A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (11 page)

“Silly boy, Mauricio, you silly boy.”

The two boys shoved Tomas and Emil together and backed away, rifles pointing at them.

“Did you kill my boy?” asked the woman, getting to her feet, finger on the trigger.

“We found him like that,” protested Emil, but Tomas told her to keep silent, it would make no difference.

“Whether you did or didn’t you’re going to bury him. Mossy, go back to the cave and grab a couple of shovels. Caleb, keep your gun on these two.”

One of the boys darted back into the rocks while the other kept his weapon pointed at them. Tomas fumed at getting caught off guard so easily. He looked at his pack and weapons, too far away. He looked at the man with the rifle. Standing well back. Unlikely he would manage a few steps before getting a bullet in his gut. And the one with the machine gun, he had seen the damage that kind of weapon could inflict, spraying hundreds of bullets in seconds; they would be cut to pieces if he attempted anything. He wondered if it was even loaded. Through the years, they had come up against many men, and some women, carrying empty weapons. You could always tell, though, the eyes gave it away, that pressing fear that the hoax could be uncovered at any moment. He couldn’t even see the woman’s eyes but her manner told him there were bullets in that magazine so he stood and waited for Mossy to return with the shovels, suddenly aware he was holding Emil’s hand.

“Wonder what’s going on over there,” said the woman, looking at the smoke. “Caleb, take no chances, shoot them if they try anything.”

“Yes, Mother,” he replied.

She began to walk down the road, taking the same route Mauricio had taken earlier that morning, except on foot.

At the end of the road she saw the town of Ford, buildings ablaze, smoke pouring into the sky.

“Is that your mother?” asked Emil.

“Shut your mouth,” said Mossy, before his brother, Caleb, could reply. He held the shovels in his hands, rifle hanging on his shoulder.

“Mother,” he yelled.

She came strolling back up the road, stopped to study a pool of dried blood several feet from Mauricio’s body.

“Now bury my boy,” she said.

Fifteen

The cafe was one of the few buildings to have avoided major damage. The brickwork had been raked with bullets and both front windows had been shot through but the structure was otherwise intact.

Marge led Stone inside once she had instructed Geoff to take care of the town. He was the perfect man for the job; diligent, organised and the people knew and respected his voice. The fires were already dying out and showed no sign of spreading. Water was a precious commodity and none of the paltry supply they retained would be used to protect a single building. Clipboard in hand, Geoff issued a raft of instructions to the men and women who had volunteered to help. All families with children were to be evacuated into an area of the craters. This was the first priority and a group of armed men would accompany them with a small supply train of food and blankets. Explosives were to be reset on the outskirts of town. Enemy weapons needed to be collected and stored in the armoury. Enemy bodies needed to be burned in the fire pit. A mass grave would need to be dug for the burial of the locals. A census would need to be conducted. Geoff explained this was a low priority and could wait. A barricade needed to be placed where the school had once stood. All rooftop snipers needed to clean their weapons, replenish ammunition and take some rest. And so it went on.

As his volunteers put aside tiredness, fears and personal loss, Geoff felt a swell of pride that restored his faith in Ford, Gallen and people. It was, he realised, that in times of adversity that you saw the true soul of a man and woman. It was this thought that triggered a picture of Dorran, shockingly strung up to be hanged. He wondered how the poor man would find a way past that and would he ever be able to come to terms with or even forgive the people who had almost murdered him. And then Geoff’s thoughts drifted to the poor children, penned inside the school by that madman. He supposed Jenny must have died in the explosion.

Tears filled his eyes. He doubled over and threw up, hiding his face with his wooden clipboard.

Marge offered Stone a seat and went to the counter. The café was warm and he slipped off his long coat. His nostrils filled with the smell of food. The place was empty and he was glad. Marge carried over a plate and sat with him. He felt uncomfortable with her looking at him and reluctantly nibbled at the slices of halk. The sight of ollish eggs surprised him.

“You have ollish birds?” he asked

“Too right we have, damn fine birds they are. Tasty eggs.”

“I know someone who would kill for one of these.”

He thought of Tomas as he cracked open the black egg and poured it into his mouth.

“Why are you here?” asked Stone, looking down at his plate. “Not out there, putting things back together.”

“Reckon you already know that answer,” she said, easing back in her chair and wincing. “Damn arm stings like fire.” Her leg and arm were both bandaged. “How’s your mouth?”

Stone nodded.

“It’ll heal.”

“What you did took a lot of guts. Got some brave people in Ford. Sometimes a man even braver can inspire a lot, teach them stuff they don’t know.”

He shook his head.

“You going to take that car and head somewhere else. Where else is there to be? You can do more good here.”

He cracked another ollish egg, dribbled some onto his beard.

“Could do much worse out on that road, better here, safer. We did alright, didn’t we, kicking that Cleric out of here.”

Stone wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crushed the empty egg shells into tiny pieces.

“Guy was pretty much a nutcase, I reckons, but smart. He outsmarted me, not you.”

He thought about the emblem painted on the roof of the car.

“The Blood Sun tribe,” he said.

Marge narrowed her eyes.

“You tangled with them before?”

“No,” answered Stone, chewing halk. “But I know what they do. I know who they want to hurt.”

“You mean the like of Dorran?” She let out a low whistle. “I don’t, you know, I don’t get that one bit. He ain’t any different to me. Yeah, he looks different, but so do I, so do you, man still a man, ain’t he? Why don’t you stay? Stay and help us? Keep me company, I could use some company, I don’t even know your name. Your real name, not no stupid nickname.”

“Stone,” he said, sliding from his chair.

“That it? Stone? That’s your real name?”

He shrugged.

“Will you stay?” asked Marge.

He shook his head.

“Then let me at least pack you down with supplies before you go. Top up your ammo, sort you some food.”

Stone looked at her.

“A way of saying thank you for saving our little ones.”

“Okay,” he said.

“What now?” said Emil.

Ignoring her, Mother said, “Boys, put your brother in the ground. Be careful with him now.”

Mossy and Caleb lifted Mauricio and rolled him into the shallow grave. They stood with heads bowed, not sure what to do or say. Tomas and Emil looked on, leaning on their shovels, faces hot, flushed and sweaty. Emil wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Mother stared down at her youngest boy. She removed her helmet, tugged down her scarf and lifted her goggles. Emil gasped. Her dusky skin was rippled, her left eye was moist, her right eye blind. She was a Pure One.

“Mossy, run and get the rest of the family.”

Sulking, he trotted off back down the winding path and disappeared from view. Tomas was thinking this was the best opportunity they had. One swing with the shovel would take out Caleb and then he could move on mother. She was still holding the submachine gun but as she looked down at her dead boy the muzzle of her weapon was titled down towards the ground and she wouldn’t pull the trigger if one of her boys was in the line of fire, he hoped.

“You’re a Pure One,” said Emil.

A sharp look.

“I’m a what? What did you call me, child?”

Emil raised her hands apologetically and her shovel fell to the ground. Mother brought the submachine back up and pointed it at Tomas.

“No funny ideas,” she warned.

Caleb lifted his eyes from his dead brother, wondering what he had missed.

“I’m Mother, that’s who I am. Sure, I can do the healing but what good is that now? I can’t raise the dead, can I? I can’t bring back my idiot, half blind boy, can I? So what good is it?”

“I’m sorry,” said Emil.

“Nothing is pure out here, stupid girl.”

Emil bit her lip.

“We didn’t kill him,” she said.

There was the sound of voices, drifting up towards them, someone complaining bitterly. Mossy led the rest of the family to gather at Mauricio’s graveside. The oldest man was heavily scarred and leaned on a wooden cane. He wore eyeglasses and was missing half of his left arm. The woman next to him wore a dress printed with colours. It was threadbare and frayed but Emil had never seen anything so pretty. The elder women in her village had worn dresses but none had looked like this. It had faded colours of green and gold. She had an oddly shaped head, curved in on one side. A middle aged man was the one complaining about hiking up this
damn
hill just to see Mauricio when he knew
damn
well what the stupid boy looked like.

“I’m here,” he grumbled. “He looks just as stupid dead as he did alive.”

“Shut up, Uncle,” said Mother.

“Stop pointing that damn gun at me,” said Uncle.

Caleb rolled his eyes. He had heard the squabbling a hundred times before. He was going to miss Mauricio, he reckoned. Anyway, Mauricio was the lucky one, getting to lie in that hole by himself. He didn’t have to put up with Mother and Uncle arguing anymore or listen to Grandad snoring and Grandma telling him not to snore. He caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and reached up with both hands to catch the shovel Tomas had swung at him. Tomas blinked as the younger man snatched it from him and punched him on the top of the head.

“You stupid?” he said. “You want to end up in there with Mauricio?”

He threw the shovel onto the ground and fetched his rifle. Keeping his distance, he pointed it Tomas.

“Daddy,” said Mother. “Say words.”

Grandad shuffled forward and spoke over Mauricio’s body. Emil listened but his tone was barely audible and she couldn’t understand him. Soon, he finished and the three of them trudged back down the path, leaving her and Tomas alone with Mother and her boys. Caleb jabbed the rifle towards them and told them to fill in the grave. They took their time; convinced that next they would be digging their own. Emil supposed there were far worse ways to go. She had no idea what this desperate looking family were capable of. Mother told Mossy to lead the way. Emil and Tomas were to follow and Caleb and Mother would be behind them.

A sun baked track led down to a flat plain of rock and sand, a vast landscape of nothing, dull brown to the horizon. No roads, no settlements, nothing. The heat was intense. The plumes of smoke in the sky could not be seen from down here. Mossy led them along a winding path of sand and stone, hot beneath their shoes, until he reached a dark and ragged opening in the mountainside. Inside was a narrow tunnel. The temperature and visibility dropped at once. Outgunned, Tomas and Emil kept walking.

The air was moist and damp. The tunnel widened into a large cave where a fire crackled. There was a steady dripping sound in the distance. The old man who had spoken at the graveside was sat in a threadbare armchair, studying them with interest, whilst Grandma was pottering about with pots and pans, looking for something. Uncle was sat at a long wooden bench. It was covered in tools and pieces of wood. There were curls of wood shavings around his feet.

“Chain him,” ordered Mother.

Her boys obeyed, without question, and dragged Tomas into a gloomy corner of the cave where a length of chain with shackles was secured to the rocky wall. He yelled, spat and kicked wildly as they restrained him. Emil flashed into his thoughts. How she had fought him went he tied her up. The guilt washed over him. The boys locked the shackles. The rusty metal cut into his wrists as he struggled. Unable to break them apart Tomas attempted to pull the chain from the wall. Grabbing it with both hands, he pulled until beads of sweat ran down his face. Uncle chuckled, shaking his head. Mossy kicked the back of Tomas’s legs and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Mother, for the first time, hung up the submachine gun. She eased herself onto a low bunk covered with rumpled blankets. Mossy trotted away from Tomas and dropped onto another bunk, setting his rifle next to him.

“Leave it alone,” said Tomas, as Mossy opened his pack.

Caleb stood admiring Emil until Grandma told him to quit his nonsense and put the water on. Glumly, he trudged off into the darkness of the cave.

“He was a good boy,” said Grandad.

“How can you say that?” said Grandma, slapping his arm. “He had a wicked streak in him.”

“He was mean and stupid,” added Uncle. “But he didn’t deserve to die like that. He was strangled.”

“Let Tomas go,” demanded Emil. “Let us both go. We didn’t kill him. I told you, we just came along and found him like that.”

Caleb trudged back into the cave, clutching iron buckets brimming with water, sloshing some onto floor. Grandma chided him, told him to be more careful. He apologised, embarrassed, and hung them on a tripod over the snapping fire.

“I know you didn’t,” said Mother, unlacing her boots. “Took someone with a lot of strength to choke out Mauricio’s life. There was fresh blood on the road as well. And that bike didn’t belong to my boy. I reckon he robbed someone, wounded them, maybe even killed them, but got outnumbered and got himself put down.”

“Then why are you keeping us here?” said Tomas, straining against his restraints.

“Shut up,” said Mossy, tipping the last of Tomas’s possessions onto the floor. He rummaged through clothes, food bars, an empty bottle, a knife, crossbow bolts, a metal pan, a dusty book, a threadbare blanket and a pouch of lock pick tools.

“What’s that book?” said Grandad, leaning forward in his chair. “Mossy, let me see that.”

Mossy picked up the book with little interest. It had faded green board covers, a cracked spine and the edges of the pages were yellow.

“Let me stick it on the fire,” he said.

“I’ll clip you one,” said Grandad, waving his cane. “Give that to me. Sara, tell that son of yours.”

It was the first time they had heard her name. She ignored him, her focus on Emil.

“If you know we didn’t kill him,” protested Emil. “Why won’t you let us leave?”

“Scared of nothing, are you girl?” said Sara, rolling off her socks and massaging her aching feet. “You can leave. We haven’t chained you up, have we? That one’s dangerous; look at him, like a rabid halk, ready to bite.”

She didn’t want to see Tomas chained but the moment his name was mentioned she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder to see him fighting against the unbreakable shackles. She felt enraged, surrounded by her own kind, the shunned deformed, the mutants, the diseased, she had heard and lived with all the names. Stay with your own, her father had told her. Find your own kind, he had said, as the convoy of metal had powered towards their settlement. Run my beautiful daughter, he had said, holding her in his arms one last time before smuggling her into the secret holes as the village came under attack, men and women dying at the hands of the Cleric’s tribe.