Freda twisted around just in time to see one of the performers get stabbed deep in the chest by a tall Survivor grinning down at them, the light leaving their eyes as they stumbled back onto the rising piles of bodies. The Survivor spotted Freda looking over, her ginger hair tied back in a blood-stained ponytail, her marked lips curved into a maniacal smile. Jumping forwards with the grace of the deer Freda remembered occasionally running around her bunker, the Survivor stabbed towards her with a viciously long blade, snarling as Freda darted out of the way.
Her eyes flitted up and down the Survivor’s form, with only a quick glance towards Harris. He was nearby but busy with his own fight. She would have to do this herself. Gritting her teeth, Freda spun her hunting blade around so she held it like an ice pick, circling the woman. The ginger-haired woman gave a cackle, copying Freda’s moves with unblinking eyes, one of them pale and glassy. It was a detail that wasn’t missed. Blind in that eye. She won’t be able to see as well on her right. Breathing heavily, Freda lunged for the woman’s side, certain she could reach it in time. But as she dived, the Survivor—obviously having figured out what she was doing—neatly side-stepped her, stabbing her blade under Freda’s arm and into her ribs.
A howl escaped Freda’s throat as the knife cut deeply enough to cause pain, buckling against it as the knife was pulled free. She put her good hand to her side, her fingers trembling as they came away coated in her blood. Shit! How deep is it? Crippling stabs of heat fired through her nerves, and Freda staggered to her feet as she surveyed the Survivor with fresh hatred. The woman just laughed at her, crooking her fingers in a come on gesture. Grimacing against the agony from her side and trying not to think about the loss of blood, Freda waited until the ginger woman paused, flashing her a smile full of broken and bloodied teeth. With a roar of anger, she leapt towards the Survivor, this time putting her metal arm up before the long blade could do more damage. It was enough to surprise the woman, who cried out in fury as her knife got stuck in the thin strips of steel that encased the robotic nerves within. Something snapped and fizzled as she twisted, and Freda realised she couldn’t feel the last two fingers of the robotic arm anymore, as though the connection to them had been cut. Without waiting another second, she thrust her knife hard into the woman’s chest as she crouched beneath her form with her metal arm held in the air for protection, withdrawing it and stabbing over and over.
The Survivor finally fell to the ground, her good eye as filmy as her blind one. Wheezing hard, Freda stepped back and stared for a moment, her ears ringing. Black dots danced in her vision as she blinked, raising her head weakly to view how the rest of the fight was going. Relief sank into her bones as she saw the last of the cannibals being wrestled to the ground by some of the troupe, their guns firing loudly as they finished them off. But the dark soil was also littered with brightly-coloured garments, their pinks and blues an affront to the desolate nature of the place. It was chaos. Harris came over towards her, limping as his right leg trailed a little behind him. He dropped his shotgun and fell to his knees in front of Freda as he saw her clutching at her side, peeling back the cut layers of her coat gently. “Fuck! She got you.”
“I’m alright. I’ve had worse,” Freda gasped, the joke sounding more tense than had meant it to.
Taking a few second to peer anxiously into the wound, Harris blew out a hard breath, replacing the coat carefully. “It looks okay. She’s cut deep enough to draw blood, but no deeper than that. We just to get you fixed up.”
“And you,” Freda pointed out, jabbing a finger towards his leg as he gritted his teeth and eased himself upright, hopping for a moment on his left.
“Yeah. I twisted it, I think. I’ll have to just walk it off.”
A weak cry came from the centre of the camp, and Freda whirled her head around, remembering the woman still tied to the kitchen table. She raced across while holding onto her side with a pained groan, Harris slinking after her as best he could. The woman was in a worse mess than Freda had thought. There was no way she would survive, not after the damage the large Survivor had done to her. Blinking back tears at the sight, Freda forced herself to focus on the woman’s large brown eyes as she used her knife to cut the first of the woman’s bonds. Reaching up with the same frail hand as it came loose, the woman whispered, “Don’t let them…in the tent…”
“Don’t let them what? What’s in the tent?”
It was too late. She had lost far too much blood, gone through too much. The woman twisted her head to one side with a distressed sigh, her hand falling away and slapping limply against the wooden top, her black hair matted hair falling across her shoulders. Freda reached across to close her eyelids, her shoulders slumping. This was exactly what she had expected. Harris came up beside her, groaning mournfully at the sight. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Poor thing.”
Freda said nothing.
Katrina slowly strode across with some of the performers behind her, others sat on the ground and tearing off whatever pieces of fabric they could find to bind their wounds, others weeping over their fallen comrades. A hand flew to her mouth as she saw the state of the poor woman on the table, her features crumbling as she gave a horrified sob. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Those bastards.”
The anger that Freda tried to keep down at Harris and Katrina’s surprise burst into a white-hot flame, scalding her chest until she couldn’t bear it any longer, and she rounded on the pair of them. Slamming her knife into the table in a show of fury, she snapped, “This is exactly why I told you to go the other way. Don’t you understand?” Her eyes flayed wildly from one to the other, drinking in their sorrowful expressions. It only fuelled her emotions. “This is the Badlands. You survive here, or you die here. There is no place for emotions, no middle ground.” The soft dust in the air swirled loosely around their heads. “This woman’s dead anyway, despite the heroics, and now some of your own people are dead.” She stabbed a shaking finger towards Katrina. “You could have made sure they stayed alive. If you had just done as I said.”
“Alright, Freda. You’ve made your point,” Harris replied softly, but there was a warning edge to his voice. Freda glared back at him for a long moment, something in the back of her mind soothing her frayed nerves enough to calm herself. Led away by some of her troupe, Katrina cried bitterly on the edge of the makeshift plinth. A stab of guilt went through Freda’s heart as she realised it was because of her biting words, but she didn’t care enough to apologise. She meant every word. Life was hard, and yet some people continued to act as though they could make it better by being a hero. It didn’t work like that in real life.
She nodded. “Are you both going to do what I say now?”
Harris let his head fall to his chest, knotting his fingers together before reaching up to fiddle with the hem of his jacket, pulling it taut. “Yes. Protecting those with us is more important.”
“Exactly.” Hesitantly, worried that he might pull back, Freda reached out and stroked his cheek with her good hand. Her thumb traced over the tiny worry lines that were settling into his flesh, and he raised his eyes enough to glance at her with their unwavering green centres. “Harris, you acted on what you thought was right.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, not wanting the others to hear in case they took it as her admitting weakness. “You are a good person for trying to save that woman. But there’s no place for it in here.” She dropped her hand back by her side, scrunching it into a tight fist. “You have to…just pretend you’re someone else until we get to the other side. Then we can be Freda and Harris again. But for now, we’re just—”
She paused mid-sentence, as the flapping of one of the nearby tents caught her attention. It fluttered too quickly to be the nearly-still breeze picking it up, and she yanked her knife out of the table with a singing of steel. Keeping her movements slow, Freda narrowed her eyes and made her way towards the tent. A muffled sob came from within, and she reached out to grasp the opening flap, pulling back the patched leather and fabric wit
h a dramatic flourish, her blade at the ready. She straightened up as she took in the figure snuffling within the tent, instinctively hiding her knife behind her back, her eyes softening. Bending down as Harris shuffled across, Freda slid her knife into her boot and reached out with her good hand. “Hey there. You okay?” What a stupid question to ask, she reproached herself. What do you think the answer will be?
The small girl lifted her head from her arms, her large almond-shaped eyes red-rimmed against their dark brown centres. Giving a weak sniff, tucking a strand of her long curly black hair behind one ear, the girl shook her head. “No.”
As to be expected. Freda took in the young girl’s thin, frail arms and ragged clothing with dismay. She couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, and Freda felt her heart sink as she noticed the striking similarities between the girl and the woman laid on the table. Still holding out her arm, she crooned, “Come on out, pet. The bad guys are gone now.”
The girl shook her head, squeezing her knees tighter to her chest as fresh tears bubbled in her eyes. She squirmed further into the dark recesses of the tent, and Freda wrinkled her nose against the smell of filth and sweat that surrounded it even over the pervading scent of the Badlands. What the hell was her mother doing out here with her? Did they seriously think they would get to the other side? Freda crooked her hand, her mouth snapping into a thin line. She wasn’t great with children, but she knew if being sweet didn’t work, being tough would. “You can’t stay here,” she reasoned in a firm tone. “We have to leave, and you need to come with us. Now.” The clipped accent to her voice left no room for bargaining.
But the girl scrambled forwards, shaking her head as the tears started to flow along her cheeks. “No, not without my mum!”
Moving quickly, Freda snatched the girl up as she came out of the tent, wrapping her coat around her and tucking her away from the sight on the table. The girl kicked and cried out behind the coat, but Freda held her fast as she glanced over her shoulder to Harris, who had watched the exchange silently. “Get a cover or something for the table.”
“No problem.” Despite his limp, Harris snatched the covering off the small tent, hopping as fast as he could back to the plinth and the woman lying there. Some of the performers came over to help him, gazing over with pity at the child wriggling in Freda’s arms and screaming, laying the tent cover over her mother’s still body.
Seeing the woman’s body covered, Freda released the girl but held onto her wrist, giving it a shake so the child would look at her. “Listen to me. Your mum’s not here anymore.”
The girl stood so still Freda was afraid she had gone into shock, before she swallowed and rubbed at her eyes. She recognised the look on the child’s face. She had seen other children like that, when a parent was gone. They either went into meltdown, or they closed up tight. The thin yellow top the girl had on shuddered against her frame as the breeze pushed it with a flutter, revealing the patches and lines that had been lovingly resewn over time. She blinked only once, fixing Freda with a fathomless stare. “My mum’s dead, isn’t she?”
Hearing those words in such an innocent voice made Freda bend her head, not wanting the child to see her face squeeze as she held back a sob for the girl’s plight. Harris had been right, after all. I can live with leaving a grown woman to her fate, to the Survivors. But a child? She didn’t make her way out to the Badlands by choice. Squeezing the girl’s hand as she took in a deep breath, Freda muttered hoarsely, “Yes. Sorry, pet.” The girl just gave a small nod, her lip trembling for a moment. Then she gave a final sniff, wiping her nose with the back of her arm, before staring impassively towards the centre of the camp as though she knew where her mother lay. God knows what she heard.
By this time, Harris had managed to make his way across, though he grunted with pain every time he dragged his foot behind him. Sitting down heavily on the hard soil, he rolled his neck, cracking it loudly as he rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. Attempting a weak smile, he asked, “What’s your name, sweetheart? I’m Harris,” he pointed to himself, “and this is Freda.”
The girl gave him a suspicious stare with narrowed eyes, twisting from side to side as she debated whether to give such personal information to him. Her eyes still looked haunted. “I’m Mikala.”
“Pretty name.” Harris darted a look at the chestnut-haired woman by his side, scratching at his head. His demeanour was wary, as though he had picked up Freda’s worried thoughts about the child coming with them. “You’ll have to come with us. Maybe we can get one of the performers to take you back to Ripon.”
Freda gave a snort, forgetting herself. “No chance, I’m afraid. They won’t remember the way, and even if they do, things move in this place.” She locked eyes with Mikala, and saw steel there. The kid would be okay with them. “She has to come with us, Harris. To the other side. Then we can drop her off somewhere safe.”
Harris sighed, pulling his battered packet of cigarettes out of one pocket. He didn’t look up again as he dragged one out, lighting it and taking a deep plume of smoke into his lungs. The tobacco smell stung Freda’s nostrils. “Alright. But we better rest for a while, if we can. We need to get fixed up, and so do some of the others. Can we stop for a while?” He gazed over hopefully.
Wincing as she rose to her feet, holding out her robotic hand towards Mikala, she gave a nod while trying not to cry out from the pain leaking across her side. The ginger-haired bitch had cut her deep enough to feel it, that was for sure. “Yes, but only for a while. It’s best not to stop here too long.” Looking over at the small girl, she saw the child’s eyes fixated on her strange metal hand as though it were an alien object. Freda gave a shrug. “I lost my real arm. It won’t hurt you.” She could see that the last two fingers were hanging limply, proof that the Survivor had cut through some of the wires, making it half-useless as a hand.
Fear for the child went through her as Mikala reached out slowly and took the offered hand, Harris’ jeans scuffling against the dirt as he rose up gingerly to follow them to the performers pulling out supplies at the centre of the camp. It almost would have been safer for the girl if she had run off into the blind edges of the Badlands.
Chapter Twenty-Three
September 21st, 2063 – the Present
Her legs were weak and rubbery. Freda forced her feet one after the other, her eyelids drooping from weariness. Mikala had her thin arms wrapped around Harris’ neck as he gave her a piggy-back. He still limped, but it was far less pronounced than it had been, either getting more used to the pain or the pain wearing off. Taking a look back at the performers, Freda noted how many of them were lagging behind, almost disappearing into the mist from where she stood. They had to stop soon, but she hadn’t seen a single place that would give them shelter for a few precious hours. Everyone had rested a little back at the remains of the Survivor’s camp, but they had walked for a whole day since, being sure to avoid the centre where the radiation still dwelt.
Everything looks so different from the last time I was here. Or it all looks the same. She shook her head, rubbing the heel of her good hand into her eyes in an effort to make them focus. Every mile they passed, they had heard gunshots and screams, triumphant whooping and cackling laughter. This time, no one had stopped to rescue those they heard begging for mercy. She let out a deep breath, her shoulders slumping as the weight of her rifle seemed to pull more heavily than before. Harris and the other performers had managed to find three bullets for her, and she had loaded them straight away, promising herself that they wouldn’t be used unless truly necessary. They were far too precious.
She stopped dead as a shape in the distance hit her gaze. Narrowing her eyes and putting a hand up to shield them from the grey dust floating around to show it was night, Freda felt her heart give a delighted skip. It was a building—an abandoned one, by the look of it. There were no noises coming from it. “See that?” she hissed excitedly to Harris.
He grinned and gave a slow nod. “I thought it
was a mirage at first. Reckon it’s empty?”
“It looks it.”
Waving a hand for the others to follow, Freda set off towards the desolate building, taking in the half-ruined walls on one side. It was a large, rectangular structure built in the same yellow stone as everywhere else nearby, but in the debris it was grey. A set of wide steps led up to the main door, carved from the same stone, its many windows glinting with the glass they had left. How it had survived so well in the epicentre of the Big Hit, Freda didn’t know, but she was more grateful for its presence than anything else she had ever known. But why is it empty? I would expect someone to be camping out here. Her nerves prickled as they got closer, but she didn’t see any movement from within, and no sounds met her ears as she listened intently.
Not wanting to express her doubts out loud with Mikala still sleepily watching their progress, Freda said nothing as everyone piled up the steps and into the ruins of the once-grand manor house. Dried shrubs lined the wall outside, black as everything else that had once grown in the crater. The hallway was grand and dark, the walls stained with soot and dirt, a single mirror hanging at the top of the broken stairs to the upper floor smashed into shards. Turning left, they entered the sitting room, some of the furniture still lying on the ground with charred limbs and cracked fabric. Harris moved over to one of the sofas, sliding Mikala down onto it as he sat beside her. She let out a soft sigh, curling into a ball at one end and closing her eyes, squeezing herself into the corner as though it was the safest place in the world.
Leaning her hand on the edge of the marble fireplace, now encrusted with soot, Katrina grinned around at the others. “At least we can have a fire, now.”
We Are The Few Page 31