Resistance: Part One

Thorne

I creep down the steel stairs, my bare feet silently slipping, looking for a purchase. My bow bounces quietly on my back, knocking against my full quiver. I reach the bottom of the stairs, and press into the grubby wall, smeared with chemicals. The greenish light is casting an eerie glow on the supposedly abandoned building. I can hear two voices, deep, definitely male. I draw two arrows from my quiver, notch them slightly apart, and wait for the voices to approach. Soon enough, two hazy figures stalk toward me, as my mouth curves into a grin. I draw back my bowstring, my fingers tickling my cheekbone, and let it fly. The arrows fly true, and lodge themselves into the intruder’s throats. I whip out two more arrows, fire them into the dying men’s chests, and walk away. Its not my responsibility to clean up the bodies, I just kill them.

            I walk to the dirt encrusted air vent, rusty with misuse, and pull off the grating. I always like to think of new ways to surprise, and test my comrades on ambushes. Granted, I’ve gotten shot testing them, but I’m still alive. Alive and fighting. I drop to my hands and knees, and crawl through the small opening. A low hiss escapes my lips as my bare hand lands in a puddle of chemicals. I guess an abandoned chemical plant was a bad place to organize The Resistance.

            A couple of weeks ago I led an ambush on a supply train coming from Section 8, new cloths. My lot raided the entire shipment, leaving a few un-useable items behind, which we set on fire. No sight is more spectacular than an exploding monorail, explosives courtesy of Skyler, our newest member. Skyler was a runaway from Section 4, The Heart of our metal world. She can do anything from reconstruct a circuit breaker, to blow up a mountain. Skyler is fairly tall for her age, 16, she’s 5’5’’, skinny as a willow tree, and just about as flexible as one. She’s like my sister, the sister I never really got to know. When my real sister was 5, and I 9, she was taken away. I remember the day like it were yesterday.

            My mom, dad, little sister Rose, and I were in our modest house. Mom was sharpening her knives, and Dad was getting ready for work, he patrolled our southern boarder, which was up against the Wasteland. There was a loud knock on our door, and a harsh voice called through, “Open in the name of the Law!” I remember thinking to myself, “What law, Mom is always telling us how corrupt the law is, and how we can’t trust anyone outside our family.” The door banged open, and Mom screamed. She dropped the knife she was holding, and swept me behind her back, knocking me against our beat up little table. She yelled for Rose, but one of the men snatched her, his vice-like grip on her arm making her sob. Dad moved to fight the man, but his comrades stopped Dad. “Don’t do it, Richard Thorne, assaulting an officer, why we can kill you for that! His High Lord Wesner ordered us to punish alleged spies, and we think your daughter is a sufficient warning for now. We believe you and your wife are spying on us for Prater. We heard he wanted to start a rebellion. Confirm or deny it, Thorne!” Dad spat at the man, and said nothing. The man with Rose laughed, and flicked his hand. One of the officers slammed the stock of his gun into the side of Dad’s head. He crumpled to the floor. The officers dragged his lifeless body out. I  tried to run to him, but Mom pushed me under the table, and in a hoarse voice told me to stay there until she cam back. She never did. I remember seeing her grab a huge black rifle from our pantry, and run out of the house, her black hair a shimmering mane, streaming behind her. I stayed shivering under the table, until the front door creaked open the next night. My small hands reached out for Mom’s dropped knife, and I grabbed its handle. I stayed hunched under the table, knife gleaming in front of me as someone searched the house. A pair of army boots were in front of me, when the table lifted up, and a mans voice called, “Hello little one.” He reached his hands towards me, and I stabbed the knife down into his toes. While he was screaming and bleeding, I scampered away. I could hear his uneven footsteps following me, as I dogged buildings and trees. I tripped over a tree root, and crashed down. My hand scraped against fallen sticks, and blood started to bead up. I thought about what Mom would do, and then it hit me. She was gone. I curled up into a ball, and cried. Eventually the man I stabbed found me huddled in a ball, tears streaking my face. He pulled back his hood, and I could have laughed. It was my parents’ friend Bill Prater.