Letting out a snort, Harris moved closer, his hair looking as though it had set alight in the dim yellow glow from the bulb above. “Freda, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go there by yourself and take down a camp of bandits.” His mocking smile fell as he took in the determined lines of her face, and his shoulders sagged. “Fuck. You’re serious, aren’t you? Jesus. Freda, you can’t. You’ll get yourself killed.” His voice broke on his last words.
Lifting her rifle for a moment to check the aim, pulling the bolt back to ensure it was still as smooth and oiled as it had been before they set out, Freda took a step forwards until she was level with Harris’ face. Leaving only an inch between them, needing him to understand, she half-snarled, “I am going to do this, Harris. With or without you. Your choice. But you can’t stop me.”
Something in Harris’ face snapped as he looked down at her, and he let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as he looked down to the carpeted floor. Freda watched him silently. He gave a single nod, before abruptly bending and searching the same shelf for his shotgun. “Alright,” he replied grimly. “Suicide mission it is.”
Chapter Sixteen
September 16th, 2063 – the Present
The camp was quieter than it had been before, and only one bandit stood outside to keep guard. He whistled as he strode back and forth in front of the entrance, his weapon resting on his shoulder—a cricket bat, with the wood split where short pieces of jagged metal had been shoved in hard. The wind had dropped, leaving the night air still, almost stifling. The houses which before had looked simply sad and alone now seemed menacing, with their gaping black windows like unblinking eyes.
Freda didn’t see any of that, or register the surprised grunt from the bandit as she crept up behind him, wrapping her metal arm tightly around his neck. One quick slice with the hunting knife she always kept in her boot, a few more seconds of holding him while he flopped in her hold like a struggling fish, and he was dead. She let him slide to the floor, her sleeve soaked in red so dark it was almost black, and she peered over her shoulder to Harris. He had waited behind a nearby wall, not wanting to rush over like Freda had, but she was filled with a cold fire that refused to be put out until she had her revenge. I remember everything Harris told me about revenge. Doesn’t make a lick of difference. I still want it. Out loud, she hissed, “Are you coming, then?”
Rising gracefully from behind the concrete wall, Harris gave her a firm nod, but his gaze was still heavy with mourning. Clambering easily over the bricks and making his way across silently on his rubber soles, Harris jabbed one finger up into the concrete building. “Can I ask if we have a plan?”
“Of course we do. Get inside, kill the bastards. Then they can never hurt anyone else again. That’s the plan.” Her tone was hard as stone.
A troubled sigh. “I feared as much.”
The pair dived into the shadow of the covered doorway, pushing gently against the large double-doors that led inside. The lights were out, and snoring could be heard from several directions at once. Freda narrowed her eyes to force them to adjust to the low lighting, turning her head to pick up where the nearest noises came from. The hallways disappeared into around two corners, one to either side, and a large staircase in front led upstairs. It was grey and concrete, just like the outside. Moving carefully, Freda jerked her head towards a nearby door, broken in half. Swinging the remaining bottom half inwards, she was greeted with the sounds of two bandits asleep, both of them turned away from Harris and herself, facing the wall. Without looking to check if Harris could see her, she pointed decidedly over to the bandit sleeping in the far corner, moving herself to the one sleeping below the window.
She was resting on a thin, dirty mattress laid out on the floor, covered only with a large, patchy coat. Her hair looked as though it was dark, but it was so clumped and matted together that it was hard to be certain if it was the right colour. Without stopping to consider it, Freda reached down with her knife and brought it over the bandit’s throat, her stomach twisting as she listened to the gurgling panic as the bandit woke for a moment and tried to breathe. Similar sounds came from behind Freda as Harris obediently did the gruesome task she had roped him into.
It took them five minutes to crawl between all of the makeshift bedrooms, stabbing and cutting silently like assassins. As the pair made their way back to the bottom of the stairs, Harris gave a worried look up the grey steps, holding Freda back as he put his arm out. “Wait. We’ve done enough. Let’s leave.”
“You scared?” she growled, shrugging her arm out of his grasp. “We haven’t come across the guy in charge, you know we haven’t. He’s upstairs, living it up with his favourite pals.” The sound of laughter and raucous talking filtered down to them as though on cue, complimented by the wavering of light that glowed at the base of the next set of stairs, just visible from where Freda and Harris stood. “I thought you said the Vigilants stood for something. That they would help people. How many more will they kill or wound if we leave them there?”
Harris’ face twisted as he hurriedly considered her words, clear that they were causing him conflict. In a hushed whisper, he replied, “But this isn’t about helping. This is revenge, Freda.”
“And? The means justify the ends, if that makes you feel better.”
He shifted the strap of his shotgun nervously, fiddling with it as he pushed it back and forth over his shoulder. “So don’t moralise to me. If you want to go up there, I’m coming with you. I’m just trying to stop you.”
Freda’s vision blurred for a moment as a flash of memory came back to her, of Reilly sagging in their arms as they ran, the bandits chuckling wickedly in the distance. “You can’t. I’m sorry.”
A bellow of laughter came from above, and Harris’ face softened. “Don’t be. I’m right behind you.”
As they marched up the stairs, not even bothering to be silent this time, Freda could feel reason and logic getting pushed somewhere into the back of her brain. Every step was filled with lightness, guiding her upwards. She pressed back against the wall as they got closer, stopping to inspect her rifle. She checked the magazine, satisfying herself that all five bullets were well, before snapping back the bolt. The weapon felt cold in her hands. Emotionless. Emotionless was always good.
Harris and Freda drew up outside the open doorway that led into the top floor, and the noise grew loud enough for them to realise the bandits were close to the top of the staircase. Freda nodded over to Harris as she pressed herself up against the wall, sliding along it slowly as she raised her rifle near her shoulder. He nodded back, but his expression was clouded with uncertainty. He rolled his shoulders, the leather jacket he still wore whispering as it moved. A patch of dried blood from carrying Reilly earlier mingled with the fresh blood from the bandits downstairs. Moving one high-laced boot onto the top stair, he moved quickly into the field of sight in the doorway, and pulled the trigger on his shotgun. The laughter died abruptly in the wake of surprised and angry cries. Long sheets and curtain were hung up like fabric room dividers, dirty and stained, shuddering in the sudden breeze caused by so much movement.
Deaf to everything, Freda twisted around, her coat flying out around her knees, and marched into the room. She ignored the blasts of the shotgun behind her, raising her rifle to her shoulder and taking aim. Fury overtook her as she fired off bullet after bullet, only stopping to reload after five of the bandits collapsed. Her head rang, and she was vaguely aware of something winging her sharply at the side of her leg, followed by warmth. She paid it no attention. Ramming the bolt back, she focussed on each bandit in turn, hating their snarling faces, the streaks of blood painted on their cheeks like war-paint, the garments they wore that had been torn from their victims. The men and women in the room became every bandit she had ever come across, even those in the Badlands. Especially those in the Badlands. This time, she didn’t stop herself thinking about it. Not this time. Take them down. All of them. Her blood boiled and raced around her body l
ike fire, fuelling her movements.
Freda’s eyes flashed like a demon’s as she stood in the centre of the room, her rifle hammering into her shoulder and bashing the bruise that was starting there again. Her breathing was hoarse, coming in desperate rasps. Only one man stood in the room, pointing his own gun towards her and firing wildly. Something else twanged into her side, but she barely felt it as she narrowed her eyes and gazed across at him. At the crosses painted on his skin in dried, crumbling blood. At the viciousness in his blue-green eyes. Taking care to avoid the thick leather coat he had tied tightly around his tall frame, Freda flicked her gun downwards and fired into his legs. One, two shots. Three. Four. Five. He fell to the ground with a visceral scream.
She paused to reach into her pocket for more bullets, ready to reload, when Harris laid a hand on her shoulder. She jumped as the sensation finally bit through her raw senses, and she took a step back to steady herself. He placed his hand over hers, pushing the bullets back into her pocket. “Enough. It’s done.”
“Not yet it isn’t,” she snapped, but she slung the rifle back onto her shoulder somewhat reluctantly. Without offering an explanation for her cryptic words, she turned and picked her way over the bloody mound of bodies until she reached the leader. He wasn’t dead yet, groaning and coughing as he tried to hang onto life. I always aim correctly now. He’ll bleed from those legs until there’s nothing left, but for now he’s alive. Good. Freda stooped down, a long sheet tearing from the ceiling and fluttering down as it got stuck under her boot. She grasped the bandit leader’s collar tightly, yanking him up until he weakly opened his eyes. Gritting her teeth to stop spitting on his face, she snarled, “This is for our friend. You killed her today.”
The leader laughed, a cruel laugh that became a hacking cough as he shook against her firm hold. His lips twisted into a cold grin, revealing three broken teeth. “So what, pet? I’ve killed lots of people. Fuck your friend, and fuck you.”
Numbness returned to Freda’s body, just like it had when she had sat in the guest-house waiting for Reilly to die, but she kept her composure even as her face turned white. Tightening her hold until he wheezed against it for air, the skin of his throat wrinkling, she hissed, “Some of your bandits talked earlier about seeing a young man with a crippled leg. With dark hair. Where did he go?”
The leader’s hair, shaped into spikes with some dark, gooey material, waved back and forth as he cackled again. “Crippled lad? How the fuck should I know? I don’t know who he is.”
“He’s my brother. Tell me where he went!”
The bandit gave another toothy grin, his eyes narrowing as he stuck two fingers weakly up at Freda from beneath her nose. “I. Don’t. Know. Fuck you, and fuck your brother up the arse. Kill me or get out.”
His last words snapped any self-control Freda had tried to hold onto for the last few moments. As she felt it break apart inside her, she raised her other hand—her metal hand, encased in hard steel. “Gladly.” Freda barely recognised her own voice. It was more cold and heartless than her own mother had ever managed. She brought the hand down before Harris could rush across to stop her, smashing it into the laughing, twisted face of the bandit under her clutches. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, thumping against her ribs as though urging her on, every hit seeming to have more fury and strength behind it. She didn’t stop when she felt the crunch of bone beneath her pummelling fist. She didn’t stop when she heard the leader begging for mercy, or when Harris tried to pull her away. Freda simply shrugged out of his hold, blindly thrusting her fist into his face, again and again. She didn’t even stop when she felt it slide far past where the leader’s cheek should have been, the metal fingers slamming into something soft and breakable.
“Freda, enough!” Harris roared behind her, and his final tug did pull her away. Freda tumbled backwards onto the pile of bodies, heaving for breath as the room came back into focus. When her vision cleared, she looked up to see Harris staring down at her. Expecting disgust or revulsion on his features, she almost flinched and looked away. Instead, he crouched down and held out his hand for hers.
As nervous as the rabbits she used to hunt, Freda silently placed her hand in Harris’, where he wrapped his fingers tightly around it. His jeans wrinkled as he leaned forwards on his knees, chewing at his lip. “I know what it’s like. I know you don’t feel any better right now. But I know you had to do it.”
His words were so unexpected that Freda would have cried if she still had the energy or will to do so. Closing her eyes against the chaotic horror around them that they had just caused, she swallowed against the bile rising into her throat, telling herself it was just the smell of the place. “Thanks,” she finally answered in a small voice. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“I’d go anywhere with you.” Harris reached across to stroke a thumb over her cheek as he had after Reilly had died, and Freda leaned into it for a moment. They sat there for a few more seconds, not speaking, until he withdrew sharply and stood up. The loss of contact was as severing as ever, but Freda was getting used to it. Without saying a word, she rose up from the ground and made her way back to the stairs. To York and to her grief, but some of it was twisted by that night in a way she hated herself for.
To say this funeral is spartan is to say Skin-Eaters are crazed monsters. Freda glanced around dismally at the small group gathered around the grave. Harris, Toby and Emily—his brother still hadn’t returned from his hunting trip—herself, and a religious man they had managed to find who wasn’t one of the Purists. She wasn’t sure what religion the man followed, but he claimed it was the ‘Church of England’, something from the old world. A ‘vicar’ he called himself. As long as he said nice things about Reilly, she didn’t care.
The graveyard itself was everything to be expected of a place for burying the dead. Small wooden crosses, made up of snapped-apart fences and broken posts, rubbing shoulders with each other in uncomfortably close graves. A few burnt trees were scattered over the field outside the city, none of them with any growth or greenery. The weather had even prepared itself for the funeral, and fat drops of rain spattered on the muddy ground around them, the sky above an ominous shade of dark grey. Freda clasped her hands together and gazed down into Reilly’s grave. Her frail body had been carefully wrapped in an old bedsheet, tied tightly with pieces of frayed rope to prevent it falling apart as she was carried outside the city. Toby and Harris had carried her on their shoulders, as though she was a doll that weighed nothing.
Swallowing back the hard lump in her throat, Freda tried to concentrate on the vicar’s words. Something about going to paradise? Guilt plucked at her heart as she remembered telling Reilly about where she was going after she died. Freda raised her eyes to the sky as though their friend might be watching them, blinking against the rain. I really hope I’m wrong. I really hope you’re somewhere else, Reilly, and you found Cary. I hope you’re happy again. Almost forgetting she was stood with others, she tucked a strand of loose chestnut hair behind one ear and murmured to herself, “Maybe she should have been buried near her sister.”
Harris leaned in beside her, his breath warm against the nuclear cold as he whispered in reply, “We would never have been able to get her back without attracting Skin-Eaters. Besides, it doesn’t matter where her body is. And at least she’s buried.” His face took on a grey pallour that reflected the sky as he leaned back, stomping his feet against the ground in an effort to keep them warm or awake. “The damn Purists wanted to burn her, because of the Illness.”
The vicar raised his arms to the skies as he continued his speech in a monotone voice, a small leather book clasped tightly in one hand. Freda eyed it for a moment, wrapping her arms around herself as she shifted uneasily on the lumpy ground. “What now?”
“You mean what do we do now?”
“Yeah.”
A deep sigh poured from Harris’ lips as he leaned back, ruffling a hand through his hair. It was starting to grow too long and unkempt. “I’
m going wherever you’re going. I said I’d help you both, and I’m not leaving you. So I guess we have to find Gareth.”
Freda’s watchful gaze passed from the vicar to Toby. He and his sister were staring despondently down into the deep pit where Reilly lay, and by the looks on their faces, she would have guessed they were reliving the terrible moment they had to bury their mother. She nodded towards him. “Toby mentioned the caravan that Gareth might have joined. The bandits said something similar. So let’s follow them.”
“Alright. We’ll head towards Leeds, then.”
Giving a silent nod, Freda turned her attention back to her friend lying in the grave below. The sight made her stomach turn. I can’t bear to think of her lying there like that, in the cold. She straightened her lips into a solid line. Can’t think like that. I have to find Gareth. Before he…before the same thing happens to him.
She turned away, keeping her arms folded around her chest as she sniffed and walked with long strides back towards the city. There was nothing left for them here. And it was better to keep moving.
Chapter Seventeen
April 7th, 2063 – the Past
Freda snapped out of her dream with a yell, left with a churning sensation like after falling a short distance. It was dark. She pressed her head against the wall behind, blowing out a calming breath as her eyes roved wildly from one side of the room to the other. She didn’t recognise it at first. It took her a few moments to register the walls and floor were the same, covered in soft white cushioning like marshmallow. Her heartbeat picked up. Freda had only seen this room—and the others like it—once before. The holding cells of the bunker.
She went to stretch her arms out, but they didn’t move as her brain commanded, instead letting her tip forwards onto the floor with a cry. Grunting, Freda shuffled herself back up onto her knees, trying to wriggle her fingertips. Panic sailed through her like a fire. Are they gone? Have they taken my arms or something? Pushing aside the ridiculous thoughts that tumbled into her half-asleep mind, Freda looked down, her heart plummeting somewhere into her stomach. A strait jacket. She pulled experimentally at her arms, only succeeding in making them feel more tightly knotted. One of her hands had pins and needles, almost numb from how forcefully they had tied the straps at the back. What the hell is going on? Why am I here?
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