We Are The Few
Miranda Stork
Published by Isara Press
Copyright © Miranda Stork 2016
The right of Miranda Stork to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers; Isara Press.
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Chapter One
September 2nd, 2063 – the Present
The first breath of cold air pierced the lungs. The second burned.
Freda gave a wheezing gasp. Her body bucked as she swallowed the oxygen like water, her eyes stinging in the darkness. A snap of light burst somewhere next to her eyeball, but she couldn’t tell if it was a collapsing synapse or torn wires. A bundled section of coloured plastic cables swung somewhere by her side, crackling like fireworks. The heat from them glowed over her left arm, barely warm enough for her to register it.
Something crunched beneath her as she gingerly rose to a sitting position, giving up halfway as pain whiplashed through her skull. She fell back to the damp floor with heaving breaths. Raising an arm to wipe it across her sweat-coated face, Freda blinked back the stinging water swimming in her vision, glancing at her surroundings.
This place looks familiar. Is it?
Being more careful this time to keep her head at a reasonable level, the lash of pain now dulled, she tried to fix on the objects that littered the darkness. Wires and flashes of electricity danced alongside broken piles of ceiling plaster and metal sheeting, bent crooked. A discarded flag rippled in the stiff breeze blowing from further along the darkness, only a few dirty letters visible through the shower of debris covering it. As Freda concentrated on the fluttering material, memories returned in a jumbled rush.
Wait…I was looking for…what was I looking for? That’s how I ended up in this bunker. I was looking around because I thought I saw someone. Then something got triggered? An explosion. That’s…that must be how everything is all over the place in here. Grunting as she eased herself up, resting back on her heels, Freda winced as the spot on her head that had been hit by falling debris pulled again on her nerves. The snap of it brought back her reason for being down in a dank hole. My brother. I was looking for my brother.
A long sigh rolled from her lips as she pushed herself from the ground, squeezing her eyes tightly as her stomach turned over with the motion. She swallowed back the bitter taste of the bile, waiting until the bunker stopped spinning. Reaching down for the battered rifle lying by her feet, she swung the strap up onto her shoulder. A hand slid to her hip in an automatic movement, feeling for the cold, hungry steel of her hunting knife. Trekking around in the wastes was idiotic at the best of times, but it was downright suicidal without weapons. Sniffing to clear her nose, Freda pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, tucking it into the recesses of her oversized coat.
Gathering up the small knapsack tossed aside on the wet cardboard strewn across the floor, Freda took a final glance back into the endless dark, further into the bunker. Noises echoed from inside the long tunnel of rooms, but it was impossible to tell if they were dangerous or simply loud echoes of the structure settling. The hair rose on the back of her neck as something clanked. Deciding that survival was currently more important than checking out whatever lay beyond the dingy room, Freda silently turned to make her way out. Prickles ran along her spine as her hearing dwelt for a second longer than necessary on the scraping sound further into the bunker. The sound halted her steps as she froze in fear. Another scraping sound came, a little closer this time, and she ducked down behind a crumpled sheet of metal like an animal vanishing into a burrow.
A Skin-Eater.
The sweat returned again, tickling over her forehead. Licking her cracked lips, Freda slid the rifle down as silently as possible, wincing as the strap caught on a piece of wood sticking out beside her. The debris shifted, enough to send a whisper of crumbling dust falling to the floor. The scraping sound stopped abruptly as the particles trickled down, and Freda drew in a hard breath. She knew what was coming, and she never got used to it. How could humanity get used to a monster it had created from its own violence?
Okay. Just keep your nerve. You’ve done this before. Freda glanced around at the blackness of the bunker. Maybe not when it was this dark, but you’ve done this before. I could even sneak out of here without it seeing me. The thought gave her hope, and she carefully put one foot back to see if she could retreat without setting off another ripple of noise. Even before Freda placed the sole of her worn boot flat, she felt the tension of the taut cable beneath, and her heartbeat skipped against her chest. The tiny movement tugged the wire, trapped by the clutter on top of it, and several dark objects moved at once, screeching against the metal floor. She knew the Skin-Eater had heard it too, as soon as the disturbingly familiar scraping sound was replaced by a low, predatory growl, more akin to an animal protecting its territory.
Eyes adjusting to the pitch-dark around her, Freda brought the sight of the gun up, flicking her gaze for a second out the corner of her eye, her brain still desperately searching for a way out that didn’t involve possible death. None came to mind. Another growl echoed through the bunker, laced with an angry urgency. Freda’s heart rattled against her ribs like a caged bird. One blue-dappled hand appeared around the edges of the rough hole hewn between the collapsed bunker and the corridor beyond. The fingers seemed elongated to a monstrous degree, thin and skeletal in their appearance, the skin torn as though the creature had attempted to claw their way out from somewhere. The scraping rasp of air from the creature followed, filling the heated air until Freda felt as though she could suffocate on it. Her palms slickened against the hard wood of the gun as the Skin-Eater finally emerged in all its horrific glory, silent as its head roved from side to side, searching the room. Freda ducked further down behind her cover as it turned in her direction, sniffing the air.
Her gaze travelled over the distorted face, the shadows covering much of its likeness. It was skeletal, like the hands, the nose long since gone in favour of the gruesome hole that was the large, round mouth that made up most of its features. The scraping sound came from the creature’s attempts to breathe against its mutilated palate. Its eyes, small and beady, shifted from side to side as it searched. They were hooded by the folds of decaying skin that sank from its forehead. The skin itself was patched with blue-black, as though the creature had been fatally burned, a consequence of the darkness all Skin-Eaters had lived in for decades. The mouth opened still further as the creature lumbered into the room on flat feet, a long rasp coming from the recesses of its throat.
Then it saw her.
Freda’s heart twisted in her chest, making it squeeze against her ribs in agony, as her eyes met the hungry gaze of the Skin-Eater. A thump began somewhere in her ears, making her dizzy, but her finger pulled on the trigger like a second instinct. The Skin-Eater moved with surprising grace towards her, leaping over the wreckage as it screamed triumphantly, its thin hands clawing out towards her. Freda grunted
as the butt of the rifle hammered back into her body, but she took aim again and fired. Her shoulder ached with the recoil, bouncing from an old bruise.
The shot flew out, whistling past the creature’s head, doing nothing more than skimming the folds of its decaying flesh. The creature gave a grating cry, reaching up for a moment at its wound, before stumbling forwards and reaching out once more to scrabble at Freda’s crouching space. Freda gave a cry and stumbled backwards into the clutter behind. Something sharp and jagged sliced into her elbow, but she ignored the flash of pain, her fingers trembling as she brought the barrel up once more. Taking her chance, Freda leaned to one side and aimed for the Skin-Eater’s skull, squeezing the trigger hard.
The next shot was the lucky one. It buried itself deep inside the dark flesh, sinking into the recesses of the creature’s head. A single howl came from deep within its chest as it tottered for a moment, its arms dropping limply by its sides. For a split moment, Freda watched with horror as the monster gazed at her with its beady eyes, her limbs ready to dive if it lunged. The eyes glossed over as the Skin-Eater collapsed to the ground like a sack of rocks, only one of its legs giving an involuntary twitch. Black liquid pooled around its wounds, rapidly covering the gaps in the floor.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. Freda breathed heavily for a few moments, her shaking hands still in a death-grip on her rifle. She hated using her ammunition. It wasn’t as though anyone made it anymore. She fell back, leaning her head against the debris behind, her skin itching as the sweat rolled from her scalp. Time to go. Drawing in a deep breath, Freda glanced down at her rifle, her knuckles turning white. Relaxing her fingers, she rose unsteadily and squeezed herself out from the crawlspace, taking care to step around the dead Skin-Eater. She paused for a moment, staring down at the creature with morbid fascination. Its huge mouth was peeled back as it lay prone on the floor, revealing rows of half-broken teeth, stained and dark. They were horribly human in nature. But there was no longer anything human about it.
Knowing more of the monsters would be attracted by the scent of a dead one, Freda pulled her coat tightly around her waist, retying the fraying knot that served as a belt, and turned away from the Skin-Eater to the exit.
Freda shaded her eyes as she came out from the half-buried door to the bunker, squinting against the faint sunlight trying to stretch through the clouds. The landscape was grey as always, from the foot of the distant hills to the burnt fields where she stood. She gazed across the charred land. It had once been farms, full of crops and animals. Now it was black as soot, coated thickly with hardened dust and the remains of vegetation that had been dead for decades. The wooden fences that marked one field from another were broken up and snapped in half, long since used for firewood. A few sheep bones were scattered over the land, the only proof that they had ever existed in this nightmare of a land, instead of inside the artificial lighting of a bunker. Freda’s blue eyes were slow as they travelled over the small mounds and humps where trees had once grown.
After the Big Hit, everything was burned in atomic fire, long before Freda had been born. But the fire wasn’t the worst part. The worst part came before, when the Illness had spread. And after the Illness and the bombs, when people fought and killed one another for what was left. The survivors fell sick, and died more slowly than those caught in the blast, coughing up blood for months until they were released from the horror. Some survived, but not as they had expected. Except for those who had been in bunkers. Freda’s mother and father had been two of the lucky ones. ‘Brit-Bunkers – the future of humanity’. That was what all the posters had proclaimed, pasted over the metal insides of the suffocating underground city.
Stop daydreaming. Get moving. Shaking herself from her reverie, Freda glanced back over her shoulder to the entrance of the bunker. The doorway was sunken into the hillside, a small metal door that led down a vast corridor to the inner bunker door – a thick steel effort that had sealed in the inhabitants for the past few decades. She couldn’t say what had happened to make them leave, however. It was obvious no one had lived inside this one for a long time. Since coming out into the wastes, she had realised some people in the bunkers hadn’t done as well as hers. A shiver ran along her spine. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she turned on her heel and set off towards the distant road, visible beyond the dried reminders of the hedges. She put a gloved hand out to catch the branches as she passed, each one snapping off as though it was made of fragile glass.
A forest loomed to one side, mostly full of blackened trees, but a few leaves were starting to return, green and full of whispered promise, proof that nature would find a way. The forest was broken up by decaying buildings, hidden in the shadows, proving that once it had been part of the city ahead. The road spiralled out towards a place called Ripon, the remainder of one of the cities. The other direction led to the so-called Badlands. They had once been nothing more than beautiful moorlands for tourists to visit, and for locals to enjoy, but now it was full of all the people a sane person hoped they would never meet. Freda shook her head at the reminder, panic bubbling under her skin. She didn’t ever want to return in that direction. You don’t have to. We never have to go back that way again. Raising her chin, she gazed defiantly towards the distant city ahead, catching sight of the crumbling cathedral tower that was so prominent. Her oversized boots rubbed against the patchy socks she wore, made worse by the moisture collecting through the holes. Every step burned a little more, until she clenched her teeth to force herself forwards. Standing still was not an option. It was bandit territory. And bandits didn’t take prisoners. They did much, much worse.
The scattered grey of the sky above rumbled as thunder rolled over it, warning of the storm to come. Instinctively, Freda reached and pulled her hood up without looking at the gathering clouds. There were storms almost every day. Ever since the Big Hit, the country had fallen into permanent winter. Nuclear winter. Scientists before it happened had claimed the winter would only last a few years, a couple of decades at worst. They were wrong. The winter was never-ending, full of freezing temperatures, rain, and storms. Rarely was the sun ever seen. Freda had heard that sometimes the storms spat fire, but she had never seen it herself. Shoving her gloved hands into her pockets, she continued trudging along, hoisting her shoulder as she felt the strap of her knapsack slipping.
The crumbling tower grew closer with each heavy footstep, but so did her trepidation. Swallowing nervously, Freda took a glance to her left, towards the thick forest of dead trees. It was unnervingly silent. When she had been a child in the bunker, it had always been full of noise. People talking, generators running, air pumps constantly freshening the stifling air…silence was uncomfortable for her after growing up associating noise with safety from the outside world. Normally even the remaining birds could be heard crying out in the woods, but there was nothing. Nothing always meant there was something.
As though answering her fears, she caught sight of a shadow out the corner of her eye. It was fleeting, but there. Freda’s pulse rocketed against her temples as she ducked down behind a tree stump, slowly sliding the rifle down again into her hands. Her eyes darted from side to side as she tried to catch sight of the figure again. She spotted them, cautiously peering from around a tree. It was a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, with loose blonde hair in patches over her skull – ones of the few who had the Illness. Freda let out a relieved breath, relaxing her grip on her weapon, a relieved smile crossing her lips. The sick ones were no threat. The poor woman was probably just lost on her way to the city.
Freda was about to stand up and keep moving, when she caught sight of another figure, not far behind the sick woman. Something about the way this one moved set her nerves on edge again, and she glanced back at the woman. The blonde darted around the tree, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she peeked around the side, as though attempting to stay out of sight.
This isn’t your fight. Leave. Leave now. You don’t know how many bandits ar
e after her. Freda swallowed hard and spun herself around, gazing over at the road towards Ripon. All she had to do was sneak away as quietly as possible, and they wouldn’t even see her. They would be too focussed on their current prey. It was the way of her world. People didn’t stop to help, they looked after themselves. Survival of the fittest. But something stilled her as she went to put her gun away. Taking a deep breath, she tossed a glance back over her shoulder towards the woman. She had no weapons, and it did look as though only one bandit was searching for her. The snap of twigs became louder as he made his way nearer to the woman. Freda could see streaks of tears running down her face. A memory came back to her, of something her mother once told her. A quote from before the Big Hit, but she couldn’t remember who had said it first. The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. Of course, that was back when her mother could be bothered speaking sense.
“Damn it,” Freda hissed through her teeth. Twisting back, she raised the barrel of the rifle onto the top of the tree stump, narrowing her eyes as she followed the movements of the bandit. He moved erratically, but there was no mistaking the long blade in his hand, or the feverish way he was searching for the blonde woman. Licking her lips, Freda blew out a slow breath, her finger wrapping around the trigger carefully. Just as she did so, the woman looked in her direction, and her eyes widened as she caught the glint of the barrel. Before Freda had a chance to shake her head, or otherwise indicate she should be quiet, the dead trees rang out with the echoes of the woman’s screams. The bandit’s head shot up in her direction, before he too caught sight of the rifle. “Fuck!” Freda swore, knowing she had a split second before he moved. It wasn’t the best shot in the world, but she had to take it.
Just as the bandit dived to one side, her finger hammered down on the trigger, and the bullet flew out, speeding towards him. It didn’t travel far enough to hit her target, but it sank into the back of his leg like a whiplash, and he buckled, sinking to the ground with a yell. Not wasting a moment, Freda beckoned to the woman, crying out, “Over here! Now!”
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