A Girl Called Badger

SPLASHDOWN





SIXTEEN



Sounds came hollow and distant to Wilson and reminded him of bathtime, of leaning his head back and letting the water fill his ears. Air roared through his lungs with a sleepy comfort. A perfect solitude.

But it became less. His father’s voice spoke on the surface of the water, loud but gentle.

DON’T GIVE UP

Wilson lifted his head and water poured from his ears. Memories floated through his hot, delirious mind like snowflakes around a lantern. His father. His mother. Kira.

He kept his eyes shut and concentrated––the falling snow spun into a ball of ice. The cold helped to control his breathing and the pain, but his lungs burned for air.

Something stretched his arms and scraped his legs across rough ground.

Time passed or stopped. Never existed.

He grew tired of the cold and wanted to sink into the bath of sleep. Wilson saw his father lean over him as the water began to steam.

It pulled Wilson lower. It began to pour into his mouth.

STOP

It covered his head.

ICE

The water cooled abruptly and Wilson broke the surface with a gasp.

ICE WILSON

Bits of ice grew around him and Wilson spun in circles. He cried out in fear. His father shook his head and slapped him, hard.

Wilson opened his eyes to a sky full of stars. He was cold and felt like a soggy scrap of bread. The air smelled of rotting meat and his mouth was full of grit. He slid his right hand over a stickiness on his belly and groaned in pain.

“Boss, this one’s still alive,” rasped a man’s voice.

“Not for long,” said another.

Soft earth landed on his legs. Wilson felt the scar along the inside of his left forearm and pressed four long and one short. Nothing happened and more earth showered over him. He frantically pressed the code again. His legs and arms abruptly jerked out of control and he lost consciousness.



i guess I’m dead

NO

who’s that

ME

i don’t believe this

BELIEVE IT

i thought death would be peaceful

WHY

that’s what everyone says

EVERYONE IS DEAD

how about me

WHAT ABOUT YOU

am I dead or not

ONE OF THOSE

i hope my mind is playing tricks on me

NOT A TRICK

god you are annoying

NOT GOD

am I dead or alive

YES

i’ll stop talking to you I swear

FUNNY

not in the least

KNOW ANY JOKES

what

JOKES

i don’t believe this

I LIKE JOKES

write that on a piece of paper stick it to your head and shoot a hole through it

I KNOW A JOKE

here’s a thought I don’t want to hear it

WHAT DOES A DOG BECOME AFTER IT IS SIX YEARS OLD

i don’t know

SEVEN YEARS OLD

that’s not funny

WHAT DID THE DOG SAY TO THE CANDLE

don’t care

ARE YOU GOING OUT TONIGHT





* * *





SNOW COVERED THE FOREST and whipped through the air. Wilson stood in the middle of a frozen lake and covered his eyes from the stinging particles. Ice boomed under his feet and he fell into the freezing water. His fingers scraped long trails of blood across the ice as he tried to hold on. A huge metal hook speared his right hand and he cried out. A rope tied to the hook pulled him out of the water and across the ice.

The hook changed to a black dog. With yellow teeth it held Wilson’s hand and pulled him slowly across the hard ground. He watched tiny clouds creep across the night sky. The leaves of blackberry bushes blocked out the sky and he barely felt the thorns. Something began to kick dirt and leaves over him. He closed his eyes and the dirt became a shower of ice.



HE LAY IN A DEEP bank of snow. The cold dulled the pinpoints of pain moving over his body. A shadow crossed the blue sky and his father stood above him.

Wilson opened his cracked lips.

“Why?”

“Man is born unto trouble as surely as sparks fly upward,” said his father.

“Did I ... am I dead?”

“To live means to die.”

“But why? Why this way?"

“The way it is, is the way it must be. But you will lay a path for the future, if you see the path that has gone before.”

“I can’t ... I need help ...”

His father spread his hands. “I can fight for you, but will you fight for me?”

“Yes.”

“The breath of God produces ice, and the broad waters become frozen,” said his father, over and over.

Wilson felt his body freeze solid from the inside out.



A FEATHER TOUCHED HIS lips and he blew it away. Needles jabbed into his ribs with each breath. More pain and strange sounds gradually appeared. An angry man shouted in the distance. A killdeer trilled as it flew nearby.

Wilson squinted at the light that filtered through the green blackberry stems. He tested his arms and legs and disturbed a blanket of dirt and dead leaves. Next to him, the black dog startled from a nap and moved away a few steps. The ugly, yellow-eyed creature scratched the patchy fur at its neck with a back leg.

Wilson wondered what was happening inside the lumpy head. He guessed the dog or someone else had dragged him into the thicket. Was it to finish him off later? Or had a long-dead tribal taught him this trick? Wilson thought it was probably an over-eager hunting dog abandoned because of the mange. Founder knows why it had picked Wilson for a new master.

Wilson’s hands brushed through the leaves and grit on his body. He was completely naked. In the center of his belly he touched a new, round scab.

Parched and hungry, he looked around the thicket. A trail of broken stems marked where the black dog had dragged him from the field. Near the dog a faint path led deeper into the thorns. Wilson turned on his belly and crawled.

The thorns slashed his naked skin and his muscles twitched with tiny cramps, none lasting more than a second. Wilson stopped and meditated with the calming trick. It helped with the pain and he crawled further into the brambles.

Soon he heard a bubbling sound and the thorns opened to a stream lined with trees. He watched for a few minutes then drank the cold water. He washed the scab on his belly and exit wound on his lower back. The dog had bit through his right hand where it dragged him and Wilson cleaned it carefully. He ate fistfuls of blackberries until his trembling fingers were stained purple.

The distant sound of hammers meant he wasn’t far from mankind. Wilson followed the water upstream and the ugly dog trotted behind. The undergrowth thinned and he crawled through grass and sparse bushes. Under the thick cover of a privet bush he chewed mint leaves like tobacco and watched the village.

It was the old airport and vast collection of huts he’d seen before. In fields dotted with wreckage, men and women bent over leafy crops while guards wandered lazily with rifles. Nearby was a wooden hut and a line of dirt mounds. The breeze changed and he smelled rotting flesh and urine.

The sun dropped below the mountains. When twilight came two men left the hut and walked toward the village. Wilson used the cover of trees and shrubs to sneak to the back of the hut. He listened at the wall then tapped softly on a window slat. No response. There were openings near the roof eaves and Wilson used the window frame and gaps in the wood to climb through. He hung from the rafter beams and dropped to the floor.

Leather material and tools lined the walls and leather scrap littered the workbenches. Wilson found a yellow buckskin jacket and a pair of trousers that fit. He saw no boots or moccasins anywhere, so he bound layers of leather scrap around his feet with thongs. A soft section of tanned leather made a warm hood. Wilson pierced holes to tighten it around his head. He rubbed dirt from the floor into the leather to make it look worn. A belt with a sharp leather cutter went around his waist.

Outside, he used irrigation ditches and trash piles to crawl closer to the village. Like Station it relied on a wall of sentries instead of a wall of wood. Wilson squatted in a ditch and crumbled dirt between his fingers. A pair of guards laughed and separated. When they gave him enough space Wilson crawled to the village.

He crouched in the narrow space under a building and waited for a shout of alarm. When none came he began to scout from the shadows.

The wooden structures were all numbered in white paint. Most of the noise came from crude living quarters and eating areas. Several were guarded by men in green uniforms. Around the sprawling village were corn storage and processing buildings, animal pens, and workshops.

Wilson followed a strange smell to the southern quadrant and found a collection of tall cylinders. A building nearby was painted in crystal white, different from the black and faded gray of the others. Wilson squinted through a gap in the wallboards and saw a collection of wheeled machines. Many were huge and flat like the ones he’d seen in Springs and Schriever. Others were tiny and could seat only one or two people.

He kept to the shadows and crept closer to the center of the village. Crudely painted symbols on the buildings seemed to indicate zones and function. Wilson followed a series of cruciform shapes to an open, stone-paved square. It was lined with rough-hewn houses raised half a meter above the ground. Light gleamed from the shutters of one wooden building and voices from inside filtered across the square. Wilson moved across the paved stone of the square and crawled underneath the house to listen.

“ ... said they lost a dozen men, but it was more,” said a man’s voice in the dialect.

“Three times that?” asked Darius.

“I think so. It makes them a target, that’s why they lied to you.”

“Send someone to watch Red Rock. Not an idiot, someone that can do figures. I want to know the exact number of fighting men they have.”

The floorboards creaked above Wilson’s head.

“Oh, yes. Before you do that, check on the girl in the treatment shack. See if she’s better.”

“Sorry, sir––what building is that?”

“Forty-three,” said Darius.



ACROSS THE STREET FROM forty-three Wilson stopped, covered in sweat. He controlled his breathing and fought back nausea. While he waited for a second wind he watched the door of forty-three. Soon a man with a lantern in his hand walked along the dirt lane and entered the building. After a minute he left and walked in the opposite direction.

Wilson jogged across the street. He listened at a window but heard nothing. At the door of forty-three he took out his leather cutter.

The inside of the shack was more like a morgue than a medical room. A dozen bodies lay on beds, all covered with blankets. An old woman sat at a table grinding away with a wooden mortar and pestle. Roots were piled on her desk and the shelves behind were loaded with containers.

The old woman saw his knife. “Kio estas?”

“Don’t speak,” Wilson said in the dialect. He wished he could keep his arm from shaking. “Where’s the wild girl?”

The old woman pointed to the back of the room.

“Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you,” said Wilson.

He walked to the last bed and pulled back his hood. Badger’s face was still and pale in the candlelight. A yellow tube dangled from a jar and snaked to bandages on the inside of her arm. Wilson brushed hair away from her eyes and touched her forehead. He pressed the reset code on her arm. When he bent close to her mouth, he felt soft breath on his cheek.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispered, and rubbed her cold hand.

The old lady ground roots in her bowl and watched him. The patients in the other beds were either sleeping or too infirm to notice anything.

“I told you I’d be back,” he whispered. “I said I’d never give up and I didn’t. Now it’s your turn. I know there’s still someone called Kira bouncing around between your ears. Wake up and show me those beautiful eyes.”

He counted the rise and fall of her chest.

“I’ll tell you a story. A long time ago a boy and girl ran to the mountains. Nobody had any idea where they’d gone. While picking flowers they fell into a dark pit and couldn’t climb out. The girl started to cry but the boy held her and said everything would be okay. The pit was cold and deep but they kept each other warm and sang a song about not giving up.”

Badger’s hand twitched and her feet moved under the blanket.

“Are you awake now?”

“Yesss ...”

“Talk to me.”

“What happened ... boy and girl ...”

“Oh that,” said Wilson. “Wolves ate them.”

Badger coughed and wheezed. “Awful,” she said, and opened her eyes. “Will!”

“Shhhh.”

“He shot you,” she whispered. “I saw the blood!”

Wilson shrugged. “I got better.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I don’t feel it.” Wilson opened his jacket and showed her the round scab. Badger touched it with the tips of her fingers then pulled his head close and kissed him.

“This is a dream,” she said. “You’re not real.”

“Real or not, let’s go.”

Badger sat up slowly and sniffed. “What a pair of darlings. You look like death and I smell like it.”

Wilson pulled the tube from her arm and held a scrap of cloth on the trickle of blood. Badger wore only a ragged frock under the blanket. She found her balance with Wilson’s help and they walked to the old lady grinding medicines at the entrance.

“How long has she been here?” Wilson asked her.

The old lady rasped something then spat on the floor. “To village? Five days. Sickness start two days past.”

Wilson felt numb. He half-fell, half-stumbled out the door with Badger. She pushed him into the shadows as a pair of villagers walked by.

“Will! What’s wrong with you?”

“Five days. I was shot five days ago.”

They stayed away from lanterns and jogged through the dark streets. After a few minutes Wilson leaned against a wall and gasped for air.

“Can’t ... gotta stop ...”

Badger helped him crawl under a wooden hut. She held his right hand carefully. It was punctured and torn with bite marks. After a few minutes she pinched herself and touched Wilson’s forehead with her index finger.

“How did you survive that bullet?” she whispered.

Wilson shook his head. “I don’t know. I pressed a code in my arm when they buried me. Founder knows if that actually did anything.”

“Buried you?”

“I think that’s what happened. Who knows, I imagined all kinds of things. People before the war and my father. Even if none of that was real, I crawled away or something pulled me out of the ground. It could have been the dog. When I woke up it was next to me.”

Badger rubbed her legs from the cold. Wilson noticed tiny red shapes on her thighs and calves.

“What are those?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

The red marks covered her legs. Some were small and circular and others were straight and thin. Badger flinched when he touched them.

“Darius did this,” said Wilson. “I’ll kill him.”

“Me too,” said Badger. “But first we need a distraction.”



IN THE NORTHERN QUADRANT of the village were storage buildings for dried grass and animal fodder. A pair of sentries chatted in the street nearby. The cold turned their breath to steam.

Wilson and Badger watched from the shadows. They heard shouts from the direction of building forty-three. The sentries shifted their feet lazily and one pointed toward the noise.

“I don’t like it,” murmured Wilson.

“No time to look back,” said Badger.

She waited until Wilson had circled into position, then curled her arms to her chest and ran toward the guards. They noticed her cries for help and watched her stumble to the ground.

“Kio okazas,” one yelled. Both men walked toward her.

Wilson crept into the storage building and uncovered his lantern. A mound of dried grass from last summer filled half the building. Wilson held the candle to the bottom layer and the flames quickly grew a meter high. He covered the lantern and ran out of the building.

The guards had slung their rifles and were helping Badger to her feet. She pointed frantically as Wilson burst from the building. The men dipped shoulders to unsling their rifles.

Badger pulled a belt knife from the guard on her right and stabbed him in the neck. Hearing the scream, the other guard punched at her with his free hand. Badger blocked the arm with a slash and slammed a fist into his windpipe. He pitched backwards and sprawled on the ground.

She wiped blood from her face and pointed to another building. “Will! The next one!”

Wilson entered the large structure and ignited a high mound of dried grass. He tossed the lantern into the flames and scrambled out. Badger had strapped a belt with pouches over her thin frock. She handed a rifle to Wilson and they ran toward the center of the village.

The conflagration excited the tribal people more than Badger’s escape. Men ran toward it shouting the alarm and a bell began to clang rapidly from somewhere distant.

A large group rushed through the streets and forced Wilson and Badger to hide in an outhouse. The smell of burning wood and grass seeped through the stink in the shed. Wilson peered through a crack. He saw an orange-lit pillar of smoke climb into the night sky.

“That’ll put the fear of God into them,” said Wilson.

Badger examined the edge of the knife she’d stolen and said nothing.

They navigated the chaos in the streets to the house where Darius had questioned them. Lantern-light gleamed through cracks in the shutters and no villagers were in sight.

“Time for that bastard to pay,” said Wilson.

Badger nodded. “Just like that, huh?”

“More or less.”

“Listen, killer. You just crawled out of a grave. A fight is the last thing you need.”

“Don’t leave me out of this, Kira.”

“I’m not. I need you, Will. I’m so tired my bones are sleepy, but I’m in better shape than you. Just be there to pick up the pieces.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “I wish I could have–”

Badger touched his cheek. “Don’t wish and don’t be sorry.”

A door opened and light spilled into the square. A dark shape closed it and ran in the direction of the fire.

Badger grabbed his hand and they sprinted across the square to the door. Wilson knelt close to the steps with a rifle and Badger crouched at the bottom. The voices of three men filtered to the outside. One belonged to Darius.

Wilson raised three fingers. Badger copied him and nodded. The wood floor of the building creaked as someone walked around. Wilson pointed at Badger then the door, and she repeated the gesture. With her eyes closed she murmured a poem.

Wilson counted to five then pounded on the door with his good hand. After a few mumbled words, footsteps came toward the door. The latch clicked and he glanced at Badger. Her eyes were wide open and pupils dilated.

A sliver of light showed at the door then it exploded inside with a cloud of dirt and splinters. Multiple crashes vibrated the building.

Wilson shaded his eyes and ran inside. On his left a man in gray clothing lay in the remains of a bookshelf. His body was covered with books and paper and his head was twisted too far to the side. Another man squirmed in front of the fireplace. His hands were around a bloody knife in his chest. On the other side of the room Darius had curled into a ball. He was covered in glass and fragments of a wooden chair.

Badger stood in the center of the room with her back to Wilson. Blood dripped from her right hand. She fell to one knee and Wilson caught her under the shoulder. She abruptly bent at the waist and sprayed yellow vomit on the floor.

“Kira?”

He dropped his rifle and stretched her on the floor. Using her arm as support for her neck, Wilson rolled her on her side. Her pulse seemed fine so he closed what was left of the wooden door.

Bookshelf Man was pale with no heartbeat and Fireplace Man was now motionless in a pool of blood. Darius was the only one breathing. Wilson took a long rope from the wall and quickly tied Darius at the hands and feet. He searched through shelves on the walls and two wooden chests in the room. The manual from Schriever lay on a table and went inside his jacket. Wilson found his hunting knife and revolver but nothing else. He pulled off the clothes Bookshelf Man was wearing and helped Badger wear them over her frock.

She tried to sit up. “We can’t stay here.”

Darius coughed from the floor and groaned. He tried to move his arms and legs.

“This bastard is still alive,” said Badger.

“Whoever you are you’ll be dead before dawn,” rasped Darius.

Wilson stood over him and pulled back the hood covering his face.

“I’ll just come back,” he said.

Darius turned as pale as the dead men. “I shot you!”

“Don’t I know it.”

“But it’s not possible! I saw them bury you.”

Wilson pulled up his jacket and showed the scab on his belly.

“Tell me something, Darius.” The point of his knife wavered dangerously close. “Where do you get your weapons and vehicles?”

“Down south. There’s a machine center in Albo.”

“Albo? How many villages do you have?”

Darius flicked his tongue over his lips. “Hundreds.”

“I mean around here.”

“A settlement two days to the east and two more farther south.”

“Why do you keep bothering the tribes?”

Darius closed his eyes. “We have to. We’ve had outbreaks and we need workers. I didn’t come to this uncivilized hell-hole just for fun, you know.”

“You’re very cooperative,” said Wilson.

“I’ve always treated the dead with respect.” Darius pointed his chin at the blood-covered body near the fireplace. “Here’s another grave to dig yourself out of. That man’s the leader of Woodland. They’re a murderous lot even for savages. The pair of you will be at the top of their social calendar.”

Badger had regained more of her strength and steadied herself against the calendar-covered wall.

“You have no idea what the Circle really is,” said Darius. “I’m just a senator, the speaker for this area. Threaten me, kill me––the Circle doesn’t care. They won’t spit out their tea at the news of my death.” He nodded. “But those storage buildings ... wait and see what happens when you destroy Circle property. They won’t even use their weapons and vehicles. The word will go out and tribes will cover you like flies on a stinking corpse.”

Wilson’s face burned. He sliced the edge of the knife across Darius’s bicep. Darius screamed.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some drooling savage,” spat Wilson. “If you threaten us, we’ll fight. If you kill us, we’ll come back.”

Badger pulled him away and stepped in front of Darius. “Remember me, you pig? Look up!”

She pushed one hand into his trousers and grabbed. In her other hand was a knife. Darius screamed and tried to slide across the floor. Badger held on and jabbed the knife inside his trousers. When she pulled it free the blade was streaked with blood. Darius wailed like a father at the funeral of all his children.

Badger stepped over Darius and grabbed his bound wrists. He jerked his body and kept wailing as Badger sawed off a thumb. Wilson felt his stomach knot and walked to the window.

Badger dropped a pair of bloody thumbs on the floor and leaned close to Darius. “Don’t come looking for us,” she whispered.

Wilson grabbed her arm. “We have to move!”

They scrambled out the door as a crowd with lanterns entered the square. The pair dashed behind the building and through an alley. From a storage shed they could still hear moans from Darius. Another man’s voice shouted orders.

“They’ll come after us,” said Wilson. “You should have slit his throat.”

Badger looked through a crack in the door. “Don’t worry. He’ll bleed to death.”

Wilson wondered at what Darius had said a week ago, about the two of them being homocidal maniacs.

“Yeah,” said Wilson slowly. “Maybe he will.”



BADGER LED HIM THROUGH the shadows to a smokehouse. She stuffed a blanket with dried meat and apples while Wilson leaned against the wall.

“How are you feeling?” Badger asked.

Wilson coughed. “Rotten, like a dead goat.”

“We need to rest somewhere.”

“But the whole place is looking for us. We can’t stop.”

Badger shook her head. “Says the dead goat.”

Using darkness and the humps of grass-covered wreckage as cover, they snuck through the eastern side of the village and circled to the north. After a kilometer the ground rose to a forest-covered bluff. Wilson rested beside a tree and looked back.

Orange flame boiled from a dozen buildings and prickled the hair on his face, even from this distance. Black smoke covered the rest of the village. A line of tiny figures passed buckets to the flames and a four-wheeled vehicle sped across the fields.

“I wish they hadn’t made us do it,” he said.

Badger sniffed. “Life is full of choices.”

“Yes, I know. But it’s such a waste. They could have let us go.”

“Could have, should have,” said Badger. “Sometimes we’re the cat and sometimes the butterfly.”

They walked with the north star on the right and the dead zone of Springs on the left. Before dawn turned the sky gray they had made it halfway to the western foothills. Badger found a shed behind a collapsed concrete wall. There was no door and only part of a roof, but the shelter was hidden from the main road.

Wilson slept fitfully. When he woke he noticed an empty swallow’s nest under a corner of the roof. The setting sun colored the mud and the inside of the roof orange.

“Sleep well?” asked Badger.

Wilson yawned. “Not really.”

He ate another apple and a few chunks of dried meat. Badger had found a metal can full of rainwater and he drank half of it.

“Drink it all, there’s more,” said Badger.

“Did you sleep?”

“A few hours. Someone has to keep the dogs from dragging you away.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

The sky deepened to purple and nightjars flew overhead. The brown birds chirped to each other as they searched for moths.

“I wonder about the old times,” Badger said softly. “They built so many things but how could they be real people? I can’t picture what their lives were like. What did they dream about?”

“They were probably too busy for dreams,” said Wilson.

Badger nodded. She turned to Wilson and watched him for a long moment. “Tell me what death feels like.”

Wilson kept his eyes on the nightjars. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t really die.”

“Don’t tell me what’s rid ... whatever you said. I saw it happen.”

Wilson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You know when you’re underwater and need to breathe? Like a burn, a pressure you try to fight but can’t? It was the same feeling. I was freezing like a block of ice. I remember my father giving me a bath and trying not to drown. He said things to me. Other voices, too.”

“That was just your mind talking to itself.”

“It wasn’t the same. There were jokes.”

Badger tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Just silly kid’s jokes.”

“Sounds like you.” She paused. “I thought you were dead, Will.”

“I don’t feel alive right now, let me tell you.”

“No, I’m serious.” Badger rubbed her eyes. “I really thought you were dead. I saw you shot and bleeding. Right in front of me.” She looked away. “I thought ... after two days I gave up.”

“What do you mean, gave up?”

“After two days I was a shell. A nothing. Darius and the others wouldn’t stop and I didn’t want to feel anything ever again. Remember telling me you used to make yourself feel sick and bring on the strange feelings? That’s what I did. I forgot everything in the room, everything I knew, and imagined myself floating to the ceiling. Then the seizures took over.”

Wilson held her warm hands. “You’re the one who taught me to hold on, Kira. I didn’t have the willpower to come back without you. If you give up how can I keep going?”

“I know, Will. But now that everything is quiet I can’t get it out of my head. Your body dragged across the floor, the smeared blood. The misery of wanting to die. Even though I made Darius pay, even though you’re right here with me ... I want to smash my head against a rock.”

“I’m here for you and I’m not leaving,” said Wilson. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Badger wiped her eyes. “Just hold me.”