by KM Fortune
“We will deal with your insubordination over the files later. It is time for prayer. Get up,” Samuel ordered. Matthew stood up and followed his keeper out of the room. Others were in the hallway as they moved to the elevators to take to the Gathering Chamber. Again they all shied away from him as if he were a leper.
THE CREATOR FLOATED down to the dais and paused. There was a hush in the room as the hundreds of men in white robes knelt in the Gathering Chamber before him. He looked out over his flock and could sense they were unsettled. It was not hard to guess the problem. The business about the woman escaping from the science laboratory was upsetting them. The Creator was more puzzled than upset. One of his clones, a simple man named Matthew, Son of Ruth from the House of Levi, gave up his comfortable life as an esteemed scientist among them and actually chose the path of great sin in order to help a woman escape from Eden. I wish I was able to see this woman before she left. I imagine she is beautiful, he thought. The Creator remembered what women had once looked like. Pretty hair, fine clothes, and makeup. He smiled a little, his lipless mouth looking more like a skeleton’s grimace. Movie stars and fashion models, all famous for their extreme beauty. Each brought low by the plague. They were all empty-headed whores in the end. All aside from his own mother. The Blessed Mother Mary. The only woman who remained fertile after every other female on the planet was either sterile or dead. She was who saved him and brought him to Eden when he was a little boy all those years ago. How many now? Over a hundred? More?
A man coughed involuntarily in the congregation and The Creator was brought out of his reverie. He looked at the mass before him and knew they would wait forever for him to speak if he desired it. Each was completely devoted to Him. It was time to take their minds off of the woman. She was undoubtedly dead in the mountains around the colony. Women were weak, and if this one came from a time even before his as Matthew claimed, he was certain she was not skilled enough to survive outside. It was time for all of it to pass.
MATTHEW KNELT AND LISTENED with the others. Up on the dais, The Creator preached. "Do not be disheartened, my sons. Remember always, I give strength to the weary and increase the power of the weakest among men." Matthew considered the words. Is this message for me? he wondered. Over the hundreds of sermons, the Creator had made the statement many times, but for the first time Matthew truly considered what the words actually meant. Who are the weary and weak? Us? In Eden? Suddenly the message did not make complete sense to him. From inception it was drilled into every brother in the colony that they were always the strong, the just, and the chosen people. Everywhere scripture was posted to serve as reminders it was the destiny of the Patrols to go forth on crusades to destroy the filth which roamed outside of Eden. To kill the unanointed. He did not know anything of the people who roamed on the plains. Matthew’s interactions were limited to samples from dead females. For the first time he considered their existence and wondered if they were the heathens The Creator described or something else. Just men. Just women. What if it is the Waste People who are the weary and weak? A chill ran down Matthew’s back. The next thought struck him like a thunderbolt. What if this is all just a big lie?
CHAPTER 5
EVEN WITH HER HAND clutched to her side and walking carefully, it still rippled with pain. Blisters had popped up along the inside of two fingers and her palm was white and swollen with one horrible, angry burn where the cinders from the log of wood had scorched her flesh. Kit would not allow herself to think about what would happen if the blisters broke and became infected. There was so little medicine to be found on the plains, and among her people there were no doctors. She remembered, when she was younger, watching a boy die from a splinter. What had he been? she thought. Twelve thaws old? Nearly a man in terms of her clan. He had been a strong boy, taller than usual and big for her group. Although compared to Kit, everyone was big. She was known as Kit for kitten because when she was born she was so very tiny and helpless. No one thought she would survive, but she did. Willow, the clan’s leader, took her in and raised her. Kit proved to be a resilient little human and did survive, but she would forever be the size of a child. She had never been sorry about it. It was a blessing and allowed her to go places others could not. Many times she eluded the mutants simply by slipping through a small crevice in the rocks and disappearing.
The boy though, tall and growing, not stunted and withered like too many of the babies among the nomads, was out gathering wood. It was a chore all the children of the clan were expected to do. A sliver of softwood slipped deep in his palm. The end broke off before he could remove it and it left death behind for him. An inch below the surface of his skin, disease festered. The leaders tried to cut it out, even cut off the boy’s hand in the end, but eventually the stink came and then there was nothing to be done. Kit still remembered his fevered screams as the black lines ran up his arm, poisoning him. Finally killing him.
His story was only one of countless others. So many people died in her clan. Kit did not remember them all, let alone their names. If it was not the mutants on a rampage or the nets of the Patrols, it was a fever, malnourishment, or simply bad genetics. She would hear the leaders argue about how endangered the species of the nomad was and how some did not believe it would continue to survive in such a hostile environment. These talks usually took place around the small campfires a few days before the clan would move on, looking for a better place to hide. Ever since Kit could remember the group and others like hers had roamed, sometimes moving many times in a short period, sometimes not moving for a dozen moons. Always they were searching for a stable place with clean water and wildlife nearby, but still offered shelter from the freezing weather and protection from the constant reconnaissance of the Patrols. No place was ever good for long.
For a while the clan might thrive and a few babies would be born, but death would always follow. Often the babies themselves would arrive dead or twisted with deformity and not survive. Mothers who bore children often did not survive the ordeal from babies who were turned wrong in their bellies or dead before they are pulled from the womb. Kit hated to witness their agony and the sadness. She took refuge on the plains, taking flight from the pain and death of her clan, trying to help by finding food and clothes for her marked people. Always searching for weapons to help fight off the mutants who were sure to come.
The mutants smelled the death of her people. They caught the scent of blood or rot on the wind and would come to make trouble for her small clan. Sometimes the groups which attacked in the night would be small and could be run off or killed. Other times the mutants would gang up and ravage her people’s fragile home, taking what they liked, killing and eating anyone too weak or slow to run away. Kit hated the futility of it. Watching from the rocks as her tribe was assaulted again and again by the beasts. She would kill all she could, but it was never enough. They would only come again once they knew where the clan was settled. It was easy pickings for them. Yet, it was not as bad as when the Patrols found them. When the Patrols came, nothing was left. At least the mutants left things behind, even if it was a mess, but the Patrols were vicious, burning everything in the camp. They killed any male they found and kidnapped the women and female babies. There were rumors about what happened to the women and babies once they were taken back to the Great Mountain, but Kit did not know if it was true. She knew she would never let herself find out. Some things were worse than death.
Kit stopped walking and squatted down, bringing her already small shape closer to the ground. Her dark cloak draped around her and suddenly she was nothing, but a boulder or mound of dirt. Kit pulled her hand out from under her clothes and looked at the welts which shot pain all through her body. In the midday sun, the blisters were puffy white with fluid and ready to explode. Will you be my sliver? she thought, feeling the cool wind on her hand. Even the gentle breeze against the angry burns caused pain to race up her arm. Will you kill me? The pain pulsed with every heartbeat and she bit her lip, not wanting to whimper, alwa
ys focusing on keeping silent and still.
She knew it would do no good to go back to the clan like this. They would not be able to help her. The leaders, Willow and Blue, would look at her injury, but not have the means or the knowledge to ease her pain or cure the blisters. In the end, it would only cause currents of fear to spread through the group. She imagined the whispers which would circle around the campfire. “What will we do now without Kit to help hunt and search for weapons?” they would ask. There were so few who could provide and no one who was able to retrieve the little things she took from the unsuspecting creatures on the plains. The thought of death brought other worries as well. Would the mutants smell her pain? Her dying? And come to attack in the night? The cave where they lived now was their home for two thaws and it had proved to be one of the better places they had found to live. So far, there was no sign of the mutants nearby and the Patrols, although spotted at times by Kit and a few others from her clan who hunted around the shelter, did not appear to have any idea her people were hiding there. No one wanted to face the reality of what would happen if the screams of the dying attracted the attention of a nearby patrol.
There was too much at stake, too great a risk, for Kit to go back to the camp now. She would have to fend for herself and her damaged hand. Her options were few. The pain was so intense and growing worse. She realized her primary need was to numb the pain so she could focus on something else. I need something very cold, she thought, running through her mind all the places she explored over the years. Where can I find something clean to place on my hand and stop the burning? She was afraid cold water would tear open the blisters. Slowly, the idea came to her. I need snow. She knew, at the edge of the plains, up high in the mountains, existed the pure white snow which would soothe the pain and help fight the fever she was certain would soon come. With the temperature almost always below freezing, there was snow and ice on the plains in places, but it was thin and dirty. I can reach the edge of the mountains by daybreak tomorrow. If I can keep going, she thought. How long until the fever takes over? She stood up carefully. How long until the stink?
Kit tucked her hand against her body, ignoring the pops of light the pain brought to her vision and began trotting toward the horizon. In the distance, majestic mountains rose up to fill the landscape with Mother Nature’s beauty. Kit ran toward them, knowing her only hope lie in those great rocky heights.
CHAPTER 6
RAVEN SLEPT OFF AND on, waking up only to drink water from the tin can, which slowly filled every few hours from drips through the roof. A need to pee was what finally forced her up out of her bundle of old blankets. Unable to get out of the cabin through any of the buried windows or door, she contemplated the bathroom. It was very disgusting and dark in the room. The toilet bowl had long been smashed to a porcelain heap so she made quick work in the corner. Returning to her spot on the floor, she hoped to go back to sleep. It seemed to be the only place the cold, hunger, and fear could not reach her. It didn’t work.
Frustrated, Raven sat up, her body still sore from the slow trudging through the snow for three days before falling into the cabin. Sleeping on the wood floor did not help. At least the fall through the roof didn’t break anything, she thought, glancing up at the ceiling and then over to the bed. The whole thing had collapsed when she landed on it, but at least it had been soft. She shivered when she thought about lying next to the mummified corpse. The face-to-face encounter had not been pleasant.
She swallowed, her throat dry, and crawled over to take another drink of the ice-cold water in her full tin can. The room was dark. Only faint shadows of light filtered down through the hole in the roof. Raven did not know if it was daybreak or sundown. She had slept deeply. Her body was still rebuilding from the steroid cocktail Matthew injected into her while she was a prisoner in his laboratory. She was not even sure how long she had been asleep. It was all so confusing. Her dreams were vivid and so filled with memories she was having trouble keeping everything straight in her mind. Every time she woke up, she opened her eyes with the hope the laboratory and being trapped in the cabin was all a bad dream. She was always disappointed.
Letting her eyes adjust to the dim light, Raven looked around the room and deciphered objects. She recognized the television from when she first searched the room. It was tipped over on its side and bashed in, yet the same old device from her life before, and left behind by the scavengers because it could not feed or clothe them.
Suddenly, Raven’s mind was filled with memories. Thoughts of another time and place took her back, where she sat beside a man and watched something on television. There was canned laughter and silly music. Did that really happen? she wondered. Yes, she thought, feeling sure it had, but who was the man? It felt so strangely recent, almost like a day or two ago, yet she knew from what Matthew told her it was over a century and the man, whoever he had been, was long dead.
With a sigh, Raven stopped looking at the television and let her eyes move across the floor. There was an area rug in tatters on the floor near the door out of the cabin, almost completely shredded by earlier small inhabitants who used it as a nest. She wondered if there was enough left to roll up in for extra warmth. The option was disgusting, but she knew would easily be won over by a need to keep from freezing. She shivered, which led to an attack of shaking which wracked her body and left her breathless. The cold was almost too much and she had been out in it for too many days. Raven worried she was facing hypothermia or worse. She could no longer feel her toes and her hands were constantly numb. Her nearly hairless head and unprotected face tingled when she touched it. The reality of frostbite worried her more now than starving to death. She at least had water to drink and she knew she could last a long time on it even without food, if she could stay warm enough not to freeze. The few tattered blankets and the rodent eaten carpet were not enough. She simply could not get warm and no amount of blankets or cover would be enough to raise her body temperature. She needed a heat source.
“What I wouldn’t give for a blistering hot bath,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Or a roaring fire.” Raven paused. A fire? she thought. Just trying to survive in the cabin, she had not considered it. Before, while she was walking, she wished for a fire, but the means simply were not available. Now, however, she was in a different situation. Raven looked around the room again and was quickly disappointed. The cabin did not even have a fireplace for ambiance. So what can I use to make a fire in? There was nothing in the main room of the cabin and she knew there was nothing in the bathroom. But what about the kitchen? She stood up and shuffled in her blankets to the door of the room. It was dark and she could barely even make out shapes, except for something in the center of the floor. A large dented stewpot. Once she saw it, she remembered it from when she was on the floor of the kitchen the first time. I can build a tiny fire in it. Just enough to warm my hands at least. There was plenty of dried up rodent nests and stuff to burn in the cabin. There was only one problem. She needed a match.
Grabbing up the stewpot, she returned to the main room and looked around. Her eyes fell on the mummified corpse. What about in his pockets? Could I be so lucky as to have him be an old smoker with matches? The corpse was propped up against the wall where it landed when she pulled the blankets out from under it. Even from a distance and in shadowed light, the corpse was grotesque. Its head lolled to one side, arms flung out, as if it were a stuffed rag doll. The mouth was frozen in a death grin, forever stuck on the face of this stranger who had died. The lips were withered and pulled back by sunken cheeks, showing the locked gray teeth. Raven swallowed her revulsion and started to walk toward the body. “Grin or no scary grin, I need to see if you are carrying matches,” she said, picking her way across the littered floor to the body. Light from above was growing slowly stronger as dawn began to break outside. A rare ray of morning sun illuminated a patch near the withered corpse’s head. Specs of dust danced in the faint glow of light. A bit of glass glinted and Raven saw the corpse st
ill wore spectacles. They were knocked askew, but still attached where the frames had sunken in and become imbedded in the leather-like flesh. Raven drew closer. Why was he on the bed with his glasses still on? she wondered. Did this person lie down to die or was he killed on the bed? She looked down at the corpse’s feet and saw a pair of dust covered hiking boots. Why is he still wearing boots? It did not make sense. She wondered if this person just wanted to rest for a second or had known there was no hope and laid down forever. Raven could not imagine what she would do in such a situation. Did the average person know the end was coming? Did this man sit back and wait for the bombs to land? Matthew mentioned the Great Wars and the fact they were nuclear, but gave no more details. There had not been time to talk. She may never know.
Raven took a moment and let herself think about Matthew. He crossed her mind often as she hiked away from the mountain lab, but she knew she could not let her worry for him distract her from surviving. Now she paused and wondered what had happened. She worried he was being severely punished for letting her go and prayed he would not be killed. Did the strange colony in the mountain have a prison? Did anyone ever break the rules? she wondered. Raven had so many questions about the new world she was trapped in, but there was no one to give her answers. Feeling the loneliness of her situation start to overwhelm her, she forced her mind to turn back to the matters at hand. She focused again on the corpse.
Being flung off the bed had not done him any good. The skin was like tissue paper, brittle when she touched it, the fibers eroded by time. The shirt and jeans were not much better and before she could get her shaking hand into the pocket of the pants the fabric fell away. A few metal objects hit the floor. Raven touched them with her fingers, easily recalling what they were. A few were coins of some sort, but she did not know. The faces imprinted on the metal were of people she did not recognize. Apparently the founding fathers were outdone by other heroes, she thought. There were a couple of keys in the pile and even a pocketknife. The knife was a bit corroded, but looked still usable if her hands ever stopped shaking long enough to open it. The most important thing there on the floor though was a lighter. She picked it up and suddenly remembered it was what her father had called a Zippo. She was even certain he had once carried one. It was funny how memories were so easily recalled by the touch or the sight of something familiar.
