Her eyes fell on the large gun rack at the far end of the room. She nearly grinned as she saw they had—thankfully—returned her hunting rifle to the same slot she always kept it if it wasn’t in her apartment. “Hey there, old girl,” she murmured under her breath, reaching over and picking the weapon up with a steady hand. She stroked her fingers over the smooth wooden handle as she checked the magazine was full, before taking the strap and pulling it over her head. The rucksack was a little heavier than she had anticipated, but she was ready.
Moving more clumsily than she had before, choosing to be slower and quiet than faster and attract attention, Freda made her way towards the great bunker door. The air grew colder as she got closer, the seals on the door no longer as protective as they once were. There was no need for them to be, anymore. Her ears pricked as she caught two voices ahead, chattering to one another, and she tip-toed carefully to the wide archway to the entrance, peering around the side. Two Patrollers leaned against the metal railing that separated the bunker from the main door, their backs to Freda, their caps tilted back as they talked casually to one another. They were the people chosen to protect the main door at night, to prevent it from being opened by someone outside, or worse. Their MP3-radio was on in the corner, playing music from the old world with a rhythm that made her pulse itch under her skin. She licked her lips, looking around for a way to avoid them. She had hoped they would be on a break. They didn’t always do their job as thoroughly as they could. Trust me to break out on the one night they’re actually working.
Somewhere in the distance, back the way she had come, she caught the sound of footsteps running along the concrete floor. She pressed her lips together to prevent herself from breathing too loudly, daring to look over her shoulder. The corridor was still dark, but it wouldn’t be long before whoever it was appeared. Curling her hands into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms, Fred willed herself to move. She had to. For Gareth. Three…two…one. Go. Hoping that the music from the radio was loud enough, she grabbed hold of the side of the archway, swinging herself around and darting into the entrance, diving behind a large stack of metal boxes. They were cast in shadow, the entrance as dimly lit as everywhere else in the bunker. The generator would never have been able to keep up the power needed to light everything for more than twelve hours a day. Quietly breathing in shaky breaths through her nose, Freda peered around the side of the boxes to spy on the two Patrollers. They hadn’t heard her moving, and were still deep in conversation, one of them laughing loudly.
The sound of the footsteps got closer, and the two Patrollers both twisted around in unison, their brows drawn. Freda moved back carefully into the shadows behind the metal crates, listening intently. Her heart leapt as she heard gasping by the archway to the bunker, someone breathing heavily as though having run—and then Clark’s voice. “Hey! I need your help.”
There was thudding against the metal floor as the two Patrollers ran across, only a metre or so away from Freda’s hiding place. She crouched down behind the crates, trying to make herself as small as possible, putting a hand over her mouth to stop any noises. One of the Patrollers, a woman with a grating voice, asked, “What the hell is it, Clark? What happened to your nose?”
“It was…” he paused to breathe. “It was one of the patients. She smacked me over the head and got out of her cell.”
“Well, we haven’t seen her here,” the other Patroller rumbled, his voice sounding as large as his frame had looked. “Where could she have gone?”
“I think she might have gone after her mother, further in the bunker. Can you come help me look for her? I don’t fancy another beating.”
The woman sighed heavily. “Bloody hell, Clark. I don’t want to spend my shift running after lunatics. Fine. We better find her quick.”
Freda held her breath as she heard three sets of feet thumping along the passageway outside the entrance room, further into the bunker. They grew more distant until she could barely hear them, and she let out a sigh of relief. Thank god Travers thought I might try to attack her, or something. Wonder what she said about me? She rose up, her back aching from her stooped position, and glanced over to the computer that would open the door. It was set into the wall beside the huge square doors, both locked together by large metal slotting that looked like teeth. Knowing she wouldn’t get another chance, Freda leapt up and raced across, tapping busily against the keyboard. I hope they haven’t wiped my details from the system.
A smile spread over her face as the holographic monitor sprang onto the metal wall behind, displaying her name and photo as she tapped in the password needed to open the door. They changed it almost every day, but Freda also knew there was a failsafe password to prevent problems if a new one didn’t work. Her fingers flew over the keys as they clacked loudly, the radio muffling her hearing enough that it hurried her movements. Hitting the ‘return’ button, she stood back, watching for the doors to open.
The usual clicking and grinding came from somewhere within the wall, a loud screech of metal keening over the other sounds as the doors gave a thud, slowly moving apart. Freda glanced over her shoulder with a nervous swallow. There was no way it hadn’t been heard. “Come on, come on,” she muttered impatiently as the doors began their heavy efforts. It always took forever for them to open, the thick steel screaming against the metal floor below as they parted a few inches. She winced against the sound, her ears ringing, but she forced herself to swing around with her weapon raised.
It didn’t take long. When the doors were still only open by a foot, the concrete floor of the corridor rang with three sets of boots stamping along it in a dead run. Her palms were moist, but Freda only blinked once, keeping her eyes open as the Patrollers dove into view. They both let out a yell as they saw her, raising their pistols, and Clark darted back into the recesses of the hallway while peering around fearfully. A pang of guilt struck her for a second. She really hadn’t wanted to hurt the guy. Eyeing up the two Patrollers, she decided on the same thing. Lowering her aim just enough to miss them, the rush of cold air from outside growing stronger at her back, Freda took a step towards it and fired at the floor. The bullets hit just in front of the Patrollers’ feet, far enough away to not cause any danger to them, but close enough that they had to take a step back. The woman gave an angry cry, raising her gun and pressing her finger against the trigger. Before she could squeeze it, Freda turned while sliding her rifle back onto her shoulder and threw herself at the gap between the opening bunker doors, now just big enough for her to get through with the rucksack.
She didn’t stop to see if they were following her, dropping into a dead run as the icy air blasted against her face in a numbing rush. The temperature had dropped since she had been outside last, but the sky was silent, the storms having rolled away for now. Freda pumped her arms hard, her boots thudding into the dust of the road as she heard cries and shouts behind her. Not pausing to look, Freda turned sharply into the large thicket of trees that grew almost next to the bunker on one side, the other side now dominated by fields and farming. Her hunting had allowed her to learn the best places to keep out of sight. The rucksack jumped against her as she ran, her shoulders aching from the effort of the straps bouncing on them. Gritting her teeth against the pain, hearing the snapping of twigs as the Patrollers followed her, she turned again to lose them.
The trees grew thicker here, and it was still too early in the morning for it to be anything but pitch-black. Knowing where to put her feet without looking, Freda ignored the rush of her heart hammering painfully against her ribs, her lungs on fire as she sprinted. Finding the place she had used so often to hunt for deer or rabbits, Freda’s eyes lit up as she saw her planned destination. Reaching up, she grabbed the lower bough of a large oak tree, its branches half-covered in dark green leaves that rattled noisily as she swung herself upwards. The snapping twigs and thump of boots was still a good distance away, and Freda jumped to her feet on the rounded surface, reaching up for another branch.
Effortlessly finding holds for her feet and hands, Freda wound her way up into the leaf-covered branches above, sitting with her legs hanging over either side of it. She held her breath as she wrapped both arms around the thick trunk, pressing her cheek into the bark as she looked down towards the forest floor. Her limbs vibrated with the need to rest.
Her raw senses snapped to attention as three figures came into sight below, their silhouettes barely visible against the poor light within the tree shadows. Two of them were holding weapons, clearly marking themselves out as the Patrollers, and by the way he was holding his nose, Freda was ready to guess the third was Clark.
“Shit! Where did she go?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ve never been out here.” Clark’s response was haughty. “I don’t see why anyone comes out here.”
“Well, your little patient did,” the male Patroller snapped, and Freda watched as he turned to prod a finger hard in Clark’s chest, pushing him backwards a few steps. “I’m stood out here with gods-knows-what watching us, all because you can’t keep a crazy person on a bloody leash.”
“Calm down, George.” The female patroller gave a sigh. “It’s friggin’ Freda Johnson. She’s come out here hunting every day since she was fourteen. They were talking about making her the Hunting Master before she went ga-ga.” Freda’s eyes were watchful as she saw the woman tilt her weapon casually over her shoulder. “No chance of finding her out here, trust me. Not if she doesn’t want to be found.”
Clark wrung his hands together, stepping back towards them. Something snapped loudly under his foot. “No! We have to find her, otherwise—”
“Otherwise nothing,” the male Patroller snarled. “I’m standing out here with my balls hanging out, Winters. It’s dark, we don’t know where she’s gone, and I don’t want to be Skin-Eater food.”
“Skin-Eaters?” Clark’s voice shook. “I thought they were all gone from around here.”
“You want to find out?”
“Not really,” came the reluctant reply.
Freda grinned to herself. There weren’t any Skin-Eaters around the bunker in the forests now, hadn’t been for years. She and the other hunters had seen to that. But it was good to keep up the rumour. Stopped too many of the inhabitants coming outside and frightening the wildlife away. She watched silently as the three figures below turned back the way they had come. They continued muttering to one another, Clark petitioning the Patrollers to stay and search.
It's no good, Clark. They don’t like doing more work than they have to. Thank goodness. Blowing out a deep sigh, Freda closed her eyes for a moment and rested her forehead against the trunk, the rough bark scraping at the beads of perspiration tickling her skin. Her ribs hurt from the battering her heart had given them, and her throat was drier than it had been in the bunker, feeling as though she had scraped it with something sharp. Remembering the bottles of water she had hastily thrown into the rucksack, Freda carefully reached around and pulled the zip back enough to feel inside, her fingers meeting the welcoming coldness of a plastic bottle. Yanking it out, she popped the cap open, tilting her head back and sucking hungrily at the liquid within. She emptied the bottle as quickly as she had downed the pint of water inside her cell, replacing the cap and putting it back into the bag with a sigh of satisfaction.
Grimacing as her legs gave a protesting click against moving, Freda set her sights on the small bridge she could make out in the darkness above the tree-tops, the winding river beside it glittering like silver in the moonlight.
The sun was just coming up as the small bridge came into her view, as tranquil and desolate as it had been a few days ago. The rosy fingers of morning sent cracks of light over the stonework and the river below, burbling gently to itself as it made its way towards the ocean. Freda breathed in the fresh air deeply, relishing how pure it seemed compared to the stifling, stale air of the bunker. She never wanted to go back there. She was going to find Gareth, and the two of them would leave forever.
The trees picked up in a whirl of wind as she passed beneath them, brushing her fingertips over the tiny leaves and sharp twigs of the hedge growing by the side of the road. The fingerless gloves she had found in the supplies room were dirty but warm, the wool soft against her work-roughened hands. Her boots scraped as she paused in front of the bridge, narrowing her eyes for any small detail she might have missed a few days before. A glove, food crumbs, a bullet casing, anything. Bending her knees, Freda carefully put her hands out to the road, drifting her fingers over the footprints embedded in the dry dirt below. It must have stopped raining after that night. I’ve never seen it this powdery. Rubbing her fingers together as she wrinkled her nose in thought, Freda’s eyes caught something scrawled on the curved yellow stone of the bridge, something that she had almost forgotten she saw several nights before.
Dusting her hand off on her jeans, Freda half-scrambled, half-ran towards the white letters drawn on the stone. The sound of the river dancing over the pebbles below filled her ears as she stared at the note, her lips curving into the first real smile she had felt in days. In thick letters were the words, I’ve gone west. I’ll wait there for you.
It was Gareth. He hadn’t abandoned her. He had simply realised that their mother would do exactly what she had done, and that Freda would have to follow him. Straightening herself up and setting her sights on the main road to the west, a road she had never travelled on, Freda gave a chuckle of delight and set off. She knew it would lead through the place that travellers called ‘The Badlands’, but it was only a name. Only because it was rumoured to be Ground Zero. A name wasn’t going to stop her. I’m going to find you, Gareth. Just wait for me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
September 20th, 2063 – the Present
The van shuddered as it ran over a pothole in the road, jostling Freda against Harris on one side, and their driver on the other side, a tall man nicknamed ‘Grin’. Judging by the grim expression he constantly wore, Freda supposed it wasn’t a literal nickname. She put a hand out to the plastic dashboard to stop herself sliding too far one way, righting herself in the beltless seat. Grin looked over at her, his hands firmly wrapped around the large steering wheel, eyeing her curiously. “So…what’s in these Badlands, then? Everyone who’s been there talks about them like devils are dancing about in there.”
Ice traced over her back like a sharp finger, and Freda shuffled in the rough cotton seat. “There might as well be. There’s just…” she tried to put her finger on it, closing her eyes briefly and drawing in a deep breath. Even talking about the place made it feel like it was creeping under her skin. “Everything bad you’ve ever imagined is there. I don’t believe in Hell, but if I did, that’s what it would look like.”
Harris gave her a sharp look, his hand tensing for a moment where it rested on his knee. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, wisps of smoke flying over his shoulder out through the crack in the open window of the passenger side. The van gave a shake to the left. As the only person of the group who had actually been through the Badlands, Freda had to sit at the top to direct the caravan of vans and lorries, and Harris had firmly stated he was sitting with her. She was glad of his presence, helping to ground her as she tried not to focus on what was coming. He gave a sniff, glancing away again out of the window. “But what’s actually there? No one ever says.”
Turning her head slowly, Freda gave Harris a long look, wondering if she could articulate what she had seen and not go mad. Her heartbeat racked up a notch, and she pressed a hand against her chest as though to calm it down again. “Like I said; everything bad you’ve ever imagined. There was…Skin-Eaters. But hundreds of them. And some of them were…different. Bandits and murderers, sure. But they weren’t the worst.”
“So what was?” Grin pushed. Freda squirmed under the gazes of the two men. A sensation of being trapped came over her, and it was all she could do not to scream at them both.
“There’s…” She paused, almost unable to say the words. H
er voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “There’s cannibals. Rapists. Some who do both. People who have gone mad in there. From radiation poisoning, from being there amongst the nightmare, I don’t know. But you don’t want to go near them.” Her limbs went numb even as she just spoke about the Badlands. “Then there’s the dangerous spots. Right in the centre. By rights, scientifically, there shouldn’t be any radiation left. It should have gone a long time ago.”
“You mean it’s still there?” Harris sounded incredulous.
“Yes.” Freda sank her head to her chest with a weak nod. It sounded unbelievable, but she knew what she had seen. “There’s this pocket of it, right in the middle. And people there…these poor people. I don’t know what happened to them, but it’s from being in that crater.” She shivered despite her thick coat and jumper. “I can’t describe what it’s like to be in there. If I was superstitious, I’d say it possesses you. That there’s something bad there that will never leave, can never leave.”
Grin and Harris both sent each other a doubtful look that she caught from the corner of her eye, but Freda didn’t try to justify her words. I don’t have to. They’ll see for themselves. She forced herself to stare forwards, taking in the trees lining the road as they rumbled along, each one seeming more dried and burnt than the ones before. The only trees left in the Badlands were dried, withered husks of what had once been. The van gave another strange thud, and she sent a sideways glance to the gauges behind the steering wheel, frowning deeply. “Grin, is the fuel meant to be that low? I thought we filled up back in Ripon.” She had stayed in the cab while the others went for supplies, parked well away from the city. She didn’t know how long people’s memories were there, but she didn’t want to find out any time soon.
We Are The Few Page 29