This is Hiccup & Eleanor, book two of The White Age, which I will be releasing as a serial - with one chapter per week - over the coming months. You can also preorder the book here.
Book one, Absolution, is available for purchase on Amazon, or you can catch up here.
i)
Akureyri, Iceland
18th October 2044
Roken Friedriksson clutched the rifle to his chest and felt the cold, metal scope against his cheek. His shoulders lifted and fell with the rapid exertion of anxious breaths. His back was pressed against the white wall of his mother’s bedroom which, with the curtains tightly closed, was in complete darkness. His mother had returned unexpectedly and now he had to remain still so as not to draw attention to his secret mission. Roken was supposed to be at school but had never gone; instead, he and his friends had decided to borrow his mother’s rifle and spend the day target-practising.
His mother had returned unexpectedly and was pottering around downstairs, perhaps looking for something she had forgotten to leave with that morning. Roken’s heart was lodged in his throat and he daren’t breathe. What is taking her so long? What if she comes upstairs? He winced at the thought of being caught at home, having not gone to school, and in possession of his mother’s antique firearm, which was apparently “worth more than his damned life.” His friends were hidden in a cluster of bushes across the street. They will be debating cutting their losses and fleeing back to school, Roken thought with a grimace, exacerbating his loneliness and dread, they will leave me here for dead.
The front door clicked shut. For ten, long seconds Roken held his breath and tuned his ears to pick up any noise, however fledgling, throughout the house. Nothing. Thank God for that. He exhaled and slid down the wall, onto his rear. That was too close.
He left out the back of the house a few minutes later, distrusting the coast to be clear, and ran a big loop: out of the gate at the end of his garden; down two connected alleys; until he reached his friends, who were huddled together in discussion with ashen faces and taught postures. Ten seconds later and they would have run for the hills, Roken thought with a smile.
“You guys okay?” He said, restraining a laugh as they leapt out of their collective skin and turned to face him.
“Fuck you, Roken!” Aron stepped forward and slammed his fist into his friend’s shoulder. He had a broad smile on his face but was clearly unnerved. “You scared the hell out of us, we thought you were a goner!” He held his blonde head in his hands as he spoke, displaying his familiar penchant for amateur dramatics.
“Oh my god, that was crazy! Your mum would have killed all of us.” Jon was older and spoke with a long, drawn-out slur. He was taller and his voice deeper than the others but that was where his maturity ended. Staring blankly at the floor, he seemed visibly shaken.
“Don’t be a child, Jon.” Ben walked over and snatched the gun from Roken, a cigarette hanging awkwardly over a lightly stubbled chin, “we’ve got the gun, let’s go and shoot something.” With awkward, cumbersome limbs, he walked away, his shorn, black hair a stark counterpoint to the white of his skin and the pearlescent piles of snow beyond him. The other boys followed their leader without saying another word. Roken met Aron’s rolling eyes, and they shared a smile as they wandered down the well-worn path which parted the gathered mounds of endless, crusting snow. Clouds were gathering loosely over the broad mountains which stood at the approach to Akureyri, and the sun bore through their collision, sending wisps of steam into the atmosphere.
Ben led them on to the location he had sold as “perfect for shooting”. Though he was fifteen, like Roken and Aron, his broken home had forced him to grow up quickly. He had had several girlfriends and dabbled with drugs by the time he was thirteen. This was unfamiliar territory to the other boys, and they now deferred to his wisdom in all things morally questionable.
They reached the site: an improvised shooting range in the rugged plains of northern Iceland, consisting of toppled barrels and leaning, wooden pallets. Ben fiddled with the rifle and drew back the lever, which revealed the gleam of a golden bullet before churning it back down into the cylinder. He appeared to be an expert and the other boys daren't ask how or why this would be the case. Roken felt a nervousness well up inside of him. This has gone too far, he thought. He swayed from one foot to the other as he watched the over-mature boy in front of him behave like a trained killer. He pictured his mother’s frown of disappointment and swallowed hard. Ben took a knee and levelled the gun with his right eye, the butt lodged tightly into the crest of his right shoulder. The sun, now surging towards the centre of the sky, shone onto the polished metal and made it glow. Miles ahead, a valley had been formed loosely out of juxtaposing rocks, which gathered into the vast, mountainous ranges that ran through the heart of the island.
The gun made a loud crack and Ben’s body jolted violently. A breath of smoke hesitated in the air, before dissipating with the morning dew, and then there was silence. The bullet had whistled away and disappeared down the centre of the empty valley, into the blank, white canvas of the Icelandic snow. The boys exchanged stunned glances as the ringing faded from their ears; they knew they had now turned a corner. They had taken this beyond the point of return and now there was no going back. We have actually stolen and fired a gun. My mother’s gun! When did we think this would be a good idea?
Ben turned to face them, and his face twisted into a bewildered grin of disturbed pleasure. Roken felt a shiver run through him as he saw the maniacal undercurrent within the older, bolder boy. It was a window into a manhood he had not yet encountered, and he was hit with a fear of the unhinged, which resonated from the man-boy before him.
“Your turn.” He glared at Roken with black eyes and a half smile adorned his face.
“Really?” Roken found his voice quivering at a pathetically high pitch which reddened his cheeks.
“It’s your mum’s gun. You should show us how it’s done,” He held out the gun to Roken and bared his teeth with a leering grin, “unless you’re scared?”
“No. I’ll go next.” Roken was relieved to not see his handshake as he grabbed the cold metal of the rifle.
“I think we need a proper target though.” Ben said as Roken lodged the gun in his shoulder and raised the scope to his eye, an act of repetition: his mother had shown him countless times before. Always under supervision; always with her by my side. His stomach fluttered with regret and shame as the thought of stealing from his mother re-surfaced; it was something he never thought he would do. What am I doing here? He wanted the ground to melt below him and suck him away. This can’t be happening. He felt emotion fill his throat and eyes as he realised that there was now no going back. He scanned the terrain with his rifle, allowing his eye to adjust to the harsh white, picking out the shapes of a lamppost, a phone line, the brazen tarmac of an endless road. The trepidation subsided as the comfort of muscle-memory grew: he knew what he was doing now. The world, through this scope, made more sense: Ben didn’t exist, neither did the chain of events which led to them being here with a stolen firearm. He was free and he felt as though he could now better understand this place. His right index-finger found the hard, frigidity of the trigger and he sucked in a breath to compose the wandering barrel. In that moment of quiet, silent stillness, he felt peace.
“There.” Ben said with a snap; his voice held a ring of spite that made Roken shudder. He lowered the rifle and followed Ben’s outstretched arm and finger, away west, toward the mutterings of civilisation: the town they called home. The first of the houses was a bright yellow, squat, one-floor structure, with a garden that sprawled into the white plains, which began the valley. A short, brown fence marked the limit of the garden, which contained a short, green slide and a roughshod, unkempt lawn. “Shoot it.” His words were measured, and they hung in the crisp air. Roken strained to see to what he was referring. The house? I can't shoot a house.
But then he saw it: unfurling with a slow, lazy indifference, a small, brown dog appeared from beneath the slide. It had thick, shaggy, brown fur and a mongrel’s indistinguishable gaze. It shook its head, freeing a frisson of snow in a veil of cloud, before sniffing the ground with a frantic urgency. Roken felt the blood empty from his face and allow the icy air to grasp at his cheeks. The sweat on his hands turned a fierce cold in the stiff breeze which was cutting a course up the hill toward and through them.
“Ben, no.” Jon let out a yelp as he realised what was being implied. Roken lowered the gun and stared at the ground, hoping to be anywhere else but here. He wanted to run away, run to his mother and tell her everything. He could see her disapproving shake of the head. Her assertions that he had “shamed her” and “severely let her down”; once again he would be a “profound disappointment.” The gun was secondary to all of that: the sadness he felt at his mother’s constant disapproval was the assured reality and his actions here, today, were just an arbitrary side-point. He knew in that moment that she would never change; his actions would never live up to the expectations she had imposed on him. He was Roken and the rifle in his hand made more sense than anything else ever would.
Jon had stepped forward and placed a hand on Roken’s shoulder; an urging for him to stop. Ben took a big stride forward and put his face in Jon’s, a rigid sneer of disdain and frigid anger.
“What now, pussy?” Ben’s words were venom and Roken cringed without turning around.
“Y-y-you can't make him shoot a dog.” Jon sounded like a child in comparison to the deep growl which had emanated from Ben.
“How about we shoot you instead?” Jon fell silent and Ben pushed him out of the way. Jon stumbled over a rock and fell onto his side with a whimper, which made Ben laugh. “Shoot the fucking dog, Roken.”
He knew he would be unable to talk himself out of this. He raised the gun to his eye and searched the scenery in front of him for his target. The dog was lying down again, his back nestled against the curved plastic of the slide’s base. Shooting a dog was one thing but shooting a sleeping dog seemed all the more perverse. The crosshairs scanned the scene and found the motionless head of the animal. He curled his index finger over the trigger and held his breath. Now or never. He knew that he would have to shoot the target, it was too easy to miss, or take a heavy beating; Ben placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The dog opened its eyes as the trigger clicked and rifle exploded into life. Roken heard glass shatter and then the roar of Ben behind him. And then a fist found the side of his head and he fell into blackness.
ii)
Northern England
2nd October 2074
Roken and Zoë barely spoke as they journeyed through the heart of the abandoned country. Each town they passed was either a smouldering wreckage or a picture of complete stillness. Night rolled in and plunged them into an unending black. The motorway was largely clear, but for the occasional clutch of battered cars, and their headlights tore a course through its centre: the white lane-markings rhythmically passing under their lights and chassis; on both sides a stark, black shell of a country remained and nothing more, only the fabled memory of a once pulsating life.
Watford, Birmingham, Leeds, Derby. The towns and cities, which were now consigned to history books, flashed by with a mute resignation. Roken knew none of them well: they were simply words to him now. He imagined how it would feel visiting Iceland and seeing it as a broken, wounded echo of what it used to be. He prayed that that would never happen.
They alternated driving as they went, allowing for spells of sleep without stopping and losing time. Roken was reluctant at first; unsure as to whether or not he could really trust this woman. She had threatened to kill herself not long ago and was clearly capable of anything. He had taken her sidearm and searched her for any concealed weapons: there were none. He didn’t yet know what level of mental degradation the radiation had caused her. The blonde soldier, whom she told him was called James, had been further down that path than she seemed to be, but it was impossible to tell. Her desperation to leave the camp showed that she at least cared, though her apparent readiness for suicide had to remain a cause for concern.
Roken was exhausted: his wounds ached and his eyes craved sleep, but he couldn't muster the energy to distrust her. He just hoped that she was going to behave herself and allow for him to find Zero. They needed to keep moving and close the gap which had inevitably grown between them, so it was in his best interest to trust Zoë.
iii)
Akureyri, Iceland
18th October 2044
“I don't understand, Roken.” His mother was a quiet woman, and her obvious rage was simmering beneath the surface as she spoke gently. “What possessed you?” There was a pain in her voice with which Roken was unfamiliar. When was this ever a good idea? His head throbbed from Ben’s attack and his eyes still felt cloudy from having been knocked unconscious. All he wanted to do was curl up in his bed and go to sleep forever. I have let everyone down. His mother was sat beside him, in the police chief’s office, wearing her blue-grey army uniform, which did nothing to placate Roken’s guilt or ease his fear.
A wide, overladen desk sat in front of them. He could see the rifle, the catalyst for all this trouble, leant against the wall in the corner. It looked beautiful in its still silence, Roken remembered the feel of the smooth wood and cold metal and felt a rising desire to hold it again. The door in the wall beyond the desk creaked open and a middle-aged woman slipped inside. Her greying hair was held tightly up above a clear, young face; only her eyes gave away the fatigue of age, but her bright smile did much to negate the years. Her police uniform was ordinary but for a large, golden badge, which glimmered with power on her chest. She placed a coffee cup in front of his mother with a knowing nod, and a clear plastic cup of water in front of Roken, before sitting down with a controlled grace.
“Now then,” she spoke quietly, still smiling, “Roken, will you tell us what happened today?” She tried to sip her own coffee, but it was too hot, and she returned it to the desk. “How is your head feeling?” She continued before he could speak.
“Okay.”
“Good. Now, take us through what happened.” She clasped her hands on the desk and raised both eyebrows in anticipation. Roken’s head throbbed. He wanted to leave and never come back. He had been coerced by an unhinged person he thought to be a friend, and a seemingly fun plan had snowballed into disaster.
“We took mother's rifle. I took mother's rifle.” His head was down-turned as his sombre voice lined up the details with a defeated ease. The two women remained silent and didn't interrupt his confession. “We skipped school, and we wanted to shoot things. Not bad things, just shoot rocks and stuff. We didn't want to hurt anyone. Or anything.”
“But you shot at the Gunnarsson house, Roken.” His mother’s voice spilled over into anger. “That was so dangerous. Why would you do that?” He didn’t need to look at her to know her eyes were almost closed and her forehead consisted of rows of strained, angry lines. The look was always the same, whatever Roken’s misdemeanour; sometimes it was nothing other than the fact that he disappointed her with his presence.
“He told me to.” Roken’s voice was a pathetic whine of self-pity.
“Who?”
“Ben told me to shoot their dog.” The women didn't respond; their silence highlighting their shock at his statement, leaving Roken suspended in a purgatorial stillness. He glanced at his mother, whose eyes were wide and stunned, and then to the police chief’s, who looked nonplussed, almost uninterested by what he had said.
“You shot their dog?” His mother’s voice wavered with disbelief; the rage having now dissipated.
“No, he didn't.” The sheriff spoke coolly, attracting a quick, shocked look from his mother. “He shot out the window of the shed. It was harmless. You did that on purpose didn't you, Roken? You didn't aim for their dog.” Roken continued to stare at the ground and eventually nodded once, quickly.
“Why did you shoot anything?” His mother’s voice had retrieved its shrill timbre, and she rounded her shoulders to face him, her anger regaining its control.
“He had no choice, Sara.” The sheriff addressed her directly, for the first time since entering the room. “Ben forced him to steal the gun and then tried to force him to shoot the dog. He took a beating for missing the target, but it would have been worse for him if he hadn't taken a shot at all. Am I close, Roken?” His mother was almost panting with the exertion of understanding what had happened and why her son had dragged her into this. Roken thought of her shame of having to sit beside her delinquent son because of his actions, especially in front of her friend and ex-colleague. How demeaning, how embarrassing. I should know better, he thought, the words forming in his mind, dressed in his mother’s voice.
“Yes.” He couldn't help his voice from shaking with emotion. Tears flooded his eyes as he kept them fixed to the ground.
“You made a few mistakes in judgement today, Roken, that much cannot be denied. But you showed composure and compassion when it mattered, and I think that should be praised.” Sara shifted with discomfort and disagreement with her boss’s words. “You are free to go. With a warning of course. And I sentence you to one hundred hours of cadet training over the summer.” Sara sat upright as though jabbed with a knife.
“What?”
“You heard me, Sara.” A cool air filled the room and embroiled both women as they shared an icy stare.
“You can’t do that. You don’t have the author-”
“-I can relay any punishment I see fit on a minor. Assigning a minor, who has committed a crime, to cadet training, is well within my power. He held his nerve under pressure and prevented more than the shattering of a shed window. We need people with quick wit and a rudimentary understanding of firearms in the cadets, I am sure you will agree.” She grinned quickly at Roken, “I think this is a more than adequate response.”
Sara rose to her feet and turned away from the police chief, who had a look of resigned duty on her face. “Roken, let's go.” The sheriff rose as well and gazed sympathetically at Sara, a glimmer of regret in her eyes.
“This is the right thing for him.” The chief said in a whisper, trying and failing to conceal the words from Roken.
“Who the hell are you to do this to my son. You know I never wanted this for him. You know where this will lead.” Sara sniffed back tears as she growled the words at the woman stood before her.
“If he had a…” the sheriff trailed off as Roken’s mother left the room. She stared at her desk for a moment, seemingly forgetting Roken was there, before breathing deeply and fixing him with a stare. “Be good, Roken. Be better than you are. For your mother’s sake.” He swore he saw a tear in her pearlescent eyes, which darted away from his own. The room filled with silence, and he left into the frigid wind of the evening.
iv)
Liverpool, England
2nd October 2074
Roken and Zoë pulled up to the outskirts of Liverpool on the morning of the third day. The orange-grey sky offered a crisp backlight to the tired darkness of the abandoned city. Pillars of concrete, columns and spires jutted up toward the fading moon like a threat, an unanswered challenge laid down over hundreds of years. Birds argued as they flew in wide, dense arcs through the brightening sky, thriving in their newfound dominance over an abandoned land.
“It's beautiful.” Zoë said, in a whisper, as the city came into view. Roken couldn't see it himself. It is a wasteland, a symbol of the ruin of humanity and the greed of man. We did this. And it certainly isn't beautiful. He said nothing.
The fuel gauge was flashing for attention on the Jeep’s display, giving them no choice but to stop. Roken decided he could do with a rest, and this offered a good opportunity to do so. He handed Zoë her gun and told her to keep her eyes open; he had no idea what was lurking in the depths of the silent city, and he couldn't take any chances. She could shoot me and steal the Jeep, but she knows that once I find the robot, I have a way off this island. It’s in her best interest to help me.
He killed the headlights and drifted off the motorway, down an exit ramp towards a big blue sign labelled “Services”. The thin road became overgrown with ambitious brambles and lurching trees which scratched the side panels of the Jeep as they squeezed through. They were now reliant only on moonlight and it gave the world a pearlescent depth. Zoë replaced the magazine in her pistol and cocked it back with a click. They exchanged a knowing glance before they both returned their eyes to scanning this new world.
The single carriageway opened up into a vast carpark at the end of the slope, with a fuelling station and hotel on the far side. A few cars occupied random spots throughout, but they had been looted or burned a long time ago. As they parked at the fuelling station, Roken clicked off the engine and the pair exited the vehicle. They spread out in a wide circle from the Jeep, both with weapons readied and ears strained to every minute sound. A skinny fox yelped and darted out from a bush by the motel entrance. It disappeared into the gloom of night, leaving behind only the scuttling sound of its claws on the ground. Roken had to take a breath to let his heart return to its regular rhythm.
The electric hotel-doors slid open as he approached, and the lights were still pulsing defiantly within. Above the door a backlit, blue sign had faded with time, but the words Holiday Inn were still legible. He waited for Zoë to join him before they entered. They swept through the reception, passed an overturned and gutted vending machine and into the office behind a long, white desk. Nothing. The registers gaped open with hungry grins and desperate wires trailed across the desk in search of the computers which had long been torn away.
Satisfied that they were safe, Roken and Zoë returned to the Jeep and drained the remaining energy from the cell-stations; that had to use all 6 conductors to get just half a cell’s worth of energy, but Roken considered it enough to get them where they needed to go. Roken felt a ripple of disappointment that this place had already been pillaged of all its worth. He longed to find an untouched haven hidden away in the bowels of England; preserved perfectly, just for him and his new companion. Her considered footsteps and her poise with her outstretched firearm were indicative of a well-trained soldier. She has maintained her ability over its years of under-use. His wariness had subsided into a gratitude for her company.
Once the Jeep was fed, he drove it into a gap in the bushes, around to the right of the fuelling station building: its not being in a state of disrepair made it stand out to anyone passing and he could do without attracting any attention. If there is anybody left here at all. They returned to the motel in search of a bed. The rooms were behind a locked door from reception, and they needed a key card to get through; a few hard shoves from Roken did not suffice. Zoë checked reception and returned clutching handfuls of credit-card shapes with the motel’s logo emblazoned in a bright blue across their face. The first two did nothing but the third made the cumbersome lock bleep and flash a green LED as the bolt clicked open. Zoë flashed Roken a sideways grin, turned the handle and slipped inside. She repeated the exercise with each door they passed as they walked down a long, bright, white corridor. The seventh mimicked the main door to the corridor, room 109, and they moved inside a stuffy, cramped room.
A must filled the air and thinned slightly when Zoë cracked ajar the window on the far side of the room (which was as far as it would allow). Two single beds jutted out from the right-hand side of the room and a box bathroom was tucked away next to the front door. Roken placed his rucksack and rifle on the first bed and sat on the tired sponge with a groan as Zoë rummaged in the dresser drawers. The room was a time capsule of the time before, when all was normal. The room was expectant of a travelling businessman, or roaming, impassioned couple: beds tightly made, and coffee station ordered with caffeinated accoutrements.
“This is weird.” Zoë said, sat on the end of her bed and staring at the ceiling. Roken said nothing in response and just looked at the back of her head. He knew what she meant. “We really had everything, didn’t we? Automated everything. We had houses that you could pay to borrow, just for a couple of nights. You can fuck like rabbits and then somebody will come along and clean the sheets for you. Can you believe that? Can you believe we behaved like that?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she spoke without turning to face Roken; her pause informed her question as non-rhetorical.
“I remember, in Barcelona, just off Las Ramblas, you know it?” Zoë nodded, “we raided a hotel, it was a stronghold for a Faith cell, and we had to shoot our way in. It was a bloodbath. I remembered just sitting on the bed, like you are now, the sheets soaked red, the TV blaring out some advert for a soft drink, and I just cried. I couldn’t handle what I was seeing, what I had done. What all of us had done to get to that point. That single moment in time was like a light went on. Or maybe a light went out. I just couldn’t look back without feeling an anger that I never knew I had inside me.” Zoë laughed and startled Roken, before turning to face him.
“I think this is my Ramblas moment.” Her smile was full and happy and Roken could feel a warmth within him. It was the distance they had travelled, the scenes that they had witnessed together, it had brought them together, somehow. He felt his face ease itself into a smile back at her and the rising emotion dispel from his chest. He had never told that story to anybody, not even Elise, there had never seemed an appropriate time, until now.
“I was given this by somebody that saved me.” Roken reached into his bag and withdrew the bible, handing it to Zoë. She peeled away the white cloth in which it had been wrapped and her eyes swelled at the sight of the fading, flaking cover. She looked up at Roken with her mouth open.
“How-”
“-I met a man of faith, and he said this brought him luck. I took it out of respect… and not a little curiosity, I suppose.”
“Have you read it?” Zoë stared at the book in her left hand while her right hand hovered above it, as though it were a bomb she was required to defuse, without having the first clue how.
“No, not yet. I don’t know if I will. It’s strange just having it.”
“Yeah, so strange.” She caressed the leather with her forefinger and flecks of dust danced away from it. “Can I read some?” A hint of a smile found her face as she met Roken’s eye. Like an excited child, he thought.
“Go ahead.” In truth, this was what he had wanted. The book was beyond him; unfathomable, and he needed somebody else to take the first step. If she was the one that peeled open the cover and brought life to the words written within, then it removed the responsibility from him. Her finger and thumb gripped the corner of the book’s cover and eased it open; it emitted a soft squeak as she did so.
“Dear Gerard. Never stop being the man that you were born to be. You will be forever in my heart. Tack, Michael.” Zoë read the words and then tilted her head at Roken; questioning if this made any sense to him. Roken frowned.
“It was Gerard that gave this to me.”
“It must have meant a lot to him.” Her eyes returned to the pages as she flipped them with a delicate precision, a contented smile fixed on her face. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” Zoë began to read the words with her free hand out-stretched before her, as though she were an actor on stage, “Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” Each word was almost sung and enunciated; given a respect that the browned pages seemed to demand. She snapped the book shut as she started to laugh and Roken followed suit. The situation was crazy, they both knew it. How did we end up here?
“Were you ever of faith?” Roken’s voice was light with humour and Zoë laughed in response.
“No, they beat that out of me a long while back, you?”
“Never. It just never made sense to me.” He gestured out of the window. “How can any of this make sense? Who would do this?”
“Humans.” Zoë said as she met his eye. Her smile faded and he could see a simmering rage within her. The years abandoned in a warzone had taken their toll on her. “I don't believe in anything but sometimes I wish I did. Not to be contrary or to rebel against the system. Just to have some hope that there is some kind of reason for this. Some kind of method to the madness of this world. Sometimes it just hurts too fucking much.” As she spoke, she returned the Bible to its cloth and handed it back to Roken. He held it for a moment, assessing its weight in his palm, before tucking it back into his bag.
“I believe in the good of humans. If I didn’t, I might as well give up.” Roken said, and Zoë laughed again; a high, bright laugh that made Roken smile and think of Elise, suddenly feeling guilty of sharing a room with another woman. Why hasn't she tried to contact me, he thought, though he knew that the mission had gone so badly that the chance of him being considered a lost cause was a real possibility. That, or his comms were down. Either way, I’m sorry, Elise.
“Well, if you find a good one, let me know.” Zoë smiled as she spoke and Roken let her words hang in the air as he removed his shirt awkwardly, flashes of pain making him grimace. “How bad is it?” She asked.
“Not great.”
“Let me see.” She sidled over to him and poked the dressing softly “You're not wrong. It needs redressing. May I?” She showed him her empty, open palms; I’m not going to hurt you, they said.
“Please.” Roken muttered. The pain was a concern, and he knew his exertions since leaving Gerard’s would have exacerbated his need for assistance.
“How did that happen?” She asked as she removed the bandage and began to clean the wound with alcohol wipes from his first aid kit.
“Drifters.”
“Oh.” The word seemed to have stung Zoë and Roken regretted the anger in his tone.
“What happened to them?”
“The same thing that was happening to all of us in that camp. The fog of war and the radiation eats away at you, and you lose track of where you are or what you are. If people in the camp mess up, then they’re released into the wild. You have three strikes, and then you’re a drifter.” Roken only shook his head. “It’s better than death by firing squad, that’s how they used to deal with miscreants.” Roken turned his head to look back at her and she was distant: lost in thought. She shook her head and flashed a smile back up at him. “I was on two before you showed up, and that damned girl would have certainly made it three.”
“So, if you didn’t come with me-”
“-I’d be a drifter.” He could hear the smile in her voice. Now her assertion that she was coming with me makes more sense.
“Why is the camp still there? Can you not be taken home? Stationed elsewhere? The war here is over.” Roken winced as Zoë caught a fresh sliver of wound with a wipe. It’s not over, it’s just out of sight.
“We were all supposed to be evac’d but they kept delaying the date, saying there was nowhere safe for us to go. The radiation was eating through a lot of America too, so a lot of homes no longer existed. Then it all just went quiet. The president is a bitch. She’s so paranoid about the radiation getting to her that she just cut off all communications. We were stranded.”
“How long ago was that?” Roken asked.
“Three, maybe four, years.” Zoë said and Roken fell silent; he couldn't find the words to respond. He could tell it hurt her, but she did well to keep emotion at bay. That must have become as routine as breathing. “It was tough. I was going to snap eventually.”
“You seem okay.”
“As an ex-girlfriend once told me, I'm made of fucking stone.” She finished wrapping the bandage around his midriff and tapped him on the top of the back. “You’re all done.”
“Thank you.”
“De nada.”
Roken took the first watch by the small window, gazing out into the endless darkness and craning his senses for any sound or movement; there was none. When Zoë woke and relieved him, he crawled into his bed and fell asleep within seconds, clutching his handgun under the soft, white pillow.