We Are The Few

by Miranda Stork

  With some difficulty she managed to rock herself back up onto her heels, using her own weight and the wall behind to push herself up into a standing position. Feels bloody ridiculous, damn it. I feel like a turkey at Christmas. Not that she had eaten many of them, but she could remember the few frozen ones shared out amongst the bunker when she was a child. She gazed across at the small metal door, a single round glass window cut into the top half, with a tiny hatch beneath. She made her way across to it, surprised at how breathless it made her. Having her arms so strictly held against her ribcage meant she couldn’t expand her lungs that well, and she had to take in a deep breath by the time her cheek kissed the cool metal edge of the door. She leant against it, breathing heavily. She didn’t stop to think about the irony of a metal door in a padded room.

  “Hey! Hello? Can someone hear me?” She winced as she shouted, her throat sore. Had she been shouting before? Snatches of memory flittered back like reluctant butterflies. The security officers…right while I was waiting for Gareth. Her eyes widened as she breathed in and out slowly, trying to push down the bubble of dread rising to her chest. He never turned up, that’s right. I was waiting for him…then they came. Then the doctor?

  Freda frowned to herself before leaning against the glass window again, pressing her face as closely as she could manage. “Hey! Why the fuck am I in here? Get me out!” No, it can’t have been him. Why would he…? Hang on. Yes. He injected me with something. Her arm stung as though reminding her of where he had stuck the needle in, and everything flooded back to her, as cold and hard as the rain hitting her face had been. Bile rose to her throat, and she swallowed it back, flinching again as the acid slid past the sore part of her throat. It felt like a cheese-grater had been passed over it. “Is anyone there? I need—”

  A skin-coloured shape appeared on the other side of the mottled glass, and Freda took a nervous step back. Even though she had called for someone, she felt vulnerable without her arms. Her hands itched for a weapon. The computerised lock on the door sprang open with a clunk, the door itself sliding smoothly to one side and disappearing for a moment behind the cushioned wall. Doctor Travers stepped through on a graceful stride, his clean white overall as crisp as it had been when he had first wandered down the road to meet her. Freda took another step back as the door closed again behind him, and he gave her a strained smile. “Freda. I see you are awake.”

  His calm words were enough to snap her out of her stupor, and Freda glowered back at him. “What the hell is going on? Why am I in here? And why…” she struggled for a moment against the irritating jacket, the straps rattling, “…am I in this bloody thing?”

  “Freda, please calm down.” The way he kept using her first name was grating on her nerves. It was as if he was worried she might have forgotten it for a moment. He lifted one hand to gesture for her to relax. “You are here because you seemed to get agitated when you left the bunker. Do you remember what you were doing near the crossing bridge?”

  Leaning back against the soft wall, digging her bare toes into the cushioned surface below, Freda sighed without taking her eyes off him. “I already told you. I was waiting there for Gareth. Gareth and I are leaving.”

  “Your mother told me a different story.”

  Freda’s eyes flashed for a moment with pure fury. I knew it. I knew she wouldn’t let us leave, not just like that. Biting back her temper, knowing it wouldn’t do any good in her present position, she gritted her teeth and tried to regain some composure. “Doctor, whatever my mother told you…don’t believe a word of it. You know she drinks too much. She imagines things.”

  Travers cocked one eyebrow briefly, but it was so fast that Freda wasn’t sure if she had seen it at all. He cleared his throat, tucking both of his hands behind his back and striding to one side of the room. To Freda’s relief, he didn’t seem to be carrying any more magic syringes. “Yes, that is true. But nevertheless, I think we need to talk about a few things before we can get this mess cleared up. I suggest—”

  “Where’s my brother?”

  “Excuse me?” Travers blinked in a way that suggested he wasn’t used to being interrupted.

  Freda’s temper erupted in her veins, and her cheeks grew hot as she hissed, “Where is Gareth?”

  The doctor fell silent, and he cast his sombre eyes over Freda, walking slowly back over to the door.

  She cast her gaze between him and the door as it began to slide away again, her heart painful against her ribs as it clattered into them. She took a step towards him. “Travers, where the hell is my brother?!” Freda was well aware of how high-pitched her voice had gone, but she no longer cared. Her gut was twisting like someone wringing out an old dishcloth. Something had happened to Gareth. She could feel it.

  She pushed herself off the wall and raced towards the doctor, but he stepped out of the room smartly just before the door slammed back into place, the lock clicking as it reset the code. Freda let out a roar of anger, kicking against it. She recoiled as her toes met the steel hard, hissing in a breath between her teeth to try and dull the pain. Rising up again and trying to ignore it, she slammed her shoulder into the door, banging her forehead into the glass. “Travers! Where the hell is Gareth? What have you done to him?”

  Freda stood screaming and shouting for another few minutes, but when it became clear that no one was going to answer her, she sank down to the floor with a whimper. Her eyes searched the padded walls again for some route to escape. Something has happened to Gareth, I just know it. Our bloody mother has done something. And what has she said about me? That I’m crazy? How?

  Freda bit her lip as she felt a sob pushing in her chest. I will not cry. I must think. Think of a way to get out. She turned her gaze up toward the glass of the metal door again. She had to find her brother. She was all he had.

  Chapter Eighteen

  September 18th, 2063 – the Present

  Leeds was just as impressive as York was. Or, it would have been, if it hadn’t been in the middle of a full-scale riot.

  Freda and Harris kept to the edges of the crowd as it swayed in front of them, filled with people throwing things and shouting loudly. Some of the buildings lining the wide street had been smashed and broken into, and a grand Victorian public building seemed to be covered in onlookers peering from the roof and windows as well as graffiti, still wet and fresh. Leeds had no great wall around it like York had when the Big Hit came, but they had built one since, and rebuilt most of the city. The wall in this section of the city was a strange mixture of red-brick and clutter, pieced together from the rubble of the most ruined buildings. It wasn’t as well-built as the other side of the city, and neither did it use the same smooth white brick.

  Her hand scraped along the wall as Freda pressed herself against it, out of the way of three loud protestors waving signs. “What it is it? Can you see what’s going on?”

  In answer to her question, Harris craned his head like a giraffe trying to find the tender leaves at the top of a tree, stepping from side to side as he peered past the throng of rioters. He heaved a sigh. “It looks like it’s between the Elites and the Lowers. Again.”

  Freda let her head fall back against the wall, giving a groan. “Great. Just what we need. A bloody riot. How are we going to find the caravan?”

  Before Harris could reply, the pair found themselves pulled forwards by unseen hands. When the whirl of colours and garments flashed by and Freda stared ahead in confusion, she was met with the sight of three women in tunics, waving paper leaflets in her face gleefully. She tried to wriggle her hand out of the grasp of the shortest one, a woman with blonde curly hair and heavily-made-up brown eyes, but the grip was like a vice. The woman flashed her a smile full of half-broken teeth, fluttering a leaflet towards her. “The Lowers have risen up!” she declared with pride. “We demand to be on the other side of the wall. To share and share alike!”

  “Yeah, that’s great,” Freda quipped, glancing over to her left. Harris was in the same predicament
, trying to politely extricate himself from a portly older woman who had pinned him against two of her friends, screaming something about inequality. Her long, ragged purple skirt was swishing around her knees as she twisted back and forth, shoving more leaflets to those around her. Many of them looked just as bemused as Freda and Harris; others looked like they were waiting for a fight. Using her arms like shovels, Freda squeezed past the writhing mass of people towards Harris, reaching out and grabbing his hand. She pulled hard, succeeding in freeing him from the circle of women.

  One of them leapt in front of Freda just as she turned around to push her way to the back, clinging firmly to Harris’ hand. He tumbled after her, and both of them were confronted with the ruddy, dirt-covered face of a tall, middle-aged man who stabbed a finger over to a stage in the distance, towards the central buildings of the street. “You see? We have risen up against the Elites who take everything for themselves. We demand equal rights and safety, from those hiding behind their wall and police!”

  Throwing an arm over her nose to stop the stale breath that came from the man’s mouth, Freda stepped around him and kept going, her grip on Harris’ hand like steel as she half-led, half-pulled him through the crowd. A roar went up from the front, and Freda ducked on instinct as something exploded loudly, shaking the road. When she came back up for air, the crowd of people was separating in all directions, some running for cover while others ran at the stage. She blinked, poking a finger in her ear and wriggling it to try and rid it of the ringing sound the explosion had caused. From the dust cascading through the air above the wooden stage, and the three men who had been stood on riling the crowd up now coughing and bent over, it was clear someone had let off a small bomb. A few people were laid on the ground, but they were moving and spluttering, so the explosion hadn’t caused too much damage.

  Harris came in close, looking around nervously as he jerked his head towards the left side of the throng of people. Several tall men and women, all dressed in matching uniforms of pale blue and white, were marching towards the crowd with weapons raised. “It’s the Elites’ police force. Bloody hell. We’re going to get swept up in all this, if we don’t move.”

  Freda took a second to survey their surroundings. She had never been to Leeds before, although Harris had tried to tell her as much as he could on the journey, and everything looked unfamiliar. Her eyes fell on a small alleyway that several people seemed to be disappearing down, its darkness a perfect cover providing it came out somewhere safe. Her brain lit up at the sight. “This way.” She pointed towards the passageway, setting off at a run just as the first warning shots rang out into the afternoon air. People cried out, and a few women screamed, the ground shaking with the weight of so many feet running on it at the same time.

  Not stopping to look over their shoulder, Freda and Harris ran down the curve of the road, skidding to a stop at the side of a blackened-brick building, before diving down into the depths of the alleyway. It was covered with a small archway of grey stone, something old and forgotten carved into it in the form of words. They went down the thin brick steps as quickly as they could without tripping, making their way into the dampness below. It was open to the sky, but narrow, with buildings flanking it on either side. Rainwater dripped from the broken gutters still attached to the shops and houses, landing in large puddles. The water splashed onto Freda’s jeans as she jogged through it. They came to the other side of the passage, both breathing heavily and leaning forwards on their knees. Harris gasped for air, glancing over his shoulder. No one had followed them, and the sounds of the riot were now further behind. “I think…we’re okay,” he wheezed.

  Freda winced as she straightened up, holding a hand to her side where a stitch was beginning. “I don’t think ‘okay’ is a word that can describe how unfit we are. Running after riding several miles on a bike—not a good idea.”

  A wry grin split Harris’ face, and he wiped a hand over his forehead to catch the sweat forming there. “True. It’s a shame we’re not allowed them in the city.”

  The wind was cold as it blew against the heat on Freda’s face, and she wiped her hair back out of her eyes, reaching back and pulling her ponytail tighter. Her eyes settled on a welcome sight ahead, and she took a step forwards onto the pavement of the next street. “Fancy a drink?”

  “Where?”

  “Just there. A pub.” Freda jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards a large sign before turning and walking across the road slowly, listening for Harris following behind. ‘Pub this way. Cross the bridge’, the sign read in large black painted letters. The bridge between them and the pub on the other side crossed the wide River Aire, some chips of white and blue paint still visible on the iron railings either side. The river churned restlessly as they passed over it, flooded with the recent rainfall. Attempts had been made to fix the road, with dirt filling in many of the holes, or corrugated metal laid over for walkways. Tall buildings lined the banks of the river on both sides, and several small houses had been built haphazardly around them with rubble from the surrounding architecture. Only two original buildings still stood proud against the pale blue sky. One was a strange triangular building, almost flat at one end where it met the point, the other end widening onto another street. The other building was a grandiose Victorian structure, curving as it followed the road around, rising high into the air with red and cream bricks.

  Freda paused to look up at it, arching her head to see the broken carvings of filigree and writing that wound above the windows on the lower level. ‘The Adelphi Hotel’ it proclaimed in tarnished gold letters near the door, a single hanging basket swinging limply on one side from two thin chains, long since rusted over and devoid of plants. There was a murmur of conversation that wound outside from within the pub, and Harris put his arm protectively around Freda’s shoulders as they tentatively made their way inside. She almost shrugged it off, her instincts to be strong and assertive warring with the simple pleasure of having his warmth and his smell near her. I wonder if he thinks about the other night, she mused, glancing up at him quickly. She turned away again, biting back a sigh. It hadn’t left her mind.

  Harris and Freda stepped into the pub, looking around in opposite directions almost on cue. The side they had stepped into was vividly painted in a deep plum, with heavy old wooden furniture and green quilted seats set into the walls. A bald man stood behind the bar with a dirty tan coat and a red necktie waved them across, a cloth slung over one shoulder as he leaned forwards on the scratched wood with a wide smile. “Come in. All’s welcome here. What can I get you?”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Freda let Harris’ arm slide away as she stepped forward, trying to ignore the curious glances from some of the locals sat around them. It wasn’t a question she had heard in many places. “You’ve got more than one choice?”

  The bald man gave a chuckle, reaching above his head for two chipped glasses hanging from small brass hooks. He gave one of them a hard wipe with the cloth from his shoulder, before flicking it expertly back and setting them down. “We’ve got water, of course. Some fruit juice, from what we grow. Bit of veg juice, too.” He pulled a face as though sucking on something sour. “Wouldn’t drink that, mind. Tastes like the devil’s arse.”

  A deep chuckle came from Freda’s chest at his words, and she felt her body relax with the sound. Perching herself on one of the rickety-looking stools dotted around the bar, she waited for Harris to sit down beside her silently. He folded his arms and placed them on the bar, still looking around and drinking in the details of the place. She nodded over to the bald man, smiling gently. “Anything else?”

  “Aye. No bottled beers left, went years ago. But,” his chest puffed up with pride, and he gave a cocky nod, “we have our very own, brewed-on-the-premises, delicious Adelphi Ale. We grow the crops needed locally, and we brew ‘em down in our cellar.” He grinned again, revealing surprisingly even white teeth. “Fancy one? A bullet each—we don’t take cans, I’m afraid. No need for food in the city whe
n we grow our own.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll both have one,” Freda replied enthusiastically, reaching into her pocket for two small pistol bullets she had taken from the raiders a few nights before. The thought left her cold, but she tried to hide her expression as she passed across the payment. The taps hissed as the barmen pulled out two frothy ales, in the same way she had seen happen in the bar of the bunker. Thinking about the bunker didn’t make her feel any better, and she couldn’t prevent a shiver, pulling her thick coat closer around her shoulders.

  Reaching out with a nod of thanks to the ale passed across to him, Harris picked up the glass gingerly and took a tentative sip, avoiding the large chip missing on one side. His eyebrows shot up. “This is delicious. Much better than the bottled ones.”

  “Glad to hear you say so, lad. The bottled stuff’s been sitting around for years; it shouldn’t taste right.” The barman sighed, flicking his cloth at a small fly buzzing around his head. “It boggles the mind, how some people still prefer it.”

  As the two men fell into conversation, Freda lifted the glass and took a swallow, feeling parched. The ale was light and delicate as it filled her mouth, only a tingling burn in the back of her throat warning that it had any alcohol in at all. She swallowed, closing her eyes as the delicious aftertaste of fruit lingered on her tongue. “Wow,” she said out loud. “It is good.”