We Are The Few Read online

  She took another step forwards, pushing her mother into the corner of the bed as she sidled around her, her hand reaching out to grasp at the bed to keep herself upright. A sick sense of power thrilled through Freda, and she drank it in, the cathartic sensation of expressing her grief far outweighing the pained expression on her mother’s face. Another finger shot up. “I was never able to have a boyfriend, because I had to look after you and father. I didn’t have time to spend with boys, and none of them wanted to see me, anyway. You know why, mother?” Her tone dropped to a low, dangerous warning. “Because they all thought I’d turn out like you. A drunk,” she took another step, edging towards the door, “vicious old crone who can only be happy if everyone around her shares in her misery.”

  Her mother stared back at her, for once, speechless. She stared back at Freda, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Scowling at the sight, Freda swept past her, marching into her sitting room. The blue nylon carpet beneath her boots sent tiny electrical shocks crackling as she walked. She snatched up the small bag of food she had prepared the night before—something that luckily her mother hadn’t rummaged through yet—and put her hand towards the door.

  Thin, bony fingers wrapped around her wrist and yanked backwards, hard. Taken by surprise, Freda let out a yell, tripping over her feet and landing against the sharp edge of her counter top. It dug into her lower back, and she hissed, already able to feel the bruising that was settling there. Bringing her gaze to her mother’s drawn white face, she shouted, “What the hell? What do you want?”

  “You’re not leaving, young lady,” her mother replied, her breath washing over Freda as she jabbed a finger in her face, dangerously close to poking her eye. The stale smell of whiskey brought back uncomfortable memories of when she was a child, wrapped in her mother’s sobbing embrace in one of her few moments of guilt.

  All the years of rage, all the pent-up bitterness, all the words Freda wished she could have had the bravery to say before…they all swelled into a great, cresting wave inside Freda that she knew could never be pushed down again. Before she even realised she was doing it, she pulled her arm back, swinging it high into the air. It arced through the air before she registered her mother’s cry of distress. The sound of the slap cracked loudly against the walls, mocking her as it echoed back. “I’m leaving,” she growled, not caring as her mother put a trembling hand to the stinging red mark that appeared against her cheek. “I’m going with Gareth, today, and you will never, ever, see either of us again.”

  Her mother gave her a confused stare that cut through the fury and self-interested pity. “Gareth? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Even now, she couldn’t give a toss about him. Snatching her rifle up from where she had left it behind the door, straightening herself again and pulling the front door wide open with a blast of air, Freda paused and turned back to spit at her mother, “Yes, Gareth. Remember? Your son? My brother? We’re leaving, together. You can never hurt either of us again.”

  “But, Gareth isn’t—”

  Freda didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence. It was all lies, anyway. She slammed the door behind her and set off along the corridor, the dim lights above lighting her way to her new life. She breathed in deep, glad that never again would she have to sleep with the smell of the bunker in her nostrils. Her hand still stung from where she had slapped her mother, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. It was something that had built up for a long time.

  But never again. Put it from your mind. Everything is going to be okay from this point on.

  The bridge was scenic, even by the standards of the wasteland, but it was obvious that it must have been a beautiful sight when nature still had control. The once clear river that flowed beneath it was clouded with dirt and brackish colours, but it still glittered like diamonds. Weeds grew along the banks and poked out from between the stones of the bridge, a few even with tiny colourful violet flowers. The sky was grey, but strangely illuminated with an otherworldly glow, as though the sun was just behind a veil. Clouds, heavy with rain, swelled within its surface. A tall willow tree gracefully drifted its branches in the river, growing crooked and barely clinging onto its foothold.

  Heat still burned in Freda’s veins as she drew up to the bridge, her boots treading over the chipped yellow stripes that lined the edges of the road. She hoisted her rifle strap higher, the weight of the weapon heavier than it had ever seemed before. Despite the coolness of the day, the damp wind seemed warm as it hit her cheek, and she wiped her gloved hand over her forehead. She stared down at the oily marks left on the wool, remembering with a sigh that she hadn’t even had time to shower once she discovered her mother in her apartment. Damn her and my father to hell. They never cared. About me or Gareth. She knew she would never treat any children she had the same way. She would tell them every day that she loved them. If she even managed to have children, of course. Pregnancies were rare outside the bunkers.

  Pushing all negative thoughts aside, Freda sighed and rested herself against the wall of the bridge, sliding her rucksack and gun down to rest them against her legs. She looked around expectantly. Shouldn’t Gareth be here by now? She frowned, casting a glance down to the watch on her left wrist. It was far later than they had agreed to meet. Maybe he’s just wandered off for a bit. She peered over her shoulder, back towards the bunker. The road was clear, obscured by the dried skeletons of hedges that curved away from her line of sight. She couldn’t hear anyone following her, and she would have passed her brother had he walked back. Shoving herself off from the tiny Victorian bridge, Freda twisted around and stared from right to left. The main road continued towards the west and the unknown, but it was clear and straight enough from where she stood that she concluded Gareth couldn’t have gone so far that way. The other way led into the dark seclusions of the forest, dappled with the meagre light of the afternoon. She shuddered. There was no way Gareth would have gone in alone.

  For crying out loud, he must have left some clue. She turned around in a full circle, her tan coat flying out like a skirt as her eyes trained along the ground. Some footsteps were visible in the dust of the road, but there were so many they were matted over each other. It was impossible to distinguish Gareth’s from anyone else’s, even looking for the circular dot of his crutch as proof he had been there. Panic grew in her gut, slow and dark as it crawled under her skin. Her nerves prickled at her back, and she instinctively ran a hand over the nape of her neck. Perhaps he didn’t leave the bunker yet. He could have been late too. Yeah, that makes sense. He said he was on security duty, right? Sometimes they run over. But she couldn’t rid herself of the whispering seed of doubt that made swallowing difficult.

  She folded her arms over her chest, her eyes falling to the bridge and tracing over the lines of the bricks. Wait. What’s that? Something white and chalky, scribbled onto a dark grey stone protected by a bending weed—

  “Freda? What are you doing out here?”

  The dirt on the road scraped as she turned around, cocking her head to one side like an animal ready to break into a run. Security Officer Stalson stood nervously behind her, his hand hovering over the small firearm he kept tucked into his waistband. Freda’s eyes dipped to it briefly, her heart fluttering in alarm as soon as she saw it. “Officer Stalson? What are you doing here?”

  His partner, Officer Avery—a man she remembered going to school with, two years younger than herself but with a hard edge to his manner—strode up beside him. He tilted his chin back as he surveyed Freda coldly, his hand already resting on the firearm by his hip. There was nothing nervous about his stance. If anything, he seemed very comfortable with the situation. “It’s alright, Freda. We’ve just come out to talk.”

  Officer Stalson nodded, his shoulders easing as he breathed out hard. “That’s right. Just to talk.” He glanced from side to side in a way that was meant to be casual, but it made Freda’s muscles twitchy, as though she should prepare herself to fly in
the opposite direction. “You, er…waiting for someone?”

  “My brother. Gareth.” She didn’t see any need to hide the truth, but her ribs still ached from the pressure of her beating heart, her stomach twisting into a tight knot. It reminded her of the time she had been dared to eat a jalapeño pepper she and her friends had found in the kitchen area. “We’re leaving the bunker. I know we should have probably let some people know, but we didn’t see the need to make a fuss.” As soon as the words left her mouth, the nasty sliver of doubt burrowed its way into her mind. What if Gareth changed his mind? What if he’s back at the bunker, and he told them to come and get me? No, he wouldn’t do that to me. Her mouth set in a firm line. He wouldn’t do that to me.

  “Gareth?” Avery arched an eyebrow, rocking from one foot to the other as he crossed both arms over his chest. She didn’t respond to his question, unsure of how to answer. “Look, Freda. You need to come back to the bunker with us.”

  “Why?” Her instinct to sprint warred with her brain attempting to impart logic on the situation.

  Stalson ran a tongue over his lips, tugging on the thin brim of his cap as he gazed up towards the sky. The grey of it was darker than before, threatening a downpour just as a distant rumble of thunder came from behind it. The weeds and grass by the edge of the river bent backwards precariously in a spike of wind, as though trying to separate themselves from the earth and find cover. “Because we’ve asked you to, Freda. It’s very important that you—”

  Freda didn’t hear the rest of his half-arsed explanation, gazing over his shoulder as she saw a third figure making their way down from the bunker. The figure was unhurried, moving as carefully as a hunter near the prey, clothed in a white overall. Her heart stopped beating painfully hard, and instead went cold. “What—what is Doctor Travers doing here?” she asked in a wavering voice, pointing towards him with a shaking hand. She took a step back, the road grating beneath the thick rubber of her boot. Both Stalson and Avery’s bodies tensed, their faces turning grey, and they followed her with a single step. Freda’s eyes darted between the three men’s faces, reaching behind her for her rifle. Shit! I left it near the wall. She chanced a look over to her right. The weapon was still resting peacefully against the stonework of the bridge, too far for her to snatch it before they could grab her. She didn’t know why the psychiatric doctor of the bunker was here, but it wasn’t going to be anything good.

  “Calm down, everyone.” Doctor Travers marched into the centre of the stand-off, flashing Freda what was clearly supposed to be a wide, disarming grin. It set her nerves on edge. She swallowed audibly as he held a hand out towards her, tilting his head to one side as though trying to convince a child to go with him. “Freda, we have some things we would like to discuss with you. Back at the bunker. I assure you, nothing is wrong.”

  “Bullshit,” she snapped, lashing out like a trapped fox biting at the hounds. She shook her head, giving her rifle another longing glance. Maybe she could reach it in time. “Two security officers and a loony doctor? Just taking an afternoon stroll together, are you?”

  The doctor gave a gentle frown, but it was too forced to look anything but sinister. “Freda, there’s no need to get worked up. Please, I promise we aren’t going to hurt you. Just where are you headed?”

  Her skin prickled with the need to get away. The temperature had risen with the oncoming storm, and the air felt stuffy, as though she couldn’t find enough air to breathe. Pulling at the collar of her coat to ease her discomfort, Freda glared back at Travers. “I’m leaving. Like I told these two. With Gareth,” she added with finality.

  “I see.” Travers gave a grave nod, his neatly-styled grey hair never moving as he did so, his violet eyes penetrating hers as though he hoped he could read her intentions through them. Taking a slow step towards her, he continued, “I think it’s a very good idea. Young people should be allowed to explore the world, to help reshape it in a new, better way. Freda, I simply wish to talk to you. It won’t take long, and then you can be on your way again.” He flashed another grin, the kind Freda had seen on the faded posters for toothpaste adverts in the magazines of the bunker library. “With Gareth.”

  Maybe he really does just want to talk about something. Maybe it’s my mother. Or father. Or…Gareth? Her eyes widened at the thought. Oh, hell! What if the reason he didn’t turn up was because something went wrong? What if he’s hurt? The sense of trepidation never left her, but she hesitated, hovering as she pushed her foot forward a few inches. If Gareth really was hurt, back at the bunker, she couldn’t leave him. And it would explain why Avery and Stalson had turned up—after all, didn’t he work on security detail with them? Biting her lip, she relaxed her stance. “Alright. But then we get to go, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Travers’ smile was unflinching. “If you’ll come with me, then?”

  Pushing the sense of unease out of her belly, telling herself it was simply paranoia, Freda gave a relenting nod. The wind spiked up again, a warm, wet slap across her face that made the darkening landscape feel like something from a nightmare. A few droplets of water fell from above, hitting her skin like tiny bullets. “Okay, I’ll come with you. Just let me get my rifle and bag—”

  “Nonsense. Avery and Stalson can get those for you. Can’t you, gentlemen?”

  The unease snapped back into place, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far. The rain fell harder, creating a heavy rush against the road surface that blended into white noise. A flash of lightning illuminated the river and its banks, preceding another reverberation of thunder tearing through the sky. Freda took a warning step towards her weapon, rain running down her forehead and splashing off her nose. She barely noticed the tickle of it as she took in the taut stance of the three men before her. Travers was unblinking as he stared back, crossing his arms behind his back as the rain soaked his overalls to a pale shade of grey. “No,” she responded in a low, dangerous voice. No one touched her weapon but herself. No one. “I said I’ll get them.”

  “Freda, you really should let Avery and Stalson take those for you. It’s not courteous to let someone shoulder all that weight on their own.”

  Freda wasn’t buying his good doctor act anymore. She waited for the next flash of lightning, this time so close and bright that it blinded her for a second, before turning and setting off at a run for her rucksack and rifle. Before she reached them, however, she was knocked to the ground by a heavy weight behind her back. She fought to get up, but the weight held her tightly, pinning her arms behind her back. Freda managed to twist her head enough to see Stalson and Avery both leaning on her back with their knees, holding her arms tightly as she struggled in vain beneath them. “Let me go!” she screamed, spluttering out dirt as it splashed on her lips from the bouncing droplets of rain. Her hair stuck to her face, but she could still make out Doctor Travers just a few feet away, delicately tapping the side of a long syringe. Panic spread through her like wildfire, and she kicked furiously against her captors. “Let me go!”

  “Hold her arm steady. I don’t want to hurt her, if we can help it.” The soothing tones of Travers echoed over the next crash of thunder, so close that Freda could feel the storm on top of them, heavy and oppressive. She gave a banshee-like cry as she felt her sleeve being rolled up, the tiny sharp end of the needle poking into the flesh of her arm a second later.

  Whatever was in the needle was fast-working. Freda struggled as much as she could, her brain fogging over as quickly as she tried to hold onto coherent thoughts. “Gareth! Gareth, help me!” she screamed, sobbing into the hard asphalt and dirt beneath her cheek. The world pitched and faded around her, and the last sound she heard was a deafening roar of thunder from above.

  Chapter Twelve

  September 15th, 2063 – the Present

  Fear gripped Freda’s heart as she felt herself awaken, her limbs still numb from sleep. She gave a low, quiet whimper as she tried to open her eyes, blinking them to rid herself of the sleep-dust in the corn
ers of them. It was too dark. Much too dark. The air around her seemed to swirl with malevolent spirits, and she could feel them whispering behind her in the empty space of the bedroom, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rising to attention. Hardly daring to move, she reached down and snatched at the covers that had come loose during her nightmare, yanking them up as she twisted around. She gave a yell at the face that met her vision, unable to focus on it properly in the dim light from the hallway beyond the closed bedroom door. Her pulse slammed around her body, knocking the breath from her lungs even as she gave a croaking cry of terror.

  “Shush. Freda, it’s me. Harris. Remember? We’re sharing the room?”

  The familiar voice snapped something back into her mind, and a sense of relief began to ebb over the spikes of panic still gripping her heart. Freda reached up clumsily, rubbing at her eyes. She recoiled sharply from her hand as it brushed against something wet on her cheek. Water? Tears? Was I crying in my sleep? The memory of the guesthouse and the small room she was sharing with Harris tumbled back into place, as though a net had gathered them up during her nightmare, now powerless to stop them returning. Letting out a gasp, Freda replied in a small voice, “Harris…was I crying? Why are you over here?” She was aware of her words slurring, weariness still keeping a hold on her as her eyes moved to the other side of the room where Harris’ bed lay. The covers were hastily thrown back, as though someone had jumped out of them in a hurry, his jeans lazily discarded over the bottom of them.