Revelations - a short story

Revelations. – by Martin Anderson

It was dark, damp, cold…almost ghostly.

I felt my heart thud, a cold shiver. I saw nothing…but felt everything.

‘Soon’. That’s what he had said, ‘Soon.’

I waited for the black silhouettes around me to find a shape, a colour perhaps. Even a line would do. But they didn’t.

“Soon.” I told myself.

I strained for a sound, a signal, anything. But I heard nothing. And still that word nagged silently away. ‘Soon’.

He had said ‘Soon’. Why say it if you did not mean it? Unless he had meant it and…

He wasn’t coming back. It was growing darker and quieter and he was not coming back. 

The shapes closed in.

I felt a touch… A hand.

“It's all clear ahead. Let’s go.”

“When will we be there?”

“Soon…”

I followed the soft patting of his feet for a while, but I was not enjoying this at all. My feet felt blistered from the walking, my back splitting from all the crouching in the cold, dark places that he had called ‘safe’ and I was starving. I was supposed to be special. Oh yes, special. We were the ‘future’ the one armed man had said. Us, the children, we were ‘precious’. Living in a world ruined by the Second Apocalyptic War I hadn’t had anything that I would call precious, and even if I had I wouldn’t have treated it like I was being treated. So I stopped, and started to run my hands down my leg, searching for some nutrition pods in my thigh pouches.

Up in the darkness to my left, a shaft of violent light burst through a crack where the chemi-seal had failed to make the window shutters airtight. In this tiny oasis of light I was able to make out some of the shapes in the room. Funny, they looked almost human. And then, slowly at first, but surely all the same, I came to see the disfigured bodies of what I had been sat amongst for all those hours. This was a family who had fallen victim to a Plague Attack. In seconds they would have swollen, blackened and then died, I had seen the Disc-vids on it at Tutor Time. But where had the gas entered? My head turned back to the fault in the shutters. My eyes welled up in big spiteful tears that bit and stung. 
“You idiots, why didn’t you check? Why…” The words stuck in my dry throat and I felt as if I was about to throw-up. I jumped up to the window, clawing at the gap, in order to get more air.

But all I got was more light. Red light. A pinprick of infrared sight from a Eurasian-Block Trooper’s rifle. The rifle spat at me with the sound of a coughing baby. Sparks flashed all around as the lead shutters took the brunt of the pulse bolts. I could hear the guttural calling of the Eurasian-Block Troopers in their scores, and I was going to die. I threw myself to the harsh floor as more Troopers opened fire. Outside the coughing and hacking continued and with a horrifying smash one of the shutters flew off its hinges, crashing against the back wall to my right. A heat sensitive missile would follow, and I would not be able to avoid it.

Then, amidst the hacking of the rifles came a distinct bark of our own weapon, the R7. The explosion did not come. Instead the shooting became less frantic. More deliberate, as if they were now being more careful with their aim. The rapid bursts from the R7 were ridiculously outnumbered by the coughing of the rifles. Yet, as I lay motionless, flat on the splintered floor, on it barked. And on. And on. And as it did so the Eurasian-Block fire came less often and grew fainter.

At last I slowly pulled my bleeding face from the ground and glanced, with one eye, through the gaping whole that had once been the window. Half in cover, knelt my guide. He let off another burst from his R7. I ducked.

Eventually his head came through the window. “It’s all clear, come out.”

“You said it was all clear before and look what happened,” I said.

Jumping half through the window he stretched in for me. Grabbing me by the arm he pulled me up. He dragged me out of the window into a heap outside the building. Without waiting he yanked at my shoulder, forcing my head forward, “Yes, look what happened,” he said, “Take a good look. Go on.”

Through half shut eyes I surveyed the overgrown mess that had once been a garden. Littered around its edge were Eurasian-Block Troopers, some caught up on clawing brambles, some stooping over collapsing shrubs, one hanging upside down from a low tree. All were dead. I closed my eyes. “You killed them all,” I said.

“Of course I killed them all,” he replied, “what do you think this one was about to do to you?” He swung me around. There on the ground beside me was a Trooper. Beside him lay his rifle with missile attachment employed. Still clutched tightly in his right hand was a missile. A heat seeker. He was not dead. He lay motionless, his eyes staring upward at the swirling bright orange ion clouds overhead.

“And if you had done as I had said, I wouldn’t have had to…you stupid little- “

“Don’t you speak to me like that!” I told him. ”I need to be treated with respect. Looked after, not dragged around in the dark through Plague Attack victims’- “

He swung around taking me by the arm again, I struggled back. “Get off.”

“Yes, you’re special.” He said, grabbing my other arm. “Yes you are special…” His voice was different now. He let go and turned around, away from me. Was he? No. Yes. He was. He was crying.

With blurred eyes, he turned back to me. “Which is why you must do as I say. All I want is what is best for you. You are precious to us all. To us all…”

“We must go,” he finally said. 

“You’re not just going to leave him there?” I asked in disbelief. He walked over to the stricken Trooper. He gently smoothed his forehead, and carefully lifted his head as if to give him water. Suddenly, with a loud crack, it was all over. He had broken his neck. I threw up.

I had watched a load of Disc-vids and even some of the old video taped films about war and fighting. But I had never seen a dead person, let alone seen one actually die. I mean not in real life. I had experienced my first taste of war, and it had not been heroic, glorious, cool, or fun. It had been noisy, scary, dirty and sickening.

“I hate you,” I murmured as we rested in the next safe place. He did not reply.

As I sucked on a sachet of liqui-food I started to wonder why I was special. Why we, the children, were precious. The old man with one arm had said that it was enough to know that we were special and until now I had not had any reason to dispute this. But now I was in the real world. People were being killed because of me. Well, hey, people were trying to kill me. 

“Why am I so special?” I finally asked him.

“Because you are a child," he said coldly.

“But why are the children so special? I mean…I know all about…you know, babies and that. You need us to keep our race going. I know that. But it’s always been like that. So why are children extra special at this moment in time?”

“All will be explained when – if - if I get you to the transportation tubes.”

“Cool! Am I going somewhere?”

“Sort of…now quiet. No more questions.”

“Are you my dad?”

“No, I am not your dad. Now shush.”

“Am I the future?”

“The future, the present and the past. Now will you shut-up. I can hear something coming.”

He slumped to the ground, pulling down my head as he went. We lay motionless for ages until he finally whispered, “Okay, let’s go.”

We picked our way through seemingly endless piles of rubble and twisted girders that had once been what our Grandparents called a centre of shopping, or something like that. They used to swap their food and clothes for little pieces of metal alloy and patterned, treated paper. Clambering over a low wall I saw a flash of colour amongst the browns and greys of the devastation. It was a large yellow sign, pitted and cracked. It had been moulded into the shape of a 3D ‘m’. Somehow it seemed to suggest happier times.

Far ahead of us the sun had now sunk away, leaving the occasional glowing of the sulphates and the flaring of the phosphorus high up in the stratosphere to guide our way in vibrant yellows. In another time, this could almost have been beautiful.

Eventually we stopped. I knew the routine. He would go and check out our safe-house while I would have to sit under his reflecti-sheet, uncomfortable and stifling. It was pointless moaning. I needed the sheet to hide my body heat from the Eurasian-Block patrol ship’s heat sensors. I was glad I was special, imagine what life would be like if I weren’t. I let a little giggle escape, rocking my body as it dispersed. I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed.

Sooner than usual he returned. “It’s got heat sources inside it. We’re not taking any risks. Let’s move on.”

I was about to give him my “I’m special” routine. I mean I was completely exhausted. I had to rest. But the images of the family, the dead Trooper swinging peacefully from the branch and my guide’s tears all came flooding back to me. I simply said “Okay,” and moved on.

When we did stop, I collapsed in a heap. “I’ll never walk again…oh me feet.” I said, ripping off my boots and gaiters. “Quick, give me something before they fall off.”

He took a tube from the folds of his webbing belt. Opening the lid, he poured a thick, gooey liquid onto a bandage that he had taken from his bi-pouch on his upper arm. He pulled the bandage tightly around my feet, taking great care to make sure that the substance went straight onto my blisters. From a yellowish-grey I watched the mixture turn brown. “What’s happening?” I asked.

“Its hardening, it’ll soon be ready.”

“For what?”

“For removing.”

“But won’t that hurt?”

“Oh, only a lot,” he said with a grin. My face fell. “Don’t worry there’s a local anaesthetic in the lotion. Feel this?”

He leant over, tickling my exposed toes with the scratchy end of the tube. “No.” I said.

“Good, its ready to come off.”

It was a great feeling, peeling it all off, like peeling off that liquid rubber used for mending Battle-suits to make them airtight after a rip. Eventually, all the lotion and the unwanted dead skin from my feet were removed. “How can I walk? I haven’t got any soles left!”

This time he produced a can from one of his rib pockets. “Plasti-skin,” he announced. With a careful arc of the can he sprayed the bottom of my feet. “Try that,” he said. I stood up, cautiously at first. Then confidently and finally I was jumping up and down. “Wow! That’s great," I told him. “Almost like having new feet.”

“Good. Now rest,” he ordered.

It was cold and I couldn’t sleep. I could not use my comfort setting for my own Battle-suit as I had worn it out by using it as we travelled. “Keep it for the night,” he had said. “During the day the temperature is higher and you’re on the move anyway. Besides, it isn’t designed to be used while you move about. So save it.” But I got cold and switched it on. It felt great until we had to hit the deck quickly. I felt something give, and I suddenly turned cold. I hadn’t told him. I couldn’t stand the “Told you so.” lecture that he was sure to give me. So I lay cold, deathly tired, but unable to sleep. Hearing a grunt from my guide I rolled over to face him. He had his Battle-suit off and he was doing something to his leg. A phosphorus flash high above momentarily lit up the shelter. His leg was a splash of red. He had taken a pulse bolt from the Eurasian-Block Troopers through his leg. All this time he had lived with it and had never said a word. He had even joked while he looked after my pathetic, stupid blistered feet, just to make me feel better, while all along he must have been in agony.
“Let me help,” I said, sitting up.

“We have to reduce the swelling from the burns around the entrance hole,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Use this.”
As I dabbed the wound with some kind of smoking sponge, he let out a stifled cry through his clenched mouth. “Gently. And don’t get that stuff on your fingers, its dry ice. To remove the swelling.”

“What? That stuff will remove more than just the swelling.” I said. Dry ice, or solid carbon dioxide, is so cold that it boils at room temperature, even this room temperature.

“Just do it,” he said.

I did. When the swelling had gone, I applied the stretchi-band to the area. “Ready?” I asked. He nodded. I poured a little water on the bandage and watched it shrink around his leg. “More,” he said with eyes of fire. I poured on more water and watched him writhe and wriggle in agony as the bandage contracted to seal the wound and stop the swelling and bleeding.

“Now sleep,” he said, still through clamped-shut teeth.

I did.

When I woke I found him hobbling about the room, trying to put life back into his blood-starved leg. The stretchy-band had now gone, and he had sealed both the entrance and exit wounds with his spray skin. “One nutrition pod. Then we go.”

As we tidied around I spoke to him again.

“Are we really going to be there soon?”

“This time yes, honestly.” He took a crumpled sheet of plastic from his sleeve zip. “We need to cross these lakes and then it’s only an hour forced march. Okay?”

I was okay. For the first time I felt like part of what was going on, not just a passenger. We were both hurting, we were both tired, and we were both hungry. We were both still far from safety.

Even my raw, stinging feet seemed part of our bond.

“The local should still be working on your feet. You shouldn’t have any problem with them until after we reach the tubes.”

I said nothing.

Later I asked him about the weird old man with one arm. He exploded at me, saying that he was a great man and that I wasn’t ‘good enough to even talk about him, yet’. The word ‘yet’ was a strange word. I asked him who the one armed man was.

“He’s my father,” he replied.

But why had he said ‘yet’?

I kept on, for now I was really interested. “Who am I? I mean, who is my father?”

“I don’t know.” He turned to face me, “Really, I don’t know.”

“Is it the one armed man?”

He smiled a secret sort of smile and didn’t answer.

“Why am I with you?” I continued, “Why did I have those blood tests?”

“We had to check your DNA,” he explained. 

“But DNA is personal isn’t it?” I interrupted. “No two people have the same genetic code, this DNA. Not unless they are identical twins. So why did you need to check my DNA?”

I was getting excited. “Do I have an identical twin?” I asked.

“You do not have an identical twin. I don’t know who your father is. Nobody does. It doesn’t matter. And I have probably said too much as it is. Now change the subject and let’s go.”

“The one-armed man had a test too.” I said, but he was not to be provoked.

As the scarlet sun rose, the ion filled sky turned its turbulent shade of orange once more. The swirling clouds ebbed to and fro above us. They reminded me of the dying Trooper from yesterday. I remembered watching the orange reflection bubbling in his watery eyes. I felt sick again.

After what seemed an age of crouched running, hiding flattened behind too low cover and the constant panic of being discovered, we reached the lakes.

You could once have walked in the lakes. Some stories said that you could even have drunk the cool waters within the stony banks, but I don’t believe it. Now a scum of chemicals, waste and oil lay thick on its surface. Swirls of muddy looking colours spun in patterns where the oil lay. Yellows, Cyans, Magentas all mixed together. Occasionally a clear patch of discoloured water would reflect the orange ion clouds. It was strange how something so poisonous and wrong could look so resplendent.

We skirted around the edges, masks on. The smell was repulsive. “What caused this?”

“Maintain radio silence. Over and Out.” Came the curt reply.

I felt myself redden beneath my mask and slowly, self-consciously, I switched off my throat mic. I had done it again.

When we had made it across the lakes we found a hollow with a twisted metal sheet half over one end. We squeezed beneath it and relaxed as best we could, stripping away the masks. “Look, I’m sorry,” I started, “I didn’t-“

“Sorry will not keep us alive. We have rules for good reasons. Obey them. They monitor the air waves at all times, I just hope the ion levels are low here,” he said glancing out from beneath our shelter. A huge curl of tangerine cloud met his gaze. “We had better move out fast.”

We jogged along within the cover of a collapsed subway. Finding a safe place I stopped jogging and placed my hands on my hips, gasping in air. My feet felt they were on fire. But I would not say anything about them. "What has all this got to do with me? Come on I deserve some answers.”

He stopped and crept back to where I was now leaning. “About forty years ago the Second Apocalyptic War started.”

“Yeah right, tell me something I don’t know. The Eurasian-block discovered the last warhead from the first Apocalyptic, made it active and detonated it over us. Is this going to be some kind of History lesson or what?”

“Shut up and listen!” He looked serious, so I did. 

“After the bomb dropped, our people were decimated. Most were killed and the majority of the remainder were contaminated by the radiation. Only a handful of our people could continue to have children and not pass the contamination to their young. These few disappeared into underground safe houses while the Eurasian-block took control of the radioactive wastelands above the surface. If ever they found colonies of our people they would inflict a Plague Attack upon them. As you saw yesterday, even the chemi-seal sprays they issued didn’t save everyone, the gas found its way through the smallest of gaps.”

I knew all this too, but I sat and listened intently, he was leading up to something big, I could tell.

He continued, “And here we are today, living the same hideaway life. Looking behind ourselves the whole time. Our greatest and only treasures are you, the children.”

“But how did these hidden pockets survive the radiation, the Plague Attacks and the impossible living conditions? How could there be enough to survive?”

“There wasn’t. Is the simple answer. We needed something different, something new. Just at about the time of the attack our Scientists had been working on a new form of travel.”

“Not teleportation. Everyone knows about that.”

“No, not teleportation. Timeportation. The ability to move through time.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and all their efforts and resources went into making sure that it worked. This was our last and only hope. The idea was to bring our people from a different time to make up our numbers. Of course they couldn’t bring people from the past. If anyone disappeared from the past then that could seriously alter the present. They had to take from the future.”

“So they took people from the future back to their time. The fittest, the strongest. The biggest brains in the whole of the land.” I was getting carried away.

“No, we could not drain our future of the important people, where would their future go?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we took away their best, who could lead them and look after them from that moment on?”

I was beginning to understand. “So they took the children,” I said.

“Yes.”

“They are going to take me aren’t they.”

“Yes.”

“So I am the future. I am the present. I am the past.”

“Yes, you and ninety-nine others. Carefully chosen to be free from radiation. That is why you had those blood tests, checking your DNA."

“But why the elder ones, like your father, the one armed man?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I pushed.

“What’s the difference?”

He got up. “Let’s move on.”

I was determined to find out something more about the one armed man. He seemed to hold the key as to who I was. “How did your father lose his arm?”

“He did it saving my life,” he said with a warm look in his eyes. I had never seen that before.

“How?”

“He never said. He told me that it was enough to know that he had done it.”

“You can’t remember it happening?”

“No.”

“It must have been a long time ago…”

We moved on.

Finally we came to a ridge. He climbed to the top of it and peered over. He beckoned to me and I crawled up beside him.

“There it is, the transportation tubes station.” I couldn’t see anything. “It’s below the ground, stupid," he said.

“Yeah, I knew that.” We smiled and shared a joke for the first real time.

I turned to him, “I’m scared, I don’t want to go. How am I going to survive without you looking after me?”

“You’ll find a way,” he said. “You have to. Our past depends on it. Come on.”

He jumped over the edge of the ridge. As I looked after him I could see the distinctive pointed helm of Eurasian-Block Troopers. One had his rifle aimed straight at us. He hadn’t seen them. I leapt up to the ridge shouting “No!” as the Troopers opened fire. With outstretched arms I pushed him from behind. He tumbled forward as a searing pain went through my shoulder. I lay motionless as the gunfight raged around me. With every pump of my heart I could feel my life ebbing away and the pain in my shoulder increasing…

When I woke up I found myself slumped against the inside of a safe-house wall. I looked up and saw the face of my guide.

“You saved my life…” he smiled. I looked down at my throbbing shoulder. Beneath it, was nothing…

“…thanks Dad,” he finished.