Harris’ knife scraped against the food on his plate as he moved it sharply, waving his knife in the air between the two women. “Yeah, I think I might have spotted him last night. Young guy with dark hair and a crippled leg. I was pretty amazed at how fast he was in a fight.”
Freda grinned. It certainly sounded like Gareth. She popped another mouthful of well-flavoured meat into her mouth, chewing fast as she nodded eagerly. “That could be him. Please, could he be here? His name’s Gareth.” Excitement bubbled under her skin at the mention of her brother’s name, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird.
She didn’t expect the doubtful expression on Katrina’s face. Replacing the spatula to its position next to the fire, the blue-haired woman licked her lips as she sat upright stiffly, slapping her hands onto her knees. “It’s true that there is a young man travelling with us like that—came from York. But he calls himself Martin, not Gareth. Still,” she mused, dipping a finger into a broth murmuring in a large pot beside the frying pan, “it could be a false name. Give me a moment.” Making a popping sound as she sucked the broth from her finger, Katrina stood up sharply and stepped easily around the fire and performers, setting out at a brisk pace for one of the vans.
The woman’s response left Freda cold, and she couldn’t stop the shiver that ran along her back. It’s just the frosty morning. That’s all. Holding onto her plate with one hand, she reached up and tugged her coat closer, staring across the illuminated morning fog to follow Katrina’s path. The mist was too thick to see where she had gone, and Freda chewed slowly on a piece of meat. It was now tasteless in her mouth.
She was jolted out of her melancholy thoughts by Harris shaking her arm gently. He stared down at her with concern in his eyes, his mouth drawn tightly. “Like she said; it might be a false name.”
“Yeah. I know.” Freda tried to smile, but it didn’t go further than her mouth curving for a moment. Why would Gareth use a false name? He wanted me to find him. Is he hiding from someone?
Two figures came towards them through the mist, Katrina’s neon-blue hair instantly recognisable as she marched over at a steady pace. Someone walked along beside her, someone with a noticeable limp and a crutch tucked under one arm. Despite her fears, hope lighted in Freda’s chest, and she put the plate down hurriedly against the grass, brushing off her front as she stood up eagerly. The second figure was wearing a dark-coloured coat with a deep hood so she couldn’t see their face, but the gait seemed oddly familiar. Her heart sped up, and she parted her lips on a silent gasp, her lungs constricting tightly. It had to be him. After all this time. It had to be Gareth.
Freda felt Harris’ hand slip into hers, but she didn’t turn to look. Katrina gave her a solemn nod, patting the figure next to her on the back. The hooded man stepped forwards, leaning on his crutch, and Freda swallowed hard. A bird cried out from a nearby tree, plucking her rigid nerves, the mist rolling like a sunlit cloud.
The figure reached up with a firm hand, pulling back the hood.
A low noise came from Freda’s throat, somewhere between a sob and a laugh of disappointment. It wasn’t Gareth. The young man stared back at her with grey eyes and hair so black it was almost blue. He gave an apologetic shrug, his brows drawing as he took in the pain on her face. “Sorry, love. My name’s Martin Frost. I was born in York.” He glanced over to Harris, as though pleading for him to help soften his story. “I got sick of the Purists, so I joined up with this lot when they came through.” He jerked his head over his shoulder to the crowd of performers all eating breakfast.
Sinking back down onto her seat, Freda let her head fall into her hands, grief washing over her like a tidal wave. No matter how much she tried to prepare herself, she realised that in the last few days she had truly convinced herself that Gareth would be here. With the caravan. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to hold back a single sob. It was a keen of sorrow, of the way she felt the delicate thread between herself and her brother snapping. The trail had gone cold. Maybe he’s dead, she thought to herself blankly, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes to stem the flow of hot tears waiting behind them. Out loud, she croaked, “Maybe he’s gone. Maybe I should just…stop searching.”
Martin twisted to stare at Katrina with a worried expression, but she simply gave a soft nod and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Martin. Thank you for coming over. Get back to your food.”
As he moved back through the mist slowly, pausing only to glance over his shoulder with pity at Freda’s form, Harris bent down and slid his arm around her shoulders. She let herself be pulled against him, her hands falling away with a sigh. She concentrated on the blades of grass beneath her feet, twisted and dark green like almost everything else in the wastes. Her fingers trailed through it as Harris leaned in. “You mustn’t think like that. We’ll find him.”
Freda brought her head back up, fixing him with a cold stare that summed up the roiling mass of emotions held tightly in her chest. “How?” she snapped. “How am I going to find him?” Guilty even in that moment at the hurt expression he gave her, Freda pushed Harris’ arm off as she pushed away from the seat, turning and storming away from the campfire. She had only marched a few steps when he appeared in front of her again, grabbing her arms and pinning her to the spot. As she looked up, she nearly flinched at the ice in his gaze.
Digging his fingers in so hard she was sure they would leave bruises, Harris gritted his teeth and barked in reply, “Enough.”
Blinking back at him, her cheeks damp from the misty air, Freda gave a weak attempt to yank her arms away as she glared back at him. “How fucking dare you? Enough of what?”
“Enough of this. Of being so…” He released her arms, turning and wiping a hand through his hair. “I don’t know! Of being so certain he’s gone. You mustn’t think like that, Freda.” The tense lines around his eyes softened. “Never give up. He’s waiting for you somewhere, and you have to find him. Even if he’s…if he’s…”
“Dead,” Freda finished flatly. The combined images of Reilly on her deathbed and Gareth lying somewhere in the wastes, cold and forgotten, made her stomach heave. Bending over and holding her arm out for Harris to keep his distance, she brought the meat and eggs back up onto the grass with the bile resting in the back of her throat. Wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand shakily, she took in a deep breath, closing her eyes against the onslaught of images. Harris was right. She couldn’t give up. “I don’t know where else to look,” she whispered.
There was a creak of leather boots as Harris crouched down, peering up into her face as he latched his fingers together. He chewed on his lip for a moment, the sounds of chatter and tarnished cutlery drifting from behind them both. He said softly, “What about the bunker?”
“The bunker?” Freda repeated the words as though they felt strange in her mouth. It did feel strange, talking about her old home in the present tense.
“Yeah. Maybe he went back there. Decided to go back and wait for you.”
Falling heavily back down to the grass, Freda crossed her legs into a sitting position, mulling over the idea. She swallowed against her dry mouth, grimacing at the taste left from bringing her breakfast back up. It was possible. Gareth could have waited for her, and when she didn’t appear, had made his way back to the bunker. They might have passed each other on opposite sides of the Badlands without knowing it. The Badlands. There it was. The reason she didn’t want to think about going back. She shook her head. “The Badlands. I’d have to go through again. I don’t want to go back through there.”
Harris rocked back on his heels, cracking his knuckles as he squeezed his hands together, his eyes narrowing. “What is it about the Badlands? I’ve never been before, but it can’t be that bad. It’s just Ground Zero, right?”
There was a shushing of grass as Katrina came up behind them, slurping noisily from a mug with a crack running down the side. Tapping her nails against it in an odd rhythm, she paused at Harris’ words. She took another slow gulp before spea
king. “The Badlands are more than just Ground Zero. They’re the nesting grounds for every bandit, murderer and Skin-Eater for miles around. And worse.”
Freda shuddered at her words, the wind biting at her skin. The sun had sunk behind a faintly grey cloud. “Katrina’s right. Much worse.” She shut her mouth tightly, staring off into space, trying not to think about the Skin-Eater with white eyes. Her flesh turned into goosepimples, even under her clothes. Squeezing her arms tightly around her body, she rocked back and forth like a child comforting herself.
Harris gave a sniff. “Well, you won’t be going alone. I’ll go with you.” He gave a weak smile. “Didn’t I promise you that?”
“Hey, we could come too,” Katrina unexpectantly broke in. Both Freda and Harris looked up towards her, surprise etched on their faces. She gave a merry laugh. “Oh, don’t flatter yourselves. We have to go south, anyway. There aren’t many places left in the north that will have us, and the money’s down there, too. And you did help us out of a bind.” She took another swallow from her mug. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, after we’ve rested up here.”
Remembering the mound, Freda pointed over towards it, a shiver passing over her as she stared at it. There was something ancient and otherworldly about it. “Yeah, about that…where are we? I’ve never seen this place before.”
“It’s Thornborough. This is an ancient circle—there’s two others, see?” She pointed into the distance, where another mound could be seen in a field across the road, and the mist had just cleared enough to see a ring of dried trees beyond that. “Pagan or something. Not sure what they were for. But it’s a good place to stop, as we’re heading back Ripon way.” At Freda’s doubtful glance, she cocked an eyebrow. “No good stopping in Ripon, huh? Alright, we’ll pass around it. Just be ready tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder as she turned and made her way back towards the campfire. Someone near the fire had brought out a battered-looking guitar, and was strumming it gently, its warm sound filling the air. A circle of performers had gathered around them to listen.
Freda took in a deep breath as she watched them, Harris still crouched silently by her side. Katrina seemed far too merry about the Badlands to have gone through before. Or maybe she’s braver than me. Or maybe she didn’t see what I saw. Swallowing hard, Freda squeezed her eyes to shut out the rush of images. The only thing she needed to concentrate on now was Gareth. Her gut twisted. She could only hope he was back at the bunker. But it didn’t seem likely, after what had happened there.
Chapter Twenty-One
April 11th, 2063 – the Past
“Water, please!” Freda slammed against the door, her throat dry and scratchy from shouting so loudly. But no one ever came unless she did. Sometimes no one came anyway. She pounded the flat of her forehead into the thick steel of the door, her skin raw from the effort. “Water!” She barely felt the throb of a headache.
Relief racked her body as she saw a skin-coloured shape appear through the tiny sliver of glass, so strong that she almost gave a sob. She felt like death warmed up and made into sandwiches. Her hair clung to her scalp with grease, stringy and falling around her ears, her skin itching for four days without soap. Four days. Doctor Travers came to see her every day, still refusing to tell her anything about Gareth—which meant either something truly horrible had happened to her brother, or he didn’t know. Neither was comforting, but she hoped it was that the good doctor didn’t know.
There was a loud whirr and click as the electronic lock opened, the door sliding to one side to reveal a short man with a receding hairline and black hair, his dark brown eyes pitying as he looked in on Freda. She took a step back, recognising the man as Clark Winters. She didn’t know him personally, but they had sometimes spoken when waiting in line in the bunker kitchens, or near the holo-cinema. He seemed like a nice enough man. But then, so had Travers. Shivering despite the uncomfortable strait jacket, she managed a grateful smile. “Thank you. I thought nobody was coming.”
“Sorry, I had my radio on,” Clark apologised, holding a large glass of water out awkwardly as the door slid across again. Freda almost licked her parched lips at the sight, as a small bead of condensation slid down the side of the glass, dropping onto the cushioned floor with a small plop. “Er…so do I just hold this up, or…?”
Understanding what he was asking, Freda lowered her head, giving a sigh. “You know, I’d really like to be able to hold the glass myself. I feel like a baby, with everyone feeding me.” She pulled at her arms, the straps jangling as she let tears well up in her eyes. “Please can you undo these? Just for a little while? They hurt so much, and I promise I’m not going to do anything silly. Come on, Clark. It’s me.”
His eyes narrowed a little at her use of his name, but something in his expression softened, and he set the glass down by his feet. Chewing at his lip for a moment, Clark finally gave a nod, beckoning her over. “Okay, but just for a little while. I’ve got to put it back on again before Travers sees, though.”
Biting back the agonising cramps that sped through her limbs as he loosened the straps, carefully letting the jacket slide off into his hands, Freda gave a thankful nod. “I understand. I promise, it’s just for a while. Oh, god, that feels good.” She closed her eyes for a moment as she rubbed her fingers deep into the flesh on her arms, soothing the pins and needles and bringing feeling back into them. She twisted around to see Clark nervously holding the glass of water out, watching her every move with a mixture of compassion and caution. Taking it from his outstretched hand, Freda didn’t even stop to thank him for it as she grabbed it greedily, bringing it to her mouth. She moaned softly, the icy liquid the most delicious thing she had ever drunk. It ran over the soreness in her throat, hydrating and soothing it in its wake. She felt every droplet sliding down into her stomach, relishing the clear taste of it, quenching her overwhelming thirst. The large pint glass was emptied in three seconds flat, and her body still felt as though it hadn’t had enough.
“Good?” Clark smiled at her warmly, holding his hand out for the glass.
“Very. Thanks,” Freda gasped, bending over for a moment, holding onto the glass tightly in one hand. She still needed it. She breathed hard, resting one hand against her knee to prop herself up, summoning her energy.
Clark’s voice came from above her, twinged with a hint of irritation. “Hey, come on. Give me the glass, now.”
Not waiting for another chance, Freda instead straightened herself up sharply as she heard him move closer, watching his feet move over the floor below. Bringing her elbow up, she connected it sharply with his face, causing him to recoil with a cry, clutching at his nose. He staggered backwards uncertainly, bouncing into the soft wall. Red spilled from beneath his fingers, and she almost winced as she realised she had managed to break his nose. But there was no time to dwell on it. His second of surprise was all she needed. Being careful not to actually kill the man, Freda brought the pint glass up and smashed it against his temple, adding her knuckles for good measure. Clark’s eyes both rolled up in his head, and he let down one hand to feel for something to hold onto. Watching breathlessly, her fists held by her sides, Freda watched as he slumped heavily to the floor of the cell.
Bending down, she quickly pressed her fingers against the pulse in his neck, tilting her head to listen for his breathing. It was there, steady but calm. He’ll be fine, after a small nap. Her stomach flipped nervously. Clark was the least of her worries, but he was her first stop at getting out. Turning on her heel, her hand shook as she pressed it against a spot on the metal door. Nothing happened. “Come on,” she hissed through gritted teeth. For the last few days, she had watched the attendants and Doctor Travers as they left her cell, and she had spotted that they always opened it from this side by pressing a particular area—a pressure plate of some kind. She stabbed her fingers against the spot again. Nothing. “Fuck!” Freda kicked the door, hard, succeeding only in bruising her toes again.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced
back over her shoulder to Clark laid out on the white floor, the bright yellow bulb overhead lighting him as he gave a soft moan. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Freda closed her eyes and tried to picture the doctor leaving the cell, trying to remember exactly where he pressed it. Yes, that’s it. Maybe just an inch below? Hoping her memory wasn’t letting her down, Freda moved her fingers an inch or so below where she had pressed before, gently putting pressure against the cold steel.
Her heart skipped a beat as the lock finally clicked, and air was sucked in as the door slid aside.
Taking one last look at Clark’s slumbering form, Freda darted her head outside, looking sharply from left to right. The corridor beyond was in near-darkness, only lit by the tiny white lights that ran along the centre of the floor. The doors to the other cells were shut fast, their own tiny windows showing the bright light within. Freda scowled at the sight. They never turned the lights off overhead, even when it was night, so it was nearly impossible to sleep. She had only figured out when it was night by watching which attendants came when. Flitting out into the hallway, Freda kept her head ducked down as she stepped away from the door. She gave a startled jump as it whooshed back into place behind her, temporarily sealing Clark inside.
Moving silently across the floor, she raced along to the end of the corridor, checking both sides quickly before turning left and sprinting along. The bunker was a labyrinth of tunnels, but she knew every single one of them like the back of her hand. I can only hope I don’t run into anyone else. Freda paused at the end of the second hallway, listening intently, her pulse pounding so loudly inside her skull that it was difficult to know if it was inside or outside her body. No one there. Pushing herself up from her crouched position with both hands, she took another left, diving into the last corridor before her destination. After one last look around, she disappeared into a nearby room. The supplies room.
Closing the door behind her as softly as she could, the hinges creaking a little as it moved, Freda reached up and snapped on the light. The fluorescent hummed as it came to life, clicking a few times before staying on and flooding the small room with yellow light. Freda darted her eyes around the room, trying to pick out what she needed. A thick green winter coat hung on a peg, a piece of rope threaded through its belt loops. Snatching it up, she threw it on, grabbing up a large rucksack tucked beneath it as well. She rifled through the shelves of clothing in a half-panic, only certain that about half the garments she threw into the bag were her size. She moved around the room in a blur, throwing ammunition, bottles of water, and tins of food into the bag until it was full, zipping it hurriedly and swinging it up onto her shoulder.
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