“No we can’t,” Freda objected tartly. She rolled her shoulders to ease the stress residing there in her muscles, before reaching over to one of the packs the performers had brought, pulling out tins of food. “We have to eat these cold. A fire will attract attention, even if we do it in here. Others will see the smoke.”
There was a laden pause as Katrina glared back at her, before she swallowed hard at Freda’s icy silence, giving a solemn nod. “Of course. No fire.”
There was little conversation as the tins and tin-opener were passed around, only the scrape of forks and spoons filling the vast emptiness of the house. Freda sank down in front of Harris, handing him a small tin of meat as she gulped loudly from a bottle of water. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the arm of the sofa as she crossed her legs, the wooden floorboards beneath groaning. “How’s your ankle?”
Tensing his arms as he pulled on the rusted ring-pull carefully, Harris gave a shrug. “I’ll live.” He took the lid off smoothly, not even bothering with a fork as he dug his fingers in, pulling out a lump of potted meat and thrusting it into his mouth with eager hunger. Chewing around the mouthful, he added in a softer voice, “How’s your side?”
They had bandaged Freda’s wound up as best they could after leaving the Survivor camp, but it was still painful. Thankful that it had at least stopped bleeding, she pressed her hand tenderly against it. It was agonising. Even if the cut hadn’t gone deep enough to reach her lungs, it had torn some vital tissue and muscle on the way in. She couldn’t walk without every step burning. “It still hurts, but that’s all. I’m okay.”
Harris chewed more slowly. “You’re not okay. I can tell.”
She sighed, licking her lips before taking another mouthful of warm water. “What do you want me to say? That I’m tired? I’m in pain? Because I’m both of those things.” She smiled a little to show him she wasn’t angry with him for asking. “We have to make it to the other side, Harris. There’s no point stopping here and hoping help will come.” When he didn’t reply, Freda turned her head and frowned, watching Harris as he jutted his head towards the ceiling expectantly. Something about the stiffness of his spine set her instincts on alert. “What is it?”
“Sh.” Harris craned his ear, his hand hovering in mid-air as he placed the tin down beside the sofa. Mikala stirred in her sleep, already having dropped off as soon as she hit the sofa. “There. Did you hear it?” His face darkened, and he slowly rose to his feet. “I think there’s someone upstairs.”
His words had an electric effect on everyone present. The performers put down their tins of food and grabbed their weapons, shaking as they looked up towards the ceiling above, the plaster roses long since covered in dust and dirt. The troupe’s bright clothing looked out of place amongst the forgotten reminder of the past in its black and grey. Freda reached across for Mikala, grateful she hadn’t taken her rifle off, shaking the girl gently on the shoulder. “Mikala? Time to get up. We have to go.”
“What?” Mikala blinked a few times, staring grumpily back at Freda. Her eyes were red again, and from the soft noises she had made in her sleep, it was obvious she had been dreaming about the camp and her mother. “No, I’m tired.” She curled herself up tightly, wrapping her arms in so it was more difficult to grab them.
Gritting her teeth, Freda jumped as a definite thud came from the floor above them. She didn’t look up as everyone gave a gasp of horror, instead reaching for Mikala’s arm and snatching it out roughly, dragging her off the sofa to a standing position.
The small girl struggled against the hold, opening her mouth before anyone could stop her. “Get off me!”
Her shout was enough to provoke another loud thump from above, followed by an all too familiar screech. The sound woke Mikala up fully, and she gave a scream at the noise, forgetting her desperation to sleep and clutching tightly at Freda’s waist, trembling against her. Putting her good hand down to rub it soothingly against the small girl’s back, although her own heart was pounding ten-to-the-dozen, Freda whispered, “It’s okay, pet. We’re going to leave now, don’t be afraid.” She leaned forwards and squeezed her hand against Harris’ shoulder, trying to keep her breathing under control. “We need to start moving for the door. Now.” She reached across for one of the packs, yanking it onto her shoulder.
Without replying, he took hold of her hand after reaching down to grab Mikala and pull her up onto his back. The girl understood what he wanted her to do, winding her frail arms around his neck and hanging on for dear life as the three of them edged over to the front door. A graceful swirl of dust ebbed in through the open doorway as they made their way into the hallway, followed by the performers. Everyone kept their gaze focussed on the upper floor, as more screeches and bangs came from various parts of the house. Freda clung onto Harris’ hand for dear life, her mind tumbling dark thoughts and memories at her with every noise. The Skin-Eaters were why it seemed abandoned, why no one human was here. I should never have led them in here. I should have kept walking straight past. It was just like the last time she had gone through. In her mind, trying to remember the way, she was sure she had walked right past the area where the Skin-Eaters seemed to breed, but instead they were right in the middle of it. And they shouldn’t be able to breed. But I know what I saw. The memory of a white-eyed Skin-Eater screaming as it gave birth made her shiver again.
A creak came from the floorboards of the upper landing as something gave a loud snuffle, and the sound of slapping feet followed it as a looming creature made its way to the top of the broken staircase. Even Freda couldn’t stop a whimper leaving her throat as some of the others screamed loudly at the sight. It was a Skin-Eater, but it was one she hoped she would never come face to face with again. A Matriarch. A white-eyed Matriarch. The whole damn manor house was a hive.
It glowed red through cracks under the charred, black surface of its skin, as though still ablaze with atomic fire. Another of the Badlands’ mysteries that shouldn’t exist. Two otherworldly white eyes fixed on the travellers below as it took slow, careful steps across the heaving landing, dust settling from below its weight. It stood a head higher than the other Skin-Eaters, the monstrous, rasping chuckle from its mouth letting them know it was far more intelligent than any of the others. Freda snapped back into reality as Mikala’s screams rang in her ear, and she said one word in a shaking voice. “Run.”
Harris and she both turned at the same time, sprinting towards the open doorway as Skin-Eaters began to pour from every nook and corner of the old building, hissing and screeching as they filled the dark space. The performers took off after them, their feet pounding heavily against the stone as the group fled into the choking air outside. A roar of fury bellowed from the Matriarch within the house, and someone screamed at the back. Freda dared to turn and peer over her shoulder, giving a panicked gasp as she saw one of the performers being grabbed by the glowing creature and thrown to the ground. Several other Skin-Eaters set upon the poor soul, and it took only a few seconds for his high-pitched shrieks to die away. Freda forced herself to look forwards, pistoning her legs as she ran alongside Harris with Mikala on his back, her chest painful as her lungs struggled with the need for air.
“Don’t look back,” Harris cried out, never blinking as he sprinted headfirst from the creatures behind, his hand in a death-grip on Freda’s, his other arm wound around his back to keep the small girl there. “Both of you, don’t look back!”
Another yell of mercy ripped through the air, and Freda let out a whimper at the carnage she could hear behind them, her hair flying out as she ran, her whole body shaking from the effort. Despite Harris’ words, she could help darting a look over her shoulder. She was just in time to see Katrina being picked up and tossed into the air by the Matriarch, who gave a howl of delight. Katrina raised her knife with a brave cry, stabbing it into the creature’s eye, but it wasn’t enough. The Matriarch threw her hard to the ground, ripping into the poor woman until her blue hair stayed still and vanis
hed into the grey of the fog. Breathing hard, almost stumbling over her own feet, Freda turned back and couldn’t hold back a sob as more and more footsteps disappeared behind, punctuated only with the sounds of the Skin-Eaters catching them.
She didn’t look back after that. Not caring what they were running into, she teared blindly forwards with Mikala and Harris, the small girl crying loudly into the back of Harris’ neck as she clung on for dear life. The dust and the dirt seemed never-ending, and the fog clung to them as though it was trying to trap them within the Badlands forever, keeping them in the nightmare. Hairs rose on the back of Freda’s neck as she considered her thoughts that the place was haunted, that it had somehow captured time itself and kept the crater of the Big Hit at the moment of the blast.
The sounds of screeching and baying behind them died away into the distance as the Skin-Eaters returned to their lair, content with their victory, but the three of them didn’t stop running. Freda could feel her feet burning from blisters as her boots rubbed against them, popping like tiny needles buried into her skin, but she still didn’t stop. The fog began to dissipate until it was little more than a light mist, and the moon began to shine through to the black soil below. They didn’t stop running until their feet hit the hard asphalt of a main road, and they passed the warning sign for the Badlands, covered in red letters just like the other side.
Freda sank to the ground with a wheeze of air, crying out through gritted teeth as she put a hand to her side. The pain was so intense it robbed her of what little breath she had, and she rocked back on her heels, wiping her sweat-plastered hair from her forehead as she held her side. The road was firm and cool beneath her knees, even through the worn denim of her jeans, and if she would have kissed it if she had the energy. Every breath hurt her raw throat as she gasped for it, and she turned to look over at her two companions. “Are you…okay?”
Mikala gave a silent nod, but her arms remained in a tight grip around Harris’ neck, despite his seated position. He had collapsed to the road beside Freda, running his hands over his face as he propped his knees up. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, fucking hell. They’ve all gone. All of them.”
Turning her face up towards the sky above, blinking tiredly at the silvery twinkling of the stars, Freda let out a sigh as the cold wind brushed over her face. It was delicious against the heat of her blood pounding under every surface. The reminder of Katrina being pulled to the ground by the Skin-Eater’s Matriarch burned into her mind, and she shook her head to shut it out. “Harris, we’re alive,” she countered in a small voice. “We couldn’t fight them off. There were too many.”
“I know,” he rasped. His shoulders slumped, the leather whispering as he gave a deflated breath. “I still wish we could have tried.”
Looking over at the silhouetted trees in the distance, lining the edges of fields and the base of the hills that were near her home, Freda latched her fingers together and pressed her forehead to them for a moment. There was no room for weakness. For compassion. I remember saying something similar to Reilly. Her side protested as she stood up, feeling as though it was slowly hardening into stone, and she pointed along the road. “We have to find somewhere to sleep for a few hours. Come on. We’re safe this side of the Badlands.”
Her eyes trailed over Harris and Mikala as the small girl let go to walk beside them, taking their hands in hers as she strode between them. Harris managed a weak smile at Freda as they set off further east, and she returned the gesture, her heart breaking at the sadness in his eyes. Not everyone could be saved, but at least they had rescued Mikala. And now she’s with us. Like we’re a little family. And when Gareth is with us, we’ll be complete. She didn’t allow herself to think about what she might do if he wasn’t back at the bunker. If they had gone through so much, and so many had died, and he wasn’t even there.
The board cracked as Harris pulled it off the window, throwing it down beside the others, the nails bent in half. A stream of silvery light came through, illuminating the small kitchen-cum-living room. There was no need for boards on the windows after what they had been through. Freda flicked uselessly again at the light switches, sighing. “It’s a shame this one isn’t connected to a generator.”
“At least we’ve got shelter. And food,” Mikala piped up. She was busily sifting through the various tins in the bag Freda had managed to snatch up before they ran from the manor house, sticking her tongue out in disgust at some of them. “Yuck. Peas. We’re not having those.”
“Peas are good for you. Even decades-old peas,” Harris pointed out with a smile, turning around and resting against the counter top, his hands clutching the edge. “We’ll definitely have them,” he teased.
Chuckling at the exchange, Freda reached out for a few tins of food, putting them carefully out on the top. The only way to stop her recent memories from clinging to her was to laugh and pretend they never happened. It wasn’t the first time, but she hoped it was the last. She switched on the small gas stove that had been in the bottom of the pack with a hiss of air, letting it click until small flames whooshed upwards. They licked at the edges of the circular hob, hungrily searching for the base of the small steel pan she had found, as she poured in the contents from the first tin. “Irish stew,” she read aloud, glancing down at the label. “Sounds good.”
“Anything sounds good right now,” Harris agreed, pushing himself off the top and striding over to Mikala’s side, reaching into the bag with her. He pulled out a small paper-wrapped package, lifting one side of it. “Hell, yes. Bread. There’s actually some bread in here. It’s stale, but who cares.”
“Not me.” Reaching out with tiny, bird-like hands, Mikala tore a piece of the bread as Harris held it out, giggling to herself at his mock-surprised expression as she shoved it into her mouth and chewed hungrily. “It’s yummy,” she proclaimed around the mouthful.
Lazily using a bent metal spoon to stir the tin’s contents, Freda looked up from the stove set on the ash-coloured kitchen island, her hand slowing as she stared down at the small girl. Her tightly-curled hair bounced as she fidgeted in her seated position on the black and white lino floor, seeming as though nothing in the world was wrong. It stabbed at Freda’s heart. It was obvious it wasn’t the case. “Mikala?” she started softly. “Are you okay?”
Setting her small brows into a frown, Mikala gave a shrug. “Sure, I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Because of your mum. Do you want to…talk about her?”
Harris gave Freda an irritated stare, but she widened her eyes back at him, mouthing ‘what?’. The small girl stopped chewing, swallowing the bread quickly as her hands fell limp in her lap. She knotted them together a second later, glancing down at the floor. “No,” she mumbled. “Mum’s gone. She told me not to get upset if that happened.”
An awkward silence filled the room, and Freda kicked herself for never knowing the right time to ask something. The stew in the pan gave a bubble, some of its gravy plopping against the side until she stirred it again. Clearing her throat, she replied, “Mikala, I think that’s very brave. But you can still talk about her, if you want.”
“Don’t want to.” The girl’s voice went quiet as she shook her head forcefully. “She…she wanted us to go to Ripon. Away from her boyfriend.” Mikala reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, even though it was already there. “He was horrible to her. Beat her and stuff. So we left, and she said we had to go through the Badlands. We were okay, until…until one of those bad people found us. The ones who eat people.” She raised dark brown eyes to Freda and Harris, swelled with shining tears. “They didn’t do that to mum, right?”
“No.” Shaking his head, Harris put a hand out to rest it on Mikala’s shoulder comfortingly. “They didn’t. She just…” He gazed over to Freda for help.
“She tried to help fight them off. But she got wounded. Badly. So she didn’t survive.” Freda held her breath, hoping the lie would take. It was better than knowing your mum had been cut to ribbons befor
e she died in agony.
It seemed to work. Mikala gave a tight smile, nodding. “That sounds like mum. She was always really brave.” She breathed in deeply, letting the breath go again as she absent-mindedly drew a circle on the floor with her finger. “Where am I going to go now?”
“Have you got any family? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”
Another shake of the head. “No, they’re all gone. It was just me and mum.” Hope shone in her eyes for a moment. “Can I stay with you? Please?”
Harris glanced over at Freda, and she smiled as she saw the answer in his expression. She nodded back enthusiastically, turning away for a moment to grab some bowls from a cupboard. They were half-covered in dust, but she brushed it off hurriedly with the sleeve of her t-shirt. Behind the kitchen island, she heard Harris reply, “Of course you can, sweetheart.”
When she turned back, her heart warmed to see the small girl with her arms wrapped tightly around Harris’ neck, Harris laughing and squeezing her back as though she was his own daughter. Freda’s smile became a grin, and she chased away the bad thoughts further as she instead focussed on Gareth. Hopefully tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll finally see him again. Already she found it hard to see his face in her mind, and the more she tried to concentrate on the details of his features, the more they disappeared. A pang of guilt went through her every time she tried. I feel like I’m forgetting him. She ladled the stew into the bowls, the scent of vegetables and meat in gravy making her stomach rumble loudly. I can’t forget him. He doesn’t have anyone else, just like Mikala.
As she marched over with the steaming bowls, Harris ripping into the bread and laying it out between the three of them, Freda tried hard to remember her brother’s face.
“Are you sure you want to sleep on your own?”
Mikala placed her hands on her hips in a defiant stance, raising one small eyebrow as she tilted her head. “I’m not a baby. I’m nearly twelve. I can sleep on my own. Plus, I’ve got the torch.”
We Are The Few Page 32