The tall man looked down with a muttered curse, his knuckles lightening as he squeezed the steering wheel tighter. “No, it isn’t. We got what we could back there, but the alcohol burns faster than normal petrol. I thought it might get us at least through the Badlands.”
Mouth drying at the realisation they might have to walk through the area, Freda fell silent, sinking back against the seat as she stared forwards again. A storm gave a warning growl from the overcast sky above, fitting her mood. As though reading her thoughts, Harris reached over to give her hand a squeeze, and although she returned the gesture, she didn’t move. Her eyes were unblinking as they drove past the first sign to the Badlands. Someone had painted over the original road sign in large red letters; ‘Turn back now. BADLANDS AHEAD’.
Her palms felt hot and sweaty as she tensed against Harris’ hand, her breathing growing faster as she remembered leaning against that sign on her way out from the Badlands. When she had promised herself that after she found Gareth, she would never pass through them again.
The engine gave a sudden whine, and the van thudded dangerously, wobbling from side to side as Grin gave a heavy sigh. He juddered in his seat as his leg stretched, pressing down hard on the brake as the vehicle came to a stop by the side of the road, bumping heavily as it rolled alongside a wide ditch. The engine died down into a soft hum for a few moments, before cutting out completely as Grin yanked the key from its slot. Turning to Harris and Freda, he gave a shrug, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to the cab door. “End of the road for the van, people. Time to get out and hoof it.” A clang echoed around them as he shoved open the rusty driver’s door, jumping down with practiced grace, raising a hand over his eyes to peer further back. “Looks like the others stopped before us. They’re all walking down.”
Freda’s stomach turned as she shuffled across the seats, leaping down from the cab and looking behind them on the winding road, the grey asphalt covered with dried brown dust. It ground under her boots as she watched the performers making their way towards them, the other vehicles having stopped a few hundred metres further back. Then the smell hit her, and she almost recoiled. The strange scent of burning and filth that permeated everything in the Badlands. The same smell that had haunted her for two days as she passed through it. Holding an arm across her stomach, Freda adjusted the strap of her rifle with a white face. “I hope they’re prepared. It would have been easier in vans, but I suppose this way we can be stealthier.”
There was a snort from behind her, and she twisted her head over her shoulder to see Grin folding his arms over his chest. “Is that necessary?”
She held his gaze with a frosty glare. “Yes.”
One of the figures broke away from the large group coming towards them, her bright blue mohican easily noticeable as she waved furiously, setting off towards them at a jog. The broken fence surrounding the field next to the road gave a creak, and Freda glared at it as her nerves jumped. A single piece of wood swung from one part of it, mournfully whining as the wind pushed it enough to move. Bits of old sheep wool were still snagged on the nails sticking out, the wheat once growing within now dead, leaving only brown stumps. It’s like the fields near the bunker I went in before Ripon. The one with the traps and the Skin-Eater.
Katrina pulled up in front of them with a gasp of air, bringing Freda’s thoughts back to the present. She had slung a leather vest over her brightly-coloured clothing, and it wrinkled stiffly against her as she leaned on one leg with her hand on her hip. “So, it looks like we’re walking.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “What can we expect in there?” She nodded towards the road ahead.
“Cannibals, rapists, Skin-Eaters and general death, by the sound of it,” Harris quipped with a small half-smile. Freda didn’t reproach him for the poor joke. She heard the nervousness in his voice.
“Well, at least the Skin-Eaters don’t sound so bad,” Katrina grinned, but her eyes darkened with worry, reaching a hand up to fiddle anxiously with her ear lobe.
Rolling her stiff shoulders with a crack of bone, Freda shook her head slowly. “Wrong. There’s a lot of them in there. I don’t know if it’s where they came from, or if they’re drawn to the place, but I wouldn’t take them lightly. There’s something different about these ones.” She craned her head to peer over Katrina’s shoulder. “I managed to hide when it was just me. I don’t know if this will work with so many.”
Warmth flooded her shoulder, even through the coat, as Harris laid his hand there. “We’ll have more firepower this way,” he rasped. “And it sounds like we’ll need it.”
It didn’t take long for the troupe to be assembled together, Freda’s story of what waited for them in the Badlands passing back like wildfire between them all. The air grew tense, laced with the scent that only got stronger as they marched towards Hell itself. Every movement caught Freda’s eye as they traipsed along the asphalt, and she darted her head towards the hedges and fences that lined the road. The fog of the Badlands loomed ahead, thick with dust and debris, an aftershock of the event that had occurred so many years before. You can do this. You’re not alone this time. Freda thrust her hands into her pockets, fisting them hard. Harris is with you. Katrina is with you. There’s a whole troupe with you. And you promised Reilly you would find Gareth. He might be waiting on the other side.
As everyone lined up along the edge of the Badlands, Harris’ brow knitted together. He put a hand out to the fog, which stopped abruptly like a wall at the edge of the blackened soil only a foot away. “What is this stuff?”
“Debris,” Freda replied glumly. “I told you, this place is weird. Scientifically, it shouldn’t even exist.” She licked her lips, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But somehow, it’s like time has stopped in there. It’s like just after the Big Hit, or something.” The Badlands were the closest Freda had ever come to believing something could be haunted.
Somewhere ahead in the distance, a piercing shriek ripped through the air, and several of the performers took a step back. The screech rang on for a long moment, ending in a chattering sound that was almost a cruel laugh. No one spoke after the sound died away, the wind blowing sombrely around their ears. Face white as chalk, Katrina stepped over to the fog, clearing her throat. “What the hell was that?”
Blowing out a deep breath, Freda stared forwards into the thick mist. “It was a Skin-Eater.”
“What? I’ve never heard one make a sound like that before.”
Freda eyed Harris, wondering for a second if he was trying to comfort everyone, or was uncertain of what she had stated. Jabbing a finger into the Badlands, she repeated. “It’s a Skin-Eater. I told you, it’s different in there. They’re different in there.” Twisting back to face Katrina, she jutted her chin to the large group behind. “Tell them all to be quiet from this point onwards. Don’t worry about lights or anything like that.” She nodded towards the fog. “This stuff prevents light coming in anyway, so you have to be careful. Everyone needs to go in pairs, and we’ll go in a line. That way, if people stop at the front to hide, everyone behind can do the same.”
“Will we need to do that?” The blue-haired woman’s voice shook, and she twisted her hands together, latching her fingers in an effort to stop herself.
“Yes. And there aren’t many places to hide, so we’ll need to take care. Right. Let’s go.” Freda hoped she sounded more confident than she felt, her chest already hurting as her heart pounded into her ribs. Her legs shook as she forced them forwards into the fog, making sure that Harris kept by her side. Everything in her body screamed for her to turn around and run, but she kept one thought at the front of her mind. Gareth. Her brother.
The sky looked strange inside the Badlands. The permanent fog gave everything an otherworldly air, shutting out the light from above, whether it was sun or moon. The only way to tell was the slight change from the dust looking grey or brown. Freda’s fingers uncurled for a moment as she stretched them, the muscles getting tense from being wrapped so tightly around he
r rifle. Harris marched along beside her, but he hadn’t said a word since entering with her. No one had. The troupe had been so quiet that Freda had to glance once or twice over her shoulder to ensure they hadn’t lost their way and were still behind her.
Another scream came from within the fog, but this time it was close enough for Freda’s instincts to kick into high alert. Grabbing hold of Harris’ sleeve tightly, she ducked down, peering in the direction of the noise. A tearing sound came after, followed by a wicked, very human-sounding chuckle that made Freda swallow to keep the bile down. She knew what the sound was. And it was dangerous. She stared down at her boots, trying to formulate a plan.
Harris leaned over, hissing, “What is it? What do we do? I feel like we’re in the open here.”
“It’s cannibals. And we are.” His face turned grey as she chewed at her lip. “All we can do is quietly go the other way, and hope we don’t run into something worse. The fog should help us, if we’re quiet.” Turning around carefully as she released Harris’ sleeve, using her palm on the gritty dirt below to balance herself, Freda nodded at Katrina just behind them. “We’re going to move the other way for a while, but we must be silent. Tell the others.”
But no one moved as another scream ripped through the fog, followed by the tearful sounds of begging. A young woman’s voice. Freda closed her eyes against the sound as she prayed the others would do as she asked. People couldn’t be ruled by emotions in the Badlands. It was survival or death, nothing else.
There was a scuffle of dirt by her side as Harris twisted around, his gun clicking as he reloaded it quickly. “There’s a woman there, Freda, and she’s crying for help. I’m going over.”
“No,” Freda said in a panicked whisper as she snatched his jacket sleeve, preventing him from moving. “You mustn’t.” Her gaze hardened. “It’s horrible, and it’s barely human, but we have to leave her to her fate, okay? We have a whole group of other people to think about here. We can’t sacrifice them for one person.”
A reflection of her stubborn expression came over Harris’ face and he gently pulled his sleeve away, before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Sorry, Freda. I swore to help people. I want to be human, not just alive.” He shuffled across to Katrina, speaking quickly as he gestured towards the sounds of begging and crying, followed by a horrifically wet tearing sound. “We’re going over. Tell everyone to get their weapons ready and follow me. Quickly.”
The blue mohawk bobbed as Katina nodded, crooking a pink-tipped nail high in the air as she gestured for the rest of her troupe to follow her movements. She glared at Freda as she slinked past, leaving no doubt as to what her thoughts were on the plan to leave the young woman to her death. A sigh escaped Freda’s lips, but she snuck in behind Harris, marching against her gut towards the origin of the sound. This is great. We’re probably going to die here. Because Harris is too noble for his own good.
Her body tensed as another wild scream rang through the still air, the fog clearing enough to see the edges of the cannibals’ camp—or ‘Survivors’, as they ironically chose to call themselves. Freda’s teeth ground against one another at the thought. There’s no survival about it. Survival is hunting wild animals who can still breed freely, growing crops, or rummaging through an old building for tins. Eating people isn’t just sick, it’s the lazy way out. It’s inhuman. She slowed her steps as they got closer, perspiration dotting her brow. She had only barely escaped from these bastards the last time she came through, and now she was willingly marching into their camp. She cast Harris a scowl, even though the guilt twisting her stomach told her he was right.
The mist cleared enough for the group to see the camp, and what was happening in the centre. Several of the Survivors danced wildly around their small tents, made of patchy fabric and leather. A young woman screamed from a kitchen table that had been set up on a plinth made of junk and wooden planks, her wrists and arms tied to each leg. Blood poured from one arm in an endless rush. A Survivor far larger than the others loomed over her, and Freda shivered as she caught sight of his right hand. The fingers had been torn off in some way—she didn’t want to imagine how—and he had shoved the back end of five knives into the stumps, leaving him with sharp cutlery for fingers. Swallowing back the rush of acid in her throat as she glimpsed what he was doing, Freda looked away quickly before he reached down to peel more of the woman’s skin from her arm. Her stomach roiled, and she swallowed harder, forcing the bile back down. The woman’s screams grew louder and more desperate, and Freda moved on instinct when Harris flew forwards with a yell. The rest of the troupe leapt up and followed them into the fray, shouting loudly as the first of the gunshots fired into the still air.
Harris squeezed the trigger, sending two shotgun blasts into the back of the large Survivor. The man turned around slowly, only wheezing a little from the wounds as he gave an animal-like cry, jumping towards Harris with his knife-fingers outstretched. Widening his eyes at the sight only briefly before ducking and rolling out of the way to safety, Harris tumbled over the black dirt and scrambled back to his feet. Moving stiffly as the shot forced its way towards his spine, the Survivor reached into one of the tents while keeping his eyes trained on Harris, his eyes gleaming and bloodshot as he snatched up a dirty kitchen knife. Moving smoothly with practiced ease, Harris took a few steps backs, daring to look down to his weapon as he snapped it open, forcing in two more bullets. The Survivor took the moment of looking away to send the knife arcing towards him with a whoosh of air, slicing it left and right in the hopes of catching his victim’s limbs.
Grappling with a short but quick woman with missing teeth, Freda heard Harris’ cry of fury as the knife caught him on his cheek. She flitted her gaze away only for a moment to ensure he was still standing, before dodging out of the way of the woman’s cleaver. The small woman gritted his teeth and hissed through them, her tangled hair covering her head like a bird’s nest as she took another eager step towards Freda. Someone bumped into the back of Freda, and she darted to one side instinctively, not knowing if it was friend or foe. She didn’t look over her shoulder to check. Holding her rifle up with only a second to spare, Freda blew out a deep breath and pulled on the trigger, sending a bullet into the woman’s chest. The female Survivor halted on the spot, frozen with a shocked expression on her stained face, before she fell backwards onto the dirt with a dulled thud.
Twisting away from the fights behind her, Freda searched the faces desperately for Harris, finally spotting him over the far side of the camp. He had shot the large Survivor in his left leg, judging by the limp, but he was still fighting him off. Her ears ringing with cries and explosions, her nostrils dry from the scent of blood, Freda set off at a dead run for Harris while reaching into her pocket for more bullets.
Her heart stopped cold.
No. I had dozens left. They have to be there. Her blood froze as she wiped her hand back and forth against the pocket, peering down to stare inside. No bullets lined the fabric, but she saw the reason why. A large hole glared at her from within the confines of the pocket, showing the blackened dirt below through it. They had fallen out. Wheeling around desperately, Freda searched the ground with her eyes, hoping they might have fallen out somewhere nearby. Even if the tiny brass objects had rolled around the camp, there was no hope of finding them with the fight going on. Feet and dust blended together in a macabre dance.
A yell from her right made Freda raise her head sharply, and a cry came from her throat as she saw Harris on the ground, wrestling with the larger Survivor. The man was swiping at him with a glinting knife, held back only by Harris using his shotgun as a barrier between the two of them, his arms shaking as he used it to hold the man’s bulk back. She didn’t stop to question what she was going to do without any ammunition—she only knew that she had to get to him in time, her body shuddering with the need. Swinging her rifle around so that she held the barrel in both hands, Freda stared at the back of the Survivor’s matted black hair and
smacked the butt of the gun down onto his skull as hard as she could muster. It was enough. He rolled off Harris and fixed her with a hungry, dangerous glare, raising his knife in one hand.
Another blast from Harris’ shotgun went straight into the Survivor’s chest, and he fumbled for a moment at the spot where his heart ceased beating with curious, cutlery-laden fingers. He looked up with a peal of laughter, spitting towards them both, before sinking down to the ground, gasping as blood poured from his wounds. Smoke still trailing from the end of the weapon, Harris gave a nod while sucking in lungfuls of air. “Thank you. Come on, let’s help the others.”
“I’ve got no ammunition left.”
He gulped visibly. “But I thought—”
“It all fell out my pocket. I’ll have to use my hunting knife.” Freda tried to stop her mouth from trembling. “Stay near me, okay?”
“Okay.”
The pair turned and ran back towards the battle, Freda slashing left and right with her trusty blade as her ears rang from Harris’ shotgun blasts. The world dissolved into red, brown and black, her heart thudding in her ears and punctuated only by the screams and cries or gunshots, her body fuelled with adrenaline and nothing else as she twisted and dived. Heat blossomed on her good arm as someone managed to strike a blow there, cutting deep and forcing the blood to soak to the surface of her coat. Putting her metal arm up as protection from the next knife strike, Freda pulled it back and launched a punch at the wiry Survivor’s nose, making him tumble backwards and disappear beneath the heavy onslaught of boots and feet.
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