Robinson Crusoe 2246: (Book 3)

by E. J. Robinson

  In all the time he’d known her, she’d never once called him by his first name.

  Finally, he nodded and said, “I promise.”

  She stared into his eyes and saw that he meant it. Then she laid her head in his lap, and he stroked her hair. He wanted to believe he was the man she thought he was—that he was not only worthy of paradise but worthy of her. And yet the old fear, born of the choices he made, came back to haunt him again. In DC, he had chosen Friday over the safety of the world. And on the battlefield, he had pulled her in front of Arga’Zul’s blade to save himself. At the time it felt like the right choice—he knew Arga’Zul would not hurt Friday—but the further he was removed from the incident, the more he feared cowardice had played some part and he had rationalized it as he always did because of the outcome. Both were moments of weakness, choices made in an instant. He told himself next time would be different, but deep in his heart, he wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Denver

  The rain returned the next day in fat, lazy drops that stung their skin. Robinson and Friday left their gear and supplies in the museum and set out early in the morning in hopes of finding better boots and jackets.

  The department stores had all been looted. What few items of clothing that had been left behind had aged so badly they practically disintegrated when touched. The shoe departments had also been picked clean. Not even the kids’ section had been spared.

  If there was one positive thing about Denver, it was that they’d found no signs of Renders. No hovels. No gory track marks. No fetid smell. It was possible the city had been spared the worst of the pandemic because of its climate. Or they’d been better prepared to deal with the spread of the affliction. Either way, the city seemed like an optimal place for human survival. So, why was it abandoned?

  They moved on to the downtown high-rises. Many of them once served as businesses, yet many others had balconies with chairs and old pots for plants. Pressing through the first door, they saw the telltale signs of looting. Debris clogged the stairwells in patches and clumps. Sometimes it was household goods like pans and cutlery. Other times it was electronics abandoned on various floors when the burden of their weight most likely overcame their pilferer’s greed. A few inexplicable spoils lined the hallways. Furniture, televisions, and photos of families.

  They took their time going floor to floor, stopping only to eat or whenever Friday felt too winded. They managed to cover four residential towers the first day, scavenging a few old sweaters, a pair of galoshes for Friday, and a pocket knife with numerous tools and little rust.

  Walking those homes was like peering through a veil in time. They tried to imagine the lives the owners once led—ones undoubtedly of comfort but insular too. The units were enormous, each capable of housing multiple families, though the personal effects suggested one or two people at most. Even with the magnificent view, it must have been a lonely existence.

  By noon on the second day, they had explored three more towers. When they entered the lobby of the fourth, Friday broke into a coughing spell that took her off her feet. Robinson gave her water, but when she spat the last out, it was pink.

  “We have to get you back to the museum,” he said, concerned.

  Friday shook her head. “I’ll be fine once I gather my breath.”

  He knelt and took her hand.

  “Your face is one a pup makes when a bone is taken from him.”

  “This isn’t funny,” he said softly.

  “No. But I do not think this is from the virus. Listen,” she said when he started to shake his head. “If it were the virus, I think it would have spread more. Hurt more. This is not pain, but a heaviness here,” she touched her chest, “when I breathe. Do you understand?”

  “It could be a side effect. Or a secondary response. I don’t know. Maybe you contracted pneumonia.”

  Friday looked quizzical.

  “It’s a condition my mother told me about once. Regardless, we should stop for the day.”

  Friday shook her head. “We cannot afford more days. They run faster than a river. Before we know it, they will have passed us by. You go. I’ll rest here.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “We’ve seen no one since we entered Denver. No signs of people anywhere.”

  “What about the smoke?”

  Friday shrugged. “It may have been dust. I can protect myself, Crusoe. You know this.”

  He did. “Fine. But I’m sticking close to the stairwell. I’ll call out the number of each floor I enter, and I’ll bar the door open so we can reach other if one of us shouts. If you see or hear anything, don’t be a hero.”

  “The same goes for you.” She grinned.

  Robinson kissed her on the forehead before vaulting up the stairs.

  His feet echoed in the stairwell as he padded up the steps. The apartment doors were mostly open, scattered goods filling the halls. Robinson decided to skip the lowest levels since they were the most likely to have been cleaned out. Luckily, most of the hallways were lit by open windows, allowing him to quicken his pace everywhere but on the half-landings.

  Although he tried to keep his focus on the task at hand, his mind kept returning to Friday. She was unquestionably growing sicker, and despite her thoughts to the contrary, he knew it was the virus. The lesion had been the first sign. This respiratory ailment was the second. If he had any hopes of saving her and their child, Robinson knew he had to find the City of Glass soon. The problem was that the only clue he had was the one Dustynose had given him, and it had only led to Denver. He could search government buildings, maybe the library, but what if it all proved futile? What if there was nothing to find? The thought made him shudder. Then he froze.

  The hallway had gone dark. In fact, the entire stairwell above him was black as night. None of the doors were open. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one. He pulled his pistol and reached for the door of the twenty-first floor. Before he opened it, he called “twenty-one” down to Friday. He waited for her to acknowledge it, but he heard no response. She’s safe, he told himself. Sleeping maybe. He opened the door.

  The corridor was dark, scattered light stealing in from windows at the far end. None of the doors had been opened. His heart filled with hope.

  The apartment was untouched; every surface was covered with dust. On a counter laid a bowl with keys and a wallet. Robinson moved further in and found an old computer laying open on a table. The kitchen was stocked with canned goods; the floor was stained with fluids bled from the refrigeration unit.

  Robinson moved to the first bedroom, where he found exercise equipment and a bed still made. In the second unit, he found the owner. A gun lay near his hand. A dark stain on the headboard. Curled under the bones of his arm was a large dog, his leash still attached. Robinson thought of Resi and understood. He backed out of the room, closing the door quietly.

  In the fourth apartment, Robinson found what he was looking for. In the closet of a young couple he found two large jackets, one for a man, one for a woman. The man’s jacket was big and billowy but fit Robinson snuggly. The woman’s jacket was tighter and stylish, made of a leather-like material that was water repellant. It also had a fur or faux fur-lined hood and cuffs. In a plastic box marked “snowboarding clothes,” he found cloth under layers and weather-resistant gloves. Neither of the boots he found would fit. The man’s were too small and the woman’s were too big. It would take another nine apartments and three floors until he had everything he needed.

  Back in the stairwell, Robinson felt a chill breeze descending from above. An elevated view of the city might be good. He set the clothes and boots down and ascended the remaining floors. The door was marked “no access,” but it opened easily and, surprisingly, without a sound. That irked him. Every other door had groaned. He looked closely at the hinges and shivered when he saw someone had recently oiled them.

  Robinson opened the door cautiously to a dull gray sky. Axe in hand, he ste
pped out. Then he saw the enclosure. It was four feet wide and six feet long, edged on all sides by what appeared to be old closet doors. A thin plastic curtain covered a narrow door. He could hear movement behind it. He approached cautiously, peeling back the sheet to peek inside. A chorus of screeches hit him as dozens of live rats scrambled around their makeshift cage. The smell was ghastly. Robinson had to cover his nose to keep from vomiting. The cage was littered with feces, and few dead rats that had been gnawed on by the others. Outside was a wooden block with a rusty knife and a plastic blue bucket full of rat heads.

  He realized that someone has been feeding on those things.

  Robinson let the curtain fall and headed back for the stairwell. He hustled down the steps as quickly and quietly as possible. He needed to grab the gear and Friday and leave, but when he reached the twenty-first floor, he found the bag of gear was missing.

  Robinson tightened his grip on the axe and listened.

  “Friday?” he called quietly.

  There was no answer. He cracked the door to the floor and looked inside. The hallway was silent, but there on the floor, five feet away, was the bag.

  Who had moved it there? Had Friday come looking for him? Should I call out for her again? Instinct told Robinson he should leave it, but they needed that gear. Friday needed it. He stepped into the hall.

  The apartment doors were closed. He heard no sounds, saw no signs of movements. As carefully as he could, he inched forward until his hand wrapped around the bag’s straps. Then he lifted it and turned for the stairs, stopping only when a door opened quickly behind him and a large barrel bored into his neck.

  A husky voice said, “Don’t move.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Priests of Blasphemy

  Viktor cursed. The genetic modifications he’d made to the pack had given them boundless energy. And since sighting young mister Crusoe and his native paramour, the master had used this to push their party day and night. At one point, Viktor would have given the last of his bolo ties for one single, solitary night of uninterrupted sleep.

  The irony was Viktor had no one to blame but himself. It was part and parcel of the deal he’d made when the Master—then going by the name Vardan Saah—captured him on the field of battle. Well, not the field exactly. More like the fringes. Actually, he hadn’t meant to stray near the fighting at all, but when he and Boss had leaped from the train just before it collided with their rival’s, he got turned around and soon found himself smack dab in the middle of the bloodiest brawl imaginable. All that bloodshed, the wailing and the dying. It was exhausting. Viktor had tried to scurry away, knowing his best opportunity for survival was to find his way back to Cowboytown and the comfort of his genteel persona, Mr. Dandy. Alas—in the parlance of the ancients—excrement happens.

  What it boiled down to was that he was too good at his job. At the time, the Master had made a compelling proposition: work for me or die. Transparent terms, no room for negotiation. On the surface, not exactly an enticing prospect. But he’d underestimated two things. The first was the Master’s capacity for turning a situation to his favor. The second, and more critical, was the Master’s capacity for being completely crazy. Those both turned out to be good things for Viktor, who, when asked if there was a way to raise an army, pointed out the only one not currently under management was the group stumbling around in the dark, basking in the scent of its own ordure. Light bulb! The result of this epiphany turned out to be the genetic manipulation of a slave army of the afflicted. The Master had requirements: they needed to have strength, speed, endurance, and the ability to track. Oh, and they needed to be fully controlled by he and Cassa at all times. Simple, right? But defying all odds, Viktor had proven up to the task. Inspired by the protagonist in the classic book, Frankenstein, the newly-named Viktor worked tirelessly to manipulate both flesh and mind until the pack was a perfect symbiosis of man and beast. Only now, after days of exhaustive pursuit, was his genius coming back to haunt him.

  Rest finally came on their third eve away from the city of urchins. Rain was falling lightly from clouds hovering over the rocky lowlands where the master ordered they make camp. Viktor started a fire while Cassa used his pipes to call the pack in. Once off his horse, Viktor’s legs, back, and derriere were all numb. Not that he bothered to complain. He was too busy finding a private place to pee.

  With the pack amassed, Cassa blew the note to feed. Without hesitation, the horde bolted to the southwest, kicking up dust as they disappeared. Viktor sulked when tasked to collect kindling. He only cheered up when he smelled the fowl Cassa had plucked and spitted over the fire. The Master filled his cast iron pot for tea. No one spoke as they huddled around the fire, listening to the fat sizzling in the flames.

  Viktor giggled unexpectedly.

  “Something amusing, Viktor?” the Master asked. “By all means, share it. This dreadful night could use a little levity.”

  “I was recalling some articles I once possessed in Cowboytown,” Viktor said. “I’ve spoken of the moving pictures before—”

  “Ad infinitum,” the Master said. “Continue.”

  “Well, among the repository from which those celluloid treasures were found was a smaller cache of ancient collectibles known as dime novels.”

  “Dime novels? I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

  “It was an inexpensive form of fiction common during the settlement era of this land, similar to their overseas counterparts, Penny Dreadfuls?”

  “That does have a more appealing ring.”

  “They were largely superficial works, fashioned as cheap entertainment. They depicted adventures that took place in the old frontier and included settings very much like this. Men sitting around campfires, conspiring or consorting.”

  “Villains?” the Master asked with an edge in his voice.

  “Oh, no,” Viktor answered. “I wasn’t suggesting…”

  “Continue.”

  “It simply occurred to me, our story would make a most curious issue.”

  “Our story?”

  “Well, your story would be the main narrative, of course. The distinguished man wronged by the duplicitous upstart. Your unrelenting but totally justifiable quest for revenge.”

  The Master grunted in appreciation.

  “Then, there’s your faithful adjutant, moi. Brilliant but tortured. So out of place in this crude, cruel world.”

  “And what of Cassa?” the Master asked. “If any are deserving of having their story told, it is he.”

  Viktor glanced across the fire at Cassa as he continued to turn the bird on the spit. He hadn’t considered the brute, but he appeared to be listening.

  “Indeed,” Viktor said.

  Viktor remembered the events vividly. How could he not? The horrors of that first month would always be ingrained on his brain. The Aserra had just routed the Bone Flayers and flushed them north. Vardan Saah and Mr. Dandy found themselves caught in the flood of the vanquished as they fled through the countryside, sacking homes and settlements, butchering anyone in their way. One of those places turned out to be a small village of a simple, peaceful people who, in the dead of night, woke to find Hell had descended. If Viktor closed his eyes, he could still see the carnage, hear the screams of children as their parents were butchered and houses set to flame. Just when it appeared there were no defenders among them, a tall shadow broke through, deftly using a bow to kill attackers until his quiver finally ran empty. Then, a scream pierced the night.

  A girl of indeterminate age was caught in a house blaze. Fire churned from every door and window, but that didn’t stop the man from storming inside. Mr. Dandy was sure he’d seen the last of him, but he emerged moments later, half his body engulfed in flames. His skin sizzled and popped as he set the child down. When he discovered he was too late to save her, he let loose a wail so anguished, so piercing, Mr. Dandy hoped he might go deaf then and there. The man stood frozen until the Master wrapped a blanket around him and marshaled him away.r />
  Not a day went by that Mr. Dandy didn’t think it would be the wounded man’s last. But he persevered. At the Master’s bidding, Viktor opened the wounded man’s skull to neutralize various receptors of his cerebral cortex, thalamus, and limbic system. His condition improved, but he would never feel pain again. Neither would he know pleasure. The success of Viktor’s work inspired him to create the Master’s army. The pack was born, and Cassa would lead them.

  “You never did tell me why you saved him,” Viktor said. “Or why you named him Cassa.”

  The Master paused. He could not say how he admired the man’s willingness to risk his life for that of a child. Or that if he or his son Jaras had acted similarly at the Western Gate, his very own Tessa might still be alive. Even after all this time, the memory was still too painful. Instead, he chose to view the act of self-sacrifice for what it was. And he knew, deep down in that place where his hunger for greatness waged war with the trappings of tyranny, that if he could earn such a man’s fealty, he would earn his life. And one day, if a hundred such men might follow him, he could rule the world.

  “In those moments after he emerged from the fire,” the Master said softly, “I heard a woman’s lamentations. She said, ‘He tried to warn us.’ It was a tragedy that reminded me of Cassandra, Princess of Troy, who refused a God’s advances and was herself rendered helpless. For her gift of true insight would forever go unheeded until at last she retreated into madness.” The Master looked across the fire at Cassa, who had gone stone still. “But do not fear, friend. I won’t abandon you. Where I go, you will always have a place at my fire.” And then the Master’s eyes shifted behind him. “As will you, good sers. Won’t you come in and warm yourselves?”

  Viktor looked up in shock as several figures purged the darkness. Cassa’s hand reached for his bow, but the Master shook his head.