A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds)

by Colegrove, Stephen

  Level: Beginner

  Imagery: Ice or water

  Chant:

  Breath made of ice

  Breath made of water

  Breath made of fog

  Calm my heart

  Wilson heard the sound of breaking glass and looked up. Badger had pushed her arm through a window next to the pair of white doors. Across both doors, faint letters spelled “Clean Room Entry Point.”

  Wilson walked over. “Need help?”

  “No, I just wanted to look in here.”

  Badger pushed the door open to a tiny white room that seemed like an entranceway. White jumpsuits and goggles hung from the walls or were piled on the floor. Another door faced them, labeled “Clean Suit Only.”

  Badger pointed to the manual. “What’d you find?”

  “Tricks, tricks, and more tricks. The few I know and more.”

  “What about the ‘damage control’ thing?”

  “It’s a medical healing override.”

  Badger grabbed his jacket. “Yes! That’s exactly what I need. I’m damaged.”

  “You’re so precious. No, it seems like a last resort after traumatic injury.”

  “Trau–what? Stop using big words.”

  “Sorry,” said Wilson. “How about this? Heap big hurt.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Anyway, the manual says to press four dashes and one dot, then you go into a coma to heal. I don’t think you want to be in a coma.”

  “Not really, dear. You paw at me enough when I’m awake.”

  “Ha ha ha.”

  Badger walked around the white room and looked at the racks of goggles and masks.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “I don’t see any danger symbols. This is probably just a workshop.”

  “I mean with this book, Will. You can’t over-use the tricks. It’s dangerous.”

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  Badger pulled the latch on the facing door. “Sometimes fast is slow and slow is fast.”

  The door opened easily. Light from the lantern glowed over tables loaded with silver machines and glass objects. More rows of industrial workstations filled the room.

  One table held only a yellowed square of paper. Wilson brushed away a fine coat of dust and revealed crude, handwritten lines.

  To anyone from 3rd SES,

  Infection everywhere. Taking all portables and sequencer to Altmann. Shelter in place or raise me on Milcom Red 7.

  ––Jack Garcia

  “Don’t tell me …” said Badger.

  Wilson sighed. “It’s gone. Whatever a sequencer might have been, it’s gone.”

  “This Garcia says he took it to Altmann. That’s the old name for Station,” said Badger.

  “I’m not going back in the tunnels.”

  “There’s still the place you didn’t want to look.”

  Wilson brushed dust from his jacket. “Right.”

  “Because no one goes down to the Tombs doesn’t mean–”

  “I know! But maybe this Jack Garcia never made it back to Station. Even if he did, we have to keep searching. We’ve come too far to miss something.”

  They turned the room upside-down and discovered nothing but an allergy to dust.

  “I’ll see if there’s anything else in the books,” said Wilson.

  They walked to the other room and he searched through the shelves again.

  Badger sneezed. “What about the blacked-out codes?”

  “Too dangerous. These people seemed to be very serious about safety.”

  Wilson selected a few books that looked interesting but were also light. He followed Badger up the ladder to the basement and replaced the hatch cover. On the ground floor the two young people blinked like moles in the sunshine.

  In a corner of the lobby, Badger split the dried venison and fruit. Wilson sat next to her but didn’t touch any of it.

  “It’s all my fault,” he said.

  Badger bit into an apple. “Not really.”

  “Maybe if I’d searched harder at Station we could have found the sequencer. And my father would be alive. All of this has been one stupid mistake after another.”

  “Does it make you feel better? Blaming yourself?”

  “I’m not an animal. I can’t simply exist. I have to think about what I did.”

  “Forget the past and think about the present. Or, I break fingers.”

  “Whose fingers?”

  “Yours.”

  “Me?” Wilson pointed to his chest. “You want a piece of this?”

  Badger smirked. “You haven’t got a piece to give.”

  “Right!”

  Wilson grabbed her and they wrestled on the floor. She suddenly held a hand over his mouth. Wilson saw the look on her face and froze. Badger pointed to the far end of the hallway.

  Something made of metal fell on the concrete and the clatter echoed like a shot. Wilson crawled forward and looked around the corner.

  Six tribals crept in his direction. They carried rifles and wore green or dark red tunics. A black tattoo of thorns––the sign of the Circle––marked all of their faces.

  One spotted Wilson and panicked, firing his rifle with a boom of charcoal smoke. The corridor exploded with noise and gray chips of concrete as the rest opened fire.

  Badger and Wilson grabbed their weapons and backpacks and ran down the stairwell to the old lab. Wilson opened the hatch and they clambered down. He shoved a metal bar through the latch mechanism and lit his lantern for the third time that day.

  “Now we’re trapped.”

  Badger pointed across the room. “What about the big door?”

  They ran to the security door on the opposite side of the room. Wilson pulled with both hands on a vertical red bar.

  “Here goes nothing!”

  The latch clicked and he pushed the heavy door slowly. The green-clad tribals could be heard shouting throughout the building. The pair ran as quietly as possible to the fourth floor.

  Wilson slid next to a window and listened to the voices outside. He took a second to glance out the window then crawled away. Badger had checked and loaded both crossbows.

  “At least twenty outside,” he whispered. “Two transports.”

  Badger nodded and held a finger to her lips. She pointed at the door. Wilson took his crossbow and moved a few feet away. He found a metal table with only two legs and turned it on the side to create some cover. He lay prone behind the right side and Badger took the left.

  The sound of a tribal yelling orders filtered in from the window. From what Wilson could hear, this man wanted them alive. He thumbed a shell into the empty sixth cylinder of his pistol and set it nearby, then opened the breech of his rifle and checked the round.

  Wilson thought about blocking the doors but they opened into the stairwell. He wondered if the strange men had tracked them across the plains or if this was just bad luck.

  He pulled the manual from his pack and read over a few sections. All of the tricks seemed practical. He guessed that Badger knew an endurance or strength trick. He turned to the emergency codes and tried to read behind the blacked-out lines.

  Footsteps shuffled behind the door. Wilson stuffed the manual in his jacket and looked down the sights of his bow. Badger touched his shoulder. She pointed to herself and held up one finger. Wilson guessed she wanted the first shot.

  The door scraped open. The barrel of a rifle appeared, followed by a scrawny tribal. A wispy brown beard covered his face and on his green cap were three interlocking silver circles. Metal trinkets covered his leather coat.

  A click from Badger. Her bolt slammed into his upper chest. The tribal screamed and fell back through the doorway. The door jammed against his legs and stayed open. A man tried to pull the body away and Wilson shot him through the eye. A second looked over the railing and Badger knocked his hat off with a bolt.

  Both reloaded as whispers filled the stairwell. Outside the shouting had stopped.

  B
adger made a rapid circle with her hand. They grabbed everything and moved to a corner farther down the hallway. Badger put down her pack and lay prone to face the first stairwell. Wilson covered the other.

  “Trapped again,” he murmured.

  “Cover your side,” said Badger.

  They heard muffled steps and four armed men burst through the stairwell doors. Badger dropped the first man with a bolt, then picked up her rifle and fired and reloaded.

  The door on Wilson’s side scraped open and a mass of green-capped tribals rushed in. Wilson hit the first one below the belt and he crumpled. Chips of concrete and dust sprayed around Wilson as the others fired. He reloaded and shot back from cover. The men leapfrogged from doorway to doorway as they ran up the corridor.

  Wilson waited for a good target. He hit one of the men in the arm with the next shot and another in the belly. The last man tried to hide in a doorway but a bullet from Badger’s rifle went through his hand. She missed the next shot and the man jumped back down the stairwell.

  A breeze whistled through the empty windows of the building. It carried the stench of blood and body odor.

  “Probably time to leave,” said Wilson.

  “We’re on the top floor. Don’t tell me that book taught you to fly.”

  “Almost. I’ve got a rope.”

  Wilson heard a bouncing clatter and a small metal tube rolled through the corridor. A fuse spun bright orange circles at one end.

  “Back!” yelled Wilson.

  They scrambled into the room. Metal shards cracked through the air and skidded down the corridor.

  “Okay, time to leave,” said Badger.

  Wilson pulled the coil of rope from his pack and eyeballed the length.

  “It’s not going to reach all the way,” he said.

  Badger leaned out the window. “I have an idea.” She whispered in his ear.

  Wilson couldn’t see anyone down below, but he could hear shouts. Another bang rattled through the corridor.

  “Now or never,” he said.

  They dropped all their gear into the bushes four floors down. Each tied an end of the rope around their waist with a bowline. Badger braced her legs against the wall. Wilson slid over the edge and used to rope for support. He made it down two stories and climbed through a window, then braced his legs at the wall. Badger appeared a minute later. The rope had been only for backup; she’d used ledges on the outside wall to climb down.

  “You’re good,” said Wilson.

  Badger shrugged. “Untie the rope.”

  They pulled off the bowlines and Wilson secured one end to the window frame with a follow-through. Badger held the rope as he went out the window and slid to the ground. The rope burned hot through his gloves. He found his rifle in the bushes and watched Badger slide down. Ten feet from the ground she tensed up like she was holding her breath, and let go.

  Wilson half-caught her and they both fell into the sharp, leafy bushes. Badger’s entire body shook and her eyes had rolled back.

  Wilson would have cursed if he had the time. He rested for a few seconds then struggled out of the bushes with Badger’s limp body. Eager shouts of discovery came from the floors above as he pushed up the sleeve of her jacket.

  “Two short three long, two short three long,” he said under his breath.

  After he’d pressed the code he lifted her from the grass and started to run. He couldn’t tell if she’d stopped shaking or not. The ground changed from tall grass to dry, broken earth and he tried not to stumble.

  A heavy weight crashed into the back of his legs. Wilson slammed into the hard-packed ground and protected Badger’s head as he fell.

  A huge tribal had tackled his legs. Wilson let go of Badger and pulled the throwing knife from his belt. He twisted around and slashed the man’s face. The tribal yelled. Wilson wriggled loose from his grip and jerked a knee up into the tribal’s jaw. The man rolled away through the dirt.

  Wilson stood and sheathed his knife as the shouts came closer. He held his hands at his sides while a dozen tribals in dull green circled him and Badger like a pack of wolves.

  “We have no fight with you,” Wilson said in the dialect. “Let us go.”

  The tallest of the group laughed. “What a strange little mouse.”

  Wilson breathed in and out slowly. Through his moccasins he gripped the earth with his toes. He thought about stone. The weight, the hard foundation of mountains. Under his breath he repeated:

  Arm made of stone

  Arm made of steel

  Arm made of earth

  Push my hand

  “Are you praying?” The tall tribal grabbed Wilson’s arm with one hand and cocked back the other fist.

  Wilson grabbed the hand on his arm and twisted it down and away to break the fingers. The tall tribal screamed. Wilson stepped forward and punched him in the midsection. The tribal flew back ten feet, knocked over two other men, and lay still.

  Wilson rubbed his knuckles. Another dozen men ran towards them through the tall grass. He formed an image of ice in his mind. When the new group had arrived he spoke again in the dialect.

  “I’m from the west. My name is Wilson. I’ve killed more men than your filthy mothers have spots on their faces. Walk away and you’ll live. Touch me and die. Ask your dead friends in the building. Ask your friend on the ground.”

  His words unsettled many of the tribals. A few backed away, even though they carried rifles. Wilson kept his eyes on the crowd around him and knelt to feel Badger’s neck. Satisfied, he stood up.

  “Who’s your leader?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  A muscular figure pushed through the crowd. He breathed hard and sweat dotted his face. He wore a plain green uniform, with few metal decorations apart from a silver biohazard emblem on the front of his cap. A pistol grip stuck from his belt.

  “Miserĉas pacon,” said Wilson.

  “Neniu,” said the man. “You’re my prisoner.” He waved at Wilson. “Tie him up.”

  Wilson breathed deeply and murmured under his breath.

  Four men grabbed him but flew back in a sudden whirl of dust, their chests covered in blood. The leader gasped in pain as something wrenched his arm back and cold metal pressed on his neck.

  “Let us go or die,” said Wilson.

  “No,” said the leader. “Look there.”

  Two men stood over Badger with rifles pointed at her head. Her eyes fluttered and lips twitched. Wilson lost strength in his legs and felt the same stomach cramps. He tried to pull himself together with the calming trick but fell to the ground, overcome with nausea. A weight slammed into his head and that sickness, like everything else, went away.

  TWELVE

  Wilson dreamed he and Badger were back at the underground lake. Only this time, he couldn’t keep his head out of the water or move his arms or legs. The black lake poured into his mouth and he kept spitting it out.

  Hold on

  The water was sulfurous and thick. He twisted his head and coughed to keep it out.

  Hold my hand

  The darkness seeped into his nose and ears and through the corners of his eyes. He held his breath as the water closed over his head.

  Don’t let go

  Cold water stung his face and Wilson opened his eyes.

  His face and the wooden slats against his cheek were wet. He lay sideways, on the floor of a room packed with old objects. Candlelight glowed on ancient calendars hanging around the room. On the faded squares of paper were images of beautiful women, animals, and flying transports.

  Badger knelt across the room, tied with braided rope. Her arms were bound above and behind her head and the loops crossed her neck. Thick cables of hemp circled her knees and calves and linked her wrists to her ankles. Purple bruises covered the right side of her face.

  Wilson tried to lift his head from the puddle but couldn’t. Ropes bound his arms and legs behind his back. When he tried to free his hands the rope around his neck tightened. He relaxed a
nd could breathe again.

  “Easy there,” a voice said in English.

  The floor creaked and a young man stepped into the light. He had dark, cropped hair and pale skin.

  “You can’t escape. It gets tighter as you struggle.”

  The man spoke with sibilant, overstressed consonants. That and the way he flicked his tongue across his lips reminded Wilson of a range lizard.

  “Why?” Wilson asked hoarsely.

  “I have to be cautious, because you’re both extremely dangerous. Between the two of you a dozen men are dead. Well, I say men, but they weren’t really. They were well-trained and valuable, however.” The man walked to Badger, who spat in his direction. “This young lady was gracious enough to need ten men to hold her down. She killed two in the struggle.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Wilson.

  “Apology accepted.”

  “No, I’m sorry that eight survived.”

  “Appalling,” said the man. “I’m used to bloody language like that from savages but not from an English speaker. Not from someone who can read.” He grabbed a wooden chair and sat between Wilson and Badger. “All I want to do … is talk.”

  “Untie us.”

  “That would be rash.”

  “Why?”

  The man yawned. “I’m certain you find it entertaining, but I don’t like to repeat myself.”

  “You’re part of the Circle,” said Wilson.

  “Correct.” The man lifted a silver necklace and symbol from his green shirt. “It’s a growing organization. We’re always looking for new members.”

  “Looking for more slaves,” said Badger.

  “I don’t like that word––we call them workers,” said the man. He spread his hands. “It’s a matter of perspective.”

  “I’m sure the slaves agree,” said Wilson.

  “You’re making a simple attempt at humor, but it’s actually true. Food, shelter, and medical care are provided free to everyone. And those who give a higher quality of effort are rewarded. We value good workers and provide them a chance for advancement and success.”

  “One thing you didn’t give them was choice,” said Wilson.

  “Choice. Freedom. Independence.” The man shook his head. “How many people in your revolting village ever leave? Most of you semi-literates and tribals stay in the same filthy huts your entire life, grubbing roots from the ground and eating rats. If you survive the diseases of childhood you’re cut down in petty tribal warfare or from wild animals. You’re surrounded by the machines of your dead fathers, ignorant and dangerous like a monkey with a chainsaw.” He bent over Wilson. “The Circle has begun the next age of humanity, and you throw ‘slavery’ in my face. Words like that are delusional relics from the past. We give our workers more safety, education, and years of life than they had before.”