“Yeah, I’m curious about that as well. Do you think it’s got something to do with how they were outside during the day?” Harris asked in a cautious voice.
Freda didn’t turn and look, but she could sense the question was directed at her. “Maybe.” Her voice was a little too tight as she answered, and she fisted her hand, forcing herself to sound calmer. “I mean, it makes sense. Maybe it’s an evolution of some kind.”
She didn’t mention anything about the Badlands as the three of them set about using what they could to dig a shallow grave. Let’s just get to York, and find Gareth, and Brit Bunker. We never have to think about that other place ever again.
Chapter Ten
September 14th, 2063 – the Present
Mouth agape, Reilly twisted her head back and stared at the high wall that rose domineeringly above their heads. Its gleaming surface was polished until it reflected the sun as harshly as a mirror might have, its tungsten-coated steel a testament to the intact nature of York. She nearly wobbled off the bike, holding it steady quickly as she grabbed the handlebars tighter, lowering her head slowly as if dizzy. “Wow. That’s quite a wall.”
“Yup.” Harris gave a stiff nod, but there was something disapproving in his hard stare. “They built it two years before the Big Hit, ‘just in case’. Turned out it was a good idea, especially as it came with built-in defences for the blast.” He waved his finger upwards in an arc towards the clear blue sky that had erupted from above the fog in the afternoon. A few fluffy clouds drifted over it, but the sun shone through, surprisingly warm for the time of year. “It creates a plasma shield powered by large magnets, which allowed most of the blast to be deflected, and lasers built into the sides helped to blow up some of the smaller bombs. You couldn’t see past the shield, of course, but as everyone was probably hiding in bunkers or their basements, it didn’t really matter. They didn’t bother to share the technology with any other cities, though,” he finished bitterly. “But it did save York.”
Swinging her leg from over the saddle of her rusted bicycle, Freda gave him a searching look, her fingers tapping against the peeling leather of her handlebars. “You seem to know an awful lot about this.”
Harris shrugged easily, cracking his shoulders as he winced, placing a hand gingerly against his side. “I told you, I was in an army bunker for ten years. I learned a lot. Especially as they deployed the same technology for our bunker and the surrounding area. It’s how we were able to farm it.”
Biting back a retort pointing out the army could have shared the tech for the wall, even if York didn’t, Freda eyed Harris for a moment before letting her gaze travel over the lively city. It really did bustle, compared to other places she had visited. Filled with people from every walk of life, voices rang out in the chill air, some belonging to merchants, others to entertainers. It was awash with a sea of colours, people impatiently pushing around the three of them and their bikes with an energy that made Freda feel as though she too should be rushing about somewhere.
The gate they had entered through led straight into the market—the ‘Shambles market’ as it was known. Stalls and trestle tables laden with goods vied for attention from the passing citizens, some pausing to touch an item now and then, some haggling furiously with stall holders. To their right, in the north of the city, rose the imposing towers of York Minster. It had taken a beating over the decades, despite withstanding a nuclear blast, mostly due to few people surviving who were skilled enough to fix the masonry. But it stood tall and proud watching over its city, its creamy yellow stone lit up in the brilliant sun. An ominous tone rang out as its bell tolled for the afternoon, a long and imposing sound that made everything around it seem smaller and less important. Reilly turned her head towards the sound, curiosity lighting in her eyes. “What’s that for?”
Groaning and rolling her eyes, but not at Reilly, Freda replied, “Watch. You’ll see. It’s for the Purists—I’ve met a few before, but they use the Minster as their church.”
The three of them stood to one side and watched silently as a long trail of white-robed people filed along the far street, winding towards them from the Minster. They all had shaved heads and bare feet, their eyes lowered to the ground as they walked along slowly. They could be heard chanting as they came closer, their solemn tone ringing out as the bell continued to clang in the background for their afternoon prayers. As they drew near, Reilly frowned, squinting as she bent down to see something on them better. She had unzipped her coat as the day had heated up, and the thin green summer dress she wore underneath dipped forwards, revealing the sharpness of her collarbone as it poked out. “That is one confusing symbol,” she murmured, referring to the golden medallion hanging around each of their necks. “What the heck is that?”
“A combination of several of the world’s largest religions at the time the Big Hit came,” Harris replied, taking in a deep breath. He pulled back towards the wall instinctively as the acolytes came closer to their path, as though he didn’t even want to be in reaching distance of them, a cruel frown on his brow. “Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Sikhism—even Buddhism and some Paganism got in there, I think. So their symbol is a mash-up of all the symbols from each of the religions.” He scoffed. “Not that it makes their own beliefs any saner.”
Freda eyed the acolytes wearily. She noticed that many of the citizens bustling around the Shambles did the same, peering over their shoulders and giving the approaching white-robed devotees a wide berth. Some of the traders folded down curtains to cover their tables for the day, before vanishing into one of the many cobbled streets leading from the market. Seems they’re not wanted even in the place they deem home. It didn’t surprise her in the least. Picking up from Harris, she continued, “You see, they don’t really go in for being kind or helpful, or anything like that. They believe that the Big Hit and the Illness were allowed by some major deity that came to hate us because we were too greedy and arrogant. So this deity of theirs allowed everyone to blow the world to shit, and kill millions. They think the only way to make things right is to suffer through this life, until they die of hardship and can beg their deity for forgiveness.” She screwed up her face, spitting on the grey asphalt of the pavement next to her foot. The Purists were why she had no belief left at all. “Arseholes. As if people don’t suffer enough without them chastising everyone for trying to get on with life.”
“But surely they can believe what they like, if it makes them happier?”
Freda gave a snort, peering at Reilly with a raised eyebrow and a thin smile. “Sure, if that’s all they did. But they don’t stop at that. They want to convert everyone, and they’ll batter you over the head with their beliefs if you don’t agree.” She ground her teeth, her eyes narrowing. She still remembered the ones who had visited her bunker. “Sometimes literally.”
The group fell silent as they waited for the devotees to pass, observing them with a nervous readiness as the chanting grew louder. Freda picked up snatches of it, something about how everyone should be punished, how they were sorry that not everyone was ready to hear deity, how they were the only worthy ones. She couldn’t help rolling her eyes again. It was just too rich. She was certain that if it turned out she was wrong, and there really was a deity, it would probably be paying about as much attention to the Purists—or anyone else for that matter—as she might pay to a fly, or an ant. She pressed back against the wall as they passed, letting her fingers go flat against the cool surface of the wall at her back. She hid her mechanical arm, knowing they would only say something about how it was against the laws of nature, or some such nonsense. Time slowed as the white robes passed by, so closely she could smell the herbs they washed themselves with. The sun beat down on her face as she waited for them to pass, making her squint her eyes against the brightness as it warmed her cheeks.
One of the acolytes happened to glance up as they passed, catching sight of Reilly’s face. They let out a horrified gasp as their brown eyes widened like saucers, pausing th
ose marching behind them in their tracks, pointing a bony finger at her face. “One of the Sick. In our city!”
Reilly instinctively pulled back, lowering her face, but it was too late. The Purists gathered around her, and both Harris and Freda marched in front of them before they could grab the young blonde woman, their eyes burning with dislike. Harris jutted his chin at them, folding his arms over his chest, making sure to let his weapon slide just a little down his arm so they could see. A few of them noticed, and backed away nervously, while others held their ground and stared back impassively. “Piss off,” he snarled, his tone grating. “She doesn’t need, or want, your philosophies. Why don’t you go and beat yourselves with a stick for a while? Or whatever it is you do these days.”
One of them stepped forwards, a tiny old woman with a face so wrinkled that her skin hung in folds from her cheeks. She stared daggers at Harris, shaking her head solemnly. “Young man, I ask that you do not mock the Ritual of the Four Branches. It may not be to your taste, but it is our way of life, and I would ask that you respect it as such. Besides,” she added in a sour voice, nodding over to Reilly hiding behind the pair, “you travel with one of the Sick. You have no right to speak to us while you travel with such an abomination.”
Reilly pushed her way between Freda and Harris hastily, spitting, “I am not an abomination, you old freak.” Her voice was lit with fire, and Freda couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride for her friend. However fragile Reilly appeared, she still wasn’t one to be told she was worthless. She set a burning blue gaze on the woman who had spoken.
“You are an abomination of the old world,” the woman repeated, her thin white robe fluttering as she nodded, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You are created of the Illness, which the Deity in their great wisdom sent to cleanse us all of our sins.” She raised her arms to the sky in a gesture of worship, and the devotees stood around her all repeated her last words as one in a monotone voice.
“Hey, lady,” Freda began, narrowing her eyes for emphasis as she said ‘lady’. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the Illness was spread by people, not some floating god in the sky. They created a virus that got out of hand to control the population, and decades later, it’s still stuck around. Or had you forgotten that?”
The old woman fixed her with a piercing stare, as if she hadn’t noticed Freda standing there. The hiss in her voice could almost be heard as she replied, “The Deity works in many ways, and one of those ways is through men and women. In Their great wisdom, Deity made sure that those who were unworthy would be cast from the Earth, and that those who remained would praise Their name.” Her voice ended on a wavering pitch so dramatic Freda had to bite back a laugh.
Instead, she merely grinned coldly. The sunlight dipped behind a cloud for a moment, casting the Shambles into shadow as she spoke. Her grip tightened on the bike handlebars she still held onto, the vehicle itself parked between them and the Purists like a barrier. “Ah, yes. I forgot. Anything you can’t explain; ‘Deity did it’. Very convenient.”
As one of the other devotees, a young man with sandy-coloured stubble growing from his head and rat-like eyes, approached and opened his mouth, Harris gave a growl and stepped forwards. “Oh, no. We’re not standing here all day and letting you abuse our friend. Get the fuck out of the way.” Freda came to stand beside Reilly as Harris motioned for them to move forwards, but none of the Purists shifted, all staring at him blankly. He slid the shotgun down from his shoulder into his hands, waving it threateningly towards them, gritting his teeth as he ground out, “I. Said. Move.”
“You date to threaten the Purists? Deity’s chosen?”
“You think this is a threat?” Harris gave a dry laugh. “This isn’t a threat. I’m showing you exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t get out of our way. I couldn’t give a toss about your ‘Deity’.”
The devotees parted on a perturbed murmur, hissing as Reilly strode by them. Freda placed an arm around the blonde woman’s shoulders, roughly nudging acolytes out of the way with the edges of her bike as they passed. The three of them kept marching into the middle of the marketplace, never glancing over their shoulders as they sauntered along. It wasn’t hard to see Reilly was upset, though. Freda swallowed as she took in her companion’s wan face, hugging her closer. It was the most she had ever hugged anyone who wasn’t Gareth. She looked over curiously at Harris. He strode in front, wheeling his bicycle with his chin held high, his shirt rippling against the tears that revealed his torso beneath. She smiled to herself. He’s really not a bad guy. In fact, he’s a lot like me, in some respects.
The three of them kept walking, ignoring the jibes and shouts from the Purists that faded into the background. They passed under the ancient stone arches and cobbled streets of the ancient place, coldness sticking to their skin as they dipped in and out of shadows cast by the gently leaning medieval buildings that had somehow survived. They finally came out into the centre of the city, which was actually a long street lined either side with what had been shops and places of business. Some were boarded up, while others were being used as their original purpose dictated, with broken mannequins holding up clothing in one dirty window, books lining shelves in another. Freda’s heart beat faster as she spotted them, making a mental note to look within later. It was years since she had read anything new, after reading and re-reading all two-hundred-and-fifty-six books within her bunker. There had been a lot of re-reading. Books were not exactly common, most of them having disintegrated during the Big Hit.
The buildings were a mixture of old and older, some painted with peeling cream paint, others left bare to expose their cheerful red bricks. The windows were mostly whole, if somewhat dirty, and Freda caught sight of her reflection as they passed one full-length plate-glass window. She halted, staring in dismay at the woman who glared back at her. Her bark-coloured hair just brushed her shoulders, tangled and split at the ends, some of it tucked behind her ears in tattered strands. Her blue eyes peeped out from a face covered with dirt and grime, her pale skin obscured by it, and her large coat looked too big for her frame. She lifted a hand to run it shakily through her hair, her gaze dipping to the mechanical limb by her other side. A pang of loss went through her as she stared at it, the steel fingers somehow frightening and otherworldly, like an alien creature she couldn’t shake off. As though aware of her thoughts, two of the fingers twitched. She gave a shudder.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
Freda wheeled around sharply at Harris’ voice. She must have wiped her mournful expression off just a second too late, because she briefly saw a flicker of sympathy in his clear green eyes that made her insides squirm uncomfortably. She hated others pitying her. It was a natural instinct. She shrugged, scowling as she replied, “Nothing. I’m fine.” Her voice was tense, and she chided herself for it.
Harris put a hand out to stop her, laying it gently on her shoulder. She lowered her gaze, choosing instead to stare forward at his chest, tracing the lines of the plaid fabric. It shifted to one side as he moved, and she blushed as she caught a flash of bare skin on his chest. His warm scent filled her immediate vicinity, and she could do nothing but breathe it in. He lowered his voice as he murmured, “Freda, tell me what’s wrong. I can’t have both of you upset, hm?”
She smiled a little at the light teasing in his voice, and she swallowed self-consciously. “It’s…nothing,” she repeated, throwing her arms out wide to emphasise her point. “I just feel a bit…” Freda looked back at her reflection. “Well, not like myself.” It was the best way she could put it without embarrassing herself. She wasn’t about to admit to Harris that she wished she looked tidier, prettier. More attractive. She felt like the wastes; worn out and depleted.
To her relief, Harris simply nodded, jerking his head over towards Reilly patiently waiting for them. “We’ll find a place to stay for the night, and all of us can get cleaned up. I certainly don’t want the stench of Skin-Eater sticking to me,” he quipped, winking at her.
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br /> The wink and his ability to put her at ease sent a shiver of something delicious through Freda. She found herself warming to Harris every time he spoke. He released her shoulder, turning back and falling into step behind Reilly, who sent Freda a wavering thumbs-up. Freda smiled back at her, nodding slowly. Even Reilly is still checking I’m okay. And she’s got worse problems than me. The thought was sobering, and helped Freda to pull herself together as she fell in behind the others, marching down the high street to the far end where guesthouses announced their rooms with large painted signs hanging outside the doorways.
Pausing at a three-storey building painted green, Reilly nodded her head towards it with a hopeful look. “This one looks nice.”
“Yeah, if ‘nice’ can be used to describe anything out here,” Freda wisecracked dryly, but Reilly gave her a cutting stare in return. Relenting, she waved her gloved hand towards it. “No, you’re right. It looks fine.”
Shaking his head at both of the women and chuckling, Harris pushed past them, his hand already in his pocket and rattling the bullets he kept in there. Freda almost sighed in relief, knowing he had enough to spare for all of them after using the inventory at the Vigilants’ headquarters. She didn’t fancy repeating the experience of Ripon. They stepped into the darkened doorway of the guesthouse, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the thin light coming from a bare bulb on the ceiling. The entrance hall of the building was small and simple, with tattered wood panelling on all walls and a burgundy carpet covering the floor. The carpet continued up some narrow stairs that led up into the darkened recesses of the building. A single desk was fitted into the corner of the hall, a bunch of tarnished keys hanging behind on the wall, swinging gently from several hooks plugged into the panelling. Harris marched over confidently, ringing the small brass bell on the counter and peering expectantly around the corner to a private doorway.
We Are The Few Page 13
