Chris Pourteau - Tails of the Apocalypse

Gunther looks to the west. “Storm coming.”

I follow his gaze and see the bare wisps of cirrus clouds marring an otherwise clear blue sky. “Not for a while,” I say. “Tonight or tomorrow.”

Gunther shrugs in his indifferent manner, as if what I say matters little. “Bode is asking for you. You should come home.” It’s not a request, and he doesn’t wait for me to respond. He turns and disappears into the woods.

Bode is our father. The harshness of our lives has stripped us of any desire for endearing terms. I feel little connection and no obligation to him, or to any member of our clan. The disease has hardened us, made us resentful. We congregate only because we stand a better chance of surviving in a brutal world where food is scarce. Where nature has become a wrathful, unpredictable demon.

But we aim most of our resentment at Icarus—a city built as a shrine to itself. Before Bode was born, the world was in turmoil. There were gods of war and hunger and hardship. Gods of madness. Then other gods came—gods of science who believed they could perfect those things that had always resisted perfection: the human body and the weather.

But traveling the road to perfection means there are always failures left in the ditches. We, the Ferals, as they like to call us, are those imperfect missteps. We’ve been discarded like trash outside the city wall.

Abandoned to deal with disease that can’t be restrained, and weather that won’t be subdued.

But inside the wall—under an invisible dome where light and precipitation and temperature are well ordered—life is comfortable. Icarus worships at its own feet, and its perfect residents flourish, disease free. Their immunity was earned through our suffering.

We are the Ferals, the bastards Icarus refuses to claim. But imperfection is insidious; the Feral undercurrent pulses inside the city wall. When the Icarites realized they could never tame the demon of their own fears, they soon learned they could at least appease him. And so the Icarites hunt us for sport. It’s how my mother died, and why our clan has been reduced to a few dozen.

Our camp is always well hidden, and we never stay in one spot for long. When I arrive, the clan is already packing up and preparing to move on ahead of the storm.

Bode huddles beside a small fire. When I join him, he pierces me with an icy gaze. His sunken eyes are clouded; they’ve seen too much suffering. He’s hard and wiry, in body and soul. Even though he’s not that old, the disease has aged him far beyond his years. He can’t walk without help. When the clan moves on, Gunther will have to haul him on a travois made of tree limbs and animal skins.

“About damn time,” he says by way of greeting.

I don’t feel like arguing. He knows I’m a loner; I’m tired of defending myself. “I found a dead hunter,” I say. “Arrow in his chest.”

Bode squints. “Whose?”

“Jamison’s clan, looks like.”

He nods and pulls his knees closer to his chest. “Good.”

That’s one thing we share, at least. An appreciation for dead Icarites.

Gunther shows up with a roasted rabbit skewered on a stick. My gut rumbles again in response, but he won’t share the meat. It’s meant for Bode and him. The rest of the clan shares, to an extent, but I’m not around enough to contribute, so I don’t eat.

“What did you want me for, old man?” I ask. I watch as Gunther splits the rabbit with his knife and hands Bode half. The smell of roasted meat wafts to my nose and my mouth waters. Bode eyes me for a minute, then tears off a piece and hands it to me. Gunther’s disapproving scowl follows.

Normally I’d refuse the gift, but I need food. It’s been two days and I feel weak and shaky. I nod my thanks to Bode and eat, avoiding Gunther’s glare. The rabbit is tough and gamy but I devour every bit of it. Then I suck the bones.

“Thought you might want to know where we’re headed,” Bode says between bites.

“I can follow your trail,” I say. The clan knows how to hide their movements from hunters. They’re good at it, but I know what to look for.

“Where’d you find that Icarite?” he asks.

“About a mile out. On the grassland.”

Bode levels a long look at Gunther and tells him, “Go find Jase. He’ll want to know. Icarites might come around thinking we’re to blame.”

Gunther’s sour expression deepens. I can tell he wants to argue. He wants to find a way to blame me for the dead hunter, for Bode’s order, for all the wrongs heaped on him.

“I’ll go,” I say.

They both look at me, no doubt a little surprised that I’m offering. Bode nods. I get up and make my way through camp, ignoring the iron glares of clan members as I limp past. No one cares for me much. I’m sure Gunther has a lot to do with their collective opinion. They condemn me because I’m a woman who doesn’t follow the rules. Since I contribute little, I’m worth even less. Truth be told, I prefer it that way. It’s easier for me to come and go as I please—to mostly stay away as I please.

I find Jase stuffing his belongings into a rucksack. Jase is the leader of the clan, as much as we have one. He’s the mediator of disputes and clashes. He represents us to the other clans. On his say-so, the group moves and resettles. He’s sharp minded and able bodied, which is saying a lot for a Feral. I like Jase, but I know the feeling isn’t mutual. He glances at me once and continues to work.

I squat down and wait for him to say something before I speak. It’s a gesture of respect we grant to those in leadership. He gives me another glance and says, “Hand me that cord there.”

I do as he says, watching as he shoves it into his pack.

“Something on your mind?” he asks, without looking up.

“I found a dead Icarite about a mile from here. Out on the grasslands. He had an arrow in his chest. Bode says you’d want to know.”

Jase pauses and considers my words. “Was it your arrow?”

I bristle at his question; it feels like a backhanded insult to my weakness. An indictment of my disobedience. Women aren’t allowed to handle a bow. But even if they were, my weak arm and mangled hand make it impossible.

“You know it wasn’t,” I reply in a cold voice.

His gaze shifts briefly to my hand. The look in his eyes confirms his assessment of me as useless. “You recognize the arrow?”

“Looks like Jamison’s clan.”

He nods. “Storm’ll be moving in by morning. We’ll be out of here before then. I doubt hunters will be wandering around with a storm lashing their heads.”

Sometime I get bad feelings, like an itch I can’t reach. They’ve saved me more than once from walking into danger. I have one of those feelings now.

“Maybe not hunters, but…” I trail off, reluctant to finish my thought. I know how Jase will receive it.

He throws me a skeptical glance as if he’s read my mind. “Flamers? You think those Icarite bastards are gonna hit us with flamers? When’s the last time that happened?”

I remember when. Eight years ago. I was a little girl, maybe ten, and our clan was on the move. We came upon another camp engulfed in fire as four flamer vehicles drove away from the massacre, back to the safety of Icarus. Why they’d unleashed such a demon on the clan, we never knew. Where was the sport in that? We couldn’t even tell which clan it was. The bodies were burnt beyond recognition.

“Maybe it’s been too long,” I tell Jase. “Maybe the demon can’t be held back anymore.”

Jase glares at me under a furrowed brow. “What the hell’s wrong with your head, girl?”

I stand up and step back. Jase won’t listen to me. He thinks I’m crazy, and I am. I know I am. My mind is slowly surrendering to the disease. I feel things, see things that aren’t shared by others. My thoughts are twisted. The disease mostly attacks the body, but for an unlucky few, it worms its way into the brain as well. As much as I try to fight it, I know it will take me—all of me.