Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2)

by E. J. Robinson

“During that time, there was an event—an anomaly—that occurred in the sky and precipitated changes on the ground. Changes that directly affected the population of the inflicted creatures you call Renders.”

  Robinson swallowed but let him continue.

  “Do you know of what I speak?” Pastor asked.

  Robinson wasn’t sure why Pastor was asking the question, but he knew it was important to him for some reason. He decided to proceed carefully.

  “Let’s say I did,” Robinson answered. “How would a simple pilgrim like you know where it originated?”

  “One hears things on the road,” Pastor answered.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Robinson looked out across the yard as the sun worked its way into the sky. The frost was already starting to thaw. He was eager to get underway.

  “Since you’re so fond of stories,” Robinson said, “I’ll tell you one no one’s ever heard before. It’s about a kid who was shipwrecked far from home. Every day this boy woke up, he was terrified it would be his last. But luck kept him alive. Chance. Then, one day, a girl came into his life and made him strong. Made him complete. When men came and took this girl, he swore he would do anything to get her back, even if it meant destroying something that could save so many others. The boy agonized over his decision. But in the end, he chose the girl. In the end, the real choice was made for him. But to this day, the boy remembers he chose for himself.”

  Pastor watched Robinson as he contemplated his words.

  “I’m only telling you this because I want you to understand the boy was no hero. He was just lucky to be surrounded by good people.”

  Pastor nodded with understanding.

  “Maybe this boy shouldn’t be so hard on himself. Making bad choices is what boys do. It’s what they do after that makes them men.”

  Robinson looked at Pastor and then down the road.

  “Well, it’s time.”

  “Yes,” Pastor replied. “I guess it is. Oh, I almost forgot. I have a gift. Something to remember me by.”

  Pastor reached into his coat and pulled out the waterproof case carrying his map.

  “No,” Robinson said. “I couldn’t—”

  “Go on,” Pastor said, pushing it on him. “You need it more than I do. Besides, I always have more secrets in my bag of tricks.”

  Robinson nodded and took the map and stuffed it in his shirt.

  “Will you tell the mutes I said goodbye? Maybe they’ll warm up to me once I’m gone.”

  “All things do with the passing of winter.”

  Robinson left through the fields, eager to avoid any run-ins with the farmers. They had spent all night mourning their dead, and today, he could hear them sifting through the rubble, beginning to rebuild the only life they had ever known.

  The field led east to an old dirt road, where a pair of farmers were returning with horses that had escaped during the fire. As he scaled a small berm, he caught a glimpse of the river beyond and let the smell of its waters wash over him. Just as he was about to turn south, a figure stepped from the trees on the northern side of the field. It was the mute brother. He stood motionless, watching Robinson before offering a slight nod.

  Robinson waved, but before his hand fell, the mute brother was gone.

  Robinson turned south, bundled his coat, and resumed his journey.

  Chapter Twelve

  Flight

  She had been betrayed.

  There was no question about it. With one brief glance at Nameless’s face, her treachery was made clear.

  Friday understood instinctively it wasn’t an act born of jealousy or revenge. It would not earn her freedom or some great luxury. It was simply a choice of survival. Maybe she would be spared one less lashing. Earn one more day of existence. It was an act of preservation, not of deceit. She couldn’t fault the girl for that.

  The sentry pushed his way into the room, lantern in hand. As soon as he saw the knife in Friday’s hands, he shouted and charged with his spear. Friday threw the blade and watched it sink into the man’s throat.

  As the sentry’s body hit the floor, Arga’Zul woke with a start, his free hand grasping for the sword. Friday kicked it away, while swinging the chain with all her might. She heard Arga’Zul howl as it struck his face. She swung the chain again, but this time, he’d raised an arm in defense.

  Arga’Zul was grasping for Friday when she heard feet approaching. With her opportunity to kill Arga’Zul slipping away, she scooped up the spear on the floor and sped toward the door, skewering a second sentry just as he appeared.

  Friday pitched his body aside but hesitated as she reached the door. Nameless looked at her without expression. Friday grabbed her hand and pulled her outside.

  Sheets of rain struck them from the port side, but Friday failed to see Flayers in her immediate vicinity. She did, however, hear Arga’Zul behind her, stumbling to his feet, howling for the guards. She pulled Nameless into a run. The girl realized what Friday planned to do but didn’t try to stop it. As Friday leapt over the starboard side of the ship, Nameless’s legs hit the balustrade, and she pirouetted twice before slamming into the water.

  The cold water cut through both of them like a knife. Instantly, the air was sucked from Nameless’s lungs, and every muscle in her seized. But Friday’s hand tightened around hers as she kicked upward.

  They broke the surface of the water and gasped for air. The freezing raindrops that caromed off the water struck their faces like angry bees. Above them, the alarm had sounded, and the glow of torches moved hastily about. Friday pulled Nameless toward shore.

  On the Spinecrusher, Arga’Zul burst from his cabin, his face bloody and raw, but his deep voice tore through the storm, spurring his men into action. Flayers spilled out of the hold with torches and weapons.

  Arga’Zul howled for his men to find the girls, but it was a few moments before someone caught sign of the escapees. Arrows took flight, forcing Friday and Nameless to dive under the water and kick harder for shore.

  Something moved in the water and Friday felt as if her foot had been stung, but she pushed on until both feet sank into the muddy earth, and she dragged Nameless ashore.

  The cove had a narrow slice of beach with nothing but trees beyond. As Friday pulled Nameless toward the woods, she heard splashes in the water behind her, drowned out only by the raging voice of Arga’Zul.

  The ground inland was scarcely more than bog, but Friday found the firmest path even in the darkness. She sprinted between trees, only slowing when confronted with fallen logs or pools too deep to traverse.

  The underbrush lashed out at both girls, cutting their legs and arms while their feet fell prey to rocks and twigs. But the cold kept Friday moving, even when Nameless had lost all sense of direction.

  Friday was five hundred paces into the woods when her adrenaline started to abate. She was malnourished and weak, far worse off than when Crusoe had rescued her from under the monolith. Her chest was heaving, breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. And yet she didn’t quit. Could not quit. Not now, not ever.

  Nameless fought hard to keep up, but she had one luxury Friday did not. She had helped prepare meals for the Flayers and for Arga’Zul. And despite the terrible danger, she had stolen food whenever she could. Sometimes it was no more than a bone to suck marrow from. Other times it was leftovers of a feast. She didn’t have much energy in reserve, but she would make sure it was enough.

  The difficulty of the terrain lessened the farther they moved inland. When they reached a small hill, Friday held her arm out and halted. The girl doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping for air, but she still said nothing.

  Friday looked behind them but saw no lamps or torches through the trees. The rain struggled to purge the canopy. Friday took a hard look at the girl. She was skin and bones, made even more pathetic by the rain, and yet she hadn’t given in.

  She might survive after all.

  “Are you hurt?” Friday asked, but she didn’t get a response. “Nameless
!” This time the girl looked up. “Are you hurt?”

  Nameless shook her head.

  Friday lifted her foot to see an arrow had taken a small chunk out of the back of her heel. A hair higher and it would have hit her Achilles tendon.

  Friday was tearing a strip of fabric to bind it with when Nameless gasped.

  “Look!” Nameless said.

  Friday had never heard her speak before. She turned back toward the trees, where the glow of a single torch had appeared. Then, one by one, others appeared like fireflies.

  “Go,” Friday said, pushing Nameless on. “Go!”

  Friday was utterly spent, but she trudged on. Over the sloshing of wet earth and falling rain, she could still hear Arga’Zul bellowing in the darkness, his voice getting louder. Friday was starting to lose hope when she saw a break in the trees. A lightning strike illuminated waters to the east.

  Nameless took in the river and froze. Friday recognized that look. She flashed back to the moment in D.C. when she collapsed through the bridge and nearly died when the rapids pulled her away. These waters were worse. They were colder, and it was night. Even now, Friday might have braved the river, but she knew Nameless would not survive. She cursed. Damn Cru-soe, she thought. This is his fault. It was his influence that made her care for others. Now it might cost her her life.

  Friday scanned the shoreline until she saw a mass of woods a hundred paces away. She dragged the girl to the dam from the waterside.

  A beaver exploded from its den, its mouth screeching fiercely, razor-like teeth gnashing with deadly intent. Friday pulled a stick from the thatch and beat it back, opening the narrowest of ingresses.

  “Get inside,” Friday said.

  Nameless realized immediately there was only room for one. She saw Friday understood it too.

  Through the trees, the glow of torches grew stronger. Friday knelt in front of the girl. “I’ll lead them away,” she said. “Stay as long as you can. Then head south. There will be people along the river. If the Goddess is merciful, someone will take you in.”

  Nameless struggled to find words of gratitude, but Friday was already gone. Nameless did the only thing she could: she climbed inside.

  Friday was fifty paces down the beach when a band of Bone Flayers spilled out onto the sand in front of her. She ground to a halt and turned back only to see more flush from the trees. Shrieks and cries filled the air as she was surrounded. And then they stopped as Arga’Zul emerged. He was bloody and out of breath, but when he saw Friday, he cracked a terrifying smile.

  Friday looked around until she found ground that was the most firm. Then she tore away the fabric that had been holding her chain in place.

  Arga’Zul nodded. The Flayers swarmed in.

  Friday crushed the first attacker’s jaw with the chain, but she never got a chance to pull it back for a second strike. The pack was on her, punching and kicking her mercilessly.

  Friday collapsed in the water, her vision blurring. Before her one eye closed she saw a Flayer approaching the dam, only to leap back as something attacked him. The man turned away to rejoin the others.

  Nameless would survive.

  She hoped Crusoe would forgive her. She had failed in her escape, but by saving the girl, she had succeeded in saving some small measure of herself. And, of course, it’s what he would have done.

  The last thought Friday had was of that small victory. Her mouth curled into a bloody smile right before she fell unconscious.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Cat People

  The days fell back into repetition.

  Robinson rose each day before the break of dawn and ate a simple breakfast of fruit and grains. Then he’d walk until his feet hurt and his stomach screamed. After a short break for food and rest, he’d take to the roads again, this time until the sun started to set or until he stumbled upon some shelter too good to pass up.

  Throughout his journey, his eyes stayed active, scanning the forest around him for danger. Still, he was apt to daydream now and then. He thought of his time in D.C. and of his friends and family back on the Isle. He thought of Tiers, Pastor, and the mutes. But mostly, he thought of Friday. Her touch. Her voice. Her face while she slept. How tender it looked. How different it was from the one she wore when she fought.

  The only memory he avoided was Resi, the ornery dog who’d adopted him upon his arrival to this continent only to die at the hands of the Flayers. That loss hurt as much as saying goodbye to his mother.

  He’d been walking the ancient cracked roads for eight days when he found the river again. Although the rain had stopped a few days before, the water remained high and ran at a fevered pace. Few of the ancient stone bridges that traversed the river had survived. And what steel bridges remained groaned perilously, covered in rust. Most were nothing more than skeletons, more dangerous to pass than the river itself.

  So Robinson often walked along the banks, though he knew it slowed his pace. At least there, he could see remnants of the ancient world. Errant houses shorn to their foundations. Business structures folded in like the cakes Tallis once made with Vareen. Water and wind had eaten the colors, but here and there, he could still make out signs bearing faded names of brands that grew familiar after a time.

  On those nights when rain or the cold forced him to take shelter, he often found it in the strangest places. Once, he slept in the belly of a rusted fuel tanker. Another time, in a metal smokehouse that still smelled of old meats. More often he tied a bivy sac between trees and slept thirty feet off the ground.

  His favorite evenings were when he found some home still standing and he was able to build a fire in its hearth and imagine himself back in New London, playing Over the Wall, Under the Wall with Tannis while his parents chatted over mundane things. Vareen would pop in with sugarcakes, and the kids would fight for the biggest one.

  Through it all, Robinson stayed close to the river, his ears attuned to the sounds of ships. Each day he imagined rounding a bend and seeing those familiar black sails and its red sigil and the giant at the forecastle would look out, unaware his death was not coming in the shape of an army, but one former boy willing to do anything for his love.

  It was the sixth day after the rain had ceased, and Robinson had just finished crossing a steep mountain. That morning, he found a grouse’s nest on a high branch with six small eggs inside. He carefully put them into his pack for later, but when it was safe enough to raise a fire.

  The woods along the river had grown thick, but all at once they became oddly quiet. He looked for animal tracks, but found none. A niggling feeling began to peck at him from the back of his mind. It made him wary, but he chalked it up to being on the road alone again.

  It was getting late. Robinson needed shelter, but he wanted to keep moving while there was light.

  The river’s pace had slowed over the last day, but sediment raised by the rain still left it thick as soup.

  As the sun dwindled, he walked along the waterline, scanning for areas fish might hole up. He’d fashioned a spear from a slender piece of bamboo. But just when he saw a flash of scales glinting in the current, he looked up and froze.

  A group of wooden boats lay on the shore of a small island. These were not relics, but something recently crafted. Splayed across their sides were drawings of some kind of animal, but Robinson couldn’t make out what kind. What he did see sent a chill up his spine. Smoke was rising from a fire a few feet up the beach.

  Robinson quickly scanned up and down both banks and into the forest. He saw no movement, but the fire meant someone was close. If they’d seen his approach he was at a huge disadvantage.

  Robinson’s hands fell to his axes, but he didn’t pull them. Instead, he stepped back from the water’s edge toward the tree line. Part of him wanted to sprint into the forest, but his eyes kept returning to those boats. One of them could cut his journey to the flayer capital in half.

  While ruminating his next move, a breeze blew in, carrying an odor Robinson had
n’t smelled in some time. It instantly set his nerves on fire. Something moved in the brush behind him, and before he could react, three Renders burst from the forest.

  The first Render launched himself off some rocks, forcing Robinson to roll underneath his attack and swing his axe at his hindquarters. His second blade caught the creature across the ankle, and he heard a snap. As the beast howled on the ground, Robinson spun to find two smaller, faster Renders surrounding him and driving him back toward a thick cluster of trees at the waterline.

  On instinct, Robinson dove behind the trees, giving the creatures the narrowest outlet to reach him. The smallest beast circled around his flank, but the largest one stormed straight ahead, snapping branches with his massive arms.

  When the smaller Render came around to face Robinson, he whirled his axes in a vertical rotation. The creature lost its footing, and Robinson sunk a blade into its flesh.

  The middle-sized Render roared as its companion fell, but it was the larger Render that drew Robinson’s focus. It had broken through the knot of dead branches, forcing Robinson’s back to the river.

  With no other options, Robinson remembered Friday’s most valuable lesson: when in doubt, attack.

  Robinson bounded up the nest of tree branches and leapt over the biggest Render. It lashed out with its long claws, catching the sleeve of Robinson’s coat and tearing it away. Robinson landed behind the creature and rotated quickly with both blades. The creature roared, its fetid mouth inches from Robinson’s face. But slowly, surely, the two axe blades tore into its chest and sent the beast collapsing to the earth. It writhed before ceasing movement altogether.

  Robinson was in the process of taking his first real breath since the fight began when the third and final Render charged from his side. Robinson tried to extract his axes from the dead render’s chest, but both were lodged in bone. In a desperate act of preservation, Robinson threw up an arm, but the mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth never reached him. Instead, a wave of arrows stitched the creature’s flesh, and it fell at his feet and moved no more.