Free World War Moo by Michael Logan Page B

right. It had been longer; something scruffy and unwashed. Dreadlocks, that was it. She scribbled them in and then she had it.
    â€œI’ve seen you before,” she said. “At a demonstration in Edinburgh last year against Trident. You…”
    Ruan thought it best not to continue. The protest had been one in a series of many against the U.K.’s nuclear weapons program, which was housed at Faslane naval base on Gare Loch, not too far from where they were now. The protests were normally rowdy but peaceful affairs attended by a mix of students, Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament activists, professional crusties, and genteel gray-haired old ladies. This particular protest involved a “die-in” outside Scottish Parliament, with everyone lying on the ground and feigning death during a visit by the defense secretary, who’d no doubt wished that they would stop pretending and get on with really being dead.
    The woman had stripped off her green caftan, thick purple tights, and skimpy knickers, hurling each item at the line of police. The knickers landed right on a policeman’s hat. When everybody else ignored her shrill cries for mass nudity, she kicked off the hand grasping her ankle, which belonged to the ponytailed man lying next to her, and skipped through the prone bodies. She hurdled the barricade and dashed toward the startled politician as he was about to climb into his car. The police intercepted her and dragged her off as she screamed abuse. All of this had been caught on camera and played repeatedly on the news, accompanied by smirking jokes from the presenters.
    The woman looked at the ground. “As I said, I’m not that person any longer.”
    Ruan realized that she’d just repaid the woman who saved her life by reminding her of an incident she clearly wanted to forget. She hadn’t even expressed her gratitude for the intervention. “Thank you for helping me last night.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œWhat were you doing out there anyway?”
    â€œHunting.”
    â€œAh. That explains the bow and arrow. Which, by the way, you’re very good with.”
    â€œThank you. I used to do archery when I was younger, before I became a pacifist.”
    From the way she’d ended the dog, it was clear pacifism had only been a phase. “I don’t even know your name. I’m Ruan Peat.”
    â€œFanny Peters. Come on, let me show you around.”
    â€œCan I get dressed first?”
    â€œAh, of course. Old habits die hard, I’m afraid.”
    They smiled at each other, and Ruan felt the warmth that only human companionship brought bleed through her. She had to fight to stop it thawing the emotions she’d done her best to keep on ice to maintain her sanity. She pulled on her clothes. As she did so she noticed that the smartphone she’d lifted from an empty house was plugged in and charging. She grabbed the phone and her sword through force of habit and walked to the door. As she approached, Fanny’s breathing slowed. The ruined nostril quivered as she drew in deep breaths.
    â€œI know you are here and it makes me happy,” Fanny said quietly, repeating the phrase she’d uttered upon their first meeting.
    Ruan frowned. The lines on her forehead deepened when she passed through the door and noticed the key. It protruded from the outside of the door. Fanny had locked her in.
    I’m sure she had a good reason , Ruan thought.
    The state of the hallway didn’t help her discomfort. Fungus bloomed around the skirting board, while only a few scraps of wallpaper remained on the blistered walls. It smelled and spoke of ruin.
    Fanny seemed to sense her unease. “Sorry about the state of the place. Nobody was in this one, so we left it. We’ll decorate it for you if you decide to stay.”
    Ruan stepped into the fresh air, reaching out to flake stones from the gray pebbledash covering the walls. As she did so