We Are The Few

by Miranda Stork

  “Yeah, I do,” she admitted. It was something she knew far too intimately for her liking.

  Clearing her throat, Reilly held up a hand as though attempting to physically break the tension that had grown over their small group, furtively looking from one face to another. “What’s a Skin-Eater? I think Freda mentioned them before, but I don’t really know what they are.”

  “You haven’t come across one?” At Reilly’s doubting shake of the head, Harris raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. “You’re lucky, then. Trust me, I hope you never see one.” He nodded over to Freda. “You?”

  A tiny dark seed sprouted in her chest, whispering about the Badlands. She felt her heart skip a beat, painful against her ribs. She made her face blank as she turned to reach back for the stack of bowls Reilly had placed beside them earlier, so the others couldn’t see her expression. She passed them across as she shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve come across a few. First one when I was sixteen.” A hard lump forced its way into her throat.

  Harris didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, or ignored it, as he nodded solemnly. “Then you know what I’m talking about.” Waving a hand out towards Reilly, he narrowed one eye as he stared off into the distance. “They’re…well, they were once human. We know that’s probably true. They’re supposedly the people who got trapped outside the bunkers, during the Big Hit. The government had fun and useless advice for if you weren’t in a bunker, like ‘hide under a table’ or ‘lay down under a bridge’. It stopped a lot of them from being burned into dust when the bombs hit, but it didn’t stop them from getting radiation poisoning.”

  As Reilly dipped a large ladle into the bubbling pot of stew over the fire, spooning it out generously between the three bowls, Freda added, “Normally, that wouldn’t have done anything except kill them. But the Illness was still floating around—like it is now, but back then, it was even more highly concentrated. They all caught that as well, but somehow the radiation prevented it from going all the way. The radiation and the Illness sort of formed a barrier to each other. So their skin started to fall away, but it never came completely off, just healed in some haphazard fashion. It’s why they often have a single hole for a mouth and nose, because of how it fell apart and then healed weirdly. And they always look burnt, but I don’t know what caused that.”

  “And they have claws,” Harris picked up, reaching out for his steaming hot bowl of stew eagerly. “Wow, this smells good. Thanks, Reilly.” He took a quick swallow, blowing hard on the mouthful. “Anyway, as I was saying, they also have claws. Except they’re not, really. It’s just their finger bones, where the flesh came away, and they appear to have sharpened them somehow. They find it difficult to come out into strong light, though—they’re usually in abandoned bunkers or something, or come out at night. It’s the reason it’s good to keep a fire going on a night.” He pointed his spoon in the direction of their crackling campfire.

  Reilly gave a shudder against his words, passing a second bowl across to Freda. “Why can’t they come into strong light?”

  Freda took the proffered bowl gratefully, nodding her thanks. She took a moment to sniff the contents before replying, the sweet fragrance of the meat and vegetables making her mouth water. The herbs made the gravy Reilly had somehow managed to put together rich and silky. “Because of what happened after the Big Hit. Well…what we think happened, anyway. All the bunkers had instruments to read what was happening outside them, but a lot of them got broken. I think ours did.” She sank her spoon into the deliciously scented stew, taking a large mouthful. The taste danced over her tongue, the meat succulent as she bit into a piece. Chewing around it, she continued, “There was a cloud created from all the fallout, which blotted the sun out for a few years. Plus it got really cold. Freezing. Apparently it was this ‘nuclear winter’ which everyone thought was just a theory. Turned out to be true. I mean, it’s still here, but it was way worse back then. All the Skin-Eaters, they had to find a way to survive the darkness. So their eyes adjusted, and they lived in the cold, even though they were all suffering from the Illness.” She swallowed, tapping her spoon thoughtfully for a moment against the side of her bowl. “No one wants to kill them, Reilly. But you have to, if they attack you.”

  Silence fell over the group, and they settled into eating. The only sound was of spoons clanking against chipped bowls, and the occasional loud swallow from Harris. The night around them seemed to grow darker, and the pops and crackles from the fire only highlighted just how alone and exposed the three of them were.

  The sound of laboured snoring carried out through the doorway of the petrol station, the door long since torn from its hinges and taken elsewhere. Freda turned her head towards the sound, worry plucking at her heart as she listened. Reilly had excused herself not long after they finished eating, finally giving into the weariness that seemed to surround her, but even in sleep her illness could be heard through her breathing. I hope there is something to help her at Brit Bunker’s headquarters. Even if it’s a stupid thing to hope. I want to help her.

  “Do you know how far gone she is?”

  The question was quiet, but Harris’ tone was laden with meaning. Heaving a sigh, Freda tore her gaze away from the open doorway, twisting back to face the fire. She adjusted her position so that some feeling could come back into her behind, but she was reluctant to leave the delicious warmth of the fire just yet. She raised her blue eyes to his, biting her lip for a moment. “Yeah. Stage three.”

  “Bloody hell. Poor girl.” Harris let out a heavy breath through his nose, sliding his legs lazily out in front and crossing them, reaching across to dig into his rucksack. “You want a drink?”

  Freda furrowed her brow in suspicion. “Of what?”

  “Beer.”

  “Are you kidding? Where the hell did you find that?”

  Harris grinned widely, revealing even teeth. She noticed that his face seemed to lose some of his years when he truly smiled. But it was gone in an instant as he held out a brown bottle towards her, waving it temptingly. “Let’s just say I’m sneaky when it comes to marking everything down in the Vigilants’ inventory. I may have kept a few of these back for myself.”

  Taking the bottle in one hand, running her thumb over the dusty scratched label on the front, Freda felt a moment of panic at his words. The last thing they needed was a group of vigilantes on their tail because Harris had taken a few items. “So…the Allied Vigilants are okay with you doing that? I know you’re the leader, but still.”

  There was a pop and hiss as Harris pulled the cap of the bottle off using one edge of the tin-opener, before he passed it over to Freda. He knocked the bottle back and took a loud swig, shrugging and gazing over towards the fields opposite the garage. The petrol station was situated on the edge of what had once been a main road, now crumbled and pitted in places, wiry weeds growing through every crack and possible spot. On the other side lay the long, winding fields that had once been farms, stretching out towards the distant shadows of the hills, looking like giants asleep in the distance. “They’re okay with it because I started them. I created the Allied Vigilants.”

  It wasn’t the first boast she had heard, but there was something about the confidence of his voice that told Freda’s gut he was telling the truth. Something laced with a bitterness she recognised. “You created them? Why?”

  Harris took another swallow of warm beer, smacking his lips together before licking a lingering drop from his lips. “Because of my father. The bunker we were in…it was an army-issued Brit Bunker. Soldiers and their families. I was three or four when I went in with my parents. My father was a captain in the army before the Big Hit, and when our bunker opened, he continued his job, just like all the other soldiers. Our bunker was programmed to open just ten years after it closed, and they were supposed to help rebuild everything before civilian bunkers opened.”

  He paused, his chest rising and falling more steeply as he seemed to remember something, his eyes clouding over. Freda watc
hed him carefully, taking a swallow from her own beer as she waited for him to speak again. It was warm, but the malty taste lit up her senses as the jacket potatoes and stew had. “Let me guess. It wasn’t that easy?” she prodded.

  “No. They came out, tried to rebuild settlements, but Skin-Eaters were everywhere. And a few of the civilian bunkers had opened early, or civilians had opened their own personal bunkers. So, having no one around to help form a society for them, most of them became bandits. However bad it is now, it was far, far worse back then.” Harris shifted up onto his feet for a moment, reaching out with one hand towards the pile of branches Freda had collected earlier, snatching up a few and slinging them onto the flames. There was nothing they could do to keep it going once they went to bed, but they could pile it as high as possible until then. He looked over his shoulder towards her for a second, as though unsure of something, before marching around and sitting next to her instead of where he had been.

  Uncertain of what to make of his sudden closeness, Freda resisted the urge to shuffle away and put some inches between them. She had been near to Reilly a few times, but she barely knew Harris. Holding herself still, she stiffly took another drink, trying to ignore how their arms brushed as she did so. Clearing her throat, she asked, “So what happened?”

  Harris gave a wry half-smile, but it was as cold as his eyes. Tilting his head back against the metal pillar behind their heads, he tapped his fingers against the brown glass of his bottle. “The bandits happened. The Skin-Eaters happened. The soldiers had the weapons and training, but they just didn’t have the numbers. They managed to finally beat them back, but there weren’t many of them left. My mother and father took off and left to start on their own, on a farm. They used to trade with some of the others who were nearby, but we were fairly isolated.”

  “Were you okay out there?”

  Harris shot her a warning look that told her not to dig any deeper. Not yet. “That’s a story for another day,” he replied carefully, nodding to emphasise his words. “But anyway, when I was old enough, I wanted to be part of something, like my father had. There was no army anymore up here, so I started my own. The Allied Vigilants. Always vigilant to those who needed aid or protection. At first there were only five or us, then ten, then twenty…now there’s about three-hundred of us. And growing by the day.” He gave Freda a careful look, his eyes tracing her face. “So how about you? What’s your story?”

  Freda shrugged. “I told you. I’m looking for my brother.”

  “There’s more to it than that. I can tell.”

  His penetrating gaze did nothing to make her feel more comfortable as he said those words. Anger flared briefly inside her, but she bit it back, instead choosing to look away into the flames. The orange and red was dazzling for a moment, but it was soothing as she squeezed the neck of the beer bottle harder, almost willing it to crack and take her mood away. How could one person make her feel so…exposed? “Not really,” she replied flatly. “My brother went missing, like I said. We…we were supposed to meet up outside the bunker.” She closed her eyes with a sigh, regretting the bubble of emotions that talking about Gareth brought up. Harris stayed silent beside her. “There was…we had an argument before we left. I wanted to leave the bunker. We’d had it open for years, but no one was allowed to actually leave. I knew there was more to life than sitting in a metal box waiting to die, so I wanted to go and see the world. He said he would only let me go if he came with me. But in the morning, when I set off to find him, there was a problem. I had to go back to the bunker.”

  “What problem?”

  Freda shook her head, waggling a finger. “Uh-uh. That’s a story for another day,” she answered smartly, throwing Harris’ words back at him. “Anyway, by the time I got to where we were going to meet, he had already gone. But he left me a note, so I know he set off first and wants me to find him.”

  “Where’s your bunker?”

  “East of the Badlands.” She rued the words as soon as she said them.

  The reaction she got from Harris was exactly what she expected. He sat forwards for a moment, resting his hands against his legs, still holding his drink in one of them. “Um…I hate to say this, but…are you sure he made it through the Badlands?”

  “Yes.” Freda even surprised herself with the viciousness of her tone. Harris’ eyes widened and he leaned back, holding his palms out in an apologetic manner. Biting back the fiery rage bubbling through her veins at his insinuation, Freda added, “I came through the Badlands. And I looked everywhere there. Everywhere,” she finished vehemently as she watched Harris opening his mouth. He snapped it shut again. “He wasn’t there, trust me.” Her stomach squeezed at the reminder of the place.

  “Okay,” Harris replied gently, placing his hand on her arm. She almost jumped from the electric warmth his touch sent through her, but she stilled as he rubbed his thumb against the thick fabric of her coat in a comforting manner. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say he might be—”

  “I know.” Freda didn’t want him to say the word. Gareth wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

  Harris squeezed her arm once more before releasing his hold, leaning back as he pulled his arm away, as though he sensed her uncomfortableness at him being so close. His scent wafted over her as he moved, spicy and welcoming. It bothered her that she liked it so much. “You know, I’m really not going to fuck you over, Freda. I’m not one of the bad guys, I promise.”

  She turned her head, giving her companion a small smile. “I know. I’m…I’m sorry, Harris. I don’t mean to be such a bitch. I just find it hard to make friends.” She gave a short laugh. The beer was already making its way into her system, making her head feel tingly as warmth spread through her body. “I seem to remember saying something similar to Reilly, just a few minutes before the bandits got us.” The laugh died away in the still night air, and she shrugged. “I know you’re one of the good guys, Harris. Just bear with me. Please. I promise I’m not such a hard-arse on the inside.” She wasn’t sure why she said it, but it seemed right to tell him.

  Harris gave her a wink. “Well, I’m soft and squishy on the inside too, so if you don’t tell, I won’t.”

  Freda laughed merrily for what felt like the first time in years. For the first time since Gareth had gone missing.

  Chapter Nine

  September 13th, 2063 – the Present

  The squeak of the bicycles rang out into the damp morning air as the three of them rode along the main road to York. It had rained sometime during the night while they had slept, and every tree dripped as they passed, the road soaked to a dark grey. The combination of the damp conditions and the weak sunlight had produced a fine mist, so ethereal it seemed to cling to Freda’s clothes as she followed behind Harris and Reilly—who was laughing every few minutes as she almost wobbled off into the ditches at the sides of the road. Harris had taken a good few hours to teach her how to ride, but it wasn’t enough to learn everything. She seemed to have the hang of it, but they kept having to stop every twenty minutes or so when she veered off completely and tumbled off to the side.

  Freda looked up at the pale sky, a strange hue of grey-yellow that was illuminated and yet drab at the same time. She willed the weak sun to warm her face, feeling calm for the first time in days. Her leg still throbbed from the wound healing there, but it was numbed enough for her not to notice too often. There was something relaxing about cycling along, even if her thoughts were broken every few seconds by the screech of the pedals. The three of them had cleaned the bikes up as best they could with what few items were left in the petrol station, clearing most of the rust, but it didn’t take away the years of misuse. She had been lucky enough to ride on a bicycle in the bunker. The large sports hall that had been built inside to keep the inhabitants healthy was the perfect place for a child to cycle around in circles. As soon as she had outgrown the bicycle it had gone to another kid, however. She just returned from school one day to find it gone. Her parents had given it away without sa
ying a word that morning. For crying out loud. Why do all of my memories come back to them? To something they did? Freda gritted her teeth, promising herself that she would only remember the good things, if she could.

  Harris halted before them, holding his hand up sharply as he kept his gaze trained in front. Reilly nearly squealed as she managed to bring her bike to a shuddering stop, pressing on the brake as hard as her hand would squeeze. Freda moved in beside her silkily, frowning over at the road ahead, trying to see what Harris had spotted. The fog had thickened, and she couldn’t see more than a few metres ahead. “What is it?” she hissed.

  “Don’t know,” came the reply. “But I heard something. And I can’t hear voices. We’ll have to get closer, but not on the bikes. Come over here, but keep your heads down.” As he spoke, Harris silently eased himself off the saddle, lowering the bicycle until it lay flat on the ground, its front wheel spinning for a second as he knocked it with his leg. Crouching down and slipping his shotgun off his shoulder and into his hands, Harris took slow steps towards the wreck of a nearby car. Freda and Reilly followed suit, being careful not to make any noise as they slid in beside him. It had turned out back at the Vigilants headquarters that Reilly had actually done some target practice in her bunker, and she now wrapped her hands nervously around a gleaming shotgun.

  Freda shifted her rifle off her shoulder somewhat awkwardly, glancing down at her mechanical hand. You better bloody work. Forcing herself to clear her mind, she lifted the arm and placed it beneath the barrel, imagining the fingers wrapping around it. To her relief, the limb reacted almost instantly, quicker than the first time she had tried it, holding the weapon ready as she poked it through the smashed window of the car, scanning the area. She squinted against the fog. “I can’t see anything.”