#bunkerxivar

Had they been hoping she would appear? Bjorn was honest when he said that he was but he suspected his brother, Ivar, would deny it. Even still, more than once, he had seen his brother scanning the fence line around the gate for that sweet face and distinctive tattoo. There were others out there but they had spent years offering people a place within the Bunker. These fools didn’t want to live by their rules. They wanted to take over the Bunker. Well, they were mistaken if they thought such an action would be permitted. They should rejoin the battle in Polis if they wanted that level of contention. Still they agreed to take infants and small children to give some a chance to see their bloodline carry on.

Bjorn was making final preparations to close the outer doors and waiting for the last of the little ones to be carried through. He wasn’t at all sure why he was still looking, still hopeful that little Emori and her pretty faced man would show up. He had liked that boy in the few minutes he had known him. Scrappy fighters were always his cup of tea as his grandmama used to say. 

The Bunker itself was 26 floors with a final level, just below the last official level containing a natural hot springs and deep cavern that had no external entrance, other than the Bunker above. They had checked thoroughly and even with the rising radiation outside, the hot springs showed no signs of contamination. It was a blessed relief since they were counting on those springs for heat, water decontamination and frankly, the ability to just enjoy something natural that felt, just for a while, like being out in the world and not in a metal box. 

They had restored the Bunker but stripped out many of the spaces they seemed to desire in the Days Before. Instead, they focused on animals, food growth, storage and of course living quarters. To survive the next six to ten years, they also needed not to go as mad as they once claimed LachiaKru to be. So when the bar known as the Cavern was built on the lower level, just above the hot springs, the Grandmother and her heir, the Granddaughter looked the other way. They also did the same with the sparring space they had developed in the empty space in the mechanical level. Frankly sometimes you just needed to hit something to keep yourself together.

The entrances to the Bunker were connected to a space that surrounded the real bunker that was through a large set of doors known as Blast Doors. That’s what the side read, still visible after a century. Bjorn liked the words, Blast Doors. There was something that spoke to action about them that he found appealing. The external doors were connected to the Blast Doors by small tracks on which carts operated to allow them to haul goods and materials. The best of these was now stored on the first level inside the Bunker, in the hopes of having them remain functional once the doors reopened. The last ones were rickety and old and if it had not been the end of it all, they would have been dismantled for parts and destroyed. There were two left out, the one pointed toward the blast doors and the other pointed down one of the old lines, although they did not intend to use this one again. It was in rather terrible shape after all. The carts operated by levers that rocked back and forth with a person on each side of the level pumping down which caused the other side to rise. They then would build up a speed all their own and you just had to hold on for dear life. The stopping function had been among the first to go. 

Bjorn was about to give the signal to close the door when he spotted a group of people dressed in red suits with matching helmets. It was so eye-catching that he stopped, rather transfixed, and then he made out one small face. Emori! He gestured to his brother, and stated brusquely, “Emo laik hir. Osir souda go ge em.”  (translation: They are here. We must go get them.)

He could hear Ivar cursing but the man put up no argument as they pulled on the gear they used to protect themselves from the perpetual damp and waded out. The people surrounding the gate screamed at them and Bjorn felt a pang of guilt. He did not enjoy leaving others to die. He was a Healer after all. He wanted to spare them all from needless suffering. Unfortunately, there was little he could do. The Grandmother had decided and frankly, he only had consent to take in Otan, Emori and her man. That was all. Still, he knew he wouldn’t leave the others of her group, even though he was well aware he was risking the Grandmother’s wrath in so doing. Worst still, he was risking the Granddaughter’s wrath and frankly she was a little scarier than the Heda of their Clan. 

Ivar and Bjorn approached the Gate with haste, inserting the key and letting it open slightly. You could open this gate in pieces, rather than all at once, which was a benefit in this moment. The smaller section opened under Ivar’s hand and Bjorn reached forward for the Emori. Other red suited creatures fell through as well, making a break for the entrance. 

However the crowd was not prepared to take this lying down and started to pull back. Bjorn almost had Emori’s man in hand when the crowd hauled him back and he disappeared from Bjorn’s side in a tide of bodies that seemed to crash like a wave. Bjorn carried Emori through and he watched as Ivar scooped up another red-suited female and carried her through the entrance. Unable to stop the rush of people now, the doors slammed shut behind Ivar, who just made it through in time. 

Emori was fighting in his arms and he couldn’t hold her any longer. She ran to the door and banged on it with angry hands. She pried off the helmet she was wearing and practically threw it at Bjorn. Her words were incoherent and tumbling over one another. His sister was yelling from her position on the last cart pointed toward the Blast Door. Three other warriors, each holding a sobbing child sat on that cart waiting to go, and exhausted by leaving so many to their fate.

“ENOUGH!” Bjorn roared, loud enough that even the three small children stopped and stared at the roar of sudden sound. One hiccupped, which would ordinarily be charming, but no one was in the mood to laugh.  Bjorn looked back at Emori and stated clearly and slowly in English, which he knew she spoke well. “How many of your group are missing besides your boy?”

Emori wasn’t sure and glanced around but the question was answered by another red suited female. She pried off her helmet and looked gravely at Bjorn, “Four. Four are missing. Clark. Murphy. Harper and Monty.” Bjorn met her eyes and felt like she was familiar. She was not one of the SkaiKru and she was clearly a warrior. He was sure if the world were quieter, he would be able to place her but he couldn’t in this moment.

“Good. You can recognize them all. You are coming with me. We’re going to go get them.” he stated firmly and she only nodded in response. The only male in the group they had rescued pried off his helmet as well. Dark curls surrounded a handsome face, “I’m going too.” He chimed in and then nodded as if he two were signing up a pledge. By all the old gods, these people were dramatic about things. 

 “Me too.” Emori continued, as the redheaded female waiting on the cart spoke up, “Bjorn ... the Blast Door is closing soon. We need to ...” 

“No! Enough!” He interrupted, growing frustrated with the unnecessary delay as people wanted to talk and not follow an order, “Cat, I am not playing games here. Go tell them to hold the Blast Doors for us. Emori, you go with my sister. You will be persuasive and you being safe here is the rationale we will need to get your man in as well. If you want your John Murphy to live, get on the cart and do what my sister tells you to do.” He gestured to the young woman wearing tools on a low belt and had her bright hair screwed up into two balls on the top of her tiny head. “Cat, Take the rest of the group with you. Wait there.” He nodded to the young woman who was half collapsed alongside the wall. She had been carried in by Ivar and looked exhausted. 

“Take care of her. We’ll get your strays. Do not leave the Bunker. We will not get a second chance at this. We’re pushing it already.” Bjorn repeated and prayed they did indeed have the time they needed. 

The young male, a man he would come to know as Bellamy Blake, stared at the thick metal doors and stated quietly. “So open the doors.”

Bjorn shook his head at the request framed as a demand and nodded toward his brother, Ivar, “We’ll go out the east entrance. It is smaller. Most don’t know about it. We need not to catch eyes. Come on. We do not have time to waste.” As he spoke he turned on his heel to climb aboard the rickety excuse for a cart. It was on its last legs but with luck, it perhaps had a few more lives to spare. 

“Get on.” Bjorn demanded and he didn’t have to ask twice. Bellamy and Echo had barely settled on the cart when it began to move. LachiaKru had used these paths and old machines to move goods, people and animals in the decades they had spent restoring the bunker. 

Bjorn watched as the red suits sat in silence on the edge of the cart as it sped along. They seemed to be breathing heavily but he wasn’t about to drag them from their thoughts. He was plotting how they were going to manage to get to the strays and get the pretty man and the rest of the group back within their walls. He also prayed that Ubbe would have joined Cat at the entrance. His third brother was a persuasive man who had a long-standing friendship with Elys, the Granddaughter, and frankly a friendly ear would be needed when they had so blatantly defied the will of the Granddaughter. The cart finally came to a hard stop and the occupants were half flung to the ground in a heap. “Sorry about that. No brakes left on this one.” Bjorn stated as he jumped down and offered a hand to help the other two back up to their feet. “All in one piece? Good.” He reached for a spear and passed one to the warrior. The other male was clinging to a firearm slung by a strap around his chest. Bjorn hadn’t noticed it earlier but it glinted threateningly in the dim light of the flickering overhead lights. SkaiKru, he guessed, much like Emori’s man. He wondered if the others were also SkaiKru or if two SkaiKru males found themselves travelling to safety without their own group.

“I’m Echo. Of Azgeda.” Bjorn nodded in acknowledgement of the name. An impressive Clan, although a little prone to rage and vengeance in his opinion. Still, to his mind, they would not be sorry to count her among their own and then glanced at the other who hastily added, “Bellamy Blake. Of ... I guess I used to be SkaiKru. Arcadia.” Bjorn nodded, as he suspected. It was less impressive. From what he had seen, the people of SkaiKru had never quite lost their sense of their way was the only way, as if they hadn’t been surviving on the Earth’s surface for the last century while they were snug and safe in space. 

“We need you to be a little less visible.” Ivar ground out. He was always the more silent brother but only people who did not know him thought him unaware. He was observant and insightful. He was also right. The bright red was far too visible to the others. Each brother grabbed a rain slick poncho and pulled them down over the suits the Azgeda warrior and SkaiKru guard were wearing. 

Bjorn nodded and started, “All right, let’s keep things clear. I get the impression you’re used to being in charge here but this time you are going to listen to me. We have a short window. We’re going to move as fast as we can to find them and get them back here. They will only hold that final door for so long, especially now that the front gate has been breached.”

He shrugged and continued as he and his brother placed their hands on what seemed to be another outcropping of rock and pushed. As he did so, Bjorn continued, “I’m Master Bjorn. He’s Master Ivar. Just so you know, we usually patch people up and don’t put holes in them.” Ivar had to laugh at this, despite the dire situation, “Not that we can’t. Although if we’re really going into a fight, we should have brought Cat.”

Bjorn just laughed as the two of them finally caused the door to pop open and they continued to push until it was wide enough to allow all of them to step through with ease. Ivar slid it almost all the way closed but even in this state, it was nearly impossible to identify the location. The small group were standing on the side of a hill with only a little gravel at their feet to indicate where the entrance was. 

“Impressive.” The one called Bellamy commented. Ivar nodded in agreement as they started to walk, and explained, “There’s actually nine other entrances. Aside from the main one. All lead to the central blast doors. One on each side of the mountain. We’ve been working on this for longer than anyone of us has been alive.” To their left was a deep forest which now looked coated in the toxic rain and dying foliage, giving it a bleak impression. In the distance ahead they could make out the village where the leaders of LachiaKru had once resided, along with the most prominent families. There were no LachiaKru people left there, only those who had come to the village too late and too desperate. The village was now a shell of its former self, inhabited by outsiders, desperately clinging to something they had rejected for generations. To their right was the mountain itself, containing the restored Bunker.

“Although in about six to ten winters, when we reopen, who knows how many will still be accessible. We may have to dig our way back out.” Ivar continued conversationally. They were almost half-way back toward the main collection of people when they heard a man call out. Bjorn paused, suspicious and uncertain. A single man emerged from the darkened forest and to say the group hunting for the strays was suspicious was an understatement. “Wait here.” Bjorn murmured and approached.

Extending an arm, Bjorn grasped the other’s forearm in an acknowledged greeting. “Hello old friend. Changed your mind?” He questioned quietly. The other Healer, Itam, was known to him. An old friend with a stark terror of enclosed spaces. Itam’s reasons were valid but it still hurt Bjorn’s heart to know the other man would choose death rather than join them in the Bunker. Itam didn’t waste his words, “I have them. The ones you are searching for.”

“What do you mean, my friend?” Bjorn was cautious. He didn’t need to disappear on a fool’s errand. They had too little time.

“The ones in red. Better hurry though. Several of them are injured and we just barely got them to our shelter.” He gestured toward the deeper woods, where they would be away from the gate. It was a risk. A genuine one. They could waste time, be assaulted, held to bargain for a place inside. 

Bellamy called out, desperation in his words. “We need to get to the gate. Now!” Ivar shushed him, “Wait and see.” 

Bjorn considered it and met his friend’s gaze. Trust or not to trust? Which would be the lost time. “We follow him. Come on.” Bjorn trusted Itam and hoped he was not wrong to do so. Otherwise all of their lives could be lost today. They pushed through the murky depths of the wooded area, stripped of life from the toxic nature of the rain that had poured over it many times now. The radiation level was stripping everything of life. The wood of the shelter looked slick and haphazardly thrown together but as the door opened light and warmth flooded into the darkened forest. Night was falling now and in the wooded area, now dying, it felt more dark and chilled than ever before. To think only twenty years ago, they had played here in a wood full of living creatures. 

A fire roared pleasantly in a low fire pit. The others sat around in a semi-circle, with three of the red suited people standing in the middle. “Clark” the man called Belllamy Blake nearly shouted in relief, rushing to her side. The fair haired woman’s helmet was cracked and sitting in her hands. With the addition of their group, there were now too many bodies in this small space. 

Bjorn pushed back the fabric of the hooded garment he wore and looked around. “Where is the boy? The one called John Murphy.” Bjorn questioned gruffly. If they had not gotten the boy, this journey was only partially completed. John Murphy was, after all, the point. To be frank, if the pretty faced man had made it through, they likely wouldn’t be out here.  

A heavily pregnant woman stood up and pushed toward them. In her hand was a bloody rag that she then tossed into the fire before she cupped her back and sighed, “He’s over here but he’s hurt. You need to get him inside. I have nothing to treat him with.” Bjorn stepped around the young man blocking him from seeing the boy and crouched low. John Murphy. He sent a prayer of thanks to the gods and reached forward to dust a hand over the boy’s cheek. The breathing was shallow and the gash on his forehead was dripping blood, soaking his hair and the fabric underneath him. Damn it. That would require a couple of stitches to close at the least. 

As he touched the young man, he saw the eyes flutter and then open but he couldn’t seem to focus and flinched away from the gentle caress. Bjorn didn’t blame him, “Hello again, John Murphy.” He greeted quietly, I think you looked prettier last time I saw you. Shall we get you back to your Emori before she digs her way out with her knife and a rusty spoon?” He tried to joke. Murphy opened his mouth as if to speak but could only cough, spraying Bjorn with droplets of blood and mucus. Damn it, that likely meant there were other injuries hidden beneath the awkward garments that he was wearing and which were now in a tattered state. He needed to get him to his Healer’s Ward immediately. Reaching around the younger man, he cupped the back of his head and then under his knees before Bjorn lifted him slowly. He tried not to wince as the pup whimpered in pain. Still, as if having good sense even in this state, an arm circled Bjorn’s shoulders and gripped the fabric as tightly as he could. “Let’s go.” the boy mumbled through bloodied lips, barely clinging to consciousness. “That’s a good boy.” Bjorn praised in a soft whisper. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.” Just live, the Healer prayed. 

He turned to leave and was astounded to see his friend, Itam, holding a knife to Bjorn’s throat. A standoff had formed in the time it had taken for him to collect the pup. All the heavens and all the hells, they did not need this right now. The entrances were blocked, the strays plus the two they had brought with them were now in the centre, surrounding the firepit, giving the room an odd glow as the light reflected from the red of their attire.  

“What is the meaning of this?” Bjorn demanded. “Itam! I trusted you. This is not necessary.” It was rare to see him genuinely angry but ooh angry he was. He had trusted Itam. What was this? Finally, the eldest of the warriors stepped forward. “Itam is acting on my orders.” He nodded toward the heavily pregnant woman who had been trying to care for the John Murphy, “That is my daughter. And this one ...” He gestured to his left to a pretty faced younger male, “Is her man. Take them with you. That’s my grandchild she’s carrying. I want her to live. I want my blood to continue.”

The younger male spoke hastily, almost too quickly to be understood well, “You don’t have to take me. Just her. Please. Our baby deserves a chance. She’s a good woman. She ...” The older warrior held up his hand so the young one fell silent, “Take both of them.” It was a demand and a flatly stated one at that. It was also a plea. Bjorn had a soft heart and he could feel it crumbling in the face of a father’s desperation. Would two more young and healthy people matter after he had muddled it up with Emori’s motley collection of strays?

“We don’t have time for this....” Clarke started to argue and a din of raised voices started to rise in the confined space. There was rumbling outside. More rain was coming. It was a tell-tale sign and with so much damage to his suit, Bjorn was worried that the pup he had in his arms wouldn’t survive if they waited much longer. The Blast Door would also not stay open throughout an entire rain storm. 

Ivar threw back his head and smashed Itam’s nose. One heard it snap loudly in the over-crowded room. He pushed the man he had once called friend away from his body. 

“Fine. We’ll take them.” Ivar stated flatly. “We leave now. We will never again speak the name of Itam. You are without honour.” To the LachiaKru, to have your name stripped was the lowest form of dishonour and Itam gulped and hung his head in shame. He was facing the end of his life and had abandoned his honour at the end of it all. Ivar’s hard gaze swung around as his hand shot out to shove the baby’s father toward the pregnant young woman. “Let’s move now. If that rain pours, these bargains will mean little for none of us will survive the night.”

The young father-to-be rushed to his woman’s side and gathered her close, helping her into a thick overcoat. A bag was put to his back and he picked up his weapon again. “This way.” He seemed shamefaced but there was a spark of hope there that had not existed earlier. Bjorn was displeased to jostle the young man in his arms so much given the undermined state of his injuries. He feared killing him just by moving him at a bad time. Emori might never forgive him. One of the other red-suited males was clutching his arm and trying to stay upright. It was hard to say now - dislocation perhaps - but it was clearly painful. Bellamy Blake was trying to help the pregnant girl hurry as much as possible. The tiny blonde female with fierce eyes brought up the rear. 

With every step they were brought closer to the mountain’s edge and away from the dark forest. Bjorn found it hard to stay upright in the softened ground when he was trying to hurry at this pace. He saw the one with the injured arm slip and fall. He was helped up by the one called Echo and another female in a red suit. He shifted John in his arms and prayed only that Cat managed to persuade them to hold the Blast Door this much longer. The eastern door was finally in reach. “Are you sure?” The young warrior muttered, terrified that this was a fool’s errand and he and the woman he loved would be abandoned when they had a shred of hope at last. There didn’t appear to be any entrance after all. The fears were understandable but they did not have time for them. 

“This is it.” Ivar assured as he turned the lever that was holding it in a partially open position and pulled open the ancient door, revealing the hidden entrance. Ivar held the door for him as Bjorn stepped through first and settled John Murphy on the old cart. He helped the pregnant woman up next and had her hold onto the pup as best she could. He directed the young addition up to the lever. He could help them get the cart moving, once done, the slope on this particular track should get them to where they needed to be - right in front of the Blast Door in the nick of time. The others joined John Murphy and the pregnant woman on the cart including the young man with the injured arm and his companion. Echo had scrambled up and was trying to get everyone situated so there was enough room for the last few additions. She was helpful. He would remember that later. Finally, Bjorn glanced back and growled in frustration. Bellamy Blake was standing at the doorway with the blonde female on the other side. His brother’s expression was growing increasingly angry. 

“Why are you wasting time? Come. Close the door and let’s go now!” Bjorn shouted as he approached. The blonde female did not look away from the SkaiKru male, who looked distressed.  

“You have to come. Clarke!” Bellamy was pleading. He seemed desperate and in distress. Were these two lovers? It didn’t seem so since she seemed reluctant to advance any further. Exasperated, Bjorn approached and interrupted, “In or out.” Bjorn interrupted. “You do not get to kill the rest of us while you have a heartfelt discussion. As if on cue, the sky rumbled again and lightning streaked the sky. They had made it inside with mere minutes to spare. The rain was about to fall. The blonde female didn’t look at either LachiaKru Healer. She kept her gaze on Bellamy Blake as she shook her head, slowly, sadly, “I just .... I can’t ... I can’t be owned. It’s just not ... I can’t live like that. Trapped. Caged. A possession. It isn’t right Bellamy. It just isn’t right. I can’t trade safety for enslavement.” 

Ivar’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. Bjorn was equally angry. This woman knew nothing of his people or their ways and her judgment was rank. Typical SkaiKru. “Fine. In or out.” Bjorn stated with a nod, “Close the door, Ivar.” 

Ivar looked at Bellamy Blake. The male had acquitted himself well today so he was prepared to give him one final choice, “In or out Bellamy Blake. Leave with her. Stay with us. Your choice. Right now.” 

Bellamy looked out at the blonde female and then back at the others. “In.” He stated quietly, reaching forward to pass Clarke his weapon and then stepping back inside the entrance. His eyes remained fixed on hers as the door drew closed and Ivar bolted it shut.  Tears trickled down his cheeks as he turned and stumbled toward the cart.

He was the last one and was barely on it when they began working the old apparatus to set the cart into motion. Echo had to reach forward to catch his clothing and haul him all the way on. There was a downward slope heading toward the main entrance from this level and it quickly picked up speed. They rounded the turns with speed and made no effort to slow. It meant the stop would be ugly. 

Ugly it was. The main entrance was half way closed and Cat was bouncing and waving as they barrelled toward her on the old cart. Bjorn crouched low and looked over at the young father-to-be. “Hold onto her. This is going to be abrupt.” He managed to get out before doing the same with the injured boy. He feared what such a sudden stop would do to the young man’s injuries but there was no hope for it. They had no time to organize a soft landing. 

Cat was screaming, “They are coming. They are coming. Did you get them?” 

They could not answer. The deadlocks were in place, preventing the cart from entering the Bunker. It did mean that as it crashed to a stop, the cart’s occupants were flung off of it violently. Bjorn managed to catch the pup but it was a near thing from the boy’s head crashing into the metal of the doors. Bjorn groaned, cognizant of the fact that his own body was going to be black and blue after this one. Cat was pulling the others through and Bjorn barely managed to cross the threshold with John Murphy in his arms. He was the last one.

A buzzer sounded and the entrance slammed shut for the last time.  This Blast Door would not reopen for seven long winters. Bjorn just sat, his back against an old piece of machinery, and tried to regain his bearings. He hadn’t seen where the others had fallen or their state of injury. His focus was on the young man in his arm. “John Murphy?” He whispered quietly, leaning in toward the boy. “Can you open your eyes for me? Are you still with me?” He asked but aside from drawing another ragged breath, the boy did not open his eyes or speak. The wound on his head was bleeding again.

Bjorn didn’t look away from the boy until he felt another tap to his shoulder. Bjorn looked up to see his brother, Ubbe. “We thought you weren’t going to make it. I see you couldn’t resist just a few more strays.” Ubbe had the good sense to bring down a gurney with him. Bjorn slowly rose and set the boy he was holding onto the gurney. Then he felt someone shove him away and the wild Emori was looking over her injured man. Bjorn smiled affectionately and nodded to his brother, “Some strays are worthwhile.” He noted sadly that Otan was not among them. Later he would ask Emori about it. For now, he let her follow John Murphy to the Healer’s Ward. “I think I might have cracked a rib.” He groaned and then flashed a grin, “But I’m still here.” 

Bjorn’s sense of rising optimism and good humour faded as he heard a familiar tap. A cane. The cane. The Grandmother. He swallowed his smile and straightened his back despite the pain in his side. No one knew if she actually needed the cane or simply used it to good effect. It was a talent to say the least.  

“Grandmother.” He greeted the elderly woman respectfully before doing the same with the Granddaughter, “Master Elys.” Bjorn acknowledged both of them. Elys was heir to the title of Heda, which was currently held by the older woman. Although everyone of LachiaKru simply called her the Grandmother. She had long been labelled as a madwoman by the other Clans of the Commander’s Alliance. 

“Well it appears I must welcome some new additions to LachiaKru. Patch them up, Master Healers. For the next few nights, they shall stay in the Healer’s Ward. Not a permanent solution but it will do for the next few nights. I will consider this challenge you have laid upon us. Two nights hence, a decision will be rendered before the midday meal.” The Grandmother’s voice was strong and although she did not raise her voice, all present heard the authority she carried.

It has been over a century since nuclear warfare decimated the world. Over a century since survivors fled to space, to bunkers, to small shelters and clung to survival. Small pockets of humanity dotted what was once the Eastern seaboard of what was once known as North America. Over that century, those small pockets of humanity became communities, known as Clans. Slang became a language of its own, commonly known as Trigedasleng or Trig. This allowed these small clans to pass information without the knowledge of those that once occupied the Mountain. Enemies of the survivors, the Mountain Men butchered, tormented, twisted and deformed the survivors of Praimfaya, the Trig word for the nuclear event that decimated the world.

The Mountain Men themselves were defeated by those who had fallen to Earth from a space station. The arrival of these people, who became known as SkaiKru, was a cataclysmic event for the Clans. Some of the changes wrought were good. The defeat of the Mountain Men freed survivors and allowed a few clans to strip the old sanctuary of its medicines and machines. Some of the changes wrought were devastating, including the destruction of several villages of the TriKru. The Commander’s faith in the young SkaiKru warrior named Clarke Griffin had caused consternation among the Clans and conflict among the ambassadors. As Azgeda made a play for war, other Clans were prepared to see how events would turn.

Another Clan, known as the LachiaKru, had no such concerns. SkaiKru’s loyalty or lack thereof was not their problem. Azgeda’s desire to take over command of the alliance between Clans and destroy the authority of Lexa kom TriKru was also not their problem. For you see, the people of LachiaKru believed that a second nuclear event was about to descend on the world and they had been preparing for this event for over forty winters. At every conclave they spoke of the time ahead. It would not be as devastating as the first Praimfaya but it would cause many winters of hunger, rain that would fall in sweeps of radiation, the loss of crops, animals, and poison the waters. 

As the capital of Polis hung by a thread, the ambassador of LachiaKru was ready to retreat from the hallowed halls of the Tower and the Temple and return to the Bunker prepared by LachiaKru to ride out these dark winters to come. By the time the snow fell, LachiaKru would have closed their doors to the fools that had not heeded their words.

Bjorn and Ivar perched in the wagon. Behind them were the supplies pledged to the Commander. It would be their last journey to Polis. As of yet, it was undetermined if anything there would remain standing after the winters to come. They had prayed it would be so and that when the world woke up again, there would be others to make trade. LachiaKru’s primary industry was as healers. They prepared and traded medicines for other supplies.  

It had been a week of steady travel to arrive at this point. The two men were brothers with the elder almost six winters older than the younger. However, they were both Masters in their field and earned the title accordingly. For LachiaKru followed the old designations - apprentice, journeyman, master, each indicating their rank and knowledge. Only a Master was allotted a residence in their village and a suite in their new residence to be. Only a Master could claim a ‘family’, a privilege within the Clan. The Commander found their reliance on such formalities to be rather quaint but inoffensive. Other Clans did not understand their ways, believing the Masters to hold slaves, similar to Azgeda and some of the other Clans of the north where life was more brutal and yet disregarded as cheap. LachiaKru did not regard anyone’s life as cheap. Their Clan was small, numbering less than 1,600 souls. However, their families and their Heda, an aged woman of intelligence and wit, known as the Grandmother, were strong. Most thought the Grandmother to be mad. Even Queen Nia of Azgeda avoided angering her for her tactics were unpalatable, even to that harsh Queen. 

Aside from the delivery of the medicines as needed, the brothers and the young apprentice currently seated in the back of the wagon among the goods, were to collect the LachiaKru ambassador to the Capital and return him and his family to the Bunker for final preparations. It had been a week of steady travel when the capital finally rose in the distance, the tower breaching the skyline above the trees. The horses were well-fed and content as they plodded on their path, even after so long a journey. The brothers were not rushing. They were savouring this final trip with a sense of remembrance, hope and a tinge of sadness. It was likely the last time they saw this place or these people.

The road to Polis was treacherous at the best of times and this time was no different. Thieves and brigands were notorious along its path. Well, that was true of most paths. The healers of LachiaKru travelled. It was one of the requirements of their journeymen and some Masters continued to conduct their rounds, visiting those they deemed friends and watching little ones grow. 

LachiaKru also liked to hoard information. While travelling, they paid the young and often ill-informed to help them find repositories of books. Medical, engineering, math and science were particularly valuable but they’d pay for nearly any, usually with food and supplies and sometimes with medical care. Once or twice a child was traded for it, always to LachiaKru. They expanded their ranks through many such orphans or abandoned children. They collected them all - children and books, bringing them back to their people. To date, this repository of books remained uncatalogued aside from the math, science and medical books which found their way to the Masters who trained the young apprentices.

Several generations ago Lachiakru took on the role of training the healers for other people, leading to a tentative peace with nearly all other communities, the nations of grounders as those from SkaiKru called them. Some years ago, Azgeda advanced on one of LachiaKru’s northern villages and in retaliation, LachiaKru simply withdrew all aid and medicines to LachiaKru. Warriors were left untreated, medicines left out with no one to understand how and why to use the variety of tablets, powders, leaves and bark. Needless to say, even Azgeda did not want to lose the aid of their healers or the medicines their warriors  needed. So, they withdrew, the healers returned to their tasks and nothing more was said of the matter. 

Bjorn was lost in drowsy thought when he spotted a huddled body left on the roadside, as if abandoned or tossed from a passing cart. A slave that grew too ill in transport perhaps, Bjorn thought as he drew up the reins and brought the wagon to a stop. The Healer threw the brake and slipped down from his perch. His legs ached from the duration of the journey but this troubled him little. 

“Careful.” Ivar warned. Although the younger brother, Ivar was a suspicious man as a rule and this close to the capital, he was even more so. He let his hand fall low, touching the hilt of his knife tucked into the high leather of his boot.  Bjorn never could resist the frail, fallen or those needing immediate care. Adults held less interest and earned less empathy from Ivar. His weakness was children, infants and pregnant people, which was why his specialty was childbirth. If the situation was too complex or the midwife raised concerns that there may be more than one child to be born, he was asked to provide that care. Childbirth was treacherous but having a good midwife and Master Ivar as the Healer improved the odds.

Bjorn on the other hand was more of a healer for all. Back in the Days Before, he would have been known as a general practitioner or family doctor. Now he was a Master Healer with a gentle touch despite his enormous size. He fairly towered over the average male, even the new King of Azgeda, whom he knew was not a small man.

He approached the prone male and bent low, brushing gentle fingertips over the young man’s upper back and along his spine, checking for injuries and fever. His movements were halted by the flash of a blade. He looked down and into the wide blue eyes of the young man who was now holding a knife to Bjorn’s throat. “Listen boy disha ste nou a good idea.” He started, speaking Trig as he assumed the young man was likely a young exile from a village, desperate and hungry

Before the boy could reply, Bjorn heard his name, called out in some excitement. Glancing away from the boy, which admittedly was risky given that he still had a knife all too close to Bjorn’s throat, Bjorn saw a small face appear in the bushes. It was a face well-known to the Healer. “Emori!” Bjorn exclaimed, rising to his feet and stepping toward the petite young woman as she emerged from the bushes at the edge of the road

“John ... don’t ... this is ... we can’t with them.” Emori tried to explain haltingly in English. John’s Trig was still not great but he was catching on quickly. Bjorn was almost amused as the young man scrambled to his feet and appeared utterly perplexed as Bjorn pulled Emori into a hug. A hug that Emori returned with a grin on her face that appeared to stretch from ear to ear. Ivar’s hand released its hold on the hilt and had a suspicion as to what was about to occur. Looking back at the young apprentice Ivar instructed her to put together two bundles of food and supplies. His brother was a soft touch but even Ivar was fond of the freikdreina. Bjorn noted in some amusement that boy was edging toward her as if she might need help or protection.

Bjorn stepped back and cupped the young woman’s face. He traced the edge of a new scar along her cheek with his thumb and tsked softly, stepping back to let Ivar see too. The man sitting in the wagon shook his head in clear disapproval of this new injury. “Ai expect mo sense kom yu, clever gada. You’ve grown since osir last saw yu. Chit... em has been gon least tu o thri winters nau? yu laik almost a grown plan. Where ste Otan?”

Bjorn looked around expectantly and even the cynical Ivar mirrored the motion, eyes scanning the forest’s edge for the young man that he and Bjorn called friend. In fact, Otan had saved Bjorn’s life once, many years ago. That was a long tale for another day however. Emori shook his head and switched to English so that Murphy could follow the words as spoken, “I haven’t been able to find him but I will. Very soon. I wish to go look for him as soon as I can convince….” She assured the Healers, confident that she would once again find her brother, as soon as she convinced her man to join her in the search.

Bjorn sighed, “Pity. I would have liked to have seen him again before....” He paused and glanced over at the young male and then back at Emori again. With a tip of his head indicating the boy, “Is this your man, Emori?” 

The wide smile on her face spoke volumes. “This is John Murphy.” 

“With the name I assume you are of SkaiKru?” Bjorn queried and ignored Ivar’s growl of irritation from the wagon seat. “Not anymore.” John tried to protest but Bjorn just laughed, “They aren’t so bad. They need to stop thinking they understand life here better than us and they would fare far better but that is their battle, not ours. There is little time for it left anyway.” 

Before the younger man could speak further, Bjorn cupped John Murphy’s face and looked at him as if he were a horse put to market. His gaze ran over him carefully, noting the way Emori’s young man flinched when touched. He wondered what had happened but assumed if he was out here, living rough and thieving from traders and travellers, he suspected nothing good. Bjorn nodded and commented gruffly, “Prettier than I thought you would like. Healthy enough too but you both look as if you could do with a good meal or a dozen. I am pleased to see you both though. John Murphy and Emori.” He acknowledged both of them before continuing to speak, letting his hands fall to his side as he looked down at Emori earnestly, “The time is coming. What we have spoken of ... you are always welcome to join us. You and Otan … even your young man here. I would keep you safe.” Bjorn pledged quietly, knowing Emori would refuse. She always did. She didn’t feel welcome among any communities of people and he did not blame her. LachiaKru was different but not different enough at times. 

Bjorn sighed and conceded, to himself at least, that he would be unlikely to persuade her. The large Healer touched Emori’s cheek, drawing her gaze up to his, “I know you do not like the idea of living with so many rules. I accept this. We all do. But for your sake, for both of you, find somewhere and get inside. I’ll be at least five winters, long winters, before food will be safely grown outside again. We survived before. We will do it again. LachiaKru is closing its doors before the rains turn to black snow. Soon the water will be poison.” 

Turning to look at John Murphy, “You and Emori need to find somewhere safe. This is our last journey to Polis. We have medicines for the Commander and her people, for the days ahead.” If he couldn’t persuade the stubborn Emori, then perhaps the Healer would have better luck with her pretty-faced companion.

Emori shook her head, “We’ll survive. John and I ... we’re survivors. You don’t need to concern yourself with us.” Ivar had descended from the wagon seat while the others had been speaking. He chuckled in amusement as the guarded boy stepped back and toward Emori, protectively, “He’s a feral pup, isn’t em?” Bjorn murmured in Trig to his brother. 

In Ivar’s hands were two bundles as prepared by the apprentice, containing food and a container of water and wrapped in a soft blanket. “Well I’ve said my piece.” Bjorn returned to English. He wasn’t about to beat his head against a brick wall to persuade Emori of the truth of his words. He hoped she heeded them in time to find somewhere safe. He’d never been able to persuade Otan either. It was frustrating but it was also typical. For many years, LachiaKru had been dismissed as led by a madwoman predicting the second coming of Praimfaya. Now that all signs pointed to this wild prediction as fact, others still chose not to see. It was enough to drive the sane to the brink of true madness. 

Ivar handed one bundle to John and then another to Emori. Cupping Emori’s face, much as Bjorn did, he nodded at what he saw there. “You are a strong woman now. Keep yourself and your man safe. If you need us ... if you can get there before the doors close, we will help you.” Ivar pledged. There were some loyalties that could never be forgotten and Otan and Emori’s assistance to him as he tried to save his brother was something that neither brother had forgotten. Gifts deposited, Ivar returned to his spot in the wagon.

Bjorn mirrored his brother’s motion but then he deposited a kiss on Emori’s cheek and then did the same to the one known as John Murphy. He flinched again and Bjorn wondered what had happened to him to make the young man so fearful of a gentle touch.. 

“Stay safe. Stay well. Get inside. Take care of each other.” Bjorn stated, “And may we meet again. If I see Otan, I will leave word at the trader’s outside TriKru’s western villages that you are safe and around the capital.” He stated before following his brother up and onto the wagon. The reins slapped the back of the horses and once again the wagon rolled forward and on toward the capital.

As they rode away, the occupants of the wagon heard the young man exclaim to Emori, “What the hell was all that?” Emori’s response had them both laugh despite themselves. They liked her, even if she was too stubborn for her own good at times. “LachiaKru. Madmen and healers. They are so mad they even treat those like me ... and believe that Praimfaya is coming again. They are crazy. Everyone knows that their Heda is mad.”