Darkness Follows

by L. A. Weatherly

  At the food truck I stood awkwardly in line. A group of Guns loitered near the fence. One was eating a sandwich. He put it down on the hood of a truck as he laughed with another Gun, demonstrating a golf swing. A trio of ravens flapped overhead, black wings churning.

  For once, pain took precedence over hunger and the sandwich barely registered. After I’d gulped down my bread and soup, I went into the hut and sat on my bed. Fran was already there, huddled under the thin blanket.

  I hesitated, gazing down at the pinched boots that had once been a jaunty cherry colour. My blisters were so bad that I hadn’t taken them off for days. I gritted my teeth and pulled off the left one.

  Fresh pain flared. The stench of blood hit me. My sock was in tatters, stained dark brown. When I peeled it off, the skin of my foot was a damp-looking grey. The blisters oozed angrily. The wound from the nail was already a deep, red-black hole, stabbed in several places that had joined together.

  I stared at it in dread. Unless I was lucky I knew what would come soon: red lines darting up my leg as infection set in.

  Groping inside the damp boot, I found the offending nail. I took the fallen-off heel and used it as a hammer, reaching inside the boot to try to shove the nail out backwards, or bend it sideways. The heel’s rubber fell to pieces in my hand. I flipped the boot over – the nail was half-buried in the sole. I clawed at it with my fingernails; for a panicked moment almost took to it with my teeth.

  Fran had turned over and was watching me. Her blue eyes held something like concern, though that wasn’t it exactly…more dread that the problem existed and relief that it wasn’t happening to her.

  We didn’t speak. I stood up and went into the corner where the chamber pot was. I ignored its stench and undid my trousers. I untied the rag that I’d hidden around one thigh. I’d been saving it for my next monthly; now I had no choice. I folded it in a small square and shoved it inside the boot, covering the nail.

  When I gingerly tested it, I could feel pressure, but no sharpness. How long would it take before the nail ripped the cloth to shreds?

  The temptation to just curl up in bed and black all this out was almost overwhelming. Instead I creaked open the hut’s wooden door and went back out to the yard.

  The Guns stood talking in a tightly-knit cluster that looked ominous. I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to look as if I had nothing on my mind.

  The ground had a fresh sheet of snow. I couldn’t search for anything to blunt the nail without drawing attention. The spotlights on the fence blazed, almost drowning out Gunnison’s image as he whispered about the Discordant problem, his eyes sorrowful. Melody stood at the doorway of her own hut with a few others, bunched together but not really speaking.

  I gazed at her. Hatred throbbed.

  Claudia drifted over. “What are you staring at?” she whispered. Her thin face was still fuller than most here. It was rumoured that she was a spy for the Guns, that she did their dirty work for them.

  “A thief,” I answered without looking at her, and moved away.

  Forget Melody. I had no choice. I waited until the Guns near the gate weren’t looking…then hunched my shoulders and headed towards the “marketplace”.

  I’d rarely been there. It was just a corner between a few buildings, somewhat sheltered from the wind. Several other women stood half-hidden in shadow, talking in low voices. As I approached they looked up. I didn’t know any of them, but their faces all looked similar: lean, big-eyed, hungry.

  “What have you got?” whispered one.

  I couldn’t see the Guns from here and it made me nervous. I reached into my brassiere and drew out the shard. It glinted.

  “This,” I said.

  Eyes widened. “What do you want for it?” someone asked in an urgent mutter.

  I kept tight hold of the glass. “I need boots.” I tried to keep the desperate hope from my voice.

  Harsh laughter. “Are you crazy? We all need boots.”

  “Boots or nothing.”

  “…Unfortunately, Discordants can’t be rehabilitated,” Gunnison explained softly. “I hate it just like everyone else…”

  The woman who seemed most interested in the shard inspected it carefully. “I can’t get you boots,” she said. She glanced at my feet. “What’s wrong with those?”

  “Nothing, except that they’re going to get me shot soon,” I said shortly.

  She gave a tired, mocking smile. “We’ll just get the glass off you then.”

  “Not if the Guns find it first.”

  “True. That would be a shame.” She screwed up her forehead. “What if I could get you some cardboard, to thicken the soles?”

  “That would only be temporary! I need something permanent.”

  “The only thing permanent here is that,” she said wryly, and nodded towards the heads on the fence. “Do we have a deal?”

  My heel throbbed. Thinking of trying to keep up with the others for over two miles the next day, I hesitated, tempted. But cardboard wouldn’t even last a week. Then I’d be right back where I started.

  I swallowed hard as I decided. I’d tear a strip off my already-tattered shirt to keep the nail at bay and come back tomorrow night – see if someone else was here that could get me what I needed.

  “No deal.” I tucked the glass back in my brassiere.

  The woman shrugged reluctantly, but didn’t improve her offer. She drifted away into the shadows. I watched her go, scared I’d made the wrong choice. If the cloth in my boot didn’t hold out tomorrow then I’d pay for it with my life.

  “Amity Vancour?” whispered a voice.

  I flinched. Slowly, I turned, certain that I’d face a grinning Gun levelling a pistol at me.

  The speaker was a gaunt, frowning woman, dressed in the same sort of rags as all of us. Before I knew what was happening, she pressed a scrap of paper into my hand and walked off.

  “Wait!” I hissed.

  She quickened her stride. “I’ve done all I said I’d do,” she said over her shoulder.

  I was hardly less alarmed than if it had been a Gun. Clutching the mysterious paper, I pressed against one of the buildings, trying to disappear in the shadows. As Gunnison murmured on, I glanced towards the main gates and unfolded it. Written in a hasty scrawl with what I guessed to be a piece of slate was:

  Meet me. Midnight. Please.

  Please was underlined twice. I crumpled the paper in a fearful reflex…then thought better of it and refolded it carefully; it could help battle the nail in my boot. It had to be from Ingo, of course. How had he gotten a note to me?

  Sirens blared, pulsing through the air. I started, half thinking that my guilt in even having the note had been discovered. Everyone began moving to the outside of their huts. A surprise count, then.

  I shoved the note into my jacket lining and hurried to my own hut. I got in line with the others, hand out.

  “Aries seven…”

  I stared straight ahead as the pretty blonde Gun checked me off her list. The note felt glowing, alive. Though I knew the meeting place Ingo must mean, to go there would be insane. We’d both be shot on sight if caught.

  When it came Claudia’s turn, I saw her whisper something to the Gun. I stiffened, but though the Gun’s gaze narrowed, she didn’t look at me. She strode on, her wool coat stirring around her ankles, and I let out a tiny breath.

  Meet me. Midnight. Please.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “…and that’s when I knew that astrology held the key to all things…”

  I lay tensely in bed. Gunnison’s confiding voice was barely audible. Beside me, Fran’s breathing sounded shallow and restless; from others came coughs and groans.

  I’d be heard if I left – and several in here would be happy to go to the Guns with such information. Ingo and I hadn’t been friends. We were barely acquaintances. We had nothing to say to each other.

  So many good reasons not to go…and not a single one in favour.

  The Guns changed shifts
at midnight. When their trucks briefly drowned out Gunnison’s voice, I shivered. I didn’t move for a long time after that. Yet I kept recalling Ingo grabbing my wrist, demanding answers despite the Guns; my own rush of anger.

  I’d forgotten what it felt like.

  Finally – I don’t know why – I pushed back the blanket and got out of bed. Fran rose on one elbow, gazing at me.

  I lifted my voice a little louder than I needed to. “I’m meeting with a Gun,” I whispered.

  I could sense her surprise though she was only a dark shape on the other side of the bed. “For extra food?”

  “Why else?” I murmured back, lacing my tone with bitterness. I could almost feel the alert silence of a few of the others. If they thought I was meeting a Gun for a liaison, maybe they wouldn’t report me. I hadn’t done anything even remotely rebellious in months and everyone knew it. Why should I start now?

  I prayed that would work in my favour – and cursed myself for giving in to the note’s plea.

  At the door I paused. A few times others had snuck out, and I’d seen how they did it. Harsh spotlights swept the yard at intervals. If you timed it just right, you could dart through the shadows that hugged each building.

  “…now take my own sun sign, Sagittarius…” Gunnison murmured. Through the crack between door and wall I could see him looking earnestly into the camera. “You see, with Scorpio rising, that means…”

  The spotlight lit up our hut. It dazzled my eyes even through the crack and I shivered, clutching the door jamb. Who the hell was Ingo to me, anyway? He’d accused me of betrayal. Why was I doing this?

  The spotlight passed. I was light-headed. I silently pushed open the door and slipped out into the night.

  The place I knew Ingo must have meant was one I’d only heard about. Far behind the furthest hut, out of reach of the camp’s lights, was a small storage shed. The men’s section was just beyond: a fence bristling with barbed wire separated the two areas. The ground here was uneven, hilly. A slender gap showed underneath the fence, just large enough for a man to slither through, if he was thin…which described everyone here.

  Couples met here sometimes. Mostly married couples, I supposed. We spent so little time with the men of the camp – who would risk everything for a random encounter? Though for some, maybe the momentary pleasure was worth it.

  I was so late that I was sure Ingo wouldn’t still be there. I kept my eyes on the shed’s dark shape as I approached. Its shadows looked impenetrable and I paused, staring.

  Anyone could be back there. A Gun could be lying in wait.

  My muscles eased as a tall, thin form detached itself from the darkness. “You took long enough,” said Ingo, his voice heavy with relief.

  “You’re lucky I came at all,” I said. Neither of us mentioned the time I’d waited on a gloomy street corner for him, hoping he’d appear with the key to the World for Peace building – though I was sure we were both thinking of it. The memory flashed past from another world.

  Ingo came and took my arm. His puckered scar looked surreal in the moonlight, as if his face were made of wax and had half-melted.

  “Come back here, where we’re hidden,” he whispered. He was Germanic but had hardly any accent, apart from sounding slightly too precise. I recalled him saying that he’d gone to school in New Manhattan, where his mother was from.

  Behind the shed, cloaked in shadow, he let his hand fall. He wore tattered trousers and a jacket that hung loosely on his thin frame.

  “Were you telling the truth?” he said.

  I gasped out a disbelieving laugh. Was that why I’d risked my life to come meet him? “Ingo, what does it even matter? We’re here now – we’re both screwed.”

  His voice was taut. “Trust me, it matters. Tell me.”

  I sighed and stared out at the weathered concrete huts of the men’s camp. From the distance came Gunnison’s murmur, thankfully impossible to make out now.

  “I didn’t betray you,” I said. “Whether you believe it or not, I wouldn’t do that. But they knew everything anyway. Either you talked, or someone saw us.” I studied him. “Which was it?” I asked finally.

  Ingo’s narrow shoulders had slumped as if he’d been hoping for a different answer. “Neither.” He cleared his throat. “All right…I believe you. And I wish to hell you were right that it doesn’t matter any more.”

  “I have no idea why it would.”

  He snorted. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Even during our brief previous acquaintance, I could tell that you have very little imagination.”

  It was the first thing I’d found even vaguely amusing in a long time. “Thanks,” I said dryly. “Are you going to apologize for calling me a traitorous bitch?”

  “No. I’m going to offer you a deal.”

  I stiffened. A searchlight moved past in the men’s camp, and I pressed closer against the shed. “What kind of deal?” I whispered. “I don’t want any trouble, Ingo.”

  My eyes had adjusted to the light enough to see his scathing glance. “Neither do I. But I have information. And you have skills.”

  “What skills?”

  “Have you forgotten? You were keen to show off to me once before what a lock-picker extraordinaire you are.”

  I felt a flinch of alarm, as if a dozen Guns stood listening. “I’m not!” I said. “It was just kid stuff. Ingo, if you’re thinking – if you’re planning—”

  “To escape?” he finished. “Yes, of course that’s what I’m thinking! Aren’t you?”

  “We can’t,” I said faintly. “If they catch us—”

  “If they catch us we die, and that’s still a lot better than this place.” He scanned my face; I saw his lip curl. “What’s the matter, Wildcat? I thought you’d have an escape plan in place already. My information would just give you the final flourishing touches.”

  The spotlights swept across the men’s camp again. I waited until they’d passed, as if the lights themselves had ears. “Well, you thought wrong,” I said. “I take it you haven’t been in solitary.”

  He grasped my arm. His fingers were thin, unrelenting. “Oh, is that it? We spent time in the box, and now we’re too scared to piss until they tell us to grab a pot?”

  I jerked away. “I’ve got to survive! That’s all I know!”

  “And you think anyone actually survives here?”

  “What happened to your face?” I asked abruptly.

  Ingo had been standing close; now he gave a humourless laugh and leaned against the shed. He jammed his hands in his pockets. “Let’s just say that I found out for myself they’re capable of sabotaging planes.”

  I went still, remembering how the wing of my own plane had exploded when I’d fired at my opponent. “So you had another Peacefight after we got the evidence from Madeline’s office.”

  “Yes. I had to take it and go up, pretend I didn’t know anything. Clearly they knew otherwise.”

  “And then they captured you?”

  “And then they captured me.” Ingo’s voice was so flat that I knew it wasn’t the entire truth. He stepped close, his eyes as dark as the shadows.

  “We don’t have time to waste on this,” he said. “If we escape, I’ll tell you the whole sorry story in long, lingering detail. Are you in? Or not?”

  “I don’t know!” I backed away a step, panicked. “You don’t realize what you’re asking.”

  “The hell I don’t, you coward.” He gripped my arm again. “Listen to me. I am getting home to my family – that’s all I know! And I need you to help me.”

  The worn square of paper in my jacket lining had never felt so precious, or so lost to me. Something in me snapped. “At least you have a family to get home to! I can’t go near mine, not ever again! And if I escape, I’ll be recaptured – everyone knows my face. So what’s even out there for me, Ingo? What’s even out there? Tell me that!”

  “Maybe yourself,” he said softly.

  No. I was not going to cry. Not ever again.
r />   I jerked from his grasp. “Fuck you,” I said, and walked away as fast as my injured foot would let me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  August, 1941

  Mac had never been on the former Western Seaboard Peacefighting base before, though to Collis, of course, it was familiar territory. Mac glanced at him as they were driven through the main gates, wondering what “Sandy” was thinking. In the front of the auto, their driver remained silent.

  They were only in the Western Quarter for a few days. The World for Peace was still creaking along – Mac thought it suited Gunnison’s regime to keep the venerable organization in place – but the Peacefighting bases were now slowly being disbanded.

  When the Western Seaboard pilots had “attacked” Gunnison’s invading troops, they’d been acting under direct orders from then-President Lopez. The former WS leader had been executed; the pilots were still being held under arrest. Cain had finally sent Mac to investigate them. Collis had been ordered along to help.

  Mac gazed out the window at the eerily empty streets of the base. He’d have preferred to come alone; he had errands which he didn’t want Collis to know about. But now wasn’t the time to think about it. They’d reached their destination: a large hangar.

  The driver pulled up to the kerb and Mac and Collis got out into the sunshine, resplendent in their Gun uniforms: pearly grey, with the red-and-black Harmony swirl above their hearts.

  Collis looked pale. He said nothing. A World for Peace official came out and shook their hands.

  “In here, sir,” she said to Mac.

  A few minutes later, Mac stood scanning the lines of former Western Seaboard Peacefighter pilots arrayed before him. He didn’t care that every pilot here hated him and thought him Gunnison’s lackey…but did care, deeply, that he’d have to sacrifice some to let others go.

  It’s all I can do, he told himself harshly. And if I didn’t do it, Cain would get someone else in and every last one of them would be sent to a correction camp, not just some of them.