We Are The Few Page 5
Another sad shake of the head. “We only had enough inoculations for those who came into the bunker as adults. When they had children, they had to hope it wouldn’t get passed down. It didn’t, but…it was obviously in our water, or food, or something. So we all caught it.”
Freda was silent for a moment as she let Reilly’s story sink in. Getting the Illness was a horrific fate. There was prevention against it, but no cure. It had never come in time. The Big Hit arrived before a cure for the Illness did, and it meant it was still present in the air, in the water. If anyone managed to catch it, it was a death sentence. They might have weeks to live, or months—even a few years, if they were really lucky. But they would go a long time before someone healthy. Her heart broke as she listened to the woman walking alongside her, her coat swishing with every stride. Her breathing was still laboured, and another pang of guilt stabbed into Freda’s chest. I shouldn’t have made her run like that. It must be hard for her. As soon as we get to the river, I’ll set up a camp so she can rest a while. Out loud, happier with her plan of action, Freda asked, “So I’m guessing you all came out to get more supplies, and that’s when the bandits attacked?”
“Yes. Amongst other reasons.” Reilly’s firm answer warned that she didn’t want to speak further about the events that must have occurred after that. Freda didn’t need her to. She had a good imagination, and she knew it would have been nothing pleasant. Her strides picking up pace, knocking some of the loose pebbles on the road to the dust at the sides, Reilly added, “I came out because I want answers. I know I’m dying, Freda,” she said tensely, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard. “But I want to know why Brit Bunker allowed this to happen before I go. I want to know why people I loved died in that bunker of an illness that should never have got in, and why we were trapped in there to die in the first place. I need to know.”
Freda simply nodded. “I can understand that. I’ll help you, okay?” She tried a wan smile in Reilly’s direction, but the other woman didn’t look up. Moving closer as she walked, Freda put out a wavering hand to pat her companion’s shoulder, not missing the shocked judder Reilly gave at the touch. “We’ll do it together. Someone out here must know where we could start looking. Maybe someone in Boroughbridge could give us some pointers as to where we’d find information about Brit Bunker.”
Giving another sniff, Reilly wiped her sleeve under her nose again, gratefully smiling back. “Thank you. Really. It means a lot to me.”
“Yeah, well…” Freda let her sentence trail off, and she held her breath for a moment, her fingers fumbling over the strap of her weapon. “My brother, he would never forgive me if I didn’t help,” she settled with.
One of the rare owls hooted in the distance, and Reilly looked up sharply towards it, burying her hands deep in her pockets. She twisted her head back, her walking speed slowing as the conversation seemed to sooth her frazzled nerves. “You haven’t said much about your brother. Where is he?”
As with everything that reminded her of Gareth, Freda almost closed herself off, but she stopped at the last moment. No. She’s been square with you. Tell her why you’re out here. Maybe you can help each other. “Okay,” she replied at last, and she was surprised by how dry and rasping her voice sounded, like her throat was stuffed with cotton wool. “He’s the reason I’m out here. Gareth—that’s his name. My older brother.” Her chest clenched, and Freda took in a deep breath, concentrating on the river in the distance as its shining surface grew closer, the trees separating more as they came closer. “I was supposed to go travelling with him, but he…disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah. Went missing the day we were due to go off together. So, I’m out here trying to find him. You see—”
A noise from the trees made Freda halt mid-sentence, and her rifle clunked against its strap as she slid it from her shoulder, her nerves prickling with tension. She twisted around and scanned the nearby forest, squinting as though she could somehow penetrate the inky blackness it was filled with. Roving the barrel of her weapon from left to right, she could feel Reilly’s presence as the other woman came closer. Her breathing was tight. “Freda? What is it?”
“Sh. I thought I heard something. Not like a bird, or an animal,” Freda whispered back. Her fingers slid along the butt of her gun, and she brought it up to her shoulder, ready to attack at a moment’s notice. The air around them grew still, as if it was also waiting with bated breath to see what fresh horror would leap out from the undergrowth. Freda didn’t even feel the wind blowing down the back of her coat, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. After a few moments of listening carefully, she let out a tense sigh, letting her gun slide down to rest against her arm. She turned around to smile confidently at Reilly. “Must have been nothing. Sometimes you just hear things. Better to be safe than sorry.”
She had barely got the words out of her mouth when she saw Reilly’s mouth contort into a wide ‘O’, her eyes wild with sudden fear as she stared unblinking at something over Freda’s shoulder, in the direction of the woods. Too late, Freda realised the noise had been something, and whatever it was, it had waited patiently until her back was turned. With a yell, she began to turn as her boot soles scraped against the broken road, raising her weapon up, but it wasn’t fast enough. There was a blur of colour, a flash of someone’s face half-cast in the moonlight, then a dull crack against her temple. Her vision swam for a second, and all she could make out were tiny white dots erratically shaking before her eyes. She tried to blink them away, swinging out with her rifle blindly as Reilly’s scream pierced the stillness. But her brain shut down as she fought against it, leaving her limbs tumbling to the floor as she collapsed from the well-aimed hit to her skull, silence and darkness filling her until the forest vanished.
Chapter Four
January 14th, 2047 – the Past
The hall of the bunker was as dismal as it sounded, a large metal box where food was served and meetings were held. Freda blew past her lips and slouched down in her seat, folding her arms over her chest. The meetings bored her stupid. All the inhabitants of the bunker gathering to argue about nothing in particular, or to moan about one another. She found it tedious. Glancing over to her side, she caught Gareth’s eye, and he gave her a wink as he grinned back. She rolled her eyes, but she did smile in return. She knew Gareth felt the same way about the meetings—most likely everyone did—but he was better at hiding it than she was.
Right on cue, her mother gave her a pinch from her other side, her speech slurred from the double whiskey she had downed only twenty minutes before. “Ow!” Freda protested as she rubbed at her arm, sending her mother a death-glare as she eased herself back up to a proper sitting position in her metal chair. “What was that for?”
“Just sit up, young lady,” Amelia hissed, her stale breath making Freda wrinkle her nose against it. “One day, god forbid, you’re going to help run this bunker too. You take notice of what goes on, you hear me?” Before her daughter had a chance to say anything further, she turned back to face the centre of the circle everyone was sat in, placing her hands neatly on her lap as though she was Stepford Wife of the year.
Freda scowled at her mother. Everyone knew about her mother’s drunkenness, and yet she always acted as though their family had some sort of reputation to uphold. Even her father, Philip Johnson, never said anything about it. He never said much of anything. He was perched on her mother’s side, one leg crossed over the other as he leaned back lazily, his arms folded over his chest like her own. His balding head and the shadows under his eyes showed how hard he worked, but Freda often wished he would actually be present whenever he was around. He was always distant, as though he couldn’t wait to get back to work and away from them. Lips pressed into a thin line, he felt Freda looking at him, and he twisted his head to stare back at her with a furrowed brow, placing a finger over his silence for her to be silent before returning his attention to the circle of people around the hall.
His suggestion was like a ray of sunlight, and Freda grinned eagerly at her big brother, wishing her parents could be just a bit more like him. If it hadn’t been for him, she wasn’t sure she would have had any attention as a child. She nodded back, and he released her arm with a squeeze before sitting upright once more in his seat, his crutch leaning against one side. Freda eyed it for a moment before pushing herself up in her seat. She couldn’t help leaning her head back to stare up at the ceiling for a moment, though. The long, thick metal beams that held up the roof of the entire bunker met her gaze, painted in a demure grey-blue shade. The rivets were easily the size of her thumbprint, each one looking as though it had been melted to the beams by fire. She liked to think about what lay above those rivets and steel beams, about what waited outside. Fresh air. Leaves and grass. Animals of all kinds.
She snapped her head back just in time to see her mother giving her a poisonous warning glare, jerking her head back. Freda sighed, avoiding her mother’s gaze as she forced herself to pay attention to the grey parquet floor. She glanced around at some of her neighbours, quickly looking away when they caught her eye. Everyone was dressed in the same drab, worn clothing as her own family, their faces showing the weariness of working underground just to survive.
The staleness of the energy in the room snapped as the bunker Supervisor—Supervisor Tennyson—came into the hall, marching quickly with short strides as always. There was something comical about him that never quite gave him the air of authority he needed. He was only a few inches taller than fourteen-year-old Freda herself, and his rotund belly extended so far it made him look as though he was pregnant. Clearing his throat, he marched into the centre, his footsteps echoing. He turned his dark, beady eyes to everyone in turn, his thin lips pinched as he jutted his chin and held his hands up for silence. “Welcome, everyone,” he began in a loud voice that was just a touch too high to be called truly masculine. “I know you’ve all got things you would much rather be doing right now, so let’s get straight down to it.”
“Thank god,” Freda mumbled under her breath, and was rewarded with a tut and a slap on the knee from her mother.
The Supervisor’s face darkened at the interruption, and he knitted his brows so tightly in Freda’s direction they ran into one another. Giving her a cold stare for a few seconds, he abruptly turned away and added, “We have something important to discuss today. I felt it was important enough that all those above the age of thirteen should be here to hear it, and it is something that has been brought to my attention by more than one of you.” He paused for dramatic effect, turning one way and the other as he surveyed the blank faces before him. “We must discuss…opening the bunker and exploring the outer world.”
The effect was electric, and Freda felt a thrill go through her as everyone erupted into conversation. The thought of actually venturing outside and seeing everything she had only seen in books was so exhilarating she felt her pulse thud in her ears. Leaning forwards with wide eyes, eagerly taking in all that was said, she waited as the Supervisor did until everyone fell quiet. The coffee machine in the corner of the room, dimly lit behind the large food counter that was currently closed for the evening, gave a few pitying drips. Freda tried hard to pay attention to the opinions being thrown around the circle, but her mind was too full of images to really care. Of blue sky, and of plants blowing in the wind. Of gleaming skyscrapers and red brick houses.
One young man jumped up on the other side of the circle. Freda hadn’t spoken much to him, but she recognised him as Matthew Horner, one of the older boys in her class. His mother and father were sat to one side of him, along with his two younger sisters. He was always outspoken, and tall and big enough to normally be listened to. His grey eyes hardened as he spoke loudly, so as to be heard over the murmur of conversation. “We need to go outside. I thought that was the whole point of us having a door to this place? We’re all inoculated against the Illness, and who knows what we might find out there? Maybe people have started building again. I certainly want to know.”
Supervisor Tennyson bristled at being spoken to so rudely by someone much younger, but he grudgingly drew himself up to his full height of five-foot-seven, placing his hands arrogantly on his hips. “You’re right, Matthew. There’s no reason to fear the outside. And we can’t exist on our supplies forever. The door must be opened one day. We have to decide if that day is now, or in the future.”
Freda twisted her head as she caught movement out the corner of her eye, watching as old Mrs Robertson stood up from the back of the circle of chairs. Her frailty was belied by the harshly-tight bun of grey hair she had pinned at the nape of her neck, her dark blue eyes clouded with years of bitterness. She stabbed a pointed finger in Matthew’s direction. “You, young man,” she croaked, her voice almost shrill as she raised it in fury, “are an idiot! Do you think I want to die out there in the wasteland? I’ve had enough of being buried alive, I certainly don’t want to be ripped apart by crazed people out there! You’re too young to remember the news reports after the Illness first struck. All the terrible things people did to one another. Leave the damn door shut and let’s get on with our lives.”
“How dare you speak to my son that way?” Matthew’s mother fumed, leaping to her feet and glaring over at Mrs Robertson, her loose, dark-brown curls bouncing on her head as she put herself in front of Matthew—rather uselessly, as her petite frame barely reached his shoulder. “You think we care what some old crone thinks? Let the young decide their own future.”
The meeting descended into chaos as everyone started to clamour over one another, defending each other and spitting at those who disagreed with them. Freda almost clapped with delight. It was horrendous, but it was also the most alive she had seen anyone be in the bunker for years. Even her own father grew animated enough to shout across at one of his work colleagues who was arguing to keep the door shut, encouraging him on. She swallowed hard as the realisation sank in—her father was not one of those who wanted to venture outside. She curled her fingers around the edge of her metal seat, digging them in hard until she felt the screws beneath biting into her flesh. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she debated what to do, whether she would speak up against her parents. Amelia said nothing as usual, but as Freda saw her mother sneaking a drink from a flask hidden in her coat pocket, she knew it was because her mother didn’t care either way.
Before she had a chance to decide, the Supervisor let out a cry of anger, loud enough that everyone fell silent and looked over at him with shock. On Freda’s part, it was that such a small, softly-spoken man had actually managed to get that level of noise out of his throat. Motioning for everyone to sit once more, waiting until they did as he asked, Tennyson sighed and ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Now, look. This is no way to solve the issue. I, for one, suggest we open the door. Already our food is running low.” He waited for his words to sink in, giving everyone the same warning glare as before. “I doubt we will last beyond the year unless we go outside to find fresh supplies.”
Some people hung their heads despondently at his words. Others let out gasps of horror or fear for the future. A few just gave sardonic grins—mostly those who wanted to open the door—and leaned back in their seats with self-satisfaction at being right. Tennyson ran a tongue over his lips, his cheeks growing ruddy as he gave a nod to accompany his words. “Yes, it’s that bad. And we need to have a vote. Now, I think, before this meeting gets out of hand again. For those of you too young to know how this works,” he continued, making sure to peer sharply at all the teenagers in the echoing room, “you raise your hand to whichever argument you agree with. Only raise it once; you can’t vote for both choices. You can, however, choose not to vote if you wish. Simply do not raise your hand for either choice. Once
you have voted, you cannot change it. The argument with the most votes will be our course of action. Clear?” When no one responded, he nodded smartly in contentment that everyone understood, and called out, “All those who think we should leave the door closed for the foreseeable future, raise your hands.”
Freda turned her head sharply to the left as she saw her father’s hand shoot up, along with many others, mostly the older members of the bunker. Her mother didn’t raise her hand, and while Freda felt a pang of hope that maybe her mother finally had something in common with her, she knew instantly that her mother would not raise her hand for either choice. She turned back to see Gareth, anxiously hoping his hands wouldn’t be up. Relief washed over her as she saw he still had both his hands folded over his broad chest, and he gave her a quick smile. The Supervisor took a few moments to count them all, muttering under his breath as he pointed the rubber-end of a pencil at each of them in turn, before scribbling a number down in his small notebook, produced from his trouser pocket. “Very good. And now, all those who think we should open the door today, in order to find supplies, please raise your hand.”
Freda’s wiped her moist palms against her trouser legs. She could already feel the burning gaze of her father to her left, willing her not to vote. But her bravery won over, and she raised her hand quickly, before any of the others had a chance to. Her arm trembled as she held it high in the air, ignoring her father’s incredulous stare, but a fiery thrill of excitement went through her again at the promise of what opening the bunker meant. She caught sight of Gareth’s hand rising up as well, a few seconds after hers, and many others put their hands into the air around the circle.
The Supervisor repeated the process of counting, murmuring and scribbling again. When he had finished tallying the vote, he gave another quick nod. It reminded Freda of the way one of her friend’s rabbits had sniffed the air when they were children. Few pets existed in the bunker, so she had little experience of them, but the Supervisor was definitely most like a rabbit to her. He cleared his throat, and gave the result loudly. “Thirty-seven votes to twenty-nine. We will open the bunker door today.”