A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (13 page)

“Will you shut up?” she said. “I really liked you. Why do you think I let you stay? Why’d you have to turn out so weird? You know, I coped with cleaning this dump long before you turned up. I didn’t need your help. I wanted your company. That was all.”

He stopped, shook his head, let his eyes fall on her.

“Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“Because you’re scaring me and if you keep doing that you’re getting one through the heart.”

He scratched madly at his bald head.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t know, you asking me my name. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I get, sometimes I get … call me, call me, er, Doug. Yeah, Doug. That can be my name.”

Sadie couldn’t help but find a smile for him; the strangest, most intelligent, most scary man she had ever known.

And twice her age.

Putting down the knife, but keeping the pistol handy, muzzle pointing away from him, she set two glasses on the counter and lifted a bottle of Ford. Uncorking it with her mouth, she poured both to the rim.

“You fancy sharing a glass of Doug with me?”

His name was Bramble. Gozan told him to sit, relax, take a moment, gather his thoughts. He had ordered for the man to be kept alone in one of the detention rooms, housed in a low and flat roofed military building, to the left of the south gate. Outside, men were undertaking drills. The soldier had a rancid odour. His clothes, hair and face were filthy. He needed hosing down and his clothing incinerating.

“Take some water,” said Gozan, his words carefully placed, legs crossed, hands resting on his raised knee.

“Thank you, sir,” said Bramble, and swilled it down, spilling plenty down his thin and rakish beard.

“Better?”

“Men kill for a mouthful of this out there,” he said, then added. “Sorry, sir.”

There was sharp knock and General Nuria stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She motioned for Bramble to sit as he instinctively rose to offer a salute. She saw Gozan was staring at her. She nodded a greeting, knowing what was really bothering him. He wouldn’t dare address the matter in front of a common soldier. It would have to wait.

“What can you tell me, Bramble?”

“We were a four man unit, sir, but a sandstorm hit and we got separated. I lost contact with my team. I kept heading in the same direction but it was hopeless. I had no way of finding them. We had been tracking towards a city …”

“A city?” said Nuria.

“What city?” asked Gozan, narrowing his eyes.

“A dead place, sir, not like Chett. It was a ruin. Everything old and fallen down, skeletons on the ground, it was a horrible place. I hoped to rejoin my unit there. I thought at one point I had found them but I was attacked by a couple of scavengers and by the time I had killed them there was no trace.”

“What unit were you assigned to?” said Gozan.

“He was sent out six weeks ago,” answered Nuria. “Under Captain Adam, soldiers Hugo and Rafa.”

Gozan nodded, the names meaningless to him.

“As I said, sir, I thought I had a line on them but it was a false alarm. I then heard gunfire somewhere in the city. I tried to locate it, but I was too far away. This city, sir, it was the size of Chett, or bigger even, roads and buildings; I had no idea who had been firing. Then I picked up the tracks of a couple men and a girl. It was night and they became involved in a heavy firefight. I didn’t know if any of them had survived.”

“Who were they?” asked Nuria.

“Drifters, I guess. In the morning, I spotted the three of them leaving the city. There were dead raiders everywhere.”

“Impressive,” said Gozan. “And the girl?”

“She was what you sent us for.”

He leaned forward.

“Describe her to me.”

Nuria folded her arms and listened intently as Bramble picked out the girl’s features; the bright hair, the mottled and scarred skin, the patched right eye. She saw the delight in Gozan’s face.

“The road gang, the ones they fought with the night before, they returned that morning, in greater numbers. I didn’t have enough firepower to take them on. There was more shooting and then the gang left, leaving behind bodies and dirt bikes. I had to wait for the area to clear and by that time the girl and the two men had gone in a stolen jeep. I took a bike and followed them east. They were heading this way. Three or four days, maybe, in a vehicle, and I reckon they would have got here. I kept riding but I never came across them. But they have her, sir, and they must be close. With a large party of men I think we could …”

“Soldier, remember your place,” said General Nuria. “Go and clean up. And get some sleep.”

He got to his feet, his salute a tired one. At the door, Gozan said, “One last question, Bramble, who were these men?”

“One was young, sir, average build, fought with a crossbow and pistol. The other, a big man, older, had a long coat and hat. Shot with a rifle. These men knew how to handle themselves, sir.”

Gozan nodded, and then indicated for Bramble to leave. Nuria closed the door, her hand resting on the handle.

“So these healers still exist?” she said. “And we have two drifters holding onto one of them.”

He looked at her from head to toe; heavy boots, combat trousers, holster and sidearm on her hip, grey T shirt, straight blonde hair trimmed to the nape of her neck.

“What have you done?”

Idly, she flicked a hand through her cropped locks.

“Is it really that important? After what we’ve just heard?”

He rose, slowly, smoothing his suit with both hands.

“I like it,” she said.

“I hate it,” he replied.

“What do you want done with Bramble?”

“He’s a deserter, isn’t he?”

“Gozan,” sighed Nuria. “I don’t think that’s a wise move. Leave him be, for now.”

Gozan stood at the doorway with her.

“What happened last night? Why didn’t you plant the weapons like I ordered?”

She lowered her head.

“I’m sorry, with everything that was happening in the city, the cremation, it was an oversight, but it doesn’t matter. They were all executed this morning and the matter is closed. Things will tick back into place. Like they always have done. Like you always say they will.”

“Destroy them, Nuria, the evidence is damning for us both.”

“I still don’t understand why you had to be there that night.”

“When you reach my age, stuck behind a desk pushing paper, then you’ll understand why.”

She smiled.

“I can’t imagine you’ve ever pushed paper.”

“Do you still believe in what we are doing?” he asked, his beady eyes drilling into her face.

“Always.”

She left him alone in the detention room.

Seventeen

Emil thrashed as they forced her into the metal chair.

It was rusty with a cushioned seat and arm rests. The fabric was worn and thick with dust. Tomas threatened to kill them all once he was free. Uncle, tired of all the yapping, threw down his tools and rooted in a drawer beneath his workbench. Finding a roll of grey tape, he tore off a strip and covered Tomas’s mouth. Emil landed a punch on Mossy and tried to bite him but Sara was much stronger and held her down as the boys tied her wrists and ankles.

Grandma told her not to worry, everything was going to be okay, she shouldn’t fight it, she didn’t understand, she deserved it.

Caleb trotted back in with another bucket of fresh, clean looking water, once again clumsily slopping some of it on the cave floor. Grandad showed little interest in the two guests. He was far more curious about the book. His father had taught him to read. And his father had taught him but his own children refused the words and his grandchildren, well, there was no hope for them. He knew the legacy of reading would end with him. Sighing, he opened the cover, almost with reverence. There was a bad smell to the book and the pages were yellow edged, crinkled and brown spotted. He went through the first six pages, finding the wording faded. He held his place with one hand and glanced at the spine, but the title had also faded.

“Please,” begged Emil. “Please, don’t hurt me; we didn’t hurt your boy. Mauricio? He was called Mauricio? We didn’t hurt …”

“Stop fighting,” said Sara, grabbing Emil at the throat, forcing her head back.

Emil was panting, unable to move her arms and legs, chest rapidly rising and falling, shaking so hard that her teeth were rattling together.

And then she felt it. The warm water. It was Grandma, pouring from a steel pot, mixing the hot from the fire with the cold, bringing it to a delightful temperature. It gushed through her filthy hair, washing out the grime and scum, and puddled on the cave floor. Grandma poured a second and third time, and then set down the pot. A scent filled Emil’s nose. She drew in her breath as deep as possible. It was the most beautiful aroma; it enticed her, lured her in, allowed her to run for miles. She felt her left eye close and a sweet darkness envelope her.

Uncle walked back to Tomas and peeled off the piece of tape. He shook his head, admonishment for the young man. Tomas stared as Sara massaged Emil’s scalp with lotion.

Mossy and Caleb drifted back to their bunks, watching in fascinated silence. Emil knew it was her own mother washing her hair. She felt it with every fibre. Her childhood was no longer a faraway place; it was here, it was now, a time of laughter, of running and playing once her chores had been completed. For the tiniest of moments the world knitted back together and there was warmth in her heart. She opened her left eye, a shiver suddenly dancing her spine. Reality poured in. She focused on Tomas. He was calmer. He knew he couldn’t rip the chain from the wall or break open the shackles. He would have to bide his time and if the moment never presented itself and they were to die in this gloomy cave at the hands of this oddball family then Emil would forever remember waking in his arms this morning, feeling safe, feeling protected, feeling cared for.

Sara stepped back and Grandma rinsed, over and over until the buckets were empty. She fetched a large cloth and briskly dried Emil’s hair. She clutched a handful of it and sniffed, a broad smile on her face.

“Mossy, untie her. Caleb, take the chair and buckets away.”

Emil stood, uncertain. She lightly touched her hair, smelt it, and couldn’t help but smile at both women.

“What did you think we were going to do?” said Sara. “Torture you? Chop you up?”

“That comes later,” said Uncle, chuckling.

She told him to shut up and get back to his wood working.

“Thank you,” said Emil.

She sniffed her hair again.

“Why?”

“I lost a son today. Why don’t you stay and be a daughter?”

Emil looked into Sara’s single eye, Pure One to Pure One, and knew the question was one of vain hope and nothing more. There was no expectation of a positive response. The only way she would gain a daughter would be to keep her prisoner. She suddenly looked less fearsome, more vulnerable.

“Will you unlock my friend?”

Grandad looked up from the green book.

“Please?” she said.

“Didn’t he say he was going to kill us?” said Grandad. “I want to keep him as a pet.”

The family laughed. Emil was stony faced.

“Mossy, Caleb,” nodded Sara. “He seems to have puffed himself out.”

Caleb grabbed the keys, Mossy his rifle. Tomas rubbed his wrists as they freed him. He shoved the brothers out of his way and went to retrieve his pack and possessions.

“Where are my weapons?”

“I’m not stupid,” said Sara, picking up the submachine gun. “Mossy will let you have them, once you’re back on the road.”

“We’re going,” said Tomas, backing away, reaching for Emil’s arm.

“This book,” said Grandad.

“Keep it,” said Tomas.

More steps back.

“Where did you get it?”

“I said keep it, I don’t want it.”

Edge of the cave.

“Do you know how old it is?”

“I don’t care,” said Tomas, glancing at Grandad. “You have it.”

“Can you read, young man?”

Tomas stopped.

“A bit.”

“I can read,” said Grandad. “My father taught me. His father taught him. This book is from the Before. It talks of life before Gallen. Like the other one I found.”

“What other one?” said Emil.

The old man dragged a battered satchel from alongside his armchair, hidden from view. He opened it and took out a large book with bent covers.

“We need to go,” whispered Tomas. “Emil, we have to get out of her.”

“I want to see it.”

Tomas fumed. A few minutes earlier he thought they were going to torture Emil and then him next. It hadn’t panned out that way but he didn’t want to give the family a chance to have second thoughts. He couldn’t understand this nonsense about a few books. He had found it back in the dead city, whilst tracking Emil. He had intended to give it to Stone but it had slipped his mind to do so. He wondered where he was right now. Closing in on Chett. Lining up to kill Gozan. They needed to get going. Right now.

“Emil …”

“I want to see this book,” she said.

“It’s proof,” said Grandad. “We can go back there, show it to them. She won’t listen, my Sara. Says I’m stupid, but look, it’s all the proof we need.”

“Proof?” said Emil. “What do you mean?”

“Grandad, don’t fill the girl’s head with this nonsense. We’re not going anywhere, this is home.”

“It’s not home,” he shouted, rising from his chair, flaring with sudden anger. “This isn’t a home, it’s a stinking cave.”

Both books slipped from his lap onto the floor. Mossy chuckled, Uncle clipped his head. Grandma took his arm and tried to settle him back down but he was having none of it. His pulse was racing. His blood was boiling.

“They threw us out, all of us, because of this. It’s just skin. All these years, hiding, living out here, moving from place to place, the heat, the cold.”

He shook his head.

“You boys don’t remember. They rounded us up, chucked us out like the rubbish. Your father as well.”

He shrank back into his armchair, wheezing. Emil saw pain in his eyes. She picked up the books from the floor and placed them on his lap. The larger one was covered with strange pictures and several long words. He watched as she opened it, a renewed twinkle in his eye. The rest of the family loitered in silence. Pages were missing, others torn, aged, but the ones that had survived were mostly clear, a jumble of words and pictures. She saw men, women, children. Missing limbs. Odd shaped bodies. She turned the pages. Smiling faces. Happy faces. She turned again. A room with a row of beds. A man in white clapping a child on fake legs. More pages. A one eyed child, missing a nose, a squashed forehead, hugged by a man, again in a white coat. This was the Before. The time her parents had spoke about, passing on the stories from generation to generation, year after year, century after century, we
were
part of the Before.

She lowered the book, stared at the old man.

“Drove us out our homes. Our city. Threw us into the wasteland. Blamed us for everything. But we’re the same as them. We’re them. They’re us. Chett is our home. Not here.”

He began to weep, softly, took a cloth and wiped his eyes.

“I want to go home,” said Grandad. “I want to go home.”

Stone sped along the deserted highway, the land featureless, dry and hard baked. The engine roared and the steering wheel felt good in his hands. Nothing on the horizon. He drove until the sun began to dip from the sky and it was then he saw a blur of vehicles behind him. The Blood Sun tribe convoy had driven north. It couldn’t be them, not this soon, not unless they had left a few cars behind, hidden to track him when he left Ford, capture him for the Cleric or simply kill him on the road. He couldn’t make out the number in pursuit, just a dust cloud in his rear view mirror; they would reach him before nightfall.

The car was solid, reliable, he’d driven far worse. The tank was half filled with black energy and he had no intention of losing it. They grew closer, second by second, minute by minute, the column suddenly breaking, forming a line across the hard road, revealing numbers. Stone cursed as he saw a heavily armoured car, a pickup truck with a gun mounted on the flatbed and a jeep. They were powering along, panels fixed across the windscreens, tyres protected with mesh and metal sheets. The last vehicle, trailing behind the front three, was a small truck.

Four of them!

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Stone checked his weapons. Behind him, the vehicles bore the yellow sun with blood spots.

Engines snarling, rubber burning, they drew closer.

“You’re leaving with him?” said Marge. “Ain’t got no hair. Got even less scraps of sense in him.”

Sadie sighed. People were still edgy, tense, the crater where the school had once stood would be a daily grim reminder of what might of happened and what actually did happen. A lot of the blame was directed at Marge. The easiest way into town was at the front, where the road was planted with explosives, but also the most obvious. She’d convinced them all that the Cleric would make his move from the northeast of town, across the craters. Only she’d got it wrong and they had been allowed to sneak in undetected, digging up the bombs, killing a few lookouts and hiding overnight in the school. Sadie wondered if this was the wrong time to leave her Mum. She was needed, by her and the town. She wasn’t stupid. Everyone was needed. There was always a job to do. She had the bar to run. Frank, one of her regulars, would have taken over if he hadn’t been murdered this morning. She took a lecture from Marge, about the town, about her life here, about what life was really like out there, especially with a man she hardly knew.

“You’ve lived here your whole life,” said Marge. “Not a bounce in your skull about what it’s like out there.”

“I’m not going to be alone,” she said.

“How good is he? Surrendered right off to that Cleric.”

“He did it to try and save the children.”

“The Tongueless Man saved them. Saved us all. Why couldn’t you run off with him? Sadie, that wasteland will gobble you both up. Gone. Then who I got? No one. What am I supposed to do?”

There was no point. She was leaving. It was decided. The Map Maker, Doug, was waiting for her, impatiently pacing up and down, growing more agitated as the minutes passed. It wasn’t the best decision she had ever made, but she knew that staying would be the worse. Rucksack on her back, she headed off with him, across the boundary of the town for the first time in her twenty years, striding forward, walking with purpose, Doug alongside her, the map she had given him tucked in his belt, his own map in his hand.

He stopped, pointed and changed direction.

Sara angled her submachine gun at Tomas, as Mossy handed him back his weapons. The air was cool, the sun was disappearing, Mauricio’s grave would soon be in darkness.

“He was a bad boy, taking, killing.” She slapped the weapon hanging on her shoulder.

“Will he be okay?” asked Emil.

“Who?”

“Grandad.”

“Sure,” laughed Sara. “Gets these crazy notions we can march right up to the gates of Chett and demand our home back.”

“That book …”

“It’s just a book. What does it mean? We all lived together once. So what? They got walls, guns, men … a book … it doesn’t mean anything.”

Tomas loaded his crossbow. “Let’s go,” he said.

“It’s a curse,” said Sara, as they made for the track back to the road. “The healing. Nothing good comes of it.”

Emil glanced at Tomas, saying nothing.

“Your hair looks nice,” said Sara.

“Thank you.”

Sara nodded, then looked away and crouched down at the grave of her dead son, as the shadows began to lengthen.