We Are The Few

by Miranda Stork

  “No, sorry.” Toby folded his arms and leaned back against the steel sink and draining board beneath the window, casually folding one leg before the other. “But to be fair, not many people with a disability feel welcome here, what with the Purists and all.” He squinted one eye as if thinking, poking his ear for a second. “If he was here, he might have gone with the troupe that came through. Some kind of performing caravan, entertainers and such. There’s a lot of the Sick with them, as well as anyone else who doesn’t feel like they fit anywhere else.” He looked uncomfortable as Freda’s eyes narrowed marginally at his insinuation, and the tips of his ears went red. “He might have gone with them. They’ve left for Leeds, though, a couple of days ago.”

  Heart sinking in her chest, Freda gave a defeated nod. “Thanks. I guess they might have stopped at some of the settlements along the route, right?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Great.” So, one step forward for Reilly, another one back for me. She glanced across at Reilly, tucking her hands into the deep pockets of her jeans. But look at her. Gareth wouldn’t want me to leave her in the lurch. He’s either here in York, or he’s with the caravan—in which case, he’s safe. The thought made her shoulders feel lighter somehow, as though Toby’s words had lifted the dark fears that rested there. She leaned back in her chair, weariness overtaking her. She hadn’t realised before how tired she was, and her eyelids lowered themselves as her mouth stretched in an involuntary yawn. “Well, let’s go and find out how cold this room is upstairs,” she joked, but her chest squeezed at the flicker of a smile she saw cross Harris’ lips.

  Chapter Eleven

  April 5th, 2063 – the Past

  The morning was always the most beautiful part of the day. There were even a few birds tweeting in the boughs of the large trees that hung over the bunker entrance. An icy wind was present, edged with dampness, but a weak sun peeked through the clouds. The trees had started to grow again, and cast flitting shadows of leaves over the dark grass below. The air was filled with the distant sounds of the farmers calling to one another as they finished up their tasks for the evening, nuanced by the scent of earth being turned for the year’s planting. The soil was starting to clean itself, and the wheat that grew later looked like any from a pre-Big Hit children’s picture book.

  Freda closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the atmosphere. It was calm and yet alive at the same time. It made her want to run into the middle of the fields and dance around barefoot. Not that anyone sane would try it at such an early hour. The Skin-Eaters had retreated from the area around the bunker after many years, but everyone was still wary of the dark pockets of forest that surrounded their land. The thought made Freda’s eyelids snap open, and she rocked to one side from her perch on the stone wall running along the road to the bunker, nudging Gareth with her elbow affectionately. “Hey. You know what I was just thinking about?”

  “Nope. What were you thinking about?” Gareth gave her a lazy grin, shoving her back playfully, nearly knocking his shotgun from its roost against the wall next to their swaying legs, Freda’s rifle leaning beside it. He shuffled against the moss-covered grey stone, dark in places with the light rainfall from earlier.

  Turning her face up towards the gathering clouds above, Freda replied softly, “I was remembering the day we came out with Matthew, and the Skin-Eater attacked us.”

  Gareth’s face scrunched at her words. “Why on earth would you want to remember that? It was an awful day.” His clear blue eyes were filled with a faraway light as he sighed, giving a shudder. “Poor Matthew.”

  “I know,” Freda replied quietly, looking down at the ground. She kicked her feet together, the heavy combat boots knocking dried dirt from each other. “Losing an eye and half his vocal chords…he hardly ever spoke to me again after that. No pun intended.” Her shoulders sagged as she cast her long memory back over the last fifteen years. Matthew had never been unkind to her after the attack that day, but he treated her with a weariness, as though even being near her brought it back in terrifying freshness. And even when she tried to explain how Gareth had suggested pulling him along using the coat, hoping it would mend bridges somehow, he would simply give her a strange look before bidding her good day. She knew that his mother certainly blamed her. She believed that if Matthew hadn’t been messing about playing around the edges of the fields, instead paying attention to hunting, he never would have gone near the creature. No amount of explaining that it would have attacked one day anyway could dissuade her.

  “Hey. Don’t think about that.” Gareth leaned into his sister, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Think of something better. I heard they were thinking about making you the Hunting Master, you know. You’ll be in charge of all the new recruits.”

  Freda closed her eyes, just remaining in her brother’s bear-hug for a moment. It made her feel protected and small again, as though she didn’t have to carry the weight of everything on her shoulders. Her father had suffered an injury in the generator room, and he no longer worked, leaving her as a carer for him as well as keeping their mother’s drinking in check. Gareth did what he could, but he had his own problems. She sighed, straightening herself up again and pulling away, letting her hands sink between her legs to press against the cool stone beneath. Hunting Master was a great achievement. It showed that the entire bunker trusted one person with feeding them. But the idea of staying in the bunker for the rest of her life was oddly disconcerting. Deciding to bite the bullet, still staring out over the yellow and green-rippled hills that bordered the dales ahead, Freda answered, “I don’t want to be Hunting Master. I’ve decided to leave the bunker, Gareth.”

  Turning her head, she expected to see the usual encouraging smile from her brother, but instead a cold shudder passed under her skin at his dark expression. “Leave?” he demanded in a low voice. The leaves shivered up above, hissing to one another as he slid from the wall. Snatching up his crutch, he leant on it, moving around to glare at Freda head on. He blocked her view of the dales beyond, and she pulled back, her balance wavering. “You can’t leave the bunker, Freda. You’re safe here. This is our home.”

  Carefully making her way off the wall and stepping around her brother, shaken by his threatening manner, Freda gritted her teeth. Her cheeks burned with the same family temper that ran in Gareth’s veins. “Are you serious?” she snapped. Flinging her arm out towards the hills in the distance, she shouted, “I want to explore the world, for fuck’s sake! Our home? This hasn’t been our home since the first time our mother picked up a bottle of vodka. This is just a place where we live. Where we survive.” She took a step back, her chest rising and falling heavily from her rant. Her features softened. “Don’t you want to do more than just survive, Gareth? There’s a whole world waiting for us out there, and we could be part of it.”

  Gareth gave an exasperated growl, running his fingers furiously through his hair. “Yes, there’s a whole world. Full of god-only-knows-what. You want to run into the middle of all that?” He shook his head, hanging it to his chest as he placed a hand on his hip. “Freda, think about this. Be sensible. We were attacked by Skin-Eaters only a few miles from our bunker, and the few traders who pass through say they’re everywhere to the west.”

  “I have thought about it!” Freda cried out furiously, throwing her hands out in front of her. Her thin tan trenchcoat flapped open with the vehemence of her actions. “I’ve done nothing but think about it, for years on end!” She rubbed a hand over her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as her hand trailed to her cheek. “I can’t stay here, Gareth. I won’t. I’m suffocating here.” She paused, turning to the fields with a heavy heart. Her eyes trailed over the birds flying towards the west, tracing their movements through the sky. She ached to follow them, to see where their path led. “I can’t stay here,” she repeated in a broken whisper.

  No reply came, and she twisted on her heel to check
if Gareth was still there. To her relief, he was, chewing at his lower lip as he stared back at her. Neither of them spoke for a long time, the merry cries of the farmers growing louder as they made their way along the road back home.

  “You really mean it, don’t you?” His voice was cracked.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you going to leave without telling me?”

  “No.” Freda’s reply came in a hoarse gasp, her brows furrowing deeply. His hurt expression pierced her heart. “Never. I would never leave and not tell you.”

  “Is it mother?”

  Freda paused. Should she tell him the truth? “A little,” she admitted. “And father. They…they expect too much of us, Gareth. They expect us to be something else, and I don’t know what that is, anyway. I’d rather be myself somewhere else.”

  Another pause. “Alright. But on one condition.”

  Her heart leapt in her chest like one of the birds flying overhead. “Name it.”

  “I come with you. I’m not letting you go on your own like that.”

  Her face broke into a brilliant smile, and emotion broke over her in a wave, so strong she couldn’t hold back throwing her arms around Gareth. “Of course. You mean it?”

  “Yes.” He gazed back over to the bunker. “I’ve got security detail in the morning, but I can meet at lunchtime. We’ll set off tomorrow. I think the sooner the better, right?” He managed a weak smile, but Freda could see the wavering glimmer in his eyes. “It’s been so unfair on you all these years, holding everything up on your own.” Her brother looked away, gazing up at the trees waving together. “Not anymore. You need to be free. Just…” He passed his tongue over his lips slowly, holding it at the corner of his mouth as though concentrating before saying something difficult. “Just remember I love you, okay? You’re my little sister, no matter what.”

  His response sent a cold chill down her spine, and Freda stepped back, tilting her head as she surveyed him curiously. “Gareth, what are talking about? You’re speaking as if we’re saying goodbye to each other. You’re not, right?”

  “Of course not.” He smiled again, and this time it was warm and reassuring, and the chill running under her skin melted away. “Just meet me tomorrow at midday, okay? We’ll meet near the bridge, the one that leads to the main road. You know which one?”

  “I do. I’ll be there.” Freda grinned, her soul feeling lighter than it had for years. At long last, she was going to be free. And so was Gareth. They would start a new life, away from the bunker, away from the darkness of their childhood. She couldn’t wipe the grin off her face as they picked up their guns, setting off for the bunker, Gareth’s oil-slicker reflecting the soft light of the grey morning.

  The sweat on her brow was black with oil as Freda wiped her sleeve over her forehead. The generator room was tough work, but until she was appointed Hunting Master, she had to pitch in everywhere, like everyone else in the bunker. She waved goodbye to her friend Louise heading the other way along the corridor, her smile tired. She would miss people in the bunker, but it wasn’t enough to prevent her breaking ties. Maybe they can come and join me when Gareth and me get set up somewhere. We could start a new town or something. Just pick up a few things, go to the bridge, and our new lives can begin. The thought was giddying, and she practically skipped the last few steps to her apartment door—until she heard a noise from inside.

  She stopped dead, her grimy hand resting on the door-handle as she listened carefully. Going into other people’s apartments was strictly forbidden within the bunker, and she couldn’t think of anyone stupid enough to try it with her. Not after she slapped Thomas Cooper for daring to throw paint at her door one Halloween evening. Turning her ear to the crack between the door and the frame, she closed her eyes and groaned under her breath as she recognised the sounds from within. Someone was muttering to themselves, and she could hear the clank of bottles and glasses being moved. Her mother.

  Not even attempting to pretend she was surprised, Freda pushed the door open with such force that it sent a wind into the small sitting room-cum-kitchen beyond. Her mother wheeled around with a frightened squeak, her wiry hands held out in front of her as she gazed over at her daughter like a rabbit caught in headlights. Sighing dramatically, reminding herself that it would be the last time she would ever have the argument, Freda shoved her front door closed with a soft click. “Mother, I keep telling you—I don’t drink. It’s no good rifling through my cupboards. I don’t have any alcohol.”

  “You just want me to suffer,” Amelia whined, putting on a pitiful expression that Freda knew all too well. A lesser person might have crumbled under it. As it was, Freda’s heart was hardened to it. Her mother dragged a hand that trembled violently through her stringy hair, smoothing it back. Her skin was yellow, looking darker in the hollows of her sunken cheeks. “You know your poor mother needs it, and you take it away from me, just to make me suffer.”

  “Yes, mother, that’s exactly why I do it,” Freda seethed in a dark tone. She strode past her mother to the bedroom, popping open the press-studs of her overalls. The large light buzzed on as she flicked the switch, shrugging her shoulders out, revealing the thin camisole and shorts she wore beneath. It was too hot in the generator room for anything else. “Not because the doctor said the drink would kill you, or anything.”

  “He didn’t say that,” her mother snapped. Freda eyed her warily as she swayed against the doorframe, having followed her daughter to the bedroom with heavier footsteps than a sober person would have. It was obvious she had already found some alcohol somewhere. And it wasn’t even midday. “He said it wasn’t good for me anymore. Doesn’t mean I can’t have some now and then.”

  Freda let out a dry laugh, stepping out of her overall and discarding it in a corner of the room. She wouldn’t need it anymore. Still flouting her mother, she strode across to her wardrobe, sliding the door across and reaching into the depths for a dark blue rucksack. Dragging open a drawer within the wardrobe, Freda began to search amongst the neatly folded clothes for what she would need. There was no need to take everything, only the pieces less frayed and worn than the others. “Sure, that’s what he said. ‘Your liver can’t take anymore. Your next drink might kill you’, he said. Yup, sounds like ‘have another drink’ to me.” She darted her head around her wardrobe door, looking her mother up and down as she struggled to stay upright. “Not that it looks like you needed the encouragement today. Wine, was it? Or something stronger? Bleach, perhaps?”

  Amelia’s face twisted for a moment. “You’re a nasty little bitch when you want to be,” she hissed. Her voice rang with venom.

  Freda paused, blowing out a calming breath. Last time I have this argument. Last time I have this argument. Remember that. A warning stab of fury sliced through her chest, but she bit it back. It was acidic. Despite knowing that it would be like this, some part of Freda’s mind had played with the romantic notion that she might actually be able to tell her mother she was leaving calmly, and that her mother would be sober for the occasion. That she would wish her the best, even if she had never truly loved her. “I’m just pointing out that you’re not choosy, mother. I caught you drinking the mouthwash, once.” It was true. And for once, Freda didn’t feel the usual pang of guilt she did when bringing it up. Today was not a day to be gentle with the truth. Pushing herself upright from the floor, she reached up for the few hangers on the rail above, snatching off some clothing and shoving it deep into the bag.

  “No, you caught me washing my mouth out with the mouthwash. I just swallowed some by accident,” her mother argued, staggering over to the bed and sinking onto it heavily as she repeated the well-worn words she spoke every time the incident was brought up. Her head wobbled from side to side as she tried to catch her balance, finally focussing on Freda darting around the bedroom like a whirlwind, snatching up other useful items and throwing them into the bag. “What—what are you doing? Going somewhere?”

  Rummaging through the drawers sitting
by her bedside, Freda glanced up, leaning one hand on the bed. It dipped beneath her weight. She took in her mother’s bloodshot eyes, her downturned mouth. She could choose to leave her mother with a lie, or tell her the truth. Fuck it. “I’m leaving,” Freda stated with finality. She shrugged on a yellow t-shirt that she had left laid out that morning, reaching down for the jeans that sagged over one arm of the chair. A gurgle came from above her head, from the metal roof that covered the room. She had learnt to sleep to the sounds of the pipes that ran over every room in the bunker, but she was certain she could learn to live without them. “I’m leaving the bunker. Today.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yes. Is it that much of a surprise, mother?”

  Amelia stood up shakily, using the bed as a prop as she staggered to her feet, drawing herself to her full height with some difficulty. The light above gave out for a second, casting her face into shadow against the grey-blue walls of the bedroom as she glared across at her only daughter. “You can’t leave,” she retorted. She hiccupped. “You need to stay here. To look after me. And your father.” Her eyes narrowed, taking on a poisonous glare. “You can’t leave your father, you selfish girl. How dare you even think of leaving him to deal with his injury on his own.”

  It was the final straw. The anger that had burned in her heart spilled over, fuelling her brain as she slung the rucksack over one shoulder. She stepped towards her mother, so aggressively that the older woman took a nervous step back. Curling her hands into fists, the strap of the bag digging into her palm, she hissed, “How fucking dare you.”

  Her mother gasped. “How dare you swear at me!”

  “Swear at you, you drunken old hag? I’ll more than swear at you. Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you? What I’ve sacrificed for you?” Some tiny part of Freda’s brain knew that she should stop, that she should stem the flow of agony before it went too far and cut something deep, but she shook with the need to spit it out. Holding up a hand that shook with fury, she uncurled her pointer finger. “When I was a child—a child—I used to have to wipe up your vomit on a night when you fell asleep in your chair.” She shot another finger up. “When I was a teenager, I couldn’t go to parties with my friends, because someone had to be home while father was working, to ensure you didn’t set fire to something. Not that he was much use when he did get home,” she scoffed. “I barely knew he was there most of my life.”