Fate Caster

Fate Caster

Chapter 2

Raven

The Foul like to live in the top stories of high buildings, that’s why the scuffling noise I hear makes me jump.

It’s just a rat…

It’s just a rat…

I think to myself. Besides, it doesn’t make any sense for The Foul to be here. We haven’t seen one North of the Mason Dixon line in over 20 years, and that was before I was born. Still, just thinking about one here in this old building with me, with its red glowing eyes and huge terrifying wings makes my face feel numb. I try to shake it off as I repeat the six rules of scavenge that Gramps hammered into me. Rule number one: find water first; when you get to a town, look for water. That way you don’t find yourself high and dry before you’re done with the trip. Rule number two: Listen. Dead silence is bad. A low buzzing noise is also bad. That means you run and find cover. Rule number three: Check windows. Open windows in the top story of a building mean Foul might have been there..and might still be. They like to take off from open windows. Rule number four: never scavenge alone. It’s a rule I’m breaking right now. Gramps would probably kill me, if he was still alive. But it can’t be helped. Rule number five: Have a weapon ready: I know how important this rule is from experience.

I glance at my club and feel the knife on my belt, remembering all the times I had to use them. There’s a long scar that runs along the top of my left arm and a short ugly scar above one of my eyebrows that prove I can fight and survive. I remember the time a pack of wild dogs followed me into a building. After I clubbed the leader in the face, the rest weren’t too hard to dispatch. I even threw the smallest one out of a window. Damn dogs. After the scourge most simply wandered around, starving, looking for a handout. Most of them died, but a few didn’t. The wily ones. Now over fifty years later, they’re completely savage. At least they kill rats as Gramps used to say.

Then there is rule number six: share everything you find. I understand why this one is important, even if I don’t always like it.

I need to focus and stop this mind wandering. “Don’t linger too long,” Gramps used to say. In the initial waves of scavenge, office buildings were mostly ignored. Gramps told me that people used to work in them. I don’t understand it. How do you work sitting down? I know it has something to do with the TV like boxes and machines on the desks. Gramps said that the people would trade in information. I can kind of grasp that. We have given a meal to a wanderer many a time in exchange for information about what’s going on beyond our bungalows. Of course all of this happened when Gramps was just a little kid so even he wasn’t too clear on the details.

Anyway, office buildings aren’t great for finding food --- that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. I’ve found lots and lots of candy in desk drawers and soda and nuts. Most of it is inedible, but sometimes, when conditions are just right, you’ll find a piece that’s still good. Then there is coffee and sugar in the break rooms as well as metal--- forks, knives, and spoons. We don’t have much use for it but the farmers do, so we use it to trade.

I already have a bundle of silverware from the breakroom and I’m going through the desk drawers, one by one. This floor seems like it’s mostly been ignored. I see papers and trash scattered over the floor, and there are lots of things knocked over, but the windows have stayed closed and unbroken and that helps a lot. The air has a stale, mildewy smell, but I’m used to that and don’t register it after an hour.

I’m going through a desk in the corner when I find it. It’s a small box that says “Betty Crocker” on the front and “Blueberry Muffins.” Jackpot. These are rare, but the tins of blueberries inside are usually still good. My mouth waters at the thought. I haven’t eaten anything since a few hard biscuits this morning. Then I remember the sixth rule of scavenge and feel a pang of guilt. Share everything with the group. I carefully open the cardboard top. I just want to check to see if it’s good, or so I tell myself. I know the bag of mix is probably garbage and it is. I can tell by how light it feels. But the can is perfect. No rust. No dents. Flawless. If I eat it they’ll never know. I toss it from hand to hand. Maybe if I bring back good scavenge, Jayfon won’t question me too much. He’s our gate keeper and our lie detector. Suddenly the urge hits me so strong to eat that I give in, punching the tin with my knife. A sweet, goopy nectar falls into my mouth. Ah, it’s so sweet it almost makes me dizzy. The blueberry flavor is almost gone, but not completely.

Then a wave of guilt washes over me. I realize how foolish I’ve been as I think of the hungry faces of the rug rats back at home. This thought goads me to keep searching and I’m able to cover three floors before nightfall. My haul now includes three cans of beans, a pocket knife, a case of soap, a bag of coffee, three cans of pears, a small bag of rice, half a bag of sugar, salt, pepper, two first aid kits, and a stack of paper. It’s all I can safely carry, so I plan to sleep here and head home in the morning. I figure staying in the building is safer than sleeping on the ground, and anyway there aren’t any skellies in here, which is a good omen.

I push a desk into the opening of the stairwell just to ease my mind, and then go into the lady’s room to clean up before I go to sleep. I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror—a rare indulgence. Taller now, but my skin is still the same tan shade. My long black hair is tied back with a piece of yarn and I wear a leather vest over a green flannel shirt. My most striking feature is my light blue eyes. I was named for my black hair – Raven. My mother had it too, so they say. She died a couple of days after I was born from complications. I notice my expression—open, keen, and serious, no longer childish.

I will be of age soon—16, and Matilda will throw my destiny. I don’t know when the tradition started, but every time someone in our clan turns 16, Matilda reads their destiny. She throws her handful of divining objects down in front of everyone—a tooth, a picture of a baby, an owl keychain, a heart locket, and a few other odds and ends. Then she looks at how the objects land, and tells you what’s going to happen to you. I pray to the spirits I have a good destiny.

The next morning I get an early start and make it outside just as the sun is rising. I stop to listen—I can hear a pack of dogs yapping about a mile away so I get moving, my old army pack bouncing heavily on my back. It’s the end of September and that means a pleasantly cool morning.

Burying the dead after the scourge took so long that people eventually gave up—especially in places like cities where there were just too many and the few survivors had to move on to find resources. So I’m not surprised by the piles of bones and tattered clothing I see here and there. It’s bad luck to touch a skellie, so I give the bones a wide berth as I make my way down the cracked sidewalk. Nature is taking over here. Creeping in year after year. There are trees and grass sprouting from the sidewalk, roads, and even some of the buildings.

Gramps said that the scourge killed 95 out of 100 people. But the odd thing was the way it skipped over some. It could kill your entire family leaving you the sole survivor. You’d never even get sick if you had this special trick in your DNA. That’s how Gramps and his father survived. Then came the Foul Wars. Which were really more like skirmishes between the few human survivors and the bat like aliens that had decided to relocate here once most of the humans were gone. Fueled by their anger, grief, and the belief that the Foul had engineered the scourge, many fought till their last breath to kill them. But it was useless and just added to the huge death toll in the end. Now we just try to stay clear of them. They like warmth and humidity, so they mostly stay south of the Mason Dixon line.

And now almost everyone at the bungalows is sick and I just pray to whatever angels or spirits might be listening that it isn’t a new scourge.

Suddenly the street goes quiet. I can’t hear the birds anymore. Even the wind is holding its breath. I can feel my adrenaline rushing down my spine into my legs, arms, hands, and feet as I prepare to run. That’s when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye – a boy is watching me from behind a parked car across the street. He’s tall and mixed race and has an afro. Then I see another walk out of an alleyway to block my path. I check quickly behind me and see a third about 100 feet to my back. Damn. They’ve got me surrounded.

I keep walking, my chin up, trying to exude confidence.

Don’t show fear.

I’m approaching the first boy now, the one who is blocking my path. He has a round, piggy face and short cropped red hair.

“Out of my way, garbage clown!” I bark. From his tattoos I can tell he’s from the Philly clan. He’s stockily built and wearing a pair of camo pants and an old green t-shirt.

“Hold on girlie, we just want to talk,” he says easily. I can hear his chums moving in from my other two exposed sides.

“My partner is only a few blocks away, and he’s not going to be too happy if he finds you dog squirts harassing me,” I say in my bravest voice.

“We know you’re alone,” says pig-face, sneering.

The tall boy coming from the side says smiling, “We just want to be friends.” Pig-face shoots him a look as if to say, “I’m doing all the talking.” I can tell Pig-face is their leader from the way he’s standing, and the sharp eyed look he is giving the others. The third boy is catching up to me, so I need to make a break for it soon. Without thinking too much I pull out my knife and start slashing at Pig-face.

“Get out of my way!” I yell. Pig-face just laughs as he jumps back.

“Whoa there don’t hurt yourself,” he guffaws. Now my blood is really boiling. I’m tired of his stupid smirk.

The boy who approached from the side is staring at me and practically drooling, as if I’m a big Christmas turkey. My stomach drops as I realize what these boys probably want. Oh hell no.

“Wylan, show her your piece,” orders Pig-face. Wylan, the boy with the fro, hesitates then pulls out a gun. My blood seems to stop moving and my face goes cold. But I remember what Gramps told me— “if they pull a gun, fight like there ain’t no bullets in it, because there probably ain’t.” Most everyone’s ammo is long gone, used up hunting and in the Foul Wars.

Before Pig-face can blink again I make my move. My knee slams into his crotch and as he winces I smack him in the side of the head with my club. He goes down on one knee and I take my chance, sprinting past him. That’s when I hear a deafening blast. The gun. At the same moment I trip over a crack in the pavement and fall forward in a jumble. I hear Pig-face shouting “Get her!” But I don’t need to be told twice to get moving. I hurtle down the street, ignoring a throbbing pain in my knee. I can hear them behind me, running hard. I need a place to hide, so I swerve into a gated car lot. The lock on the gate is just hanging there open, so I slam the gate shut behind me and snap the lock into place, hoping I can find a way out the other side to escape. I turn to run just as the boys get to the gate. Looking back, I grin at their frustrated faces and hear Pig-face yell, “Go around! We’ll get her on the other side.” But it seems like the other two are done with this game, because they start arguing with Pig-face, telling him I’m not worth the trouble. Still, I’m not taking any chances, so I race around the cars towards the back fence. I scan quickly for holes or gaps. Success! There’s a big rip near one corner and I quickly duck through it, not pausing to see if anyone is following. Then I run until I find the stream that leads back to my village and collapse, shedding my gear in a pile around me. I stop to listen. I think I’ve lost them.

It takes me till midnight to get back to our bungalows. Fortunately the rest passes without incident. I feel a wave of relief when I see the brick fence that encloses our home. But something is off. Jayfon isn’t looming behind the gate, like he usually is. Shit. So I go to the gate and start yelling. Finally Murdock appears. He shambles up the sidewalk jiggling keys. He’s 30 but he looks and acts much older.

“What’s going on,” I ask.

“Jayfon is sick,” he replies, “almost everyone is now.” Crap. This is what I was afraid of.

“But some are starting to come around,” he says hopefully.

“Maybe this will help,” I say as I offer him the first aid kits I found. I know they contain drugs that lower fevers. Maybe they still work.

“We can try it,” replies Murdock and we head into the bungalows together.