Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2)

by E. J. Robinson

  Life, he knew, was a slippery slope. Once you took on the yoke, it was a hard thing to shake.

  In the end, Robinson made the only choice he could.

  “No,” he said.

  Boss’s eyes widened with surprise.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “I’m no slave. My life can’t be bought, sold, or bartered. You want to kill me for stumbling upon your little fiefdom, so be it. But I won’t be blackmailed into being your fool. If I’m going to die for a cause, it’ll be a cause I believe in. So do what you have to do. Or stop wasting my time.”

  “This s.o.b. wants to die,” Mox said, as he pulled his gun from his holster. “I be happy to send him on his way!”

  But Boss threw a hand up to stop him.

  “You’re not going to let him come in here and talk to you like that, are you?! He’s nothing, Boss! We don’t need him. Let me fill this boy with lead!”

  “I make the decisions here,” she hissed. “Grab leather!”

  Mox cursed but did as told.

  Boss looked back at Robinson, consternation written on her face.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? But Mox is right. I can’t have strangers coming into my town and thumbing their noses at my proposals. I have a reputation to protect. A woman’s only as good as her reputation. Still, killing you does seem a mite rash. No, I got something different in mind for you. Mox, take Mr. Crusoe to the caves.”

  A wicked grin spread over Mox’s face.

  “The caves? Woo-wee! You gonna see Trog, boy! Couple weeks in the caves with Trog, you gonna wish you were dead.”

  Mox grabbed Robinson and shoved him toward the door.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Robinson said.

  “I’ll note it in the ledger,” Boss said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cruelties

  “He’s dead, you know,” Jaras said.

  Jaras had received permission from Arga’Zul to escort Friday through the bazaar. There were only two caveats: no harm could come to her, and two of his fiercest men would accompany them to ensure their safety.

  Friday said what she always said when the light-skinned stranger spoke, “No nichen lingua.”

  Jaras could feel the anger simmering in her, and he reveled in it.

  “I find that difficult to believe. You see, the Robinson I know would never miss a chance to show how clever he is. Teaching a second language to a savage is an opportunity he’d find very hard to pass up.”

  Friday’s plan was to ignore Jaras, but his smug arrogance was taxing her. Under different circumstances, she might have cut the smirk off his face. But that option was currently off the table, so she decided to take a different approach.

  “You speak of Robinson, the boy. I only know Cru-soe, the man. These are not the same people.”

  Jaras grabbed a nectarine off a passing table.

  “Maybe you’re right. Not that it matters anymore. As I said, our friend is no longer among the living.”

  Friday snorted, but his words still had bite. They fed on the fear inside her that no matter how long she toiled for her freedom, Crusoe’s survival was out of her hands. For all she knew, he might have died six months ago or only the day before. The world was a harsh place. And as much as she loved Crusoe and respected the fighter he’d become, he still came from a place where clean hands and warm beds were the norm. Yes, she had helped craft him into something more, but even a sharpened blade can break when it strikes bone. And any grip can slip from the grasp of its wielder.

  Friday gritted her teeth and walked on. Nothing she said would deter the boy from his games. Like the child who teases the snake with a stick, he would bask in his folly, darting ever closer until he made that one pivotal mistake. Then he would feel her bite and know the error of his ways.

  The bazaar was busy that morning. Merchants had been coming ashore at a fervent pace. The Flayers’ annual fête was well known, but Friday never imagined how many people it actually drew. The numbers were staggering.

  But these walks served a deeper purpose than sightseeing or an afternoon’s escape from the mindless servitude of the pyramid. For Friday, they were an opportunity to scout the city’s weaknesses. There were no boundaries save the river to the west and the marshes to the east. There were also no walls or conventional defenses. The closest things to fortifications were the towers positioned at various intervals outside the bazaar. And yet, despite heavy foot patrols, there was an escape route—if one dared to run across two thousand feet of open ground.

  “Well?” Jaras said.

  Friday realized Jaras had been talking the entire time. She shook her head as if she hadn’t understood. He sighed impatiently.

  “I asked if Robinson shared with you tales of the Red Road? What am I saying? Of course he did. It’s such a seminal part of growing up in New London. I imagine it’s the equivalent of the ghost stories you tell here. Only ours are real. It’s an incredible thing to watch in person. A show unlike any other. No, ‘show’ isn’t the right word. Spectacle. That’s the one. It has the ability to horrify and entertain at the same time. Robinson used to love it too. Until his name was called.

  “Think of a crowd, larger than this,” Jaras continued, waving toward the bazaar. “Each called from their daily tasks. Most are citizens of low rank. Though they’re insignificant in a general sense, they do make up the mob. It’s their resentments that stoke the fire, especially when a Tier like Robinson is chosen.”

  Friday watched as Jaras relived the scene in his mind.

  “The first roar of approval came when they tore the clothes from his body. I’ll never forget his reaction. It was modesty, I think. He still believed himself above reproach. Next, the shackles went on, and the march began. The Iron Fists—our version of these clods back here”—he nodded to Arga’Zul’s guards—“are charged with protecting him. But in all honesty, they love a good bloodletting as much as any man. And they only really need to keep the guilty alive until they pass through the Western Gate. After that …”

  “The first rock hit him here,” Jaras said, setting a delicate finger that had never known dirt beneath its nail to point to his brow. “That’s when he let out this sob like the mew of sheep. Humiliating.”

  As Jaras droned on, Friday found it increasingly difficult to maintain her composure. She knew she could turn and snap the boy’s neck in an instant, but the reward would be short lived.

  “I honestly thought he would soil himself. But he managed to keep going, even as his legs started to bleed. There was some marginal groveling. That’s to be expected. But it wasn’t until he saw his family that the dam finally broke.”

  “His family?” Friday blurted.

  “Yes. His mother was dead, of course. But his father and the twins were there. He must have been so ashamed, because once he saw them, his head dropped, and he never raised it again.”

  And then, unexpectedly, Friday smiled.

  “You have made a mistake,” she said.

  “Come again?” Jaras asked.

  “Now I know you lie. For only shame can bow a head,” Friday said. “And Cru-soe is incapable of shame. Yet the same cannot be said of you. I witnessed it first at the field of fliers. And again in the streets of D.C. when you saw what Cru-soe had become, and what you had not.”

  “And what was that?” Jaras snorted.

  “A man,” Friday answered.

  “Is that right? So, if I were to take up a pair of axes and slaughter a few walking bags of pus, that would make me a man in your eyes? It doesn’t take much to impress your lot, does it?”

  “You joke, but you know I speak the truth. The difference between a brave man and a coward is that the coward speaks where the brave man acts. You taunt because you are cruel—that is your nature—but you talk because all you are is wind. If anyone brings shame to their family, it is you.”

  Jaras flushed. He pulled Friday to a violent halt.

  “Don’t talk about my family,�
� he spat. “You know nothing about them.”

  “I know enough. I see pain on your face. I see loss. But I see something else. Is it guilt? Is it your hand that wears their blood or …” In that moment, she saw through him. “Or Cru-soe’s?”

  Jaras clenched his fists, ready to strike her, but Arga’Zul’s men leaned closer as they easily recognized the violence brewing in him.

  “Whose life did he take?” Friday asked. “Your mother’s? A brother’s? Or was it your sister?”

  Jaras’s hand shot out and wrapped around Friday’s throat.

  “Don’t you dare talk about my sister! Not in the same sentence as him!”

  Arga’Zul’s men were quick to pull Jaras off Friday, but he continued to struggle.

  “Robinson stole everything from us. From her! But I’ll have my revenge. I’ll show him a pain a thousand times worse! Then he’ll know about real loss!”

  Friday stumbled back and said, “So he is alive.”

  Jaras froze. He struggled for something clever to say. Instead, he turned and stalked back toward the pyramid.

  “He came for me once,” Friday called after him. “He’ll come again. And when he does, your line is through!”

  Jaras spun, his cruel grin already returning.

  “He had better hurry. You see, your captor has agreed to retrieve something for my father. And when we take possession of it, you, your foolish boyfriend, and every savage on this damned continent will pay the ultimate price.”

  Friday watched him skulk away. She believed Crusoe had succeeded in destroying the thing they wanted. The stories of vanishing Renders were evidence of that. But the boy’s surety worried her. She needed to keep her ears open and find out if his words were more than just empty air, or if there was indeed something bigger to worry about.

  And yet, even with that threat of danger, she couldn’t stop smiling. She didn’t know how Robinson had survived his capture, or if he had even returned to this land. But she knew one thing for certain, and that couldn’t be taken away from her.

  He was alive.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Caves

  “The caves, boy,” Mox said, his face knitted up with glee. “I’d sooner go to Hell than the caves. Least Hell doesn’t have the Trog.”

  Mox and two Big Hats marched Robinson back down Main Street. The sky had darkened, but the gas lamps illuminated a town that embraced frivolity.

  They returned to the train yard and approached a small, squat structure with a candlelit window. Mox called out, and a peg-legged yardmaster appeared.

  “Mox, you mother’s teat!” the yardmaster bellowed. “You bring me my money?”

  “Settle down, Clawfoot. I ain’t gotta make good till payday.”

  “Payday is tonight. If you ain’t got my money, we got trouble.”

  Mox laughed and broke off a piece of something black in his mouth and chewed it until his teeth disappeared.

  “That we can discuss at the table tonight. I’m on Boss business now.”

  “Who’s that with you?” Clawfoot asked.

  “Prisoner,” Mox answered. “Boss wants him sent to the mines.”

  “Ain’t got no run planned until tomorrow. Bring him back then.”

  “Boss said now. Figures he might be a saba … saba—”

  “Turd,” Robinson cut in.

  Mox cuffed him across the back of his head.

  “Boss is getting paranoid by the hour,” Clawfoot said. “I’ll be thankful once this fandango’s done.”

  The train was a mishmash of old parts, some of which came from other types of vehicles. But when Clawfoot spun up the engine and black smoke belched from a stack, Robinson knew he was in for a ride.

  Mox slid open the rusty door to the first car, and an overpowering stench hit Robinson as Mox pushed him inside. His hands and knees were quickly coated with a tar-like substance that reeked of foul soil and animal waste.

  “Like that smell, boy?” Mox teased. “You’ll get used to it where you’re going.”

  The Big Hats climbed up and chained Robinson to a handrail at the front of the car. Then, Mox punched him in the gut.

  “That was for making me swallow my chaw,” Mox said.

  He swung twice more. Only with the final blow did Robinson sink to his knees.

  “And that’s for all the smoke come outta your fancy mouth.”

  Inspired by the Big Hats’ laughter, Mox reached down and stripped Robinson of his sole remaining boot and tossed it out of the train.

  “Won’t be needing that where you’re going.”

  The train jolted forward as a shrill whistle cut the night. Coal smoke blew past the door as the train began to move. Robinson slid down against the wall as Mox and the others took up position at the opposite end of the car. One of them broke out a box of cards, and they played a gambling game.

  Outside, the passing landscape was illuminated by a turgid moon that cast everything in opaque light. The air was crisp, but it succeeded in flushing some of the stench from the car.

  Trog.

  The name elicited fear in those who spoke it. Robinson knew he should be worried, but he also remembered Friday teaching him that fear of the unknown was always worse than fear of something real. He hoped it would hold true in this case.

  As the train purged the foothills, the woodlands thickened, and the moon disappeared. Then, all at once, Robinson saw a shadow keeping pace on the ground outside. A chill shot up his spine. He assumed these lands were home to a variety of animals, but something about the shape felt eerily familiar. As he leaned out for a better look, he thought he saw a pair of eyes flash up at him. Then the train sped over a bridge, and the shadow fell away.

  Sometime later, Robinson woke as the train began to slow.

  “End of the line,” Mox said.

  Mox threw Robinson from the train, and he hit the ground hard. His shackles bit his wrists as he struggled to his feet in front of a narrow opening in a thicket. Mox shoved him through, then down a misty slope that led to a morass of spindly trees. Someone lit a lantern, but it provided scant light. The path became muddy, and several times, Robinson nearly slipped, but he trudged forward, head swiveling toward every shadow and sound that gave the bog life.

  At last, the path ended at a pond ringed with twisted, gnarled trees woven with mist. Robinson looked around for a boat, but he didn’t see one.

  “You’ll like this,” Mox said.

  Mox pulled his pistol and fired three shots in the air. They echoed over the water and were followed by a foreboding silence.

  For a moment, nothing stirred. And then a light emerged from a cave across the bog. A small wooden boat appeared, with a hunched figure rowing toward them.

  Robinson’s heart thrummed in his chest. In the capitol library, he had read the mythological story of Charon, the ferryman. He was said to escort newly deceased souls across the River Styx to the land of the dead, but only for the price of a coin.

  Robinson had no such coin. Would he be forced to wander the shores of some unnamed purgatory for one hundred years?

  The figure that arrived was not Charon, but a man wearing goggles and an old duster. He was covered with soot from top to bottom and stank even worse than the train car.

  “Another customer for the deeps, Drego,” Mox said.

  Drego grinned, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth.

  Mox elbowed Robinson toward the boat, the pistol twisting in his back.

  “If you’re thinking about jumping once you’re out there, I’ll give you fair warning. There’s things in that bog that’ll skin you faster than a Flayer. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing you try.”

  Robinson sat at the front of the rickety old boat as Drego paddled away. Before long, Mox and the others had disappeared, leaving him with only the gentle stroke of Drego’s oar sinking into the water again and again.

  Once inside the cave, stalactites and stalagmites appeared, the lantern light making them look like teeth of an impossibly large
mouth. Robinson thought it might be a karst mine with all the limestone formations, clints, and grikes. He could also see flutes and runnels overhead, suggesting that a mountain rose high above them.

  If the odor in the train had been bad, here, it was downright paralyzing. The acrid stench grew stronger the farther they descended. Robinson’s eyes began to water, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth.

  Just when it seemed like the trip would never end, Drego turned a bend, and Robinson saw several torches lining a smooth inlet. The boat clunked ashore, and Drego drew still.

  Robinson waited for some command, but there was none. So he got out of the boat. A moment later, another figure covered in soot appeared from the mouth of a low tunnel. He held a club in his hand and smiled cruelly.

  “New meat for the maw, eh?” the figure said. “Trog awaits.”

  He shoved Robinson into the tunnel and down into the heart of the mountain. After a series of dizzying turns, a deep, booming voice emerged, accompanied by the crack of whips and cries of pain.

  Robinson’s hands began to shake.

  “Work, dogs. Work!” the deep voice from below shouted. “He who produces most, bleeds least!”

  The whip cracked twice more, and a wail went up before it was silenced.

  Robinson turned a final corner and entered a vast cavern lit by a dozen torches. A half-dozen guards lorded over thirty or forty men on their knees, using small tools to scrape soot off every surface they could find and use it to fill burlap sacks. At the entrance of the cavern sat a high mound of sacks already full. Robinson struggled to understand how such a minute substance could be amassed in such quantity or what could make it worth the effort.

  “Trog!” Robinson’s escort called as he shoved the new prisoner to the cavern. “Fresh fingers.”

  The guards laughed and then went silent as a figure stepped out of the shadows.

  Trog was merely a few inches taller than Robinson, but he towered inside the cavern. He wore the thinnest of shirts, exposing a torso thick with corded muscle. His head was bald, but his beard was thick. And yet the most imposing aspect—the one that sent tremors to the core of Robinson’s soul—was the patchwork of scars that covered nearly every part of his body. Burns, cuts, gouges, even a dimpled skull—they revealed a man who had been tortured beyond all measure and had survived.