A Girl Called Badger

SEVENTEEN



As evening approached Wilson made an inventory:



One bolt-action rifle with one shell

One belt pouch with firearm cleaning kit

Wilson’s pistol, five rounds in the cylinder, one in pocket

One hunting knife

One leather-cutting knife

The implant manual

One blanket

Six pieces of dried meat

Three apples

A can



“If we go back the way we came it’s forty kilometers to David,” said Wilson. “That’s just a guess.”

Badger wiped her rifle with a rag. “Those Circle pigs aren’t guessing. You slept through a herd of transports roaring west.”

“How long ago?”

“A few hours.”

“What if there are more? That’s a narrow road through the mountains.”

Badger shook her head. “We don’t have enough food, weapons, or time to find another trail. Don’t worry––those things fly by so fast they barely know what’s in front of them.”

“Yishai and the people at David. Do you think there’s any way to warn them?”

Badger snapped the bolt of her rifle forward and down, closing the firing chamber.

“I take that as a no,” said Wilson.

They prepared to leave. Badger carried the rifle and Wilson his pistol. The implant manual went into a pocket of his jacket.

He tightened the thongs that held the leather scraps on his feet.

“That won’t last forty klicks,” said Badger.

“I guess you’ll have to carry me the rest of the way, then.”

“Ha!”

Wilson left the tiny shelter still smiling and plowed straight into a man in stinking yellow buckskin. The tribal’s long firearm went flying and both he and Wilson sprawled on the damp grass.

Badger pointed her rifle at the scout and helped Wilson up with her free hand.

“Come on!”

The tribal screamed for help as Badger and Wilson scrambled through the green bushes behind the shed. They stumbled over rocks hidden in the grass and covered their eyes from whipping branches. Badger crossed the fractured surface of an old road and slid into a pit in the ground with Wilson right behind. She crawled through the shadows and into a narrow tunnel.

Wilson’s shoulders rubbed the curving, slime-covered walls. The air was full of a thick animal stench and he had to stop. He spit and covered his mouth with his jacket.

“Keep going,” whispered Badger.

Wilson coughed. “No ... the smell ...”

They listened to the voices searching for them in the streets above. Wilson used the calming trick to meditate and control his nausea. The tribal voices came from farther and farther away and became whispers in the night air, but were still somewhere close.

A scrabbling broke the quiet darkness like seeds rattling in a cup. Badger’s knife flashed but she missed and the range lizard bit her right arm. Wilson punched the monster in the head until it let go and scraped back into the dark.

Badger slumped against the curved wall and took ragged breaths.

“Cat’s ... teeth ... I hate those things.”

Wilson touched her arm. This lizard had been smaller than the ones that had attacked them back at Station and the bite wasn’t as wide.

“Don’t move. It makes the pain worse,” he said.

“It’s going numb,” she whispered.

By the time the tribals had gone Badger’s arm had regained feeling. Wilson climbed from the stinking tunnel and sat at street level. He watched and waited for any sneaky tribals then helped Badger out of the pit.

A light mist chilled the night air as they traveled west over uneven, grassy fields. When they met the foothills and the sandstone knives near the Garden, they turned south to find old 24. The cracked road climbed into the mountains through layers of colored rock. The starlight changed the strata into charcoal and shades of gunmetal.

Frequent stops helped them conserve energy and listen for pursuit. Wilson taught Badger his calming trick and the following breaks were spent in meditation. The routine helped to numb some of the pain from Wilson’s legs and feet.

“Your friend is back,” said Badger, as they halted again.

At the gray edge of his night vision Wilson saw a four-legged shape on the road.

“Probably a fox,” he said. “Or another dog that likes people.”

“No. That’s the same disgusting animal,” said Badger. “I can smell it.”

“Don’t be jealous dear. There’s enough of me to go around.”

“Ha! I’m not sharing anything with that little ‘demon dog.’”

The star-river turned in the sky and the black scavenger kept a safe distance as they followed the road through the mountains. A horned owl kept asking about the travelers and a poor-will answered. Mule deer crossed the road and trotted away. Wilson heard howls from a wolf and the bark of a fox. Several times the dull rumble of a transport vibrated the ground and they had to scramble down the left bank to hide.

As they crested the pass the road flattened to the northwest and descended into a valley bordered by low hills. They left the road and followed it from the safety of a thick forest of pine and fir.

Wilson simply put one foot after another and thought about snares. Snares for rabbits. Snares for people. Nightjars chirped for daybreak. The sky lightened with dawn and Wilson wondered if he could ever find a place to sleep.

The loud bark of a dog broke the calm morning. Wilson knelt behind a fir tree with Badger and watched the undergrowth. They heard yelps and a crackle of branches. With an explosion of leaves the black dog sprang into the open, three wolves at his tail.

“Give me the rifle,” Wilson said.

“You’re insane,” hissed Badger. “There’s only one shot left and it’ll be heard miles from–”

Wilson left the cover of the trees at a run.

“Hell and spit,” said Badger.

The three white-faced wolves were still hard on the tail of the black dog, who kept turning and sprinting in high-speed bursts. It ran faster than the wolves and faster than any dog Badger had ever seen, but she knew it couldn’t run forever. She pulled back the bolt to check the last round then sat down, elbows resting on her knees. The lead wolf crossed the post of her sights and Badger breathed a prayer. The shot missed but the wolves jerked to a stop, like someone had pulled a chain around their necks. When the wolves stared back across the field they saw Wilson running at them.

The lead wolf returned to the chase, scrambling after the black dog. The other two circled Wilson with fangs bared and ears flat. He fired his pistol once at close range and hit a wolf in the chest. It stumbled into the grass and left a short trail of blood. The other wolf sensed better options and turned tail.

The black dog had stopped and faced the snarling yellow teeth of the lead wolf. Wilson fired his first shot as the wolf leaped and clamped at the black dog’s neck. The shot missed. Wilson aimed carefully and his next bullet cracked into the storm-gray fur with a spray of blood. The bullet’s impact tumbled both canines into the high grass.

Badger ran up as Wilson kicked away the dead wolf. The black dog panted on its side in the grass, eyes open. Blood matted the fur on its neck and a rear leg.

“That thing better not die,” said Badger.

“It’s bleeding from the neck. I probably grazed it, too.”

Badger ripped strips of cloth from the frock under her jacket. Wilson folded one into a square and pressed it over the scarlet patch of blood. The others strips he wound firmly around the neck to hold the first cloth.

“We shouldn’t move it too far, at least not for a few hours.”

Badger pointed back toward the forest. “There’s a building that way.”

Wilson carried the dog and Badger the empty rifle and small bag of possessions. They followed a trail to a stream and an old wooden house in the pine trees.

Whatever color the house had once been, it was now a mottled green-gray. The trees with their wide branches and the strong backs of the hills had tried to shelter it from the weather, but they could only do so much. Against scavengers and the steady drip of time they had no power. The windows were black holes and the interior held only mildewing leaves and dirt.

Wilson found a clean space on the floor and covered the dog with the only blanket. Badger dragged the two wolf carcasses to the house while Wilson prepared a fire. He placed dead needles and dry twigs in a brick fireplace, then took a round from his pistol. After a minute of twisting and pulling, the lead bullet came off the bronze shell. Wilson tapped half the powder onto a strip of cloth over the tinder and put the shell back in the pistol.

“Here goes nothing.”

He’d only seen this done once on a hunting trip. Hausen said the key was to keep the barrel at the right distance.

Wilson pulled the trigger. The weapon spat flames and turned half the dry material to glowing needles. He added more tinder to the embers and blew carefully. When it burned steadily with larger sticks Badger held strips of meat over the flames with a wooden skewer.

“Two rounds left,” she said.

“I know.”

After he cleaned the pistol Wilson checked on the dog. Bleeding had stopped and its eyes were closed in a deep sleep.

Wilson found a few clay cups in the house and a glass jar with a rusty lid. He filled the jar at the stream in front of the house. As he twisted the lid shut a strange mechanical sound clattered through the forest. It sounded like a transport to Wilson, but too many trees blocked his view of the road.

Badger was at the front of the house also staring toward the sound. The noisy machinery stopped and Wilson heard faint voices. He carried the dog wrapped in the blanket and Badger snatched the rest of the gear. They left the cooking meat and ran northwest through the forest, toward the hills.

The ground rose quickly and Wilson’s arms burned with effort.

“I need a break,” he said.

“Farther,” said Badger.

They ran through the forest until they met a sheer face of granite that stretched high above the crowns of the pine trees. Wilson collapsed to his knees with the dog on his lap, out of breath and dripping with sweat.

“Stay here,” said Badger.

She crawled into a wide, brambly thorn bush. Wilson heard the rustle and crack of leaves then silence.

“Okay, then,” he said.

Wilson laid the bundled dog on the ground. He rested a few minutes then looked for saplings no thicker than his thumb. A handful grew nearby but he didn’t have the strength to break the green wood.

“Don’t move,” said a man’s voice in the dialect.

Wilson stared into the open muzzles of two rifles. A pair of tribal scouts stood in the forest, faces marked with diagonal streaks of black. Brown mud spotted their otherwise pristine olive-green clothing.

“Drop that knife in your belt,” said the closest.

Without warning, the other tribal turned and shot his rifle into the nearby thorns. A second, almost simultaneous clap of smoke came from the bushes. Blood and bits of bone sprayed from the tribal’s head, and he collapsed like a bag of gravel.

The closest tribal turned to look. Wilson grabbed the rifle and tried to pull it away but the scout kicked him to the ground. Wilson’s ears still rang from the first shots as the tribal aimed down the barrel at him.

Another shot boomed from the thicket and the scout fell heavily on Wilson. He squirmed away and kicked at the body, but the scout didn’t move. Wilson turned him over and there was no need to check for a pulse. Blood poured from a hole in the scout’s chest the size of Wilson’s fist.

Badger crawled out of the bushes, her clothes and hair covered with dead leaves and brown needles. Blood darkened a sleeve of her jacket.

“Are you hurt?” yelled Wilson.

“I can’t hear you,” she mouthed.

He pointed to her arm and she took the jacket off. Blood streamed from a hole in her shoulder. Wilson used a ripped piece of Badger’s undershirt and water to clean the wound. He folded more cloth and motioned for her to apply pressure. Blood still ran down her arm and dripped from her fingers. Wilson checked the back of her arm. The bullet had entered at the top of her shoulder and exited from the tricep. Wilson cleaned it and wrapped both wounds tight. He took a shirt from one of the dead scouts and made a sling for her arm. By this time his ears had stopped ringing.

“Thank you,” said Badger.

“Try not to use that arm. It will take a few weeks to heal if we make it out of here.”

“You mean when we make it out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Two half-dead kids like us should have no problem carrying a dying animal through the hills for twenty klicks. If there were only wolves, bears, or people chasing us to make it interesting!”

“That’s what I love about you, Will––your positive attitude. Look, they brought us two rifles.” She searched through the pockets of the dead men. “And nine rounds, bless their hearts.”

“There’s no way either of us can fire a rifle, especially you with that wounded shoulder,” said Wilson. He took the empty revolver from Badger and stuck it in his belt. “I’d trade all of those rounds for one more in my pistol.”

“Why were you making all that noise with the saplings?”

Wilson shook his head. “Trying to make a litter for the dog. But there’s nothing to cut the wood.”

“Use these.”

Badger removed the leather shoulder straps from each rifle then crossed them on the ground. Wilson helped her remove the dog from the blanket and folded the fabric in a square over the straps. With her knife Badger cut a hole in the corners of the blanket then pulled each strap through and tied them together. The end result was a litter with a handle at each end. Wilson slid the dog onto the litter and covered it with a scout’s jacket. Badger grabbed the front strap with her left hand––her right was useless––and Wilson took the rear.

They traveled northwest through the forested hills and tried not to create a trail. After an hour they stopped at a gray wooden shack with half a roof. It sat on the edge of what was probably an old farm. Whatever use the flimsy structure had in ancient times, it was now good shelter for the three travelers.

Wilson pulled wild onions and a few tiny strawberries from the soft earth of a field. He added these to the last of the dried venison and the pinon nuts Badger had found and they breakfasted on the grass in the warm sunshine. Wilson fed the dog a small strip of meat and water from a cup. It lay on its side when finished.

Badger curled up with the only blanket on the floor of the shack. Wilson relaxed against a wall and watched a late morning breeze ripple the tall grass. He found it hard to keep his eyes open and was soon asleep.



HE RAN CLOSE TO the ground after a white tail. It scrambled through grass and raspberry bushes but he caught it behind the neck and bit down. The rabbit jerked for a second then went limp. He ate the rabbit with the eager joy of a child then relaxed, full and content beside the body.

A wolf howled. Wilson perked his ears and ran. Now the hunted, he leaped over streams and scattered needles in the forest. The wolves snapped at his tail. He pushed his four legs to the limit and panted with the effort. Cold, bitter ice stabbed through his brain and he ran even faster than before.

The wind sang in the rotten boards and whispered over the grass. Wilson listened for a few minutes, reluctant to move. The sun had dipped low in the west and the air had cooled.

He checked inside the shack. Badger and the dog were still sleeping. The dog jerked a front leg and twitched its jaw in a dream.

Wilson wandered around the barn collecting white-flowered yarrow, spearmint, and strawberries. He used his knife’s hilt to grind yarrow leaves in one of the small cups. A few drops of water made a green paste which he placed at the center of thin fabric squares.

Badger followed him with her eyes like a drowsy cat, but didn’t move.

“Eat one of these.” Wilson dipped a strawberry in the yarrow paste and offered it.

“What’s that green slime?”

“Just medicine.”

She swallowed the strawberry and coughed.

“Cat’s teeth. Are you trying to kill me?”

Wilson carefully removed the bandages on her arm.

“Why would I poison such a pretty girl?”

“Because of all the trouble I cause you.”

Wilson laughed and shook his head. “Man is born to trouble. By that, I mean man and not woman so you’re in the clear, babe.”

He placed a square packet of yarrow on each wound and re-bandaged with fresh cloth.

“I just had a dream I was a dog,” he said. “I caught a rabbit.”

“Then wolves came after you.”

“Wait. How did you–”

“I had the same dream.”

Wilson placed a green packet on the dog’s bandages and added more wrappings.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” he said.

Badger yawned. “Dreams don’t mean anything. My question is, out of all the little creatures created by God, how did you get such an ugly one?”

“Life throws all types of strange people together,” said Wilson. “The dog is probably thinking the same thing about me.”



THE DANGER BEHIND THEM and the need to warn the people of David pushed Wilson and Badger to start again. As night fell the pair of weary, injured teenagers labored with the stretcher over hills and through deep mountain streams, taking frequent stops to rest, meditate, and listen. Wilson navigated by the north star and the rumble of transports on the old road. The grind of metal could be heard far through the hills.

After hours of walking they stumbled upon an overgrown road and a memory twitched in Wilson’s mind. He looked up and down the road and recited the poem of the sight-trick. The trees and road faded into shades of gray and black, but were somehow familiar.

“We came this way before, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” said Badger. “We can follow it west.”

Wilson wondered at the lack of animal life as they tramped through the scattered grass and saplings that grew on the road. The path wound down a hillside past a few blackened structures and joined route 24. They stayed in the pine forests near the road and followed it west, toward David.

A blacked-out vehicle roared to the east along the road. With the sight-trick Wilson saw an empty, flat area at the rear. If the vehicle had carried men for an attack, it was returning for more.

Even with the gray blur of his night vision Wilson began to recognize the hills around David. He remembered his father’s last moments and wondered how the villagers would react to the news.

Badger stopped without warning at the edge of a clearing in the pine trees. She backed up a few steps, waving her hand at the ground. Wilson lowered the dog and lay beside her on the damp pine needles.

“What is it?”

Badger shook her head and stared at the clearing. Minutes passed. Wilson rested his head on his arm.

A twig snapped and Wilson looked up. A faint voice hissed a command and a line of tribals crept into sight. Red, thorny symbols of the Circle were painted on their bare chests and they carried long-barreled firearms. A few wore wide-brimmed, feathered hats but most had been shaved bald.

The tribals crossed the open space and disappeared into the forest. Badger and Wilson waited a few minutes, then picked up the litter and followed. Their direction of travel and that of the tribals was unfortunately the same––toward David.

A mass of rifles exploded in the forest and lit the trees orange and yellow. Wilson and Badger squeezed against the trunk of a large pine.

The gunfire trickled to a stop and men called to each other in the forest.

“That’s English they’re using––they’re not from the Circle,” said Wilson.

“Be careful or they’ll shoot us anyway.”

They carried the litter along a game trail toward the voices.

“Hello? We need help,” yelled Wilson.

The forest thickened at one turn of the trail and tribal bodies covered the ground. Half a dozen soldiers from David pointed rifles at Wilson and Badger.

“Speak Anglan or die,” said a man with a silver cross on his hat.

“I’m Wilson, Teacher’s son.”

The soldiers lowered their weapons and crowded around the two travelers and the dog.

“His Grace has returned!”

“Why are they alone?”

“These two are a mess!”

Wilson shook hands with the men. He tried to take a few steps down the hill toward David but collapsed in exhaustion.