We Are The Few

by Miranda Stork

  It took only a second for a face to pop around the doorway, sharply looking out as though expecting someone distasteful. The young man stepped out, donning a brilliant smile and rubbing his hands together as he perched himself behind the desk. His ruddy cheeks, peppered with freckles, puffed up as he took his time in gazing at each of the three faces staring back in turn. “Welcome to the Green House. Do you want a room for the night?”

  Freda twisted uncomfortably. “Uh…we were hoping you might have separate rooms for all of us.” She didn’t relish the idea of taking a shower in the same room as Harris, if the place even had working showers. Most places in York did, as most of them still had working electricity, powered by huge generators and a solar farm to the west. Harris gave her a strange look, peering over his shoulder at her with a cocked eyebrow, but said nothing.

  The man behind the desk dropped his smile, leaning on the desk in an apologetic manner. “I’m sorry, we’ve only got the one room—we’re only a small guest house, I’m afraid. Perhaps you could—”

  Reilly erupted into a coughing fit just as he was speaking, and a concerned expression crossed his face as he hesitated, shifting back and forth behind his desk as though uncertain of what to do. “Is she okay?”

  “I…will be,” Reilly wheezed between coughs, holding her hand up for the others to stay back. She hurriedly dragged a wad of fabric out of her coat pocket, slapping it to her mouth as she coughed into it.

  A stab of ice went through Freda as she silently glanced down at the cloth as it was pushed back into the winter coat, noting the spatters of blood. When did she start coughing up blood? Why didn’t she say anything?

  The young man shook his head gravely, and for a moment, Freda thought she was going to have to bang someone else’s head for being a bigot. Her faith in people was momentarily restored as he tutted and lifted a section of the desk, ushering them through to his own private rooms. “No, no, you can’t sleep in the room upstairs. You’re too sick.” He pursed his lips tightly, scanning her face with his pale brown eyes. “You can stay in my apartment, if you like. I’ve got a sofa-bed in the sitting room, right in front of the heater. You can keep warm there. If you two don’t mind sharing the upstairs room, of course.” He glanced back at Harris and Freda, darting a look between them as he hovered his arm around Reilly’s shoulders, showing her through.

  Before Freda could open her mouth and protest, Harris jumped in and gave her a warning look, replying, “Of course. That will be fine.” Leaning back, he hissed to Freda as the young man turned around, “For god’s sake, Freda. She’s ill. She needs the warmth.”

  “I know,” she snapped back. “What are you, her mother? I’ve been travelling with Reilly for longer than you have. You think I’m not taking care of her?” Her flare of temper was a mixture of his insinuation that she hadn’t looked after her as well as she could of, and the sickening realisation that he was probably right. Her face flushed red as she thought of what Gareth’s reaction would be.

  “No, I didn’t say that.” Harris gave her a strange look, passing his eyes over her figure for a moment, settling on her hands. They were tense by her sides, curled into fists. “Come on,” he added impassively, still looking at her hands, “let’s go in.”

  Trying to cool the fire burning through her veins, Freda followed him through the desk and into the rooms behind. They were decorated in a cheerful yellow wallpaper with daises dotting it in places, the floor just simple wooden boards. They were almost black, covered with years of grime. A single three-bar heater was on in the corner, offering comfort through the artificial orange glow it gave off, a large sofa and armchair pulled towards it. The young man bustled forwards, gathering up clothing and articles strewn across them, shrugging apologetically. “Sorry. My brother stays here sometimes, and he can be kind of messy. I haven’t tidied up yet. Please, sit. Sit down.” As he busied himself with throwing the various items into a large wooden box sitting on a pine sideboard, he bent down and reached for something inside the cupboard below, rummaging around until a clink of glass was heard. “Ah, here. Whiskey. My mum always said a little was good for warming you through.” He grinned jubilantly at his visitors, pulling out a dusty half-bottle in triumph. “I’m Toby, by the way.”

  Plumping herself down heavily on the sofa, taking in a deep breath as her chest rose and fell in a laboured gasp, Reilly watched Toby’s movements as he snatched up some chipped glasses. “I’m Reilly. It’s a nice place you have.”

  “Well, I do my best.” Toby’s face shone with pride as he nodded soberly. “When my mum died, she left this place to me and my brother, Eddie. He does most of the hunting for our food, and for businesses in town, so he’s hardly ever here. I run the place.” He came back over, blocking the warmth of the heater for a moment as he handed a small glass of amber liquid out to each of them, keeping one for himself. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Freda echoed, raising her glass in the short toast before taking a sip. It burned her throat, but warmth spread along her insides as it sank to her belly. Clasping it tightly in her good hand, she eased herself down next to Reilly, loosening the tie around her waist and shrugging her coat off. It really was warmer than she could stand it. Maybe having a cooler room would be better, even if it was with Harris. “I’m Freda. Thanks for the whiskey. And the room.”

  Harris raised his glass towards Toby as well, knocking back half the contents. “Cheers. I’m Harris. I’m with the Allied Vigilants, but I’m helping these two make their way where they need to go.”

  “Oh, the Allied Vigilants?” Toby could barely keep the excitement out of his voice, and his mildly rotund belly wobbled beneath his beige sweater as he turned shining eyes to Harris. “I’ve heard of you. You go about helping people out, don’t you? ‘Guardian angels of the wastes’, I’ve heard you called.”

  Harris gave a controlled grin, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking like the cat who got the cream. Tossing his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, he lifted his leg up to scratch at his ankle beneath the leg of his jeans. “I don’t know about that, but yes, we help where we can.” The grin fell. “You could do with a few more of us around here, to keep those Purists in place.”

  Reilly’s head sank to her chest at his icy words, and Toby gazed over at her, his sandy-coloured eyebrows knitting together. He rubbed his chubby fingers against the edge of his glass as he nodded over to her. “I hate those arseholes. Everyone does. Did they say something to you?”

  She nodded dumbly in response. “Yeah, they might have mentioned I was one of the Sick.”

  “Idiots,” Toby declared with a black expression. “My little sister got measles once, and they were awful to her—thought she was one of the Sick. Tried chasing her down when she went out to one of the shops and beat her with a stick. Eddie went around to their church and found out who’d done it, then smacked them about a bit.” He took a large mouthful of whiskey, staring off into the distance with a coldness about his eyes that seemed out of place with his jolly demeanour. “And it wasn’t with a stick, either.” The tension broke as he gave a brilliant if somewhat forced smile again, glancing down at Reilly. “Don’t worry. They never come into this part of town. None of them can say a word to you here.”

  The four of them grew dully silent at his words, everyone leaning forward and taking a sip of the warming alcohol in the chipped glasses. Toby looked between their tired, haggard faces with a nervous energy, lifting a finger and biting at an already chewed-to-the-nub nail. “Um…you know, you could have dinner with me, tonight. If you want, that is. The other guests are usually out pretty late, so they never want much looking after when they come in, and I’d like the company, and I could help you perhaps with whatever you’re looking for…” he trailed off, leaving his rambling offer hanging in the air. A brass clock on the wall above the heater ticked loudly in the few seconds that passed, seeming loud enough to rival the bells outside.

  Freda polished off the rest of her glass, setting it down on a
nearby mahogany table by the side of the sofa with a satisfied sigh. The table looked out of place amongst the cheaper furniture of the room, but the soft polish to it and the fact it was barely scratched showed that it was a loved object. Her temper had bubbled down into nothing, and she was determined to prove that she could be as friendly and open as Harris didn’t think she was. Why she wanted to prove it to him, however, she wasn’t sure. Probably just because I don’t like people telling me what I can and can’t do, she told herself grimly. Setting a somewhat forced smile on her face that managed to be both vague and cheerful, she nodded over to Toby. “We’d love to,” she answered for all of them. “Wouldn’t we?” She glanced between Reilly, nodding eagerly, and Harris’ eyebrows raised silently in a question. Freda tilted her head at him expectantly with a curve at the corner of her lips, daring him to point out the change.

  Instead, he gave a shocked stammer, quickly collecting himself. “Er…I…that is, we would be happy to join you for dinner, mate. More than happy.” Harris couldn’t resist giving Freda another curious gaze, but this time his eyes sparkled with a hidden smile.

  She still couldn’t decide if they were friends or enemies. But she had thought the same of Reilly, she reminded herself.

  The dinner was far better than the three of them had hoped it would be. It turned out Toby was a fairly accomplished chef, considering the limited range of edibles he had to work with. The centrepiece was an actual pie, the pastry of it made from the wheat that grew outside the city in golden rows, and filled with meat and gravy. There was a very small bowl of mashed potato, and some thin yellow-orange vegetables that looked something like carrots, except the ends were far too bulbous, more like a turnip. Toby spotted Freda staring at them, and gave a chuckle. “Weird, aren’t they? They’re a cross between a carrot and a parsnip. We found them growing wild, believe it or not, so the farmers cultivated it. It’s a standard vegetable here now. Call them carsnips. Like carrot-parsnips, you know? They’re good, try some.” Without waiting for her to respond, he leaned across with a pair of mildly tarnished steel tongs, plucking a few off the serving dish and putting them in the centre of her plate.

  Freda stabbed one eagerly with her fork, biting off half and chewing the soft flesh expectantly. It was sweet, with an earthiness to it. She gave a nod, gesturing towards the others. “He’s right. They are good. You guys try them.”

  Toby’s face shone with pride as the three travellers tucked hungrily into his meal as he sat down opposite them, the four of them perched around the small round table that stood in his kitchen. The chairs they sat on were mismatched, only one of them looking as though it belonged with the cheap pine table. But the plates and cutlery, while needing a polish, were as lovingly looked after as the small table in the sitting room. Freda supposed they might have belonged to Toby’s mother. He seems the sort to keep his family close.

  Placing his knife and fork down after a few bites, tenting his fingers and placing them under his chin, Toby looked around at them all. His gaze rested on Reilly for just a second longer, her face lit up with the late afternoon sunset showing through the large kitchen window, a dirty net covering its lower half and revealing only part of the stone garden wall outside. “So…what are you all here for? You don’t seem like the usual traders we get coming through.”

  His tone had a lilt of a dangerous edge to it, and Harris’ fork stopped halfway to his mouth, the mashed potato falling neatly off the back of it to return to his plate. He lowered the fork, his eyes glinting with ice. “What are you implying?”

  “What? Nothing, nothing,” Toby protested, holding his palms up in a subservient manner. He shook his head so forcefully that his sandy curls bounced in a comical wave over his forehead. “I’m just saying you seem like you’re looking for something, or someone. I’m offering to help.”

  There was a clack against the back door that made everyone jump and turn their heads as one. A large orange tabby strolled through the small cat-flap at the bottom of the PVC door, pausing to wink up at the humans watching it. It bent its head abruptly, licked its front paw, and sauntered off towards the sitting room with its tail in the air. The tension was somehow diffused as the cat wandered through, and Reilly’s eyes seemed to trail after it as it rubbed against the orange-pine cupboards that lined two walls of the room. “Aww, is that your cat?”

  “Well, it is now.” A glimmer of something mournful made Toby’s face turn grey. “It was my mother’s. She only died a few years ago. Now Whiskers is mine and Eddie’s. And Emily’s, too. That’s my sister.”

  “She’s got a sweet name.” Reilly chewed her chunk of pie quickly, swallowing it back as she reached out for the frayed napkin by her plate, dabbing at her mouth as though they were dining at a fine restaurant. Freda almost grinned at the amusing image, but she held it back and shoved more carsnip into her mouth instead. Licking her lips, the blonde woman’s expression turned sober, and she leaned on the table with her elbows, pushing her half-eaten plate back and folding her arms in front of her. “We could do with some help. We’re—well, I’m—looking for Brit Bunker’s headquarters.”

  A cloud passed over the dying sun outside, casting the kitchen into subdued hues that matched Toby’s expression as he pushed back his chair, squealing it away from the edge of the table. He tapped his nail-bitten fingers against the top for a moment, before shaking his head and standing up, striding over to look out of the kitchen window. The holes in his beige sweater stretched as he reached up to stroke his chin. “That’s not somewhere you should go,” he answered at first. “Whatever you think is there, it’s not. There’s nothing there. Folks stay away from that place.”

  A napkin came flying down to cover the last few bites of Harris’ food as he twisted around in his seat, leaning against the back of the chair with one arm slung over it. Letting his long legs stretch out in front of him—his feet almost touching the back door from where they sat in the centre—Harris cleared his throat. His jaw ticked. “If there’s nothing there, then why do people stay away?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Freda and Reilly passed a look between them before staring back at the exchange between the two men. Harris never broke his gaze as he stared unblinking at Toby’s back. Toby cleared his throat again in a forced manner, as though attempting to convince the others that it was nothing. He gave a shrug, still staring out the window. A large crow flew down from the purple and peach-streaked sky, hopping on the wall outside and staring back with a beady eye. “Because it’s on the other side of the city.” Toby spun back around, his face drawn. “No one goes there, even if they were told there was a bunker full of supplies. It’s bandit-country, not to mention the Skin Eaters crawling around. We keep them out of this part of the city by the wall around it, but we can’t stop them using the buildings over there.”

  “That’s not going to stop me,” Reilly announced, her back as straight as a rod as her lips pursed tightly. “I want answers from those bastards for what they did to my bunker. Even if there’s no one there, there has to be some information.”

  Toby’s eyes flickered with something sympathetic, and he took a moment to take in Reilly’s stern expression. “Alright,” he sighed after a long pause. “I don’t know what it is you think they did, or what they did to you, but I can see you’re serious. I can’t let you go out there on your own. I know the way to the headquarters. I’ll lead you there in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Toby.” Harris’ form relaxed in the chair as he nodded over to the young man. “We appreciate that.”

  “Yeah, well…I’m only doing it on one condition. That Reilly stays here, in the guesthouse. She’s too ill to be exploring the ruins.”

  “No way!” Reilly’s chair skidded back into the wall behind, chipping a sliver of blue paint from the wall. She slammed her hands on the table. “I’m coming with you. I’m the one who wants answers, damn it.”

  Despite knowing the pain behind Reilly’s need for what happened to her sister, Freda reme
mbered the bloodied handkerchief her friend had discreetly tucked into her pocket in the lobby, and she shook her head with a heavy heart. Reilly’s mouth dropped open in response. “Sorry, Reilly. But I agree. You’re too sick. You need to look after yourself.”

  “Why?” Reilly’s hands curled into fists, her eyes shimmered with furious tears. “I’m dying anyway. Why should it matter if I die now or next week?”

  Harris twisted around, watching their exchange with a concerned expression, and he held his hand up for silence. “Ladies, come on. Let’s not fall out, eh? Reilly, let’s just wait until the morning; then you can decide. If you still want to come, we won’t stop you.” He sent a hard look towards Freda. She held his eyes, never recoiling from his unflinching gaze. “But,” he continued, turning back to Reilly, “please think about it. Please. And if you decide it’s for the best to stay here, then I promise we will do everything to help you. Okay?”

  His interjection seemed to placate her for the time being, and Reilly gave a sigh, grinding her teeth together before stiffly sitting back down. “Fine. I’ll sleep on it.”

  Freda licked her lips, hesitantly putting a hand out towards Reilly’s arm. It hovered in mid-air before falling back to her lap. She wanted to comfort the woman, but she didn’t want to make her feel any more useless than she already did. It was clear from Reilly’s expression that she already believed the others thought her of no more use. Deciding that changing the subject might clear the air in the kitchen—always one to avoid instead of dealing with a painful problem—Freda jutted her chin at Toby. “I’m looking for someone, too. My brother, Gareth. A little taller than me, same hair, and…” she took a breath. She never could be sure how someone would react. “And he has one leg much smaller than the other—uses a crutch to get about. Have you seen anyone like that passing through?”