Darkness Follows

by L. A. Weatherly

  A few ravens flitted from roof to roof, watching our food with glittering black eyes. No one let a single crumb fall. In the distance Gunnison’s face filled the screen, his voice an incessant murmur.

  I leaned against the side of our hut and ate slowly, dipping the bread into the soup.

  Natalie wolfed down her half-share. “You’d have done better to save it,” said Claudia, standing nearby. She licked her spoon complacently.

  I forced myself to hold back on a bite of bread. I tucked the stale crust in my pocket just as the siren went off again. I felt slightly stronger, though my stomach still complained. In between meals it grew dull and resigned; once it had tasted food, it wailed in protest.

  As we got in line – one behind the other this time, ready to march through the gates – I saw Melody and stiffened.

  She was getting in line with the group from her own hut, number four. As always, I glanced furtively at her feet. The boots I’d worn as a pilot were thick, brown leather, scuffed now, but no doubt just as warm and dry as the day I’d gotten them. My feet were damp already, the blisters throbbing.

  It came back in a flash: the twist of stunned disbelief I’d felt when I got out of solitary that first time and Melody had claimed not to know what I was talking about. No, there must be some mistake. These are my boots. They have my number.

  She hadn’t been able to meet my eyes then, and she didn’t now.

  I studied her with sidelong looks, taking in every detail almost greedily. She was getting very thin – surely she couldn’t last much longer? What would happen to my boots then? The old Amity would have been horrified by this thought. But it was only November – we hadn’t even begun to reach the worst of the winter yet. If I couldn’t walk, I’d be shot.

  One of the Guns, a pretty blonde one, gave a sneering laugh. “Still thinking about those boots, Vancour?”

  I tore my gaze away. “No, sir,” I said. Guns were all “sir”, no matter their sex.

  “Want to go into solitary again, is that it?”

  My mouth went dry at the thought of that small concrete room. Arguing with Melody, pleading with her, had landed me there twice more. “No, sir,” I said softly. “I know the boots aren’t mine, sir.”

  “That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” The Gun glanced at a clipboard. Offhandedly, she said, “Oh, and we’ve changed the roster. You’re in Mine Three now.”

  My pulse of alarm was deep, visceral. I’d worked in Mine Two for months. I had my niche there; I knew exactly how things worked. In Harmony Five, that could mean the difference between life and death.

  Funny, but for some reason I still cared about that.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Mine Three.”

  “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

  I stretched my lips into a smile, staring at the neck of the prisoner in front of me. “I’m very honoured, sir.”

  “March!” shouted another Gun from further up.

  We started at a brisk pace as a band that clustered near the entrance struck up merry music: “Happy Days are Here Again”. Gunnison had adopted it as his theme song ever since taking over the Western Seaboard.

  We marched quick-step, his image behind us now, to show how happy we were to be working for him and the glory of Can-Amer. Once, I’d burned with hatred at the thought. Now I just concentrated on stepping fast enough not to get beaten.

  I forced myself to look at the severed heads clear in the camp’s lights. There were seven more on the fence than when I’d first arrived. Back then my gaze had flown to them each day with horror. Now I looked to remind myself what would happen if I wasn’t careful.

  The music played on jauntily. A gentle snowfall began as a pair of Guns swung open the main gates, dividing the Harmony symbol. Outside, more Guns waited on silver snowmobiles, revving their engines, shouting cheerfully to each other.

  Under the dead eyes’ scrutiny, we started the long walk.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We trudged in silence, hunched into whatever clothes we had. The music faded. The snow was packed hard here – slippery, icy. The snowmobiles shot ahead, then skimmed back again, their headlamps and the moon our only light.

  “Try to escape!” shouted a Gun. “Come on, I feel like target practice!”

  The detested boots had wedge heels and hardly any grip, though I’d rubbed their soles over gravel. One heel was half-flopping off. I had to set my foot down too carefully, making me unsteady with every step.

  The turn-off to the mines was a mile away. For the first time, I turned left with the group heading to Mine Three instead of continuing straight on. I felt a pang as the other group pulled away from us. Mine Two was reached from a road that passed through fields, and until the dark mornings had come, I’d always looked out for hawks flying overhead. If you showed too much interest in something the Guns made you pay for it, but I’d liked watching the hawks when I could. It was a tiny rebellion; the one thing I had that was my own – watching those birds soar through the air like Firedoves.

  I was going to miss the hawks.

  The new road went through woods. I’d seen them from the camp: a brooding tangle of dark branches. It was warmer than walking across the fields, but the trees made me feel oppressed, closed-in. I shivered and ducked my head.

  I heard the mine long before we reached it. The air churned with the gnashing, crunching sound of machinery. We came out into the open and there it was: a hill with a gaping mouth and a road heading into it. Flames flickered from within.

  Nearby, just like Mine Two, a broad clearing held mounds of crushed raw ore. Chemicals were dripped over them to extract some kind of metal – we weren’t told what. Distantly, I could see the lights from the processing plant where other prisoners worked. Snow-trucks on giant caterpillar tracks trundled between the leach pads and the plant.

  The Guns swept up to the mine’s entrance on their snowmobiles, kicking up snow as they swerved to a stop. Our group kept going straight inside, over fifty of us, heads down.

  We entered a cavernous space hewn from the rock. There were several metal drums with fires going. Guns with scarves wrapped around their mouths clustered around these, warming their hands. Overhead, holes in the ceiling let out the smoke and dust. Or tried to. The atmosphere was murky; the electric lights strung above could only dimly be seen.

  Noise pounded incessantly. A rock crusher dominated the space like a prehistoric monster. A conveyor belt carried dusty chunks of rock up and up, thirty feet high. At the top they were dropped into a cradle where metal jaws churned; teeth ground them into rubble that spewed out the other side. Dust rose in billowing, choking clouds.

  The sound was indescribable; it throbbed right through you. Workers tended to the crusher like acolytes. As miners emerged from the depths with full wheelbarrows, the workers helped them scatter the heavy rocks onto the conveyor belt. Then the miners trudged back again, wheelbarrows empty but shoulders just as tired as before.

  The cavern bustled with dust and activity. I hesitated inside the entrance, unsure where to go. Most of our group headed straight for the picks and wheelbarrows piled against one wall. Guns with pistols accompanied them as they disappeared into the tunnels. If this was like Mine Two, the majority of miners would be men from the other section of the camp, who we seldom had contact with and weren’t allowed to speak to – but women would help them with the lighter work.

  A Gun came striding up, his voice muffled from his protective scarf. “You’re on swing shift. Get to work on the crusher!”

  My heart sank. Swing shift meant I did whatever job was needed each day. I’d never be able to make a niche for myself, never find a routine. That could be fatal in this place.

  The crusher had been my old job at Mine Two. As the miners emerged and upended their barrow-loads, I stooped and grabbed rocks, then shoved them onto the conveyor belt. Sometimes I had to heft with both hands. The rocks were a dull brownish-grey, tinged with green.

  When I’d first gotten
here I’d wondered what we were mining. I didn’t care much any more.

  The hours passed. My throat burned with grainy dust. My rough hands got fresh cuts; a few old ones reopened. When I felt dizzy I ate the bite of bread I’d brought with me that morning, stuffing it in my mouth before one of the Guns could see.

  Through the holes in the ceiling, snow flurried in. It battled briefly with the dust clouds, melting before it reached the fires. Miners exited the tunnels in a steady stream. Some had their shirts off, showing scrawny forms. The work made them too hot, then the cold up here chilled them again. Pneumonia was common. The incessant dust didn’t help.

  Running through the fields with Hal, I thought. We’re heading to the swimming hole and the sun is shining…

  But no, that memory was dangerous. We’d run through those fields to meet Dad landing one of his planes too many times.

  I couldn’t think very deeply about my father. Not here. Memories of him – the kind but distant dad I’d longed to know better – battled with the daily reality of what his thrown fight had led to. As always, my mind flinched from the thought.

  I hastily discarded the memory. All right, a different one. I had dozens that I played to myself. I shuffled carefully through them in my mind, deciding. A shirtless miner passed close by, pushing a heavily-laden wheelbarrow, and I glanced at him.

  I froze.

  Even in profile, even with his dark curls shorn, I recognized him. He was tall and had been thin before he got here. Those long, angular features looked gaunt now, but his scowl was grim, stubborn.

  Ingo.

  Shock clutched my chest. I looked hastily away and spaced out the rocks on the moving belt so they wouldn’t jam the churning jaws above. Finally I risked another look.

  Ingo reached the front of the crusher and tipped out his heavy load. Black stubble showed through the greyish dust on his face. I could see his every rib. Leaning wearily over, he started throwing rocks onto the belt.

  As Ingo straightened again, our eyes met and I saw him full-on. My constantly moving hands faltered.

  The left half of his face was normal, if too thin. The right was a grotesque melted mask. A reddish burn scar puckered from forehead to chin. Part of his eyebrow was gone. The scar tugged downwards at one eye, pulled tightly at his mouth.

  From the sudden flare of Ingo’s nostrils, he recognized me too. As he stared at me, an expression I couldn’t read sparked in his dark eyes. I quickly ducked my head, terrified of what might happen if the Guns realized we knew each other.

  “What are you waiting for?” shouted a voice. “Get moving, you scum!”

  Ingo’s lip curled. After a beat, he grabbed the wheelbarrow’s wooden handles and headed back into the mine.

  I didn’t see him again.

  When it had been dark for hours, we women were marched back to camp. The Guns guarded us from their snowmobiles, headlights racing across the snow.

  I buried my icy fists in my pockets. The heel of my left boot felt looser as I trudged along. I was used to losing myself in soothing daydreams, ignoring my aching limbs. Since seeing Ingo, the daydreams had shattered into dust. Unwanted memories of him raged like a storm in my head.

  As we approached Harmony Five, its lights battled the stars. A raven sat on top of one of the severed heads, preening itself.

  Sometimes I managed to save a little bread from my meal, in case I woke up too hungry in the night to go back to sleep. This evening it felt impossible. I ate fast, scraping the bowl. On the screen, Gunnison’s solid-looking form was giving an interview, the volume soft.

  “Well, Tom – mind if I call you Tom? It all started back when I was a child, growing up on the farm. You see…”

  I went into the hut. Darkness encased me. When I groped my way to my bed, Fran was already there. I got in too and pulled some of the blanket over myself.

  Neither of us spoke. Conversation happened in the morning; by this time of day everyone had shrunk into themselves, concerned only with hanging on for another night. I lay stiffly, not moving, as Gunnison whispered on.

  They’d mentioned Ingo only briefly the first time they’d questioned me. The second time, in a cell before my trial, they’d harped on and on about him.

  You’re being very noble to protect Mr Manfred…but he certainly isn’t protecting you.

  Remembering it now, I saw with wonder how clean that cell had been. I hadn’t noticed at the time – hadn’t appreciated its warmth, or the fact that when I was hungry, food and hot coffee had arrived.

  I hadn’t thought about Ingo in months. Yet in that cell, the thought that he might have betrayed me had hurt keenly. The Gun had smirked as she’d tapped brass knuckles against her palm. “You might as well talk, Wildcat. He’s told us everything.”

  Has he? I’d wondered in a daze. It hadn’t seemed like something Ingo would do…but then, I’d hardly known him.

  He was a former opponent, a pilot for the European Alliance. I’d trusted him because I had no choice. I’d had to break into the World for Peace building and Ingo had access to the keys – his girlfriend’s father worked there. He’d seemed genuinely upset by the evidence of thrown Peacefights that we’d found in Madeline’s office.

  I hadn’t thought about Madeline in months, either. Now dull hatred for her stirred. I remembered her fumble during my trial – her near-admission that she’d talked my father into throwing the civil war fight…with all that had led to.

  Coldness clenched my gut. I pulled the thin blanket more tightly around myself. The papers Ingo and I had taken that night had proved that everything we’d believed in was a sham. What felt like an entire lifetime had taken place between those two events: stealing the evidence and my trial.

  Madeline wasn’t the only person I’d loved who had betrayed me.

  I didn’t want to think about Collie. I never wanted to think about him ever again.

  But the thoughts wouldn’t stop coming.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  March, 1941

  We drove for hours in the auto Collie bought from the farmer, heading towards the coast. By three o’clock in the morning we hadn’t seen another auto in miles and we were both drooping.

  I hadn’t actually agreed to Collie’s plan to catch a steamer somewhere…though I guess the fact that I hadn’t argued about heading north-west maybe spoke for itself.

  We found a forest road and took the auto deep into the woods. Then we crawled onto the back seat, and angled ourselves across it as best we could, curled in each other’s arms.

  Collie fell asleep in seconds. His breath ruffled my hair. Inch by inch my tension eased and I relaxed against his body. I’d been so sure he was dead – that they’d found out he knew about the corruption and had killed him.

  Gently, I unbuttoned his shirt. I closed my eyes and stroked his warm skin, feeling the curve of his ribs, his muscles, the rise and fall of his chest.

  It all seemed like a miracle.

  When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was streaming into the car. Collie was still asleep. Stubble coated his jaw. I sat up stiffly. Condensation covered the windows; I swiped some away with my sleeve.

  A morning mist wove through the dark trees. I stared out at the pale, wispy beauty and instead saw tanks rolling down a street.

  What were Gunnison’s troops doing right now?

  “Morning,” said Collie.

  I turned just as he sat up. I tried to smile. “Morning to you, too.”

  He touched my forehead, gently stroking away its creases.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’re together. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe to get away and be happy together was enough.

  His hair looked a darker blond than usual, slightly greasy. I touched the thickened bridge of his nose: a childhood injury. My finger trailed down to his mouth, outlined his lips.

  Collie’s eyes stayed locked on mine. My pulse heated as I slid my hand slowly down his chest, his stomach
, following the soft line of hair that arrowed towards his belt buckle.

  “You know…I’m kind of glad you’re still alive,” I said huskily.

  Collie looked pained. “Amity…” he whispered.

  We moved at the same moment. He pulled me towards him and our lips met. The kiss deepened. Collie gave a rough groan, deep in the back of his throat. He fumbled with my buttons as I shrugged out of my shirt.

  The auto was its own world, small and steamy. We slid down onto the seat, kissing fiercely. I ran my hands up and down his back, savouring his heat, his solid weight on me.

  Collie reached for my flies. “Wait,” I gasped. “Do you have a proph?”

  His shoulders slumped. He let out a long breath and shook his head against my neck. “No.”

  Damn. Disappointment made my voice sharp. “We’d better stop then.”

  Collie didn’t move. He kissed my neck, sending shivers through me; his hand caressed my breast in lazy circles.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “I don’t care if you get pregnant.”

  I snorted out a laugh and pushed his hand away. “I care, you lummox.”

  “We want a large family, remember?”

  “Not one started in the back of a…what kind of auto is this, anyway?”

  I could feel him smiling as he laced more kisses across my skin. “It’ll be a story to tell our grandchildren.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “‘Gather round, kids, and let Grandpa Collie tell you about how—’”

  “Get off.” I heaved upwards and pushed him; he fell off me and lay sprawled on the floor of the auto, pressed against the backs of the front seats. He was laughing now, his bare shoulders shaking.

  “You really know how to kill the mood,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that, you infuriating wench?”

  I grinned and leaned down to kiss him. I whispered against his lips, “We can start our large family when we get to…Timbuktu, or wherever we’re going.”