We Are The Few

by Miranda Stork

  “Rubbish. You can’t catch the evolved virus if you’ve had the vaccine. We had a friend who died recently from it, and we’re fine.” Even as Freda said, it, she remembered how tired Harris looked lately, and she felt herself. It can’t be because of that. We’re just tired because of what we’ve been through.

  Her mother gave her a searching look that made her squirm. “It takes a few months before the symptoms show up. You’ll see. Anyway, a letter came from the ones who had left, saying they had found a new place to live, down south. Somewhere called New Selby. That they had found a new vaccine for the Illness, for the evolved version. So some more people left. They never came back. It was just the old and those who were too sick left. We didn’t want to leave. We’ve been here most of our lives, and we didn’t know what else lay out there.” Her mother gestured towards the direction of the distance entrance. “So we stayed. Me and your father. We took it in turns to go and find food outside, but not all of them returned. Then it was just me and your father.” Her mother’s face scrunched up for a moment, and she turned away while keeping her grip on the top, her voice wavering as she whispered, “He left a few days ago, and hasn’t come back. He was very ill. So now it’s just me. That’s when I moved in here. Took all my precious things, and came in here. Mine felt too big and empty without your father. Now, I’m just waiting to die myself.”

  Freda breathed heavily, her mind reeling at the torrent of information that had been thrown at her. Her heart squeezed at the thought of her father lying outside in the wastes somewhere, his body uncovered and rotting without a funeral. She hadn’t seen much of him, but nobody deserved to die alone out there. Even the idea of her mother sitting alone in the bunker like some deranged old drunk, waiting to die, made her heart heavy with pity. Sniffing loudly, avoiding her mother’s gaze, she rasped, “And what about Gareth?”

  The solemnness in the air changed as her mother snapped her head back sharply, her mouth twisted into a cruel sneer, the tears gone as she wiped a hand messily over her face. “I always knew you were mad. Talking to your imaginary friend.”

  Before Freda could retort, Harris grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it tightly, covering it with his own. “Look, don’t avoid her question.” His voice was hard. “We’ve come a long way to find her brother, and lost some good people along the way. We’ll leave as soon as you tell us if you’ve seen Gareth, or not.”

  “If I’ve seen…?” Amelia stared back at Harris in disbelief, glancing from him to Freda with an astonished laugh. Licking her lips, she twisted around and opened up one of the nearby cupboards above her head, pulling out another bottle, this time with clear vodka. She yanked a glass from somewhere at the back, spitting on it and rubbing it against her blouse to clean it off before pouring a generous amount. Twisting back, she offered the bottle out to the others, all of them shaking their heads silently. Mikala stuck her tongue out and pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them. Kicking a few garments on the floor out of the way, Freda’s mother sank back into the chair heavily, taking a deep breath. “Gareth—Freda’s brother—died when he was four days old. He died as a baby.”

  Slowly raising her gaze to glare over at her mother, Freda felt a shiver pass over her spine. “How can you make up such stories? What the fuck is wrong with you?” She rose up from the sofa in a single motion, feeling heat bloom along her face. “Look, I don’t care if he came then left, or came and died here, but tell me where he is!”

  “He died when he was four days old, Freda. You never met Gareth.”

  “You insane bitch, how can—”

  “He wasn’t real, darling.” Her mother took a grim swallow of her drink, her face grey. “All these years. He wasn’t really there.”

  Just as Freda was contemplating whether or not to punch something, like the wall or the damn bottles lined up gleaming on the top, Harris stood and placed his arm around Freda’s shoulders in a show of solidarity. Grasping her cheek and forcing her to look at him, he gave her a nod. He had a funny expression on his face that made her chest hurt. “I’m on your side. Okay? Calm down, sweetheart.” Jerking his head over to her mother, his voice filled with ice, he snapped, “Do you have any proof of this? It’s quite a confession.”

  Without saying a word, her mother placed her glass down on a nearby side table, using her hands to push herself up out of the chair. Turning carefully on her frail limbs, she shuffled off towards the bedroom, banging drawers and doors as she searched for something. Freda chewed at her nails, wondering how the hell Harris could be so calm about what was being said. She’s saying I’m crazy. That Gareth is in my head! That he never existed beyond four days old! Does she really expect me to believe her? Whatever she comes out with, it’s made up. Freda stopped chewing her nail, biting instead at her lip. Her gut was twisting in a way she didn’t like. It always did the same thing when she was heading somewhere she shouldn’t. It’ll be made up. It has to be. It was insane for anything else to be true.

  It didn’t take long for Amelia to return, carrying in her hands a small, dusty box. Grunting as she moved, she sat back down, taking a shaky breath in and opening the lid. Reaching inside, she pulled out a thin sheet of paper, holding it towards Harris. “Here. That’s his death certificate.”

  Harris snatched the paper from her, scanning it for a few seconds before thrusting it towards Freda, his arm still locked around her shoulders. “It says exactly what your mother said,” he murmured. “Gareth died at four days old, at ten past seven.”

  “Bullshit.” She refused to look at the certificate, her eyes brimming with tears at how callous her mother could be. “It’s fake. Anyone could write one of those up. Don’t you see? She’s done this on purpose. She wants me to think I’m mad.”

  Freda’s mother didn’t look up, pulling another object out. Two tiny woollen boots sat in her palm, their colour faded. “These were the only booties he ever wore.”

  Freda crossed her arms over her chest, shrugging off Harris’ arm as she glared at him. She couldn’t believe how he wasn’t defending her more. He gave her a hurt look that stabbed into her heart, but she didn’t care, instead jutting her chin defiantly at her mother. “Baby shoes. So what? That doesn’t prove he died.”

  “This might.” Freda’s mother locked eyes with her for a moment, their jaded blue irises dark as she held a small holo-stick aloft. Placing the box down on the floor beside her forgotten drink, her mother leaned over to Mikala, holding out the object. “Here, darling. Could you please put that in the telly over there? In the holo-slot.”

  Freda felt a surge of pride as the young girl scowled back at her mother, but she took the offered holo-stick, sliding off the sofa and marching across to the flat-screen mounted on the wall. Peering around the shining black surface for a few moments, something clicked, and Mikala stared back to Freda with a doubtful smile. “It’s in.” The look in her eyes told Freda that at least the small girl was on her side.

  The flat-screen flickered to life as the holo-stick whirred noisily, images flashing onto the screen as the recorded video came to life. Freda breathed hard as she took in the familiar sight of the bunker’s chapel, its grey walls lit by small white lights sprinkled across it. Supervisor Tennyson stood at the head of the proceedings, with considerably more hair than she remembered. People were sat on the pews silently, dressed in sombre blacks and dark blues. The camera swung around, and she saw her mother sat at the front, her face pinched and white as she stared forwards into space. Her eyes were red-rimmed, giving away that she had been crying hard some time before. Freda’s father sat beside her mother, squeezing her hand tightly as his chin wobbled, bravely trying not to cry himself. Freda’s stomach gave another lurch, and her head spun as it felt light-headed.

  Then a lullaby burst through the sound of coughing and shuffling, soft and innocent as it played over the loudspeakers set in the wall of the chapel, crackling from its bad recording. Someone she didn’t recognise came up the central walkway, carrying a tiny coffin in hi
s arms. A tiny, black coffin, just the size for a baby. Freda shook her head as she watched, her eyes transfixed to the screen. She stumbled backwards against the kitchen counter, barely noticing as it dug into her back. Harris tried to speak to her, calling her name, but he sounded far away and quiet beneath the sound of the lullaby. Her eyes filled with tears, and dots danced in her vision. It can’t be. This is for someone else’s child. This is someone else’s funeral. Gareth has to be there. He has to be. As a boy. She took in the sight of her parents again at the front of the chapel, her eyes busy as they roved over the faces. No Gareth. The screen flickered for a moment as the image blurred, before revealing her parents’ grief once more.

  The coffin was gently laid on the end of the belt that would carry it beyond the curtains to the cremation room behind, a delicate wreath of plastic flowers arranged on the top. Amelia—in the recording—gave a heavy sob, leaning forwards with a keen as she looked over at it. Philip made shushing noises, pulling her close as she cried loudly into his jacket. Tennyson reached over to pat her mother on the shoulder kindly, before clearing his throat. “Thank you all for coming. It is always sad when a little one passes, when we must accept that sometimes life cannot survive in these harsh times.” He paused, sighing heavily as he leaned on the lectern before him, reading over his papery notes. “We now say our goodbyes to Gareth Alan Johnson, and commit…”

  Freda sank to her knees, and let out a howl.

  She put her head in her hands, shaking it so hard that it hurt, her hair flying about and covering her face as she screamed. Her ears thudded with her heartbeat as her chest heaved with her sobs, tears rolling down her cheeks in such quantity that she felt as though her body was being drained. It can’t be. It can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense. She tried to picture Gareth’s face, his smile, his laugh. It all blurred and shifted as she tried harder to concentrate on it. No. NO! I can’t have made him up! He’s my brother. He likes cake, but hates chocolate. He loves books. When he was nine, he started telling me ghost stories. He’s real. HE’S REAL!

  But the images from the holo-stick wouldn’t leave her head. The death certificate. The tiny coffin. Her mother and father sobbing in agony over a lost child. Tennyson reading out his full name. None of it made sense. But a dark, cold stab in her gut told her it was the truth. That somehow…Gareth had never lived.

  He was in her head. Had been all along. But it didn’t make sense.

  Unable to breathe properly for the clenching of her chest, Freda gasped, “This can’t…be real. How…how is it…possible?”

  Her mother stared over silently, her eyes glassy as though remembering something from a long time past. She nervously rubbed her hands together as she coughed dryly. “When he was born, it wasn’t just his leg that came out different. It was his organs, too. Something had happened to him. He couldn’t breathe on his own, and his heart had to be pumped by a machine.” Freda’s mother gave a sniff, the faraway look in her eyes glinting with unshed tears as she reached up a trembling finger to wipe beneath them. “He was in agony for four days, the poor little thing. The doctors couldn’t save him. But then we had you.” She nodded over to Freda, her fingers clutched tightly at the arms of the chair as though she needed to hold onto something. “I used to tell you about how you would have had an older brother with a funny leg. You used to ask about him, all the time. Then, about the time you started school, you started acting…strange.”

  “Strange?” Freda rasped. She felt as though she was going to be sick.

  “You started asking why he was crying, talking about him as though he was playing in the room with you. Sometimes you would ask why I hadn’t set a plate for him at dinner.” Her mother gave another swallow, her wrinkled throat dipping with the movement. “So I took you to Doctor Travers. He said it was rare, but normal for some children to react like that when they found out about a dead sibling. He said not to tell you he was gone, and to report back to him everything you did or said about ‘Gareth’. He was Brit Bunker appointed, so he must have known what he was talking about.” She shook her head, tapping her long, yellowed nails together with a deep frown. “I couldn’t figure it out. But I did what they said.”

  “Freda?”

  She finally heard Harris’ voice reaching to her somewhere through the fog of her mind, and Freda clung onto it, like a drowning person reaching out for a life-ring. Grabbing his hand as he eased himself down next to her on the floor, unable to stop her teeth chattering from the hard sobs shaking her body, she blinked a few times to clear her vision. His green eyes were stormy as he gazed into her clear blue ones, pulling her into his arms tightly as she burst into a fresh round of tears. Stroking her hair, he made soothing noises, and she cried into him. The smell of tobacco from one of his earlier cigarettes cut through the spice and musk, but it only made her want to cling harder. “Yes?”

  “Do you remember back at Brit-Bunker when we checked the computers? Where it said your bunker released hallucinogenic drugs into the classrooms?” His voice was so quiet and raw Freda had to take a few seconds to understand what he was saying.

  “You…mean…?”

  “Maybe the drugs made you see things. Made you see Gareth.” He squeezed her harder, as though he could protect her from the disgusting ordeal Brit-Bunker had put her through.

  “No.” Freda shook her head, pushing him back as she tried to fight out of his hold. “No. Gareth is real.” She scrambled to her feet, pointing a shaking finger at her mother. Her head ached from the throb in her head, a side-effect of her sorrow. “You’re a liar. You fucking made this recording somehow, and…and you fixed it, somehow!” Freda couldn’t stop her limbs trembling as she glared down at her mother, every sinew in her body boiling with hatred.

  Her mother gave a heavy sigh, looking down at her lap. Her fingers played with the edge of the frayed violet-coloured blouse she wore, stained down the front. “Let me ask you a question, Freda. Do you remember anyone else ever talking to Gareth? Do you remember his bedroom? His school friends?”

  “He…he didn’t have any friends because of his leg,” Freda managed, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. She forced her mind to think of Gareth. Memories flashed through her head, of Gareth laughing and playing with her, but never with anyone else. The way Matthew Horner had ignored him. The way her mother and father had ignored him. Someone must have spoken to him. She closed her eyes with a gasp, squeezing them as she willed herself to remember someone talking to him. There was no one. She couldn’t remember a single dinner with him. She couldn’t remember his room. Couldn’t picture it. There had been an extra bedroom in their home, but she couldn’t remember having seen him walk in or out of it.

  “He didn’t have any friends because he wasn’t real,” her mother spitefully replied. “He was in your head. When you ran off and told me Gareth was going with you, I sent the doctor after you.” She nodded over to the small group, as though expecting them to agree with her actions in some way. “There was no point talking to you, what with you being mad and me being a raging alcoholic.” Her mother gave another howling cackle. “So I asked them to put you in the holding cells and snap you out of it. But they didn’t really care by that point, and neither did I.” She reached down for her forgotten glass of vodka, wincing as she took a mouthful of it. “Then you escaped, and everything went to shit.”

  For once ignoring the jibes, Freda gave a slow nod, staring off into space. She felt numb. “I saw him less and less when I got older. And now I can hardly picture his face.” Turning to Harris with a pained expression, she whispered, “I can’t see his face anymore, Harris.”

  At first she thought Harris was going to recoil, but his eyes softened as he looked down at her, folding her in his arms and kissing the top of her head. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’re going to get through this together, you and me.”

  There was a patter of small feet as Mikala jumped off the sofa, running across to Freda and throwing her arms around her waist. With
out looking from where her head was snuggled in Harris’ shoulder, Freda put a hand out to stroke the girl’s hair gently. Mikala squeezed harder. “Don’t cry, Freda. We’ll make it okay.”

  A loud, wheezing rip of laughter came from behind them, and all three turned with black expressions to see Freda’s mother doubled over in her seat, crowing to herself as the glass wobbled in her other hand. She fixed Freda with her faded blue eyes, sobering as she gave a sneer. “Yes, you and your little friends go off, now. See how long a crazy person lasts out there.” She took a deep swallow. “You’ll die, like the rest of us. Especially if you were telling the truth about your friend having the evolved Illness. Ooh, you just wait until you start coughing up blood. See how cheerful you are then.”

  A cold air blew through the apartment at her words, but Harris kept hold of Freda as she tried to turn around to speak to her mother, his face tight with fury. “Freda’s leaving with us now. And none of us are ever coming back to this poisonous place.” He spat the last few words.

  Mikala slipped her hand into Freda’s as Harris wrapped his arm tightly about her shoulders, steering all of them towards the small front door to what had once been Freda’s home. Her mother’s cackles and laughter echoed after them down the corridors, but none of them stopped or turned around to listen further. The smell of the damp and the rust seemed to burn itself to Freda’s nostrils as she strode along numbly, guided by the two figures either side of her. Her mind whirled with images. Memories of reading a book with Gareth mixed with the sight of the real Gareth’s coffin. A reminder of when she had gone hunting one day with a smiling Gareth blended into Supervisor Tennyson speaking his name at the lectern. Her whole world had crumbled beneath her feet, leaving her nowhere to go.