He limped into the house and found the medical kit. He pulled the shredded pants off, grimacing as the pulled fabric reopened some of the wounds after loosening dried batches of blood. He bit his bottom lip at the sight of the leg. Bruises purpled the skin up and down the limb, and he noted several deep gashes where the sharp edges of his bike had fallen. He found several clean washcloths and soap, lathered them up, and thoroughly cleaned his leg, wincing as the soap filtered into the cuts and bruises. He pulled the ointment from his medical kit and tried to rationalize avoiding this step. He couldn't risk losing the leg again to infection. Preemptively wincing and gritting his teeth, he poured the salve on his leg. The pain was incredibly intense, but because his leg had turned somewhat numb through nerve damage--or perhaps because he'd already accepted and processed the likely sensation before it hit--it didn't affect him as much as he'd expected. He capped the bottle of salve, wrapped bandages around his leg, and then zipped up the medical bag. He tested the bandaged leg, testing his ability to bend and stand on it. Thankfully, it held, though he wasn't sure how much longer he could push it before he needed to let it rest and heal.
Survive first. The Ravagers were coming. They'd give him no more sympathy than the Hinterlands beasts.
He grabbed his medical kit before limping over to a small closet and opening the door. He grabbed a larger duffel-style bag that held his “getaway” kit. He unzipped the bag, performed a cursory check of the supplies--he'd repacked it with fresh provisions, batteries, and clothing just two days earlier--and added the medical kit before zipping the bag closed.
He glanced down at his bandaged, but otherwise bare left leg, and at the tattered remains of the pant leg on his right, and sighed. He'd need a new pair of pants. The countdown alarm in his mind shrilled, but Wesley ignored it. He didn't want the heat from the scooter engine burning a leg he'd just bandaged. He hop-limped down the hallway to a spare room and found a suitable pair of long slacks, sat on a chair, pulled off the heavy boots, pulled the pants on--he winced as the heavy fabric disturbed the bandages--and donned the boots once more. He stood, threw his bag over his shoulder, and limped quickly outside.
He moved to the scooter, popped the fuel cap open, and seized the tube running from the tank of discarded kitchen oils that served as the bike's fuel source. He unclipped the stopper, put the end of the tube into his mouth, and sucked until the disgusting fluid reached his lips. With the fuel flowing, Wesley pushed the tube into the scooter's tank while spitting out the remnant of oil still inside his mouth.
He hobbled quickly to the shed and undid the combination lock, tossing it aside as he removed it. He slid the bolt open and pulled the creaking door open, dropping the bag on the ground to prevent the door from closing. He hobbled behind the small sidecar, pushed it out of the shed, and lined it up with the scooter. His hands moved expertly, attaching the sidecar to the scooter with a series of latches and fasteners. He tested the connections, ensuring safety, and then pulled the fuel tube out of the tank and clipped it shut once more. He fastened the fuel cap before hopping back to the shed and retrieving the bag.
The shed door closed with a metallic clang that startled him.
He moved back to the scooter and tossed the bag into his sidecar. He tossed his leg over the scooter, kicked the starter, took one last fond look at the place he'd called home the past seven years, and accelerated away.
He'd never see this place again.
Wesley just had time to register that he'd operate at reduced ground speed due to the weight of the sidecar when he felt the ground shake through the scooter's frame.
He didn't know if one the larger buildings in the city had toppled and set off a chain of building collapses, or if there was merely a coincidental earthquake at this most inopportune time. His time grew short in any event powerful enough to trigger the vibrations he'd felt. Toppling buildings meant more Ravagers flung in the direction of the fall, including toward him.
For the first time, he wished he'd built a more powerful engine into the scooter, regardless of the fuel used.
Ten minutes passed as he navigated the rarely-traversed dirt trail through the thick tree cover, and he continued to narrow the gap between him and the river. He normally walked this route, but circumstances changed. He normally enjoyed the fragrant scents of the brush, watched the insects mill about, watched as leaves fell upon ground. Survival demanded he turn his focus to speed.
He pulled up next to a massive tree with limbs hanging out over the calm, flowing water and spotted the canoe right where he'd left it.
At last, he'd be free, free from worry about the Ravagers. Well, at least long enough to nurse his wounds. If the Ravagers weren't stopped soon, the replication rates would soon have most of the ground in the Western Alliance frothing with them. He might never step foot on land, in safety, ever again.
He rolled to a stop, put the kickstand down, and hopped off the bike, forgetting to take it easy, and his leg buckled slightly. He took a deep breath before killing the engine and set to work emptying the few basic contents in the sidecar and carrying them to the canoe. With the bike now emptied and the canoe full, Wesley untied the rope tethering the boat to the land and began wading into the gradually deepening water, pushing the canoe before him. He wondered how difficult it would be to clamber into the canoe now that the water was deeper, and if he'd manage to do so without spilling the supplies or oars in the process.
His foot passed a steep drop point in the bottom of the river and his foot slammed down. The shock hurt, but the water grazing the injured leg hurt more. He winced as the pain hit his leg once more, as if an explosion had gone off right near the injured limb.
Explosion?
He stopped and turned back, looking at the scooter. The scooter that operated by using fuel stored in a pressurized tank. A tank that would soon be ruptured by Ravagers. Would the fuel inside explode when that happened? An explosion would propel Ravagers into the air, dispersing them in an ever-wider arc. They might fall into his boat. They might fall on the shore on the south side of the river.
He knew he couldn't contain the Ravagers, not at this point. They'd reach the far shore eventually, no matter what he did or didn't do. But he couldn't stomach the idea of aiding and speeding their spread across the land.
He'd already done far too much.
He let go of the boat, full of his precious cargo, and waded back from the water to the dry land.
The sound let him know he had little time to act. It was the sound of silence, of the birds and insects of the forest rendered forever mute, of the ceasing sound of wind rustling the leaves of trees no longer standing.
The vibrations increased in intensity as well.
He hopped aboard the scooter and started the engine before driving back in the direction of the devastated cityplex. He saw the leading edge of the line of Ravagers, saw the massive oil-like swarm covering a massive amount of territory. In spite of his terror, he found himself awed. The replication Ravagers, the subset of robots in charge of building more Ravagers, were a technical marvel. He could only wonder what the technology might do if given a more beneficial task.
He stopped the scooter and turned around, facing in the direction of the river and his canoe once more. He reached down and released the bolts and snaps of the sidecar. It carried no explosive elements and thus no risk. And it would serve no purpose but to slow him down.
Wesley twisted the throttle, feeling the craft respond in magnificent fashion, freed once more of the excess weight of the sidecar and his provisions. The winds tussled his hair as the vehicle picked up speed, and he focused on that, ignoring the bumps on the uneven dirt path, ignoring the crashing sounds as each forward wave of Ravagers sawed into each bit of brush and each tree, toppling them in all directions. He squinted as winds began drying his eyes, trying to ensure he could see where he drove.
The river appeared.
The canoe hadn't drifted far, thankfully, mostly twisting and spinning its way toward
the middle of the river. Wesley didn't care. That's where he wanted it to be, as far from the north shore as possible. He spotted a flat, elevated rock near the river bank and angled the scooter in that direction.
The scooter hit the rock and shot into the air as if launched from a cannon. As the craft reached its peak, Wesley pushed himself off the scooter to his left, propelling himself in the direction of the canoe.
As the water came up to meet him, Wesley had only two thoughts.
He wondered if the force of his impact against the water would kill him, or just hurt a lot. He could deal with the latter; he'd done it the whole day.
And he wondered how he'd make it to the safety of the canoe.
Wesley Cardinal had never learned how to swim.
—————
DEIRDRE SILVER-LIGHT
—————
DEIRDRE LANDED ON HER BACK. Somehow, the short flight through the air hurt more when she landed than the combined effects of the dozen drops inside the apartment building she'd sustained during the collapse.
She wasn't injured, though. Just angry that he'd elected to toss her aside--literally after she'd offered him the chance at life.
She twisted around and climbed to her feet, expecting another attack--well primed to such thinking after Stephen's insanity--and found, to her surprise, that the man had begun jogging away. He ended each stride with a vicious stomp, and she realized he was enjoying the chance to step on the Ravagers, though she had little faith that the movement actually crushed the devices.
Much as she approved of his Ravager stomp, she needed answers. “Hey!” She jogged after him.
He didn't stop.
Deirdre picked up her pace, and within a few hundred yards she'd pulled even. He looked over at her, and she found, to her surprise, a look of disgust upon his face. “Can't take a hint, can you?”
“Why'd you throw me like that?” She felt the annoyance swarm over her. “I just saved your life!”
He snorted and averted his eyes. “Really? Tell me this: why did my life need saving? I was doing just fine... until a few hours ago.”
Something in his tone spoke of greater knowledge of the situation than she'd suspected. “Your life needed saving because...” She paused and gestured at the ruins of buildings gradually reduced to powder. “Well, look around. If you can't figure out why you needed saving, then--”
“My question doesn't relate to that.” He stopped moving and fixed a steady glare at her, his eyes radiating anger and hatred through the mask. “My question asks why all of this is happening. What triggered the events that led to you arriving to... save me.” The last two words were spoken with deep sarcasm and scorn. He folded his arms. “Know anything about that?”
She stared at him. “What do you mean?”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I mean, do you know what... activated this entire bit of chaos and destruction? Perhaps someone pressed a button and released this hell upon the unworthy.”
She felt ice run down her spine. “But...” Then she paused. That voice... She recognized the voice now. His current appearance was no match for his original look, but he'd had a rather public shower since then. “You... you're the man I saw in the garage. I gave you water.”
He offered a humorless smirk. “Deeply ironic, no?” He started walking again.
Deirdre moved to keep pace with him. “How did you know what I was doing down there?”
He snorted. “I'm not blind. I watched those who put the device there in the first place. It was my duty to stand by and wait until someone came along and activated the device.”
Deirdre felt like screaming. “So you knew what it was when they put it there?”
“I did.”
“And you knew why I was there yesterday?”
“Early this morning, you mean?” The icy venom in his voice remained. He stopped moving as a chunk of debris fell in front of him and shattered. “Yes, I did.”
“But...” She paused. “Why didn't you try to stop me?”
He stopped moving again. “That's a good question. Why did you drag this suit along with you?”
“Because...” She paused. “How much do you know?”
“I know enough to know that if you had a conscience you'd be dead from an overwhelming sense of guilt right now.”
That stung. “I made a mistake. I want to atone for it.”
He snorted. “That makes two of us.” He started jogging once more.
She sprinted after him. “I still don't understand. Why didn't you stop me? You knew this would happen, you knew why I was there. Why not stop me?”
“I couldn't stop all of them, and only one batch is necessary.” His voice carried a hint of defeat for just a brief instant, before being replaced with the anger and defiance she'd heard earlier. “I did stop your batch, though. You activated the device and left. I spent two hours disarming it, preventing the explosion needed to trigger the devices to begin... well, to begin this.” His voice tightened. “I figured at least some people in this building deserved the few extra minutes it would buy them. Give them a chance to escape and run. Probably didn't matter much, though. If I'd known you were still there, rather than running like the rat you are to safety? I would have found another building to protect.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.
She felt a sense of compassion. He, too, had felt trapped by something far bigger than himself, something he'd felt little chance to stop. He'd made an effort, though, however futile and meager it might be compared to the enormity of the damage that would come. She'd tried it with Stephen, much to her current regret. He'd wanted to stop the Ravager attack on the apartment building where she lived. Perhaps it was the place he'd called home as well.
He'd done it with the full expectation that he'd die, though. She'd done it knowing she'd live. The brief moments earlier were the first time she'd really doubted her survival.
He picked up his pace, continuing to the south, to a place where the great walls of the city once stood. Nothing remained now but rubble and dust. She fully expected to see the beasts of the Hinterlands racing over those mounds at any time, and was yet again thankful she'd had the foresight--or luck--to plant her Diasteel suit at her home.
“Where are you going?” She didn't expect an answer. He probably didn't want her following him.
He did, after a moment's pause. “I'm going to a place built to survive this. A place I should have been all this time, surviving, avoiding the mass chaos of a situation I didn't choose. I only hope they'll let me in. It's more likely they'll shoot me on sight.”
She scrambled up the latest pile of dissolving debris, matching his pace. “There's a place built to survive all of this?” She tried to put a note of surprise into her voice.
His snort echoed loudly. The volume told her how much the collapse of buildings had slowed, replaced by the steady thrum and hum of Ravagers deconstructing the remnants and rebuilding what remained into more Ravagers. “Like you don't know.”
He clearly knew who she was, then. “You're going to walk to New Venice?”
“I am.”
“Why would they shoot you on sight? I'd think they'd welcome survivors.”
He stopped and whirled on her. Deirdre nearly fell over in surprise at the speed of the movement. “Lest you forget, Ms. Light, there's a list of people who are now permitted to live on this planet. Some of those people happen to be in New Venice. Others are elsewhere.” He turned and continued walking.
“But--”
“I'm not on the damned list!” The tone was scathing, full of hatred.
She felt a chill. “You know about...” She paused. “Of course you know.” Not many knew about New Venice, even among the Select. Most of them had opted for more comfortable, secure lodging during this phase of the plan. “But if you know that much, if you know about New Venice, if you knew about the effects of water on the Ravagers, how--?”
“I wasn't aware of the effects of water.” There wa
s a hint of amusement. “Wasn't clued in on that detail. That I figured out through observation. The... what did they end up calling them? Ravagers? Heh. Appropriate enough. No, I saw that they backed up upon contact with water. I figured my best bet was finding my way to the lake, or to the river south of the city. Unfortunately, it took me a bit longer than I'd hoped to disable the device you activated.”
“Anyone knowing about New Venice would have to be on the list.” She paused. “What's your name?”
“Lists can be changed.” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“They took you off?” She felt an escalating horror as a memory of something her father had told her years earlier rose to the surface of her mind.
It couldn't be him. Could it?
“Oh, they took me off all right. Took the best my mind had to offer for the brilliant plan you voiced all those years ago. And then asked me to do one more thing, something I refused to do. And I learned a valuable lesson that day, Deirdre.”
“What... what did you do?”
He stopped and looked at her. “Your father needed to provide evidence of the maturity of his daughter, who as a child all those years ago showed little inclination to grow up and take her place in the social circles so elaborately constructed.” His eyes narrowed. “My role, which I was not allowed to discuss, was simple. I was to be your husband, Deirdre.” He offered a bitter laugh.
She felt the wind leave her lungs. “What?”
“I flat refused. Told your daddy I had no interest in being your husband, not in reality and not for some social programming game he felt the need to carry out in the last days. Well, you don't refuse Oswald Silver anything. He booted me off the list and called those running New Venice, told them I was no longer part of the plan and banned. They literally threw me out of the city, pointed guns at me, and told me to start running. I ended up here, in the Lakeplex, eking out an existence. Imagine my surprise when I saw you.” His voice carried a deep bitterness... and in hearing the story, she couldn't blame him.
The Ravagers Box Set: Episodes 1-3 Page 27
