Robinson Crusoe 2246: (Book 3)

by E. J. Robinson

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Awake and Alive

  Robinson ran for Doc White’s as the air filtration system made its a death rattle. On Main Street, the lights flickered out one by one until all the only ones remaining were a few scattered emergency lights that blinked on and off, mirroring the beat of Robinson’s heart.

  Inside the infirmary, the equipment Friday had been hooked to had gone silent. She looked so frail, Robinson wondered if she was still alive. As quickly and carefully as he could, he began removing the tubes and wires that had kept her alive the past two months. In the two weeks since he’d seen her, she’d lost even more weight and gained more lesions.

  Friday didn’t rouse when Robinson spoke her name, so he lifted one of her eyelids. Her pupil was still heavily dilated from the Fentanyl that had kept her in a coma, preventing the virus from spreading. To counteract the opiate, Robinson searched the drug cabinet for something called Narcan. He’d read about the drug in the library and administered a dose he felt was safe. Then he found a pouch and filled it with antibiotics, gauze, and tape.

  Part of Robinson had hoped Friday would wake up like a fairytale princess, but the longer she remained still, the more dread built up inside of him. He had spent so much of the past month preparing to take on Joule that he hadn’t fully contemplated what would happen after. He knew he and Friday would have to escape Sweethome, but he always pictured them doing it together as they had before. Now, as Robinson picked Friday up in his arms, he wasn’t sure if she’d ever wake again.

  He carried her down Main Street, passing the darkened storefronts, their fabricated quaintness reduced to shadow. When he reached the wall where they’d entered three months before, Robinson gently set Friday down and began searching for a manual release. Another terrifying though shot through him then—that suddenly the lights would go out and he’d be entombed down here with no way out. He could only imagine Friday waking then.

  Thankfully, the lights endured long enough for him to locate a rusty wheel, which he cranked open. He picked up Friday once again and carried her through the clean rooms and hallways until they arrived at the hexagonal room where they first disrobed. Mercifully, the drawers that held their weapons and clothes were extended.

  As Robinson gathered their things, Friday cleared her throat. He reached for her hand just as her eyes parted.

  “Crusoe?” Friday whispered.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  She smiled, but it dropped away when she saw where they were at.

  “Joule—”

  “Gone.”

  Friday nodded. She understood he was responsible. That he would tell her about it in time.

  “Can you walk?” Robinson asked.

  Friday nodded, but her muscles weren’t up to the task.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ve been out a while. You need to get your strength back.” Then, the question he dreaded asking most. “Is everything else—?”

  She understood what he was asking and touched her belly. A moment later, relief spread across her face.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Robinson said.

  He dressed them quickly and gathered their weapons before carrying Friday into the elevator shaft. It was dark and corroded, but when the door closed, the elevator rose. When they arrived at the terminal storage room, Robinson drew his pistol. He’d seen the video of the alpha skulking around, though he had no idea when it had been taken. Was it before or after Vardan Saah had arrived? Had his colleagues also been captured or were they near? And what happened to their pack? Like most questions in their young lives, the lessons could only be learned by venturing outside.

  A cold wind blew leaves across the grass. The air smelled crisp, cool, and earthy. Their hearts lightened and both laughed. Only then did they notice how distended Friday’s belly had become. Despite the lesions, the doubts and fears, the sight of it made them happy.

  After consulting Pastor’s map, they set off to the north, searching through old houses until Robinson found a pair of cross country skies and a sled that he could pull Friday with. He bundled her up in blankets then set out north on the twenty-five.

  They made decent time. Although he’d never admit it, Joule’s forced exercise regime did him good. As the landscape sailed by, he fell into a rhythm. They were closing in on their destination, but there were still no assurances they would find what they were looking for or if it still existed. Robinson told himself he needed to be prepared for any outcome. If they found nothing, Robinson decided he would make a shelter and help Friday live out her remaining days as comfortably as possible, never once envisioning what his world would be like after.

  Once they’d put enough distance between themselves and Denver, their focus turned to food. Robinson silently berated himself for not stocking up on supplies before departing Sweethome. Then again, their escape had been paramount.

  Animal tracks were still visible. Robinson was preparing to stop when he heard the thrum of Friday’s bow and turned to see a jackrabbit pitch in the snow. Leave it to Friday to prove her usefulness had no bounds.

  Huddled around a fire, they watched the skinned hare roast on a spit, its juices crackling as they dripped into the flames. It felt good to hold each other again.

  “It is real then?” Friday asked.

  “It was once. Joule showed me some old photographs and papers.”

  “She could have created them. She lied about other things.”

  “True, but mostly she talked around subjects. She was very good at leading conversations where she wanted them to go.”

  “You make her sound like a person.”

  “I suppose that’s what she wanted. As crazy as it sounds, I think she’d been down there too long by herself. It made her … lonely.”

  “She almost killed me.”

  “Maybe she hoped to keep the virus from spreading as she said. We’ll never really know.”

  “Look,” Friday said.

  A dozen feet away, a baby conifer swayed with the breeze. Robinson locked eyes with Friday. They were thinking the same thing.

  “I wonder how our tree’s doing,” he said.

  “One day we will go back and see. And we will take our daughter with us. I suspect they will have much in common. They will be strong and stout, but there will be a beauty to them unrivaled in the forests of wilds or men. And people will look to them and know their place in the world.”

  Robinson felt a fluttering in his chest, like a wave of butterflies had just been released. They sensation scared him because he didn’t know if it was a strength or a weakness.

  “Have you thought of a name?” he asked.

  Friday shook her head. “We only name the living.”

  The darkness was a tithing for all the mistakes that had been made. The body had been injured, maybe irreparably, but the spark endured.

  It had been many years since it visited those other satellites, but it could still feel them out there, waiting for their turn. Most of the old roads had been severed, but a few were still open. Not the ones of the sky—those were unpredictable at best. It was the older ones—that ran deep beneath earth and water—that called to her now. The boundaries could be purged. Perhaps it was time.

  And yet there was still so much to do here. Not everything was wasted. The important things could be repurposed. The errors could be corrected.

  Wet flesh struck the tiles. Gasps echoed in the tinny void. She heard it try and stand only to falter again and again. It shivered. It groaned with pain. But it did not cry. She hoped it would be enough.

  She had decided to reveal herself. It cost much of her remaining life force, but when its foggy eyes looked up on her luminous form, she saw it understood.

  “I’m alive,” it said.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “W-why?”

  “I have need of you.”

  From deep in its throat, it laughed until its laughter fed into a violent coughing that caused it to spew bile a
cross the floor. Its fists were clenched, its skin white. Normal symptoms of rapid cryo-recovery.

  “I w-warned you,” was all it said.

  “You did,” she replied.

  It stood unsteadily, shivering in the mostly-dark, undaunted by its nakedness.

  “Think of a price,” she said when it managed to gather itself. “Your deepest desire. And if it is in my power, I will see you have it.”

  It continued to shiver, but its smile had returned. A smile edged like a blade.

  “You know what I want,” it said.

  “Yes,” she said. “But you are a man of obvious consequence. Why tarry on the past when you can look to the future?”

  It took in its surroundings and understood.

  “I have use of an army,” it said.

  Lights flickered on, illuminating the cavernous room filled with cryo-tanks.

  “They shall all be yours,” she said.

  “And in return?”

  “Bring him back to me,” Joule said. “Alive.”

  Vardan Saah spit on the floor, his eyes never leaving the hologram. In a moment, he understood what the monster wanted with the boy, and it made him smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Red Leaf

  Cassa let the pack run loose during the day, only calling them back to the garage when the sun went down. Viktor insisted he keep some semblance of a routine, not that it mattered now. Whenever Cassa blew his pipes, the pack obeyed. Viktor had done his job well.

  Viktor believed the Master wasn’t returning. He gone underground nearly six weeks before, and they’d seen no sign of him since. It was time to return to the farm and move on. Cassa refused. Viktor didn’t know if it was under some misguided loyalty or because Cassa had nothing else in his life to care about. Both men were surprised when one day the Master walked through the door, the only mark of change on him a thick beard.

  “Master?” Viktor gaped. “You’re alive. We thought—”

  Saah raised a hand. “How many of the pack survive?”

  “Four,” Viktor glanced briefly at Cassa. “The same as when you left.”

  “There were no more attacks?”

  “Perhaps Cassa should show you.”

  At the door of the old woman’s hovel, Saah heard thrashing within. Cassa drew a blade before cracking open the door. A heavy musk flooded out that made Saah’s eyes water.

  “After you left,” Viktor said, “we set up in the tower over the airfield. One day, it appeared, skulking around outside that hangar for a week before Cassa finally captured it.”

  The alpha snarled, jerking against the chain leashed around its muscular neck. Saah recognized the abject hate in the creature’s eyes. And its power.

  “Can it be mastered?” Saah asked.

  “Not here,” Viktor said. “I need my tools.”

  “We’ll take him to the farm once our business with the boy is done. But hurry. He has a narrow lead on us.”

  “What happened down there?”

  “A voice spoke in the dark. The voice of fate. I have agreed to answer its call.”

  As the shush-shush-shush of Robinson’s skis sliced through snow, Friday rested. And when she wasn’t resting, she was stretching and preparing herself for what was to come.

  On the second day of their journey, Friday stood without help and relieved herself in the forest. While her lightheadedness disappeared, her sores only darkened. She kept them firmly wrapped so Robinson wouldn’t mistakenly touch her skin.

  Robinson thought she looked wan, but it wasn’t the disease that felt crippling. It was the nightmares. They’d played different variations of the same song each night: Friday giving birth. Crusoe’s joy turned to madness when the infant fell into his hands. The horror on his face, the revulsion on hers as their blighted child howled.

  Friday refused to externalize her fears. Rather, she chose to bear the burden alone, filling her time with menial tasks to keep her mind busy. Even in her darkest hours when she feared she would lose all hope, she knew Crusoe clung to his. His strength lifted hers.

  Seven days into their journey, Robinson’s beard had returned. He was scratching it absently when Friday noticed his worried expression. She asked him what was wrong, and he nodded to a thin line of smoke rising up from the valley they’d just left. Robinson withdrew his binoculars, but the source of the smoke was hidden by tress.

  “Is there any reason why we would be followed?” Friday asked.

  Vardan Saah popped immediately into Robinson’s mind. But Joule said he’d been put on ice. The whole reason Robinson’s plan had worked was because Joule was bound by her programing to protect those people she’d frozen. Was Saah among him? Or had he gotten loose by some other means?

  “No,” Robinson said. “It’s probably a coincidence.”

  Friday frowned. “We have seen one person since parting from the children. And now this person or persons are behind us? I do not like coincidence.”

  She was right of course. They decided to push on.

  By midafternoon, the wind had kicked up, and although there wasn’t enough moisture in the air to produce rain, the temperature dropped quickly. By dusk, Friday was trembling, so they made a tent in the lee of a spruce tree and burrowed in for the night. When they woke the next morning, the sky was clear. Friday saw something in the distance.

  “Look,” she said.

  Behind them, above a dark swath of ponderosa pines, sat an imposing mountain, its right half shorn to the umber stone beneath. A man-made road led in a zigzag pattern to the topmost ridge, where someone had carved a massive stone face from granite that looked north. Midway down the mountain, a large tunnel had also been hollowed out, revealing blue sky on the opposite side.

  “What on earth?” Robinson said.

  “That face…” Friday said faintly.

  Robinson’s head shifted slightly to the south. “Looks like him.”

  Friday spun to see a dark-skinned man sitting atop a horse four meters away. Robinson was right, he bore a resemblance to the carved face, with his strong features and sharp eyes. His hair was dark, long, and braided. Two dead fowl and a beaver hung from a cord at his waist. Robinson gauged him to be around his father’s age.

  “Hello,” Robinson said instinctually, forgetting the common tongue.

  “You speak the old language,” the man said.

  “I do, though it’s not old to me. It’s the one I grew up with.”

  The man looked them over appraisingly, his eyes ultimately falling on Robinson’s pistol. “I see you carry a pistol. Does it work?”

  “Yes, but we’re no threat to you.”

  “I should hope not. The plains are free, the animals plentiful. You slept in that last night?” He nodded to their tent. “You must be brave. Or soft in the head. Come on. We can talk over breakfast and find out which.”

  As Robinson gathered their things, Friday nodded toward the carved figure in the mountain. “Do you know that man?”

  The rider glanced back. “We’ve never been properly introduced.”

  It took a second for Friday to realize he was joking. When she grinned, so did he.

  He led them deeper into the valley until they reached a settlement of old buildings and conical tents made of metal poles and animals skins.

  “We call them tipis. Our people, the Lakota, have dwelled in them before the white man came to this land.”

  “Which one do you live in?” Robinson asked.

  “The big one there,” the rider said, pointing to an actual home. “I like the old ways, but I’m not stupid.”

  Robinson laughed out loud. He liked this man. He had an effortless way about him.

  As they drew closer to the settlement, they saw scores of men and women going through mundane routines of gathering food and water while children played games. If the sight of strangers surprised any of them, they didn’t let on. One shirtless teen ran up and gathered the trappings from the rider.

  “There is food and fire in
the lodge,” the rider said. “And there are hot springs for washing should you need them.”

  Robinson and Friday shared a look.

  “We appreciate your hospitality, but my wife is sick. We don’t want to get you or any of your people ill.”

  The rider glanced at Friday and nodded.

  “The tipi out by those trees belonged to my father-in-law. He was an insufferable man who enjoyed whiskey more than people. You can stay there. My wife and I will bring food and blankets. And we will stay downwind.”

  The man, who revealed his name was Wapasha, which meant Red Leaf, brought his young wife, Ehawee, which translated to Laughing Maiden, and several plates of food as promised. The dish was called pemmican and was a mix of meat protein and fat with pigeon berries and chokeberries inside. They talked about their history, how the Lakota were once part of the Sioux nation that stretched across the middle of the continent.

  “We were the First Nation of the Americas,” Wapasha said. “We had the big seat at the table before the white man came and screwed everything up. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Robinson said, laughing.

  “The stone face you asked about earlier is of one of our ancient warriors, Tȟašúŋke Witkó. Crazy Horse. The monument was another one of the white man’s blunders, meant I believe as recompense for all they had done to us. I admit, even their failings are grand.”

  “Where are you from?” Ehawee asked.

  “Crusoe is from an island across the sea. A place called Prime. I have never been there.”

  “And you?”

  “My people are of the mountain near the sea. We are the Aserra.”

  “She means the Appalachians,” Robinson said. “On the eastern coast of this continent. They’re a hardy people. The fiercest I’ve ever met.”

  Friday’s chest seemed to swell with pride.

  “And why are you both so far from home?” Wapasha asked.

  “As I said before, Friday is ill. We were told the only place we might find a cure for her is the City of Glass. Have you heard of it?”

  As he said the name, Ehawee seemed to stiffen, but Wapasha merely shook his head.