We Are The Few

by Miranda Stork

  She pushed herself and Reilly as far as she could to the back of the cage, pressing until there was no room left to retreat to. Reilly’s fingers curled into her arm, almost painful in their intensity, but she barely noticed. Everything became a blur as the bandit leader reached in to snatch her out, and Freda cried out as she kicked against his arms, lashing out wildly to prevent him grabbing either of them. Her plan went no further than to stop him dragging her from the cage. I need to buy time, even if that’s just sitting in the cage. Somehow, I might be able—

  Her thoughts were cut off as the bandit gave a furious roar, lifting his hand and thrusting it down hard into her leg. Freda caught the dull illumination of sunlight as it bounced off the steel blade, but it registered too late for her to move her leg out of the way. She screamed as the blade sliced into her calf, burning nerves and flesh along its path as the bandit used it to pull her towards him. Her body reacted before she could stop it, releasing her hold on the bars behind and allowing her to be dragged over the rough bone and pebbles lying in the bottom of the cage. Water sprang to her eyes as the pain settled into a searing heat that made her feel light-headed, and she almost didn’t dare to look down at the damage he had caused by stabbing her.

  She was out of the cage and in the bright light from outside as the bandit snatched up a handful of her hair, pulling the roots tightly in his fist as he pulled her over to the kitchen table. Freda barely had time to stagger to her feet, and she gave a howl as her right leg sank beneath her—now useless for all intents and purposes. The bandit pulled at her hair, forcing her head back despite her struggles, placing the blade in front of her and sliding it under her chin. Oh, hell no! I’m not dying here. I’m not leaving Reilly to this psychopath. Freda struggled harder, flailing her arms up and hoping to catch him with her fists. She had dropped the shard of glass—unnoticed by the bandit—on the floor a few feet away. She was powerless to stop him grabbing her arms and forcing her forwards, the knife sliding over her skin by inches.

  Bile rose into her throat as she waited for the inevitable sound of her clothes being cut into with the short cleaver he held, but it never came. Water streamed from her nose and eyes as she fought against the pain in her leg, gasping for breath. Reilly’s screams of anger and fear tore through the air, but they seemed muted against the pounding thud in her ears. The bandit leader leaned over, and she heaved as his stale breath floated to her nostrils. “You’re a flighty one, ain’t’cha?” He didn’t wait for a response, smashing her head against the wooden table top. Her cheek caught something sticky, the fine hairs there catching for a second before he pulled her up again to hiss in her ear, “I’m going to have to do something about that. Can’t have you throwing your fists at me every time I want to enjoy you, can I?”

  Freda wanted to answer, wanting to say something cutting or distracting, but she couldn’t concentrate enough to think of anything. She breathed in heavily, trying to force her brain to feel past the pain in her leg. She couldn’t remember having felt anything so violently agonising before, not even when she had been shot in her left shoulder a few weeks before. What the hell has he done to my leg? She couldn’t stop the flow of tears that came in response to the fresh pain every time she struggled, weight going on her leg even as she tried to stop it. The bandit leader seemed to know where her discomfort was coming from, and when she didn’t answer, he gave a sharp kick to her injury. “Can I?” he repeated through gritted teeth.

  Despite hating herself for doing it, Freda gave a scream, almost sobbing as the dull throb became a fire again. She pulled against his hold, but it was like trying to wriggle out of an iron bar. Never had she felt so weak and useless. Damn it all! If only I had that piece of glass. She whipped her eyes back as far as she could, searching the floor with a dangerous sliver of hope. There! It’s not too far. If I can somehow get down there, I can grab it. Then just wait until he’s not paying attention.

  Hoping it would work, Freda gave another agonised groan, sliding down the table as though she couldn’t lean on her leg any longer. The bandit let her collapse to the ground, and he didn’t spy her hand curling around the shard of glinting milky glass lying just a few inches from her head. He reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her up into a sitting position. She kept her left hand firmly behind her back, holding the glass so tightly she was sure she could feel it cutting into her flesh despite the fabric wrapped around it. Pulling across a chair, the bandit gave a sadistic grin, kneeling down beside her. Freda noticed for the first time that his short brown hair was stuck together in places with what looked like dried blood, and a trickle of fresh red flowed from one nostril. Must have got him when I kicked him. That’s something, at least.

  Jerking his head towards the pine kitchen chair, scratches down its legs, the bandit shuffled his boots against the red tiled floor and asked cheerfully, “Which hand do you write with?”

  “What?” Freda rasped, her mind foggy for a moment. Her eyes flickered from his grinning face and the blade still clutched in his hand, and it became clear to her. Her stomach squeezed as she realised she also wasn’t going to be able to stop it. Not if she wanted to catch him off-guard. And she had to, for Reilly’s sake as well as her own. Acting like she hadn’t figured out what he was going to do, Freda replied innocently, “My right. But why?”

  “Because I want to start with your strongest hand.”

  True to what she had figured out, the bandit leader yanked her hand roughly onto the chair, and raised his cleaver in the air, preparing to hammer it down and cut through the soft flesh. She only had a split second to attack. Willing herself to pull her arm out of the way in time, seeing that his aim was off, Freda gave a roar and twisted her body, thrusting the glass in her left hand—her true writing hand—into his crotch.

  The leader gave a yell that sounded like a stuck beast, but his blade came down anyway, his grip on her hand frozen like ice. Freda’s eyes widened with dread as she tried to tug her hand away, but it was too late. As the bandit bucked against the stab wound she had given him, the cleaver came down hard, slicing through her arm like it was butter, snapping the bone with a thick crack. At first, she didn’t even feel any pain. She stared at her stump of an arm as her hand rolled loosely a few inches away, rocking back and forth like a Halloween prop. The bandit beside her gave a snarl and reached over for his blade, but she snapped back into action, adrenaline pumping so hard through her she felt it was fuelling every movement she made. She pulled the glass shard back and stabbed it into him again, thrusting over and over until all she could see was blood, and all she could hear were Reilly’s screams of terror, and the bandit’s scream of agony. Her vision became red as she staggered to her feet, still limping on one side but able to stand, wiping her good arm over her forehead.

  She raised her right arm to her face numbly, blinking at the raw wound bleeding profusely. Light-headedness assaulted her. How…how could it even cut through? Was it that sharp? I…this can’t be happening. Freda glanced over at the bandit writhing a few feet away from her, clutching at himself as he swore and yelled against the dark patches of red soaking through his trousers.

  Remembering the woman still trapped behind her, Freda snapped back to reality, racing across and beckoning to Reilly. “Come on. Move!”

  When Reilly didn’t budge, she swore loudly under her breath and reached in, grabbing her friend’s arm so tightly she knew it would bruise with her one good hand. She pulled her out of the cage, desperation making her ignore Reilly’s agonised protests as she was cut by the sharp pieces on the cage’s floor. It wasn’t until both women were outside the cage that Reilly threw her trembling finger in the air and cried out, “Freda! Look out!”

  Even though the logical part of her brain knew she would never have time to turn around and defend herself, Freda couldn’t help twisting around to see what she already knew was coming. The bandit leader, his lips drawn back in a snarl as he turned black-rimmed eyes on her, sprinted towards both of them with his weapon
drawn up high. She braced herself for the slice of the blade as it would go through her, and hating herself for accepting it. Freda didn’t believe there was a light waiting for her at the end of a tunnel, but at that moment, she really wished she did. That she could feel there was more waiting at the end of this horrific existence than simply pain and then nothingness. But there isn’t. This is it. She winced, and waited for the blade to hit her.

  A sharp and deafening shot rang through the air.

  The bandit leader halted mid-flight, his eyes widening as he stared at Freda. Nothing but shock registered in his gaze. Freda roved her gaze up to his forehead, where a large, smoking hole had cut its way through his skull, leaving a mess of red and pink showing behind it. The leader dropped the cleaver with a clatter, opening his mouth to gurgle something unintelligible, swaying for a moment. Both Freda and Reilly watched breathlessly as he tried to take one step forward, and sank down to the floor in a heavy collapse like a bag of potatoes. Dead.

  Reaching out with her foot carefully, Freda tentatively poked her toe against his head, knocking it back and forth a few times to see if there was any movement. He didn’t stir, remaining on the ground and staring with glass eyes towards the kitchen wall.

  “Are you two alright?”

  Freda looked up in confusion, her brain competing to keep up with how quickly events were turning. She was met with the steady but concerned gaze of a tall man in his early thirties. He was still holding his shotgun out as though it was frozen in that position, the breeze from the open door behind him ruffling his short red hair. He jerked his head over his shoulder, his peridot-green eyes scanning Freda’s wounds. He let out a short curse. “Jesus. What the hell did he do to you?”

  His comment snapped some of her tenacity back into her system, and Freda gave a weak grin. “This? It’s just a flesh wound.” She staggered for a second, reaching out for the cage to lean on but meeting only thin air. Black dots danced in her vision.

  Ignoring her humour, the man raced over and caught her before she sank against the table again, tugging her good arm around his shoulder. It was an awkward fit, with their height difference, but he crouched down to make it easier for her to hang on. He nodded over at Reilly. “Can you help me?”

  “Sure, yes.” Reilly seemed to come back to life, and she curved her arm around Freda’s waist, copying the man by placing her arm around her shoulders and helping her to stand. She bit her lip as she glanced over at what was left of Freda’s arm. “Is…is she going to be okay?”

  The same roaring noise from before began rushing through Freda’s ears again, and her vision swam for a moment. They took a step downwards, and the light grew stronger, the wind colder than it seemed inside. She could just hear the man replying to her right, but it came to her as though through a fog. “If we get her out of here now, yes. But she’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Oh god. Oh god! And her leg. Please, please don’t let her die. She’s my only friend.”

  If Freda had been a softer woman, she could have sworn that Reilly’s words brought a sting of tears to her eyes. But she couldn’t think straight through the sudden burst of sunlight that flashed at her through the treetops above, and she realised with some difficulty that she was sagging against the two bodies holding her up, her head fallen back onto her shoulders. There was a grunt from her right. “Hang on, she’s slipping. Here, take my gun. Just take it! I’ll have to carry her.”

  The world swayed dangerously as she felt herself spinning around, and her stomach lurched as though it would empty the contents from the previous night. Freda blinked against the dots dancing in her vision, trying to feel something as she put her fingertips out. Her right arm felt strange, and she couldn’t feel her fingers. But she couldn’t remember why. Her head felt thick and full of wool. Did something get cut off? Somewhere in the distance she could hear Reilly’s high-pitched voice calling out to her, and she tried to reply, but her own voice was too quiet to be heard. Gunshots and flashes of light went off around her, and she was vaguely certain that several people were attacking the bandits.

  The bumpy ride ended, and the world spun around again as she was hurriedly placed down onto something cold and solid. She could tell it was metal by the sensation beneath her left palm as it rested by her side. A blur of colours and someone’s face came up beside her, but all she really registered was a shock of red hair, and the warm male voice that accompanied it. “We’ll get you both back to our headquarters. You and some others we found. Just stay here, and hold this,” Freda could feel something pressing tightly against her arm, and she gave a moan of distress as pain sliced through her clouded thoughts, “against her arm, okay? As tightly as you can. Try to stop the flow.”

  “Oh god, Freda. Oh god. Please don’t die.”

  Freda wished she had the strength to tell Reilly to stop praying. God wasn’t going to come and save them. But the pain in her friend’s voice sank into her, and she closed her eyes against it for a moment, listening to her companion’s soft sobs over the cries and shots in the distance. The fresh wind blew into the space where she sat, carrying the conflicting scents of blood and flowers with it.

  The shots ended, and she heard more yelling. Commands, being shouted out to others. The metal box she was sat in dipped, and heavy breathing came from above her, moving from one side to the other. Voices came to her, burbling like they were underwater, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. Managing it at last, she turned her head weakly to her left and stared out at the mesh of colours that surrounded her vision. Green and yellow swam into one another as the box began to move, the growl of an engine cutting through it all. Freda smiled gently to herself as a reassuring warmth spread through her body. Reilly was safe. She was safe. Somehow, they had left the nightmare.

  Just one of many.

  Chapter Six

  September 4th, 2063 – the Present

  The tight wrapping felt uncomfortable against her injury, but at least it didn’t burn anymore. Freda lifted her stump of an arm up to inspect it, her heart sinking as she studied the round lump left where her forearm used to be. Thank goodness he didn’t get my left hand. But I don’t see how I’m going to be able to shoot again. In short, she didn’t know how she could survive from this point onwards. She had come across people who were injured as she now was, unable to do anything but some farm-work for one of the cities, dependent upon others to share with them and aid them through their lives. She breathed out heavily through her nose, setting her teeth as she remembered the bandit leader leering over her before he cut her hand away. At least he got what he deserved.

  The hospital bed she was sat on gave a protesting squeak as she flipped her legs over the side, surveying the first aid room with interest. It was small but well-equipped, with glass cupboards holding pills and bandages lined along the walls, a single counter in the corner laden with small plastic boxes of syringes. The green tiles on the walls were surprisingly clean, as was the white coat the doctor busy in the corner wore. Freda winced as she eased herself closer to the edge of the bed, reaching out unsteadily to grab the railing before she slid off.

  The doctor, a man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair, twisted around and marched over with a calm air. Pulling her hand gently away from the railing and pushing her back onto the bed, he tutted. “You can’t get up and go wandering about just yet. You lost a lot of blood, you know. Just sit back and wait for Harris to come back.”

  “Who’s Harris?” Freda gave a cough as her dry vocal chords rubbed against one another, making her throat tickle. “Could I have some water, please?”

  “Here. Drink it slowly.” The doctor handed her a plain white mug filled with water, and she took it from him greedily, taking a soothing draught.

  Freda ran her tongue over her lips, relishing the painful yet pleasurable feeling of the water running down her arid throat. She shuffled back on the bed, the rumples of the thin sheet below annoying her as she tried to get comfortable. Watching the doctor keenly as he
went back to scribbling something on a clipboard on the counter, she jerked her head towards his back. “Who’s Harris?” she repeated.

  The doctor twisted to give her a reassuring smile. It was friendly enough, but it wavered from the weariness she could see in his eyes. “He’s the leader of the Allied Vigilants. He’ll—ah, here he is now. He can explain everything to you.” The doctor gestured towards the yellowing double doors that led into the room from the corridor beyond, nodding mysteriously as though his job was done.

  Right on cue, the tall man she remembered shooting the bandit leader through the head pushed his way through the doors, closely followed by Reilly. The young woman was cleaner than she had been in the cage, and her cheeks were pink with colour. She shoved past the tall red-head and over to Freda, snatching her good arm with a grin. “Freda! You have no idea how worried I was about you.”

  “I thought we hated each other?” Freda teased, referring back to their argument before the bandits found them. She cocked an eyebrow as Reilly shook her head, her blue eyes shining with happiness. Arching her head back carefully to see the tall man striding over, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans, Freda’s smile faded. “Thank you. You were the one who saved us.” She swallowed at the sudden lump that rose to her throat, hard and unyielding.

  The man gave a solemn nod, his chest rising as he drew in a deep breath. “No need to thank me. It’s my job. I’m Harris, by the way. You’re in the headquarters of the Allied Vigilants.” The beginnings of a wry smile flickered at the corner of his lips before vanishing again as he pointed to the ceiling of the room. “For what it’s worth.”

  “The Allied Vigilants?”

  Harris leaned himself against the wall, his faded plaid shirt riding up at the back as he pulled his hands from his pockets, crossing them instead over his chest. Something reminiscent of pain flashed in his eyes for a moment before he replied, “We’re a sort of…army, I guess. That’s why we holed up here. It’s an old police station, from before the Big Hit. We try to being some kind of peace and justice to people, even if we have to do it through more violence.” His jaw twitched.