SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Óscar trembled. “But maybe they’re right. The last time I felt one, was the night they attacked Ronda. Before the barricades. The night mi mamá, she…”

Ren paused. He had been so focused on the antibiotics, he had failed to think about Óscar’s fears. “No one talks about that night. Do you think about your mom a lot?”

“Mi padre says they came like a wave at the beginning. Los moribundos killed nearly everyone in Ronda. Comida. That’s what mi padre says we were to them—food. The photos of mi mamá are digital, I don’t even have that. But I remember her warmth, if that makes sense. She smelled like soap.” Óscar glanced over. “Do you remember the cities? Skyscrapers? Luc showed me a photo of New York. So tall.”

Ren stared at a rusty metal sign bolted to the cave wall, covered with illegible tour instructions. Beneath it sat a row of ancient-looking lanterns. Most broken. Gripping the nearest, he unscrewed the container and took a whiff, cringing at the bite of old fuel. He recalled little before Spain. Since Ronda, Jeanie rarely spoke of their journey. She mostly taught him history, like how the Moors called the land Al-Ándalus before giving it to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. Ren enjoyed Óscar’s tales of the time before the pulse best. The final bullfight of the season happened in town, he knew, when all of Spain descended on Ronda for the Corrida Goyesca—royals, movie stars, Ferraris in the streets.

“I kind of remember Granada,” he admitted. “And a castle outside Bordeaux. Walking the highways and the fires. I hated the smell. The cities, all burnt and melted. Full of moribund and crows. My mom won’t even talk about Paris. Not anymore.”

Óscar sighed. “You, her, the highway. All I had was our crap village. Can you imagine working cars? Refrigerators? Ice?”

Ren shook a lantern, listening to fuel slosh inside. Too many people focused on the past. On the roads, Jeanie had told him stories. Now she went days without speaking. The cavern yawned before him. Everyone either spent too much time not living, or living in the old world.

Moving on. Might as well be my motto.

“What’s the Bruja’s story, anyway? All the adults talk about her like she’s cursed.”

“Mi padre says she came to Ronda from a big city right before everything with her palsied son. They lived in a village near the garrison when the pulso hit.”

Ren squinted into the grotto. Far away, water dripped. “Shit, maybe your padre is right. Maybe the Bruja died. Maybe she and her son—”

Ren swallowed as a shotgun sliced the gloom, both barrels pointing at his pale face.

At gunpoint, the withered woman directed Ren and Óscar deeper into the caverns, up and down limestone steps, her thin frame draped in threadbare gear. After forcing Óscar to light a lantern, she led led them along staircases slick with water. Stalagmites teased from the periphery. Ren tried Spanish and ended up with both barrels pressed firmly in his back. And more swearing.

“She speaks Catalán,” Óscar said. “ Catalonian . La Bruja is from the north.”

At the word Bruja the hooded thing laughed, spat an obscenity and shoved the shotgun so hard between Ren’s shoulders he yelped. Her language sounded like Spanish, French, and Italian all mixed together.

Twice he slipped on the old metal railing, nearly plunging into the unseen expanse below, yet on they went, until the steps ended in the largest cavern yet.

Torches sputtered about a camp where makeshift rooms, storage areas, and sleeping quarters had been constructed from wooden slats. A dozens crates sat close by, adorned with the letters FFAA — Fuerzas Armadas Española . A smoldering pit fire cast light across a large painting on the wall, of a fish or a seal. Far above the flames, thousands of ancient hash marks filled the walls. Cro-Magnon marks, he realized, so far up that whoever made them had to have used ladders, or the ground had simply been that much higher, centuries ago.

From beneath her shroud, the Bruja directed the boys to sit around the fire. She shoved the shotgun barrels deep into Óscar’s cheek, whispered a threat, and disappeared behind the crates. Ren cringed as the bitter stench of piss wafted from the far recesses.

The hell? he mouthed.

Óscar shook his head. Yo no sé .

“Let’s get out of here,” Ren whispered and moved to stand. “Before the—”

The old woman laughed as she reappeared, carrying an iron pot she could scarcely lift. With a grunt, she dropped the kettle on the embers, sending sparks flying. She smiled as she sat, placed the shotgun on a rock, and withdrew her tattered hood.

Ren stared. In the flickering light, he at first thought the bald woman disfigured. Then he realized her flesh—nearly every inch—was inked with tattoos. Colors swirled about her temples, snakes on her skull, black wings about her neck, thorns about her wrists and ankles. Agile for her age, her wrinkles melting around eyes so blue he momentarily lost himself in their depth. The false impression of youth was cast away when she opened her mouth and revealed three rotted teeth. One high, two low. He covered his mouth before he caught a whiff.

“Barthelona,” she croaked, and touched her chest softly.

Her Spanish came out so thickly, her C rolling into a thick TH , it took Ren a moment to register the meaning. “You’re from Barcelona?” he asked. She nodded and spun the ladle. “She shave that head,” he mumbled, “or did her hair fall out?”

The Bruja smiled as she ran a hand over her skull. “Shaved.” Almost a hiss.

Óscar glanced up, surprised. “Anglès?”

English?

She laughed and slapped her bony knee, pointed to the kettle and mimed eating motions. Ren winced. In the dimness, he could not be sure what lumps floated in the mess.

“Perdoni,” Óscar asked. “Bona tarda, eh, parla anglès?”

“Sí, sí, sí,” she replied, laughing as she pointed a gnarled finger at them, and the food. Tattoos of Roman numerals covered her knuckles. When Ren glanced up, her glee made him quiver. “Molt de gust,” she said. “El teu nom? Seu nom?”

“Catalán is an old language,” Óscar explained, forcing a smile as he accepted a bowl. “A language of the north. Mi padre uses it sometimes. She’s asking our names.”

“We’re looking for medicine,” Ren added. “Antibiótico. A friend in Ronda is sick.”

The Bruja stopped ladling and shifted closer to the fire. The scent of burning wood mixed with the reeking brew, causing Ren’s stomach to tumble. “Sick? We all sick. How many bebés in Ronda these days? Laugh of girl, sound of boys’ feet on stone?”

“None. Some still try, but babies die before they come out. Mi padre thinks—”

The Bruja nodded knowingly. “Sí, sí. El infierno kills fetus. The black dust. No woman no more. Humans done. Me know, me know. Me Gitana,” she said proudly, and tapped her chest. “Me know.”

Ren knew that one. Gypsy.

“How old?” She handed Ren a spoon and motioned for them to eat. Ren’s belly rolled as he took the utensil and tried not to glance at the floating pieces.

“Quince,” Óscar answered.

“Small for fifteen, eh? And you?”

Ren tucked his hair behind his ears and hesitated, as if revealing his age gave her some power over him. “I turn fourteen at midnight,” he admitted. “On New Year’s.”

Her eyes went wide. “December thirty-one?”

“At least that’s what my—”

“Morta…” With a hiss, the old woman scrambled to her feet. She jabbed a finger at Ren and stood, backing out of the light. “Americano! Born during the pulse? Sí?”