We Are The Few Read online

  As the two women went to the left of a fork in the roads, they came across what had once been the city’s main carpark. Rusting cars still lingered, piled up as makeshift walls while people squatted below them. A shanty-town had been built up using whatever materials could be found, a myriad of old metal and campfires lighting up the evening dusk. Locals shivered and huddled together, the murmur of conversation floating over the scent of cooked meat. The smell made Freda’s mouth water, and she peered over to an obelisk rising behind the carpark, its stone partly chipped in places. Behind it rose an imposing building with columns and Georgian window frames, each one lined with cracks and missing chunks of cream paint. Some of the letters were almost gone with time and neglect, but she could just make out a phrase or passage of some kind written in faded dark blue paint at the top of the building, just below the roof – Except Ye Lord Keep Ye Cittie – The Wakeman Waketh In Vain.

  Freda’s brow creased at the words, trying to make some sense of them. As she continued to stare up at them silently, Reilly by her side as she shivered against the icy wind, an old man shuffled towards them. Revealing a toothless grin as he ambled in front, the man fixed his wrinkled eyes on the two women. A long scar ran across one side of his face, the eyelid beneath it sealed shut, his snow-white hair blowing gently from beneath a patchy and battered flat-cap. Jabbing a gnarled finger up towards the building, he muttered, “For over a thousand years, he blew his horn. Then it stopped. All stopped. Because then he blew his horn no more, after the hit.”

  “What are you talking about?” Reilly piped up before Freda had a chance to stop her. Rolling her eyes at the blonde woman, Freda pulled a face and grabbed her companion’s arm, tugging her away.

  The old man gave a chuckle, which rapidly turned into a spluttering cough. As he watched the two women leaving, he tucked his shaking hands inside his torn coat sleeves, cackling wildly. “He blew his horn no more!”

  As Freda dragged Reilly away across the littered street, the bricks jutting out at odd angles to trip them, she hissed, “Don’t speak to strange men. Didn’t your parents ever teach you that?”

  Yanking her arm feebly out of Freda’s grasp, Reilly paused and looked back at the old man, her thin strands of hair twisting in the freezing air. “What harm could it do? He’s just an old man. So he’s gone a little crazy. Show me someone who wouldn’t out here.”

  “That’s not the point,” Freda snapped, pulling at her rifle strap and shoving it further up her shoulder. Her thick coat bunched beneath it, but she ignored the uncomfortableness of it. “You have to be careful. I don’t know what rock you just came out from under, but you keep a safe distance from everyone. Even me. Trust only yourself.” She stopped herself, the words bitter on her tongue. For a moment, she fought her emotions and wished she was more like her brother. Gareth would never have said something like that.

  Giving Reilly a searching gaze, she jerked her head towards the tall-columned building, spotting flickering lights from within. “They might have stalls or something in there, food maybe. They usually do in the main buildings.” She set off at a brisk pace, Reilly silently falling into step beside her. She said nothing, but Freda darted a glance over to her as she heard a sniff. Shoving her hands further into her pockets, she tried not to think about feelings and emotions, and picked her way over the litter of the road. Freda didn’t do emotions. Emotions led to feelings and memories, neither of which she wanted to stir up. They marched past crackling fires and huddled shapes in thick blankets and coats, Reilly’s plastic bag-shoes crinkling with each step.

  “I didn’t come from under a rock, you know. I came from a bunker.”

  Grateful for the chance to prove she wasn’t as irritable and cold as she was coming across, Freda cleared her throat and tried to adopt a light tone as she replied, “Yeah? Me too.”

  “Yeah, but…I mean I just came out from a bunker.”

  Freda’s brows drew together, and she sent a puzzled gaze over to her companion, who was staring back with wide eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  A sigh rolled from Reilly’s lips, and she gave a shrug. “I’m not surprised. It’s like everyone out here has been living forever. Our bunker didn’t open after fifty years, like it was supposed to. Like yours did, I’m guessing. Like everyone’s. We couldn’t open it, for some reason, so we assumed things were too bad out here. We still had plenty of food and supplies, so…we stayed. Then a few weeks ago, our generators gave out. We had no choice but to open the bunker. Some…the guys who were chasing me…” Reilly trailed off for a second, a nervous swallow bobbing her throat. Her voice was quieter as she continued, “The guys who were chasing me, they got me when I left the bunker. Tricked me. Said they were from a town, and they would help me get there. But they just attacked. There were other women at their camp. They and I…we…we were passed around like ragdolls amongst the men.” She stopped as her voice broke, her eyes downcast.

  Freda paused and reluctantly laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder, forcing Reilly to look up at her as she shook her gently. “Hey. Hey! Don’t worry. Nothing like that will happen to you again, okay? You’re safe here. The cities are guarded.” Her awkwardness began to tear at her stomach again, and she tried to think of something that would take her charge’s mind off her horrific ordeal. It was no secret that bandits had no limits on their ideas about morality—some even took to cannibalism, like the Skin-Eaters. She twisted around to look up at the painted letters scrawled across the large wooden doors of the main building – Market. “Come on, this is where we’ll get what we need.”

  The large doors creaked as she turned the brass handle and pushed one open, Reilly still silent by her side. The lower floor of the town hall was dark, lit with rudimentary lamps and small barrel campfires. Wooden tables were laid out with goods; piles of old and patchy clothing and shoes, unwrapped slabs of unknown meat, random selections of objects scavenged from the surrounding ruins. Most of the stall owners slept behind their tables, some were sat eating meals. A man with a patch over one eye stared across at the two women from behind the clothing table, leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. Nodding at Reilly’s makeshift shoes, he shouted, “You ladies looking for something? I’ve got some good boots over here—some even match.”

  “How did you guess?” Freda replied dryly, eying up the seller’s goods as she strode over slowly. Keeping her movements casual, she picked up a pair of worn but solid-looking brown walking boots, inspecting them as they dangled from the laces held in her hand. It wouldn’t do to look too interested. “Reilly, come here. Would they fit?”

  Without saying a word, Reilly shuffled over and snatched the footwear up, immediately turning it over to check the size. Giving a silent nod to Freda, she gave a sideways glance at the shopkeeper, before leaning in and whispering, “I don’t have anything to pay him with.”

  “Leave that to me.” Raising her chin, Freda gave the man a taut look. “What’s it to be?”

  “Bullets or cans. Ten of the first, or three of the second. Your choice.” It was ironic how the useless bullets had become currency, along with food.

  Freda’s response was a burst of surprised laughter, and she cocked an eyebrow at the seller. “Ten bullets or three cans? Are you crazy? It’s a pair of boots, not a gun. I’ll give you four bullets or one can, and I want a coat throwing in for that, too. Come on, she’s freezing to death here.” It wasn’t her first time trading with sellers in the main towns and cities. They had a monopoly on most items, not like the scavengers she could meet outside, and they often asked for a high value on even necessities. Not that she blamed them—she would have done the same thing.

  The man’s one good eye, a deep brown highlighted with amber, crawled over Reilly’s shivering frame. His jaw twitched, and he shifted against the wall, the chipped plaster behind spraying a cloud of dust with the movement. Shaking his head, he sighed loudly. “Tell you what. I won’t take one can for all that. But if you make it six bullets, I’ll s
ell you a good coat, too. It’s a proper winter one and that. What do you say?”

  Hiding the nervous movement of her hand grasping the precious bullets in her pocket, Freda stared back coolly, considering his offer. Damn. I was really hoping he would go for the food. I can lose a little food. But bullets are hard to come by. Her eyes settled on the woman beside her, and she relented. Come on. She hasn’t got anyone else. Nodding, she jabbed a finger towards the mass of clothing on the table. “Fine. But only if Reilly’s okay with the coat.”

  The seller’s lips curved, and he reached across to his garments, rummaging beneath them until he pulled out a thickly-padded black coat. Reilly slipped it on as he handed it across, pulling it close in relief against the cold. It came almost to her knees on her petite frame, but it was wearable. Gripping the bullets tightly one last time, as though she could imprint them into her palm, Freda reluctantly pulled them out and handed them across. She continued watching as he placed them into a locked safe behind his table, noting the location for later.

  He wouldn’t be keeping the ammunition.

  “So, are you from around here?”

  Taking another bite of the hot meat in her hand, Freda stared straight ahead at the building opposite, not turning her head to Reilly’s question. She chewed slowly, her eyes following the flickering of lights visible through the bare windows. The clothing merchant still wasn’t asleep yet. Is he going to be up all night? I’m going to get those bullets back, damn it.

  Reilly cleared her throat, waving a hand in front of Freda’s face with a half-smile. Freda blinked and instinctively jerked her head back. “Hey. Did you hear me?”

  “What?”

  “Are you from around here?”

  “Oh.” Freda bit into the meat again, keeping her eyes trained on the city hall, the juices running down her chin with the succulent bite. Judging by the taste it was possibly rabbit, but it could just as easily be a rat. The old woman who sold her the meat didn’t tell, and Freda didn’t ask. Food was food, after all. Wiping her gloved hand over her mouth, she shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I’m from around here, I guess. But further to the east,” she added helpfully. “I was born in a bunker, so…I never saw much of the outside until I was fourteen.”

  Reilly ripped her bread in half, staring down at the crumbs that fell away. The fire in front popped as a spark jumped out, landing just short of her new boots. Pulling her foot away instinctively, scrunching it over the hard ground, Reilly tore a chunk of bread off and chewed it slowly. “Was it as much of a shock for you as it was for me? Coming outside, I mean.”

  “I suppose. Wasn’t really any worse than inside, in some ways. I just got on with it.” Raising an eyebrow, Freda broke her gaze for a second to cast her eyes over Reilly’s face. The blonde woman was staring intently into the flames, a faraway look in her blue eyes as she broke off another piece of bread. Freda let her gaze slide over her companion’s appearance, taking in the boils and lumps covering the skin. “Didn’t you say you were in a bunker, too?”

  “Yeah. Since I was born. I told you what happened.”

  The wind pulled at the campfire, sending a chill running down the back of Freda’s neck. Reaching up, she pulled her hood up around her head, turning and gazing back towards the city hall. Her view through the broken window revealed the light still wavering on the merchant’s stall. She let out an exasperated growl under her breath, hiding it behind another bite of meat. The smoky flavour filled her senses as she chewed, savouring every second of taste. “Then how come you’re sick? All bunkers come with water purifiers, food purifiers, inoculation against the Illness…everything to ensure you don’t get sick.”

  Reilly turned red-rimmed eyes to Freda, cold with sudden steel. The bread dropped to her lap, but she ignored it, her bottom lip shaking. Drawing her knees into her chest and crushing the loaf, she hugged her thin arms around herself, the wide sleeves of the coat riding up. “Not in ours,” she whispered. “Our bunker was different.”

  “Different?” Freda’s attention was momentarily snatched away as the light finally went out, casting the inside of the building opposite into darkness. “Yes,” she hissed, jumping to her feet and glancing back at Reilly. Her breath caught as she took in the streaks of salty tears running along the younger woman’s cheeks. “Look, we’ll talk about this later, okay?” Freda added in a softer tone, hesitantly laying a hand on her companion’s shoulder. She really wasn’t comfortable with showing concern, even if she felt it. “Right now we’ve got work to do.”

  A loud sniff came from Reilly as she wiped the over-sized sleeve of her black coat under her nose. She looked like a small child playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes. “Work?”

  “Yeah. I don’t like it when people take more than they need, so I take it back. That merchant was a robber, so I’m going to rob my bullets right back.”

  Reilly’s eyes widened as she leapt up from the ground, grabbing at Freda’s arm with such urgency that her fingernails dug into the flesh. “What? You can’t do that! What if we get caught?”

  Giving a snort derisively, Freda curled her lips into a half-smile, linking her fingers together and cracking them. She flexed her hands against the thick woollen gloves she always wore, glad of the cut-off fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this plenty of times before.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “ I just need you to keep watch, okay?”

  “But it’s not right! Why do you need them anyway? Can’t you get more?”

  She really is green. Just remember that you were, once. Biting her lip to hold back her impatience, Freda fixed Reilly with a stern glare. “Because I can’t always find more. Not that easily. If ammunition is stored properly, it lasts decades. If not, it’s useless. Whenever I find some, if I find some, then it’s not always any use.” She jabbed a gloved finger towards the city hall. “I need those bullets back, Reilly. Our survival might depend on them.”

  Reilly stared over, following the line of Freda’s outstretched finger, her face contorted with uncertainty. She seemed to mull it over, chewing frantically at her bottom lip before giving a resigned nod. “Okay. If you’re really sure we need them—”

  “I am. Bullets are like a hot, tasty meal around here. Rare and difficult to find. Now keep watch for me while I climb in the window.”

  Before Reilly had a chance to object, Freda took a quick glance over the faces of those sleeping rough in the carpark around them. No one stirred, a few snoring noisily from beneath huddled blankets and wrinkled coats. She took off silently towards the city hall, crouching down into the shadows below the window. They blanketed her like a cloak as she peered once more over her shoulder. The darkness of night was pierced only by the few streetlights dotted outside the shops either side of the hall, the dances of campfires in the carpark dying down as the hour grew late. Gesturing sharply for Reilly to come over, she grimaced as the other woman’s footsteps slapped over the hard tarmac. A few people in sleeping bags stirred, but they remained settled, breathing heavily. “Could you be any louder?” she hissed as Reilly drew up close beside her, ducking down below the stone window-ledge.

  Reilly’s eyes darkened as she drew her brows together. “Well, excuse me for not knowing robbery etiquette. I’ve never done this before.”

  The crunch of distant footsteps caught Freda’s attention for a moment, and she stared over Reilly’s shoulder, trying to discern the direction of them. Her eyes struggled in the dim light, but she managed to make out a figure a few streets back, passing over the main road that wound through the whole city. Her heartbeat settled down again as they slipped behind some houses, away from the centre and the hall. Blowing a hard breath out, she jerked her head to the window. “Right. I’m going to jump in here, unlock his safe, and grab the bullets. If you see anyone waking up or coming over here, just give a whistle.”

  “I can’t whistle.”

  “What?” Freda paused, her hand already resting on the cold stone ledge. She shook her head wildly, throwing her free ha
nd up in confusion. “Everyone can whistle.”

  Reilly’s eyes became larger as she shook her head in return, more solemnly than Freda had, her palms resting in the withered grass that lined the edges of the hall as she knelt beside her companion. “No, seriously. I can’t. Should I shout?”

  “Oh, for…” Biting her tongue, Freda trailed off, closing her eyes briefly as she mentally counted to ten. Keeping her temper in check, counting to ten and back, knowing their time was limited as it was, she rasped, “No, don’t fucking shout. For crying out loud, we don’t want people to know we’re here! Just…I don’t know…whisper or something. But really loudly. No, scratch that. Can you make any noises?”

  Wrinkling her nose up as though it might help her understand, Reilly pulled her head back to give Freda a confused stare. Rocking back on her heels and resting against the peeling cream paint that covered the stonework of the wall behind, she replied, “What noises? Like banging on something?”

  Give me strength, or I’m going to kill her myself. Clapping a hand to her forehead in frustration, Freda groaned under her breath. “No, just make a noise like a dog. Or a cat, or something. Just anything that will give me a signal. Got it?”