the other side of which ran drag marks. Two men stood beside it, their shotguns leveled at him. One, a skinny, pale man with chains for a belt, shooed Connor out of the way to allow the other to jump down into the basement, presumably to retrieve the whiskey, gun and smokes. Byron was just being marched away by another biker, his hands clasped behind his neck.
As Connor made to follow, Grimes told him to wait, then stood before him. “You happen to be Connor?” and Grimes tapped his fingers on his chin. “Name rings a bell—a mighty big bell. And now it gets me to wondering, you know that? Want to know what it is I’m wondering about?” He leaned closer, his sawed-off shotgun poking Connor in the chest. “I wonder how many Connors there can be roaming around these valleys, because,” and he drew away, “because, if there is only one, chances are I’ve found the mother lode of all Connors. Tell me, Connor: are you truly the mother lode of all Connors?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tut-tut-tut, whichever Connor you are, let me teach you a lesson: never lie to a man who’s pointing a gun at your stomach. Do you know just how long and drawn out it can be, dying from a stomach wound?”
Grimes backed away, lifting the sawed-off and resting its barrel on his shoulder. He looked quizzically at Connor, as if unsure of his next move. “No?” he finally said when Connor remained silent, but then, when he walked away a couple of paces, he spun around and leveled the gun at him. “Why?” he whispered. “Why? What’s so special about you that Zac gave up everything?”
