“Gather round children, gather round”

  The voice carries as much dust and gravel as the path beneath her boots. Looking up to the crude speaker system sees that the closest is nearly falling off it’s post, so she takes a moment to right the small tin box.

  Climbing back down from the oft used stack of crates, Val looks back inside her little hovel to see if the announcement had awoken any of her patients. Luckily, the only movement is the broad bladed ceiling fan, slow turning and clicking off-kilter.

  [Father will want to know how they’re doing.] Her nose scrunches at the idea. [Maybe I can use them as an excuse to escape early.]

  Val ducks inside just long enough to find her jacket. A heavy thing that was likely used for factory work rather than comfort. The sleeves fit over bony arms and completely engulfs her torso, hanging far past her finger tips and nearly to her scuffed knees. At least it’s dry today.

  The young woman steps out and pulls a tarp over the entrance. She double takes, opening it to whisper “I’ll be back soon. Try not to die.” But her humor only serves to cover the guilt churning her stomach.

  Val scurries off, boots splashing in the sour puddles left from the week prior storm. With no sunlight to help, wet still clings to everything, from ceiling to floor, nothing ever dries down here. The walls seem to weep for days on end. Soon, her boots land on soggy timber tied down in iron. She follows the train tracks back to the next stop- back where everyone else lives. The only thing further out from her makeshift medical tent, is the cemetery. Or at least, the cave-in that had brought down enough dirt to bury someone proper.

  Her pace slows. Memories of the kids that used to play out there just for the sake of breaking the rules replay over and over. She barely remembers their voices, their faces… or their names. Just featureless shadows of people she can't recall. Val closes her eyes, feet still dragging her through the well known passage ways. She might have to add two more if their conditions don’t improve soon.

  After Babusya passed last year, the medical duties were sharply dropped on her shoulders. As one of the oldest surviving women, medical care only seemed the most fitting occupation. It did get her out of the kitchen. No more skinning moles for dinner. But it’s hardly done any good for the state of her heart.

  “до?брий день”

  Val snaps out of her despair to respond. “Прив??т”

  The old man rocks back and forth in his chair, hands hard at work trying to repair some old rope to a usable state again. He looks comfortable despite the dripping water his hat protects him from. “[How’s ol Izaak? Is he gonna pull through?]”

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  “[I can’t say gramps. His fever is still high and he can’t keep anything down. I need him to drink, but at the same time, I need cleaner water for him.]”

  “[Don’t worry. Father will provide.]”

  “[I hope so.]” she presses her hands together in prayer. “[are you going to see him?]” she asks, knowing the man is glued to that chair.

  “[Not today dear. Not today. Do tell me the good news though. Won’t you?]”

  “[Sure, didus.]”

  Val gives him a deep nod in recognition. The old man returns the gesture with a toothless smile and tip of his wide brimmed hat.

  Making it into the shanty town proper had her crawling over barricades and under some barbed wire. She's certainly never seen trouble enough that these things were necessary. But Father insisted on keeping everything secure. She waves to a few of the guards, children a handful of years younger than her but looking twice that. Val can smell the rare gift of warm bread baking. Father must have found flour while he was out. She definitely didn't believe that "God" had sent it, but she would never say that out loud. She'd spent that week in solitary once before. Never again.

  On towards the campfire circle, Val collects some stragglers. Propping some up with canes or crutches while offering a shoulder to get Krys to his feet- foot. Singular. “[where is your leg? I spent two weeks drying that lumber so Ela could carve it.]” she asks him, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

  The young boy screws his eye shut. “[better as fire wood than die of chills. I had nothing better.]” he waves his hand out at the direction they’re headed together. “[You should have seen Boris. Cried like a baby having to set it to the campfire. But, look on bright side. No more guard duty for me- Hey!]” his dark grey eyes catch Vals. “[Maybe you can amputate other foot. Then they’ll let me sit all the time.]”

  “Nii.” Val has to shrug the boy further onto her shoulder to keep him upright. “[Absolutely not. And don’t think of doing something stupid. You stay in one piece. Yah?]”

  Krys looks himself up and down. “[What if this one piece is complete shit?]”

  She only shakes her head.

  “[Don’t cry sis. Father will surely have good news. We are overdue for good news.]” he offers with more confidence then Val thought his tattered body could produce.

  “[I hope you are right.]” is all she dares to say.

  The group of misfits, cadavers, and hopefuls intermingle. Barely more than three dozen left. The underground city once housed near ten times that many. But time is cruel, and nothing stops time. Not for long at least.

  In the center of the semi-circle is a modest campfire. Behind it stands a bear of a man that time has worn to a frail and hunched posture. His dull slate hair is more from dirt and grim than any actual color left there. His beard is thick. And his outfit is cobbled together pre-incrusion war fatigues, packs, and gear. He wears a smattering of pendants, medals, and ribbons - none than anyone knew the true meaning of. But Father loved to tell the stories of how he got them… Val tried to keep count how many time they changed. But she lost her diary of notes too long ago. Now, she barely remembers the stories from last week.

  Father pulls the gas mask that hangs around his neck up and over his mop of hair. “[Rejoice, children. Father is home.]” he announces as he always does.

  A chorus of strained voices reply. “[Welcome Father. Did God speak fondly of us?]”