Years After Series | Book 1 | Nine Years After

by Clary, LeRoy

  “Shoot,” he answered.

  Again, I didn’t like his choice of words. We could do without more shooting. I chose mine carefully. “If we stink so much, which neither of us can smell, by the way, and our clothes make us stand out because they look new, how do we correct those things? I mean, I see some of what we need to do, but how can we do enough to fit in up here?”

  He said, “Been thinking about that, myself. If we run into others, and we will, some of them will want to kill you right off. Hate for your kind runs deep with survivors.”

  I wondered if he was being clever and had found a way to get his hands on our nice clothing and weapons for himself. Maybe? Playing poker tends to breed mistrust. My poker senses were on edge. “Do you hate us?”

  “As you said, you were only seven when your folks took you down. Wasn’t your fault. Besides, a lot of water has run in the rivers since that happened.”

  What did water in rivers have to do with anything? Anyhow, we were children back then and he didn’t seem to hold it against us and that was the main point if I understood correctly. “Back to my question, what can we do?”

  He smiled a crooked smile that revealed yellow teeth, with one missing molar near the back. “When the sun comes out again, you got to bare your faces, arms and such to it. There have never been two people any whiter than the pair of you, and that gives you away right off, no matter how you smell or what clothes you wear. We got to do some trading or bartering for regular clothes, some with a few repairs showing and maybe a patch or two. Those pretty backpacks got to go. Get an old blanket and wrap your crap in it, tie it with a rope and carry it on your back or in your hand as others do.”

  It all sounded reasonable if we knew what others did. That was the root of our problems.

  He went on, “And you got to get your asses into some water. Lard soap wouldn’t hurt. Lye would be better. Right now, people will smell you ten feet away and know you been living down in one of the holes.”

  “We affectionately called ours Deep Hole,” Mayfield said.

  He twitched the corner of his mouth as if that was funny. Then he went on, “Listen, here’s what we’re gonna do first. When we go down the backside of this hill we’re sitting on, nobody down in the valley can see us because the hill will be between them and us. There’s water running in streams. We can make a fire to dry your things after you wash. And maybe we can sort of conceal some of your newness until we can barter with some friends of mine. They’d love to own backpacks like yours.”

  It sounded like the truth. If he was not trying to help us, he wouldn’t tell us how to assimilate into the local society. I had the feeling that he could overcome the two of us in a short second if he wanted. His arms were massive in comparison to mine. His shoulders were huge. Despite being perhaps twenty years older, he had worked hard to survive, and it had made him stronger. We were weak, thin, and white. And we smelled bad.

  That was my take. We were white wimps dressed in new clothes among strong brown people who wore rags. In any company, we’d stand out. Not for the better.

  Worse, was his revelation that Sir Wilson’s people, or others now that the location of Deep Hole was known, was that the army intended to blast their way inside and kill everyone there. Our friends. The only people we’d ever known.

  The concept nearly brought me to my knees.

  I tried to blame Mayfield. Then myself. And both of us at the same time. If we hadn’t left Deep Hole none of our friends below would be in danger. That argument fell apart even as it formed. We hadn’t left. We’d been kicked out for political gain by the four leaders of the sanctuary. Mayfield and I were expendable but provided a little value to those four by our abrupt departure. We were the excuse they needed.

  While resting, thinking, and watching for danger in the valley below us, we grew quiet. Little things made themselves aware. The touch of a slight breeze on my hair. Unfamiliar, but welcome scents tantalized. Birds chirped or sang, insects buzzed as they flew past, and the chill of the air all were unfamiliar and welcome. Like coming home.

  Where the bug had bitten my finger, a spot of white was surrounded by red. It was sore. Not that it was painful like breaking a finger, but a constant reminder not to touch insects until their habits or intentions were known. They were not my friends.

  Mitch turned to Mayfield. She wasn’t facing his direction and I saw the appraising inspection he gave her, head to foot, one that told he was more than interested despite her odor. My anger flared. She was my friend, opponent, and competitor. We had never shared an intimate moment or word. That was a regret.

  He turned to me and seemed to read my anger. “What the hell are you two doing up here, anyway?”

  The question was reasonable. It should have been expected. My mind ran through a series of lies, then centered on the truth. “They kicked us out.”

  “They?”

  “Not the residents, the people. It was the four leaders.”

  “Why?”

  His simple question didn’t have a simple answer. Mayfield came to my rescue. “They’re scared.”

  “Of you two?” His tone held no recrimination or doubt, only sincere interest. “What were you planning to do, overthrow their rule?”

  “No. Babies are not being born. Well, one last year, but seven people died.”

  “There are women down there? I mean young enough to have babies?”

  “Over a hundred,” Mayfield said.

  Mitch remained quiet for a time, letting his eyes roam the forest, the sky, and the valley. They never seemed to stay in one place for long. Finally, he said, “Somehow, you two are supposed to solve that problem?”

  “Delay facing it is more like the truth,” Mayfield said, not adding more to the story, which told me her mindset was similar to mine.

  I was grateful for that. Our rescuer may be the benefactor he appeared—or he may not. There was no use or help in telling him more, at least not yet. So far, he had lived up to all he’d said. Without him, we would probably be dead, at the least we would be captives of the soldiers.

  My mind wouldn’t accept him doing those things and placing himself in danger for the simple reason of helping us, a pair of refugees from below ground—a place he hated. He wanted more. That was the way of every person I’d even come into contact with, some more so. Others less. They all wanted something.

  Until we knew what it was, we couldn’t deal on an equal playing field. It seemed like we’d been on that mountain top far longer than we had. I said, “I’ve caught my breath.”

  Mitch glanced at Mayfield, then stood and said reassuringly. “It’s not far.”

  This time, he took the lead without consulting us. That struck me as either very good or bad. I didn’t know which.

  The slope was tricky to navigate. Steeper than the other side, the sand and dirt on top of a base of rock under our feet sliding from the beginning. The layer of dried and decaying leaves made it worse. Mitch kept his knees bent and he leaned slightly forward from the waist as he moved. When his feet slipped, instead of flailing around with his arms for balance, he casually reached out and grasped a nearby branch or trunk to steady himself. It looked like he was always aware of the next place to grab, like climbing a ladder and knowing where the next rung would be. His hands moved from one to the next naturally. He might not even have been aware of it.

  Copying him, I looked ahead a step or two in front of me. There was a small tree on my left, and a step beyond that, a sturdy branch on my right. My left foot skidded a few inches. My right hand found the branch and steadied myself. Not that I would have fallen—but maybe I would have. I moved ahead.

  My posture crouched to imitate his. Mayfield glanced at me and watched, and instantly did the same because it didn’t take her as long to grasp the method.

  The slope reduced until it was little more than a gradual hill. No matter, there were still up-thrusting roots, imbedded rocks, holes, and unseen vines to trip us up. Moving in the crouched position
kept us balanced and minimized the awkwardness. Our hands reached for whatever support was near kept us upright.

  Mitch paused to get his bearings and angled our direction to our right. A white-peaked mountain in the far distance seemed to be his guide. We said nothing. Walking and climbing used all our oxygen. There was none to spare for conversation.

  Even walking downhill with our packs and soft muscles was a chore. The undergrowth increased, but we generally followed relatively easy paths. What had made them was unknown to me. Not people, I felt sure. Well, maybe not so sure. If not people, large animals were wandering the same forest as us and that was an uncomfortable idea.

  We reached the floor of the valley where a small angry river flowed. While only ten feet across, it looked deep and the water churned over rocks. Mitch moved along the shore until he found where a tree had fallen completely across it. My instincts said he knew it was there. He had crossed the stream before.

  Branches stuck out at all angles, many straight up in the air. Mitch walked along the trunk without hesitation, again keeping hands near branches in case he slipped. Mayfield went next, balancing each step and holding at least one branch firmly at all times. I followed, probably moving slower than her.

  I expected that we’d continue across the flat area and up the other side of the next mountain. Instead, we followed the river for a long way, finally reaching a place where it widened into a lake as the water slowed.

  “There,” Mitch pointed without explanation.

  Beside the lake was a meadow surrounded by trees on all sides, a wide expanse of grass with the blackened evidence of a forest fire at some time in the far past with the blackened, dead trees still standing. A circle of rocks told of previous camps. A couple of fallen logs had been placed near the fire pit, and two stumps provided seats.

  We pulled off our backpacks and let them fall to the ground.

  Mitch said, “I’ll gather firewood while the two of you get in the water and wash. I’ll bring ash from the firepit down to you. Use it like soap on your bodies and clothing. Dump out your packs and use the charcoal to wash them too.”

  He turned to gather wood.

  I did as he told us but motioned to Mayfield to retain her pistol. I slipped mine into my waistband but removed the belt and placed it near the edge of the water and placed the holster upside down so Mitch couldn’t see it was empty. She did the same.

  We went to the edge of the water and took a tentative step. Water seeped into my boots. It was cold. No, it was freezing. I leaped back to the dry shore.

  Mitch had an armful of sticks and branches he was carrying back to the firepit. When he saw me, he burst into laughter, not a chuckle or even a snort of humor. He threw his head back and roared.

  “What’s so funny?” I growled.

  “Me!” he said as he dropped the firewood and came in our direction at a jog. “I should have known you didn’t know what to do or expect.”

  He pulled off clothing as he came, tossing it to one side or another with careless abandon. His boots came off as he hopped from one foot to the other, then his socks. Mayfield and I watched as if he had gone mad. When he reached the water, he wore only a pair of thin shorts. He called, “Get out of those clothes and come on.”

  What followed was a splash that got both of us wet and convinced me to stay stinky.

  He surfaced with a grin and he called, “You’ve never seen a lake, don’t know how to swim, and how would you know this water was this cold because it was either snow or ice yesterday?”

  His skin was already tinged pink from the cold. He seemed to ignore it. No, he seemed to enjoy the pain of the cold water which struck us as odd.

  Neither Mayfield nor I moved.

  Joining a crazy person in their actions is not a normal response.

  He waded back to the shallows, stood dripping wet in ankle-deep water, skin tinged pink from the cold he ignored, and faced us. “You got to get in.”

  “We can wash here at the edge,” I answered, splashing a few sprinkles of water at my knees and cringing at the result. I removed my boots. Then the rest.

  Mitch seemed to be enjoying himself at our expense. He said, “Never seen a lake, took a bath or went for a swim. You people don’t know what you missed.”

  Mayfield glanced out at the middle of the lake that had to be a hundred yards across. She asked, “The water out there is deeper than our heads?”

  “No worries. You’re not going out that far, but you got to go out to your waist and dunk yourselves. He raised his charcoal filled hands and smeared it over his hair, beard, face, and neck. Then he rubbed the remainder into his armpits before he had squatted and let his head sink underwater. He rinsed and popped back with an evil grin and said, “I’ll go get some more.”

  I glanced at Mayfield. “Not me. I’d rather smell bad.”

  She said to Mitch, “We are civilized and clean our bodies with sanitary wipes.”

  Before I could form a response, Mitch splashed his way near me and indicated with a finger for me to go into deeper water. I went out to my ankles, feeling the sting and pain of the coldness and wanting to go back to dry land. He kept moving, his hands dripping with black ash and charcoal from the firepit that he carried in a cloth. Determined not to appear weak or afraid, I steeled myself and took another step. Then another.

  My legs went numb from the knees down and he still wanted me to go out further. When the level reached my waist, I’d had it. I pulled to a stop, shivering and not afraid to reveal my fear. Deeper water terrified me. There might even be fish in it. Sharks.

  He moved back to my side. I expected a lecture about going on out into deeper water, but he surprised me. “I get your fear. This is a first for you, so let’s do it here. Close your eyes.”

  I did. His hands went to my hair and his fingers rubbed the charcoal in. He kept at it, placing the stuff on my face, neck, shoulders, arms, and chest. I gathered a handful and put it in my armpits, determined he wouldn’t do that for fear I’d giggle. Being ticklish is a blessing when with a pretty woman, a curse when a crude caveman without education had to touch me.

  I glanced down. The black had smeared, run, streaked, and caked. Against my pale skin, I looked like what I imagined the walking dead did. When I turned to Mayfield expecting a burst of laughter, she was horrified and covered her mouth with her hands, looking ready to take flight.

  “Now, squat. Your head has to go under to rinse,” Mitch said.

  “How do I breathe?”

  “If you find a way, let me know. Otherwise, I suggest you hold your breath until I signal for you to get up.”

  It didn’t sound appealing and only slightly better than wearing the black stuff for a few more days. He put his hand on my shoulder and gently pushed down. Each inch was colder. I felt the shivers begin. He paused as the water touched my chin. “Close your eyes and hold your breath. Let’s do this fast.”

  He pushed down. The intense cold almost made my eyes open. The hand that held my shoulder down remained in place while he used the other to rinse my short hair. Of course, my beard had been retarded with gel in Deep Hole, but since leaving had grown to stubble. Soon, I’d look like other wild men who lived on the surface. That didn’t instill confidence. I did not want to be a hairy ape like them.

  As my lungs threatened to burst, he grabbed a fist full of my hair and lifted. I stood and gasped. My eyes went wide in shock from the intense cold. My skin was no longer white, it was red. He said, “Get to shore and stand in the sun to get warm.”

  He didn’t have to tell me again.

  Once on shore, the heat of the sun struck me, and my body tingled. I felt invigorated. Deep breaths drew in the scented air. I felt I could run up the next mountain.

  Mayfield was resisting. She would not put her head underwater.

  I called, “Do it. It was wonderful.”

  “Then why don’t you get your ass out here and do it again?” She shrieked.

  Later, much later, the three of us
laid on the grass in soot-stained clothing that was wrinkled, had been smeared with charcoal, and looked much older. Mitch had dumped the contents of our backpacks and carried them to the firepit where he gathered more ash from the bottom and then returned to knee-deep water where he scrubbed and stained them, not rinsing them well, so they were discolored.

  They were also drying and didn’t look like the same new bags we’d carried an hour earlier. He had a fire going, the heat adding to the warmth of the afternoon sun as our things dried and steamed.

  Without looking up, he said, “Those pistols need to be drained of water and cleaned before they corrode and rust.”

  After surviving my near-drowning, a sort of trust had grown within me. Mayfield hadn’t liked the bathing as much, and for the first time, the wisps of her hair moved with the breeze as it dried. Her hair was about the same length as mine, about an inch everywhere. The woman who cut our hair below used the same electric sheer on everyone. Short hair was easier to maintain and keep clean, at least to the standards we were raised with. The charcoal had darkened our skin and clothing.

  I could smell nothing different about us.

  Mitch explained with a laugh and again said that we were nose-blind.

  He might have been right. After living in Deep Hole with the smells the same anywhere were we went in the tunnels, our sense of smell was probably dulled. At the least, our noses were used to the smells in Deep Hole.

  We gathered more firewood and placed it near the fire where Mitch said, “Why don’t we take a look at what you brought with you?”

  There was nothing to hide, no secrets. Nothing but the symbols on the maps indicating where other shelters were located, shielding perhaps thousands of other decrepit white creatures like us.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The contents of our backpacks made an impressive display. It lay in the afternoon sun in two piles where Mitch had dumped everything so he could discolor the new packs with charcoal and ash in the river.

  He pawed through the contents, separating it much as we had done. I watched his hands closely to notice if he stole anything, especially ammunition. He’d already made it clear how valuable bullets were and I didn’t fully trust anyone.