Paradigm

by Helen Stringer

  He strolled past a store that had an actual glass window and stopped at the sight of his own reflection. It was always a surprise. Ever since the last wing mirror was stolen from the car, he’d only had the rear-view to go by, and that only told him that his once-blond hair was now dark brown and that one of his eyes was blue and one green. The distorted glimpses of himself in streams and lakes never really told him much about what the rest of him looked like. Not that it really mattered, but it was strange. His face had become long and angular and he was tall in a spidery kind of way. It was as if a stranger was peering out at him from inside the store.

  He was still staring at himself when he heard a noise. It was one he knew all too well—the sound of guns being cocked. He glanced around, but the street was still quiet. People were just going about their business.

  “Hand it over.”

  “No.”

  The first voice was little more than a growl. The second was female and completely calm.

  “Look, girly, we’re the ones with the guns. Hand it over.”

  “You should probably walk away while you still can.”

  “What? You’ve been out in the sun too long.”

  Sam smiled and walked to the corner. He had to see who this frail was. He peeked up the alley. It was narrow and littered with old boxes and trash cans. At the far end there was a high chain-link fence and the walls on either side were old brick, unpunctuated by windows or convenient doors.

  The gunmen were standing with their backs to him, blocking the way out. There were three of them, all armed to the teeth, and although Sam could only see their backs, he knew what their faces would be like. The Wilds were full of men just like them—hard men who had long since lost any feelings of pity or empathy, who lived only for themselves and scavenged off anyone unlucky enough to cross their path.

  “I suggest you walk away right now.”

  She seemed to be talking to the gunmen, but Sam knew she was speaking to him. He’d seen a slight movement of her eyes. Dark, steely eyes that saw everything.

  The gunmen glanced at each other. The girl had been leaning against an old motorbike, a Norton Commando, dusty and much-repaired, but she stood up now, her feet slightly apart. She was tall and slender with black hair pulled back from her face into about six long thick braids that swung around her head like Medusa’s snakes. She was dressed in black and wore a blue and grey poncho that she had thrown back over her shoulders. Her hands hung at her sides and Sam guessed that she usually wore a gun. She watched the men with the intensity of a hawk on a branch waiting for its prey, and Sam found himself feeling a little sorry for the gunmen.

  Then they made their move. But even as they pulled back on the triggers, the girl rolled, and the bullets found only air and the brick wall beyond. The men were surprised, but not for long. The girl’s legs spun beneath them and all three slammed to the ground, a few swift movements of her gloved hands and they were unconscious. The girl brushed herself off and glared at Sam.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “I didn’t think you’d need it.”

  She looked at him, then strode back to her bike and pulled a gunbelt out of a saddlebag. Sam watched her strap it on.

  “You took that off on purpose, didn’t you?”

  The girl shrugged. “Maybe. Sometimes it’s more interesting when they think you’re unarmed.”

  “So this kind of thing happens to you a lot?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Sam,” he said, smiling.

  “What?”

  “My name. Sam Cooper.”

  “Why should I care what your name is?”

  “I think we might meet again.”

  “I doubt it.” She got onto the bike and started it up.

  “But if we did, what would I call you?”

  The girl let the bike roll forward to where Sam was leaning against the wall. She stared at him and Sam noticed a swirling tattoo on her left temple.

  “Alma,” she said. “Alma Kaahu of the Makahua. But we won’t meet again.”

  She revved the bike and shot away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust. Sam walked back to the car.

  “Who was that?” asked Nathan, a bag of groceries in one hand.

  “No one. A Hakadun.”

  “A Hakadun? You’re joking! I thought they were all dead.”

  “So did I, but apparently not.”

  “Did she have the tattoo?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool.”

  “Her name is Alma.”

  “You got her name?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, man…not again.”

  Chapter 2

  “DO YOU REALIZE how much that gas cost?”

  They were sitting in the flickering light of a small campfire beneath a ragged ironwood tree surrounded by dense bushes of stunted manzanita. It was some way off the road, but Sam didn’t believe in taking chances, so the GTO was parked close to the largest clump of manzanita and covered in a dark green tarp.

  He sighed and tried to ignore Nathan. He didn’t like thinking about money or barter, preferring to meander through life with more of a “something-will-turn-up” approach.

  Nathan, on the other hand, thought about little else.

  “I said—”

  “I heard you.”

  He was lying on his back, staring at the night sky and gnawing on the last bit of the rabbit (or whatever it was—something with pretty big ears, anyway) that they’d had for dinner. The air was cool after the heat of the day and he really, really didn’t want to talk about the car.

  Nathan wasn’t about to be put off so easily. He was squinting at his account book and adding up columns of figures. Sam hated that book.

  “If I convert the stuff we traded to actual cash money, then...”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “But—”

  He rolled over and glared at Nathan.

  “I don’t want to know because there’s nothing we can do about it. It costs what it costs. It’s not like we can go somewhere else.”

  “Yes, I get that, but—”

  “Look,” Sam rolled back and threw the rabbit bone into the fire, “There’s supposed to be one of those big warehouse stores off the I-99 about a hundred miles west. We’ll swing by there tomorrow and see if we can get you some more stock.”

  “A warehouse store?” If Nathan was trying to keep the contempt out of his voice, he failed utterly. “Sam, those places were picked clean years ago.”

  “You never know. Maybe they forgot about this one.”

  Nathan exhaled slowly, like a parent whose child has just failed math for the third time.

  “There’s no future in this, Sam, not any more. Most of the good stuff is long gone, and even when you can get it people don’t want it no more.”

  “Whoa,” Sam rolled over again and stared at Nathan. “Is this a moment of clarity?”

  “No one uses it. No one has time to make fancy sandwiches and blended fruit drinks, or whatever the heck that glass thing is supposed to do.”

  “That’s why I said you should concentrate on the pocket generators. Everyone wants those.”

  Nathan sighed. “I’d still need to get the parts.”

  Sam stared at him. He’d never seen him like this, Nathan was always so relentlessly upbeat. For Sam, things were about the doom and gloom more often than not, but for Nathan there was always a brighter tomorrow.

  “We could go and look, though. At the warehouse, I mean. You never know.”

  Nathan shrugged.

  “Maybe.” He closed his accounts book and looked at Sam. “Or maybe we could get some light bulbs.”

  “Light bulbs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And where do you propose we find some?”

  “In a city.”

  “Right.”

  “No, really, think it through, Sam. That’s what people keep asking for. Everywhere we go, they want light bulbs. So why don’t we get
some for them? I mean, we could go to a city, buy some there, bring them back out here and make a killing.”

  “Or get killed, which is much more likely.”

  “Why should we get killed? We’ll just go there, buy some light bulbs and leave.”

  Sam looked at him and shook his head.

  “You see,” he said, “This is exactly why people should read books. Whenever a character says a thing is straightforward and they’ll just go in and out and be done with it, something always happens.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Something bad.”

  “But we’re not going to stay or anything. Just buy some stuff and leave. I don’t get your problem. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?”

  A wide grin spread across Sam’s face.

  “Perfect.”

  He pulled the dog-eared book out of his pocket and rolled over to try and get some light.

  “So you won’t go?”

  “Nope.”

  “Great. Can I sleep in the car?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, c’mon. It’s going to be freezing tonight. I’ve only got this lousy blanket and you’ve got that big coat .”

  Sam considered offering him the coat, but thought better of it. Nathan looked so miserable—it would have been like kicking a puppy. And it wasn’t like he could sleep in there himself. It had been months since he’d been able fold himself up small enough to sleep in the back seat without losing all feeling in at least one of his legs.

  “Okay,” he said, finally. “But take your boots off before you get in.”

  Nathan nodded and walked over to the car. He yanked his boots off, pulled the tarp up and scrambled into the back seat.

  Sam couldn’t help feeling a pang of jealousy as the door thunked shut. He had loved sleeping in the car. The clunk of the door and the way the curve of the back seat embraced his body, had made him feel safe and secure and allowed him to forget about the outside world and all the people in it. It was almost like being at home.

  Almost.

  He stared up at the night sky. It didn’t look yellow now, just dark. The sky at night had always been dark, of course, but he had read that there used to be stars. There were probably still stars, far away, across light years of space, blinking at the shrouded Earth. But their meager light was no match for the lowering clouds that clung to the once-blue planet like an old man’s cataract. There was still the moon, though, a blurry yellow glow in the sky. It seemed quite big tonight. Perhaps it was a harvest moon.

  Sam had read about those, too.

  A cold breeze skittered across the valley floor, probing for flesh and chilling to the bone. He pulled his coat closer and built up the fire. He kept it small, though—no sense in attracting attention. He watched the flames for a while and tried reading his book, but the firelight just made the letters dance on the page. He put it back in his pocket and pulled out his old pocket watch. It wasn’t some family heirloom or anything, just something he’d won in a card game, but he really loved it. He loved its simplicity and complexity and he loved taking off the back and watching the little gears swinging backwards and forwards as they counted down the seconds. He’d even bought himself a proper vest so he could wear it like the people he’d seen in old photographs. Ten o’clock. He laid the watch down carefully, coiling the chain and fob around it, and watched the firelight reflected in the brass.

  Cities.

  His parents had always avoided them. He’d seen some from a distance, but only ever been to one—Chicago. He’d been nine then, and they’d been living in a small settlement about ten miles away for nearly six months. It was one of the longest times they’d stayed in one place. He’d even made a few friends and begun to think that this time they might really settle down for good. But then his mother was injured while clearing brush. It wasn’t anything much, just a small cut, but it became infected and within a few days she was dangerously ill. Someone in the settlement had heard of a doctor in Chicago City who had a cache of antibiotics. Most antibiotics had stopped working years ago, but his dad was desperate, so they headed out on foot for the city. The memory of that walk and their arrival in the walled metropolis was etched into Sam’s brain like an old movie playing on a continuous loop. The gleaming skyscrapers, the gates, the hostile glances from the well-dressed inhabitants…and the headache.

  It had been his first. Sharp, shooting pains that made him stumble and vomit, tears streaming down his face. His father had picked him up and carried him, running, through the streets, anxious to get the drugs and get out. But the story wasn’t true. The doctor had no antibiotics. He wasn’t even a doctor, just a well-meaning man who tended the sick and comforted the dying.

  They had left the great metropolis and headed home, their hearts heavy with dread. The headache had faded the further they got from the city, but the pain of knowing what was coming was even more searing.

  It wasn’t until after they buried his mother that Sam’s dad had spoken to him about the headache in the city. He grilled Sam on every aspect of it. Where exactly it had hurt. What it felt like. When it started. When it stopped.

  Then he’d shone a light into his son’s eyes and asked another question: “Did you hear any voices?”

  Sam remembered staring at him, a knot in his stomach. Why would he ask that? He hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t even mentioned it. Why would his dad think that he might? His father must have seen the panic in his eyes, because he mussed his hair and grinned.

  “Just joshing with ya, son.”

  Sam wasn’t sure then and was less sure now, but one thing was certain—there was no way he was going to any city ever again. He watched the flames for a few minutes longer, before rolling onto his side and closing his eyes.

  It was still dark when he opened them. Someone…something was moving. No. More than one. There was the unmistakable slow rustle of people treading carefully… closing in. He picked up his watch, stood up slowly and eased himself over to the ironwood tree. This had happened before—the Wilds were full of predatory scavengers—but he’d always been in the car, so all he had to do was scramble into the front seat and take off.

  Only this time the car was on the other side of the clearing. Could Nathan have heard?

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t have the keys. Sam peered into the darkness. How close were they? Maybe he could make it to the car after all.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  He nearly jumped out of his skin. The voice was female and right behind him. He turned his head slightly and recognized the glint of the same dark, dangerous eyes he’d first seen that afternoon.

  “There are four of them,” she whispered. “They’ve been following you since you left town.”

  “And you?”

  “I followed them.”

  “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

  “It’s your lucky day.”

  “Not feeling much like it right now.”

  Alma raised a finger to her mouth, nodded to her left, pointed back into the darkness and made a kind of grabbing gesture before pointing into the clearing. Sam stared at her blankly. He knew she was telling him to do something, but had no idea what. She rolled her eyes and leaned in. He could feel the warmth of her breath as she hissed into his ear.

  “I’m going to get behind them. See if you can do something about that fire.”

  Sam nodded as she disappeared into the darkness, leaving him to wonder which gesture was supposed to have meant “put out the fire.”

  He hesitated for a moment, straining to hear—trying to get some idea of where anybody was. But there wasn’t a sound. It was as if everyone had just disappeared and the rolling plain was as it had been at the dawn of time.

  Well, except for the car.

  And the fire.

  And then…a faint noise.

  Someone was whispering.

  “Ov…y...th…ar…”

  He froze. Were those words? He strained to hear, closing his eyes to concent
rate, but was immediately jarred back by a sharp dig in the ribs.

  “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to help me save your worthless hide?”

  Sam opened his mouth to speak but she was already gone. He looked at the fire and decided that the best approach would be a swift one. He took off his coat, ran to the centre of the clearing, kicked dirt over the embers and smothered the flames with the heavy fabric.

  Now the darkness was total.

  He stood still for a second and heard a muffled thump and thud. Probably Alma. So there were three left. But where –

  Pock!

  He felt the heat of the bullet as it zinged past his ear. Luck? He didn’t wait to find out, but grabbed his coat, rolled away from the fire and straight into one of the manzanetas. The crunch was a dead giveaway, so he moved again, staying low, in what he hoped was the direction of the car.

  Another thump, then a crack as a bullet hit a branch overhead, followed by the thud of the body hitting the ground. Two left.

  “Lef…oo…ards… y…sma…ush…”

  The whispering again. He tilted his head, listening.

  “To your left. Two yards. By the small bush.”

  It was them! Wait. Small bush? Crap. They could see him!

  He rolled again and felt the cold of the car’s bumper against his back.

  They could see him. That meant they had night-vision. Expensive stuff. Too rich for some random bunch of scavengers. The whispering must be their com-links, though it was kind of stupid of them to have it turned up loud enough for the target to hear.

  “Idiots! By the car!”

  Oh, no.

  Sam’s blood ran cold. That voice…he’d heard it before. Just once, years ago, long before that first trip to a city, when both his parents had still been alive. But how was it possible?

  “Move!”

  He responded immediately, without thought, ducking and rolling to his left. There was a crack! and a man’s body fell forward like a toppled tree. A large knife clattered across the hard ground and Sam realized that he must have been right behind him. He looked up.