A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds)

by Colegrove, Stephen

  The hunters collected stone and piled them over the bodies of the three hunters and his father. Carter looked through the campsite for usable equipment while Badger kept lookout.

  After the graves were finished they gathered together. Wilson stood over the four piles of stone. He spread his hands.

  “I … don’t know what to say. I can’t believe any of this has happened. All of you deserved better than this. Especially you, father.”

  He waved his silver necklace up and down, left and right.

  “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.“

  He gave the backpack with his father’s implants to Carter. “I’d take these back myself, only …”

  “I understand, sir. Should I wait for you at the village?”

  Wilson nodded. “We’ll be there within a week. If not, you can return to the valley.”

  Carter gripped Wilson’s hand in both of his. “Good hunting.”

  He walked with Martinez and the other two hunters over the broken road. Wilson watched until they disappeared around the curve of the hill.

  Badger handed him a full backpack. Wilson tied his crossbow on the back then slid his arms through the straps. He picked up a long tribal rifle with reloads sewn to the stock. Badger walked with him through the scrub pine and sandy red soil, following the sleeping sunflowers to the east.

  ELEVEN

  Between the mountains and the prairie lay the chewed and scattered bones of the city. The bleached fragments of her crumbled highways stretched north and south. Fallen buildings and piles of rusted machinery clogged the faded trails of local streets. Trees and tall grasses grew haphazardly and seemed to Wilson like a wild garden planted by children.

  Badger pointed to the eastern horizon. “What’s that?”

  Wilson squinted in the gray blur of starlight and saw a barren area a kilometer away. A few shapes spotted the center, probably trees.

  “It looks like a crater,” he said. “Basically, a dry lake.”

  They continued north and passed a valley where blades of rock stood high in the night sky.

  “Wait–” said Badger. She dropped her rifle and leaned forward.

  “Kira?”

  Wilson caught her before she hit the ground. He pulled up her sleeve and hit the reset code. Her chest and ribs pushed against his arms as she breathed rapidly. It gradually slowed to normal.

  Wilson brushed a long strand of hair from her face and she yawned.

  “You’re warm,” she said sleepily.

  “Give me a warning next time, okay?”

  “I’m tired … just want to sleep,” murmured Badger.

  Wilson touched her cheek then looked back at the tall blades of sandstone.

  “None of this seems real to me,” he said. “Especially my father. I guess I’d accepted his death, then he was alive again. Alive, and now dead again. It’s like a story you’d hear from a toothless, jibbering medicine man. But here we are, just the two of us. Alone and in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m sorry about your father,” whispered Badger, her eyes open.

  “Come on, we can’t stay here.”

  She didn’t move. “Before the sickness happens I always have same feeling. I don’t know who I am or what I’m wearing. I don’t recognize people or things around me.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Wilson. “I can make myself feel the same way. My mind separates from my body and I wonder, who am I? Then it just goes away.”

  “Why would you do that to yourself? It’s a horrible feeling.”

  They walked north through rock-covered hills to avoid the dead zone, then east through open country. A few kilometers of walking over the rolling hills brought them to scattered buildings on the northern edge of Springs. Gunfire cracked in the distance and Wilson’s left arm started to ache with pain.

  “We need to rest,” said Badger. “Head for those buildings.”

  “Don’t go south. The radiation–”

  “Come on, I’m not three years old. I can see the north star.”

  They kept to the center of roads and avoided the overgrown humps and piles of rock. The grass on the piles concealed holes that would break an ankle and sharp, rusted metal.

  Later in the night they walked through a road crossing and heard a low-pitched human whistle. With no place to hide, the pair scrambled into a nearby pit and waited.

  Wilson covered his nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Shhh! Don’t think about it,” whispered Badger.

  The whistle became irregular and more distant. When it was too faint to hear the two climbed out of the pit.

  After thirty minutes of walking they found a two-story building with three walls and no roof. Badger watched for a few minutes then climbed tilted stairs to the second floor. A corner provided a good sleeping area and Badger used a rusty table to block the stairs. She unrolled her furs and lay down first.

  Wilson took handfuls of gravel and scattered them on the steps. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders and watched the broad river of stars turn above his head.

  The last few hours of night brought nothing more than an occassional wolf howl or bark of a fox. A horned owl hunted nearby and a family of mule deer passed.

  Badger woke after sunrise and shared a cold breakfast with him. Wilson curled up in the blanket and slept until late afternoon, when a drop of rain splashed his cheek. The pair sheltered under the first floor stairwell in a cocoon of blankets and kept each other warm during the storm.

  “Did you see anything?” Wilson asked.

  “A group of tribals, before the rain started.”

  Wilson sighed. “How did I get us into this mess?”

  The raindrops pattered on the brown concrete. For a moment, Wilson was mesmerized by the quiet sounds.

  “When I first came to Station I was alone,” whispered Badger. “Even with people around me I felt alone. I couldn’t understand anyone when they talked. Maybe my face scared them. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. My favorite times were the warm afternoons when it would rain. I would go outside with a leather coat too big for me and pull my head and arms inside. When I squatted down I could feel raindrops on my back, but the whole world was just a patch of grass beneath my feet.”

  “You’re not alone now.”

  She sighed. “That’s not my point. All the millions of trees and grass and rocks and people under the sky. Why do some have to die? Why are we born if it’s just to kill or be killed? Can you understand all of it? Can you understand why anything happens?”

  Wilson felt her shaking. He rubbed a tear from her face and held her tight.

  “We’ll find it. I promise.”

  Badger wiped her nose. “Don’t promise anything. Just sit here with me and listen to the rain.”

  THE STORM ENDED BEFORE evening. When the sky darkened with twilight they left the building and continued east.

  Walking through the northern edge of the dead city, they passed the debris of fallen buildings, weedy piles of earth, and hulks of brown metal in the grass. One structure might have walls but the next would only be rotten, black sticks. Both watched for any sign of wolves or men as they climbed around sinkholes and blocks of moss-covered rubble.

  Badger stopped and grabbed Wilson’s hand. “Hide!”

  They sheltered behind a pile of rubble. Out of the darkness, a grinding sound grew from a purr to a roar. A black, wheeled box passed in a shower of grit. At least a dozen human shapes rode on top.

  “What was that?” asked Badger.

  “A transport, I guess. Want to follow it?”

  She snorted. “Not really.”

  Wilson squinted at his notes. “We keep going to a road called ‘21’, then turn southeast.”

  As night deepened, both used the sight-trick. Thunder rumbled from the south. After several kilometers over the streets Wilson spotted a weather-beaten sign. An arrow
pointed to “Route 21.”

  Without a word Badger pulled Wilson behind a low concrete wall.

  For several minutes he heard only raindrops, then a shuffling sound came from his left. A line of sixteen tribals passed within meters of his hiding place. Twelve men and women were tied by the hands to a guide rope and wore only scraps of clothing. The prisoners were bracketed front and rear by four tribals armed with rifles. The clothing of the guards sparkled with metal.

  The line disappeared to the east. Badger waited a moment then crept carefully across the road. Wilson didn’t move and she returned quickly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We have to do something,” said Wilson.

  “It’s too dangerous. Four guards and just two of us,” she hissed.

  “We can do it.”

  Badger picked up a pebble then dropped it. “Fine. But we do it quiet and no guns. There’s only one way.”

  “What way?”

  “Use a new trick.”

  “Just like that? No practice?”

  “It’s easy to learn,” said Badger. “The trick lasts for only a few seconds but then hits you like a bear. We can use it on four tribals.”

  She gave instructions for the trick and made Wilson repeat them back.

  “Where did you learn that?” he asked.

  “A girl has to keep some secrets. Come on.”

  The line of figures still walked east along the dark road. Badger and Wilson ran carefully back through the ruins. They circled in front of the slaves to a collapsed section of road. The slave-drivers would probably take this route through the jumble of rocks, Wilson guessed. He concealed himself beside a tangle of metal near the path and Badger hid behind an upturned section of concrete on the opposite side. Wilson removed his pack and re-checked his crossbow.

  Within moments a dark shape appeared. Framed by the night sky, it stood on the high road and watched the rocks in the crossing. Another shape joined it and together they guided the line of prisoners down the path. Wilson aimed his crossbow at the two in the lead. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and imagined his hand thrust into white-hot coals. Under his breath he murmured four lines:

  Heart made of flame

  Heart made of spark

  Heart made of sun

  Speed my hand

  He opened his eyes. All movement had stopped, even the tiny mosquito in front of his face. The tribal in the lead had frozen in place and his mud-covered boot dangled in mid-step. Wilson heard nothing but a low rumble, like a distant waterfall.

  He pulled the release on his crossbow and a white-fletched bolt flowered the guard’s chest. Wilson dropped the bow and ran forward with his knife. He covered ten meters and the first guard hadn’t fallen, but leaned back at a steep angle with his leg high in the air. The guard behind looked shocked but held his rifle low. Wilson plowed a shoulder into the tribal’s sternum and knocked him off his feet. The tribal floated strangely in the air as Wilson stabbed him in the heart.

  He looked back at the first tribal, the one he’d shot. The man lay on the ground and clawed at the bolt in his chest like a fly in honey.

  Without warning the world flipped sideways and his stomach cramped. Wilson bent over and vomited his last meal. He couldn’t raise his head and collapsed on his side. Numb and half-conscious, he forgot who he was. He stared at a strange knife sticking from a strange man on the ground and closed his eyes. A few seconds later, sound burst into his ears.

  “Be quiet or die,” said a strange girl.

  Wilson’s lips were heavy and thick. “Sorry … quiet,” he said.

  Something grabbed his shoulder and he opened his eyes. A girl with a scarred face stared at him. Her cheeks and nose were smeared with blood.

  “Will! Wake up!”

  “Leave me alone … you.”

  “No.” She slapped him in the face a few times and sat him up. “Move your fingers and toes and keep your eyes open.”

  Wilson watched her cut the bonds of the twelve slaves. The feeling in his arms and legs gradually returned, as well as his memory. Nearby lay the bloody corpses of the two dead tribals. A dozen slaves crouched beside another pair of bodies.

  Badger faced the ragged men and women and spoke in their language.

  “You’re free now. Run from here, quickly.”

  “Take us with you! They’ll only find us again,” said a young man.

  “Quiet! We’re going north and can’t take you. Two days to the west is a village called David, and they don’t sell slaves. Travel together and hide during the daylight.”

  Badger pulled Wilson’s knife from the guard’s chest and held a rifle on the slaves. They ripped clothes from the dead and left nothing but naked bodies. The slaves split into two groups. One group ran to the north, the other to the west.

  With Badger’s help Wilson struggled to his feet.

  “Why did you say we’re going north? Why tell them anything?”

  She wiped blood from his face with a cloth. “Dear boy, I thought you were the smart one. Some of the slaves will be caught.”

  Wilson rubbed his temples. “Ugh … my head. You should have warned me about the trick.”

  “I did.”

  “Still … I feel like I ran up the side of Old Man three times.”

  Badger laughed. “It gets easier, but not by much.”

  “And I never want to eat again.”

  “That’ll change. Come on.”

  The pair gathered weapons and packs and continued east. Under the beams of a fallen roof they ate dried fruit and venison and drank tea from the water-skins.

  The road continued along the edge of the gray city and brought them to a rise that looked over the plains. The light of many lanterns speckled the dark. Tall piles of tangled gray metal littered the fields around the village, too heavy to move and apparently too useless to scavenge.

  “It’s probably the slavers,” murmured Badger.

  “Let’s not make friends, then,” said Wilson.

  Badger pointed to the tall piles of twisted metal. “Those things actually flew in the sky?”

  “In the old days. Now they’re just home to swallows and spiders.”

  They left behind the lights of the village and traveled southeast over the yellow plains. All signs of human life past or present soon disappeared, and no road or even a rotted building broke the horizon. Patches of knee-high purple flowers called “blue mist” covered the prairie, along with orange-petaled “brown-eyed susans.” Wilson welcomed the solitude of the prairie. His fingers brushed the flower petals as he walked.

  “Your friend is still behind us,” said Badger.

  Wilson looked back. The ugly dog trotted behind in the trail left in the grass.

  “You know why it’s bad luck?” Badger asked.

  “It can’t smell death. It’s just a dog on a trip like the two of us.”

  She pouted. “I’ll scare it away.”

  “Please don’t.” Wilson looked at his map. “Ten klicks left.”

  “We should stop to rest. Sunrise is coming and you look sick.”

  “But there’s no cover around here.”

  Badger pointed to a handful of scrubby trees in the distance and Wilson followed her. They prepared the ground for sleeping by laying cut prairie grass under the trees. Wilson wrapped himself in furs and fell asleep immediately.

  Thick sunflower stems stung his arms and face. He wanted to find that poor-will this time and strangle it.

  Where father? Where Father? Where Father?

  He struggled through the stems and ran faster and faster but couldn’t reach the bird. A low baying came from behind, and the huge black animals with lolling tongues were on him fast. A dog knocked him to the ground and bit his throat.

  Wilson jerked awake and felt his neck. Badger was sitting beside him with fur wrapped over her shoulders.

  “Bad dream?”

  He lay back and stared through the branches to the overcast sky. A morning breeze whistled through
the tree in a low, off-key tune. Tiny drops of water, barely even mist, sprinkled his face. To the west circled a pair of vultures.

  He watched Badger undo her braids. She ran a brush through her black hair with her eyes still on the open prairie. After she plaited the hair into a single braid, she wrapped it with red string. Badger realized she was being watched and her cheeks and neck flushed pink.

  “Say something! Don’t just stare at me.”

  “I’m sorry. Pretty girls have that effect on me.”

  She put her face close to his. “Girls? Which ones?”

  “Just you.”

  She kissed him. “Good. Because you wouldn’t like it when I’m angry.”

  “I can’t imagine not liking anything about you.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  “Just to be on the safe side, what would make you angry? A squirrel steals your food? Someone breaks your favorite bowl? Tracks mud into your room? Doesn’t take a bath?”

  “Nothing that simple,” she said. “I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like to lose control and that’s what anger is.”

  Wilson listened to the whistle of the breeze through the branches and chewed on a ball of pemmican.

  “I was angry for a long time after my father left Station,” he said. “Angry at everything and everyone. That boiled over with the tribals who’d taken Mina. I saw the red mist and … things just happened. I didn’t have control.”

  “It’s not a good feeling,” said Badger.

  Wilson sighed and shook himself like a dog with a wet coat. “Your parents––”

  “––are dead,” said Badger, standing up. “Let’s not join them.”

  A pair of brown rabbits scattered across a field and a red-tailed hawk soared above as they walked east. Badger backtracked several times and left false paths to muddle the trail in the wet prairie grass.

  A bleak line of shapes rose on the prairie’s horizon. As Wilson and Badger walked closer they saw a dozen buildings. Many were in a state of collapse, but had survived better than anything back in Springs. Two massive square buildings commanded the center of the complex. There were no trees or cover aside from tall, weedy humps of metal scattered here and there. A fence had once circled the entire complex but now only brown fragments and a few posts remained.