Crisped + Sere (Immemorial Year Book 2)

by TJ Klune

  Lucas moved until he stood beside Cavalo. Out of the corner of his eye, Cavalo saw the rage on his beaten face, the remnants of his mask from the battle of Cottonwood streaked down his cheeks.

  “It’s okay,” Cavalo said, even though he didn’t think it would be. He spoke as loud as he dared. “It’s okay.”

  Lucas looked as if he didn’t believe Cavalo. Cavalo didn’t blame him for that. But it must have counted for something because Lucas dropped the knife.

  “Now,” Patrick said, sounding extraordinarily amused. “I see that you’ve taken out some of my people.” He grimaced. “In quite a gruesome fashion, I might add. But you know what is so very fascinating about the Dead Rabbits, Cavalo?” He cocked his head, and that showman’s smile returned. “There are so many of them.”

  Movement, off to the right. The way they’d come. He turned his head slightly, not wanting to let Patrick out of his sight.

  Dead Rabbits. Dozens of them. Marching down Dworshak. Armed with jagged weapons and furious smiles. They were a marching death, and in all his years of life, in all the pain and suffering that he’d felt and brought unto others, Cavalo never thought his ending would be something this dramatic. Something so ludicrous as standing next to a psycho fucking bulldog on top of an unknown world while being surrounded by cannibals and a flying machine from Before. He would bleed out for them, and after all that he’d been through, all of the things he’d done, this is where his life would end, and God, if it didn’t feel like he deserved it.

  Cavalo couldn’t stop it, even if he tried. The laughter.

  So he didn’t.

  He laughed.

  It started out as a low sound, just a chuckle, a rumble in his throat and mouth. It bubbled out and changed, his lips parting and twisting cruelly, his breath curling into bursts of steam around his face. It poured out of him, loud and raucous and angry. Tears sprang to his eyes as he bellowed out his laughter.

  He remembered the day he’d met her, how his palms were sweaty and his heart tripped all over itself.

  He remembered the day he’d first held his son, staring at this little creature in his arms, understanding truly for the first time the idea of love at first sight, because he was in love, with this little pink blob that wailed thinly, eyes squinted shut, little fists waving in the air.

  And his first word. His first word! It wasn’t dada or ma or cat or spoon or apple like anything it should have been, anything that would have been normal for him to say, normal for the things that existed in his little world. No, his first word was car, and cars didn’t exist anymore, not really, they were all just burnt-out husks of rusted metal, all long since ransacked, sometimes with bones still in the driver’s seat. He didn’t even remember how he’d heard it or what brought it up, but they passed by a little shop, the screen door wide and welcome, tattered drapes hanging in the dirty windows, and there was a picture. A picture hanging on the wall, faded and cracked and it said GET YOUR KICKS ON ROUTE 66. Beneath the legend was a car with no top, a convertible, his mind had supplied from its dark recesses. And inside the convertible were happy, smiling people, part of a happy, smiling family, and they were getting their kicks, man. They were getting their kicks on route sixty-fucking-six. And his son. His son who lived in a world that was gray and muted and two-thirds dead, his son smiled. He smiled and he reached toward the happy, smiling people in their shiny convertible from Before and he said car. Car. Car. Car. Car.

  Cavalo had been so shocked he’d almost dropped Jamie right then and there.

  So yes. Here. Now. Cavalo laughed.

  The bees didn’t understand. They tried to find more rubber bands to break, but there were none left.

  He laughed.

  Patrick boomed, “It appears he’s lost his mind. Can you see? This is the man you’ve all been afraid of. This is the man they tell stories about. He was your ghost in the woods, your monster that would come at night. This man. How can you be afraid of this man? He is broken, and he is defeated, and he is nothing. This will be his ending. This will be the ending of all things, of this fucked-up and fractured world. I will give you power. I will give you missiles. I will give you motherfucking atoms that split until they blossom into fire.”

  The Dead Rabbits screamed in response. The ones with guns took aim at Cavalo and Lucas. At Bad Dog, whose ears flattened against his head, tail tucking between his legs. At Richie, who stood by his side. They took aim at Bill and Aubrey. Hank and Alma.

  Cavalo just laughed.

  “I’m done with you,” Patrick said, his voice crackling angrily in the static, the thumpthumpthumpthump heavy all around them. “Robot.”

  For a moment nothing happened. For a moment Cavalo stopped laughing and held his breath.

  Then, “Yes, Father.” Voice flat and blaring and mechanical.

  “Do you see Cavalo?”

  Hesitation. Then, “Yes, Father.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. Robot. I want you to go to him.”

  Cavalo narrowed his eyes.

  Even above the helicopter, he could hear the moment SIRS started moving, his metal feet scraping against the concrete.

  He knew the command keys. He didn’t think Patrick knew he knew them.

  This—

  The robot stood beside him, his arm brushing against Cavalo’s, the first touch they’d shared since SIRS broke his wrist and escaped the prison.

  And his eyes were just as red then as they were now.

  The robot didn’t look down at Cavalo.

  He only had eyes for Patrick.

  Patrick, perched on this throne of technology, the key to the future etched into his skin and the skin of his son.

  Cavalo whispered, “I gave a man butter—”

  Patrick lost the showman’s smile. “Robot,” he said, speaking into the mic. “Do not let him speak.”

  SIRS moved then. A flash of silver amongst the spinning snow. A cold metal hand closed over Cavalo’s face, grip tight, those spider-fingers stretching out over his nose and mouth, curling around his eyes, the tips into his hair.

  There were shouts of anger. Of warning. Of triumph.

  “Hold him out to me,” he heard Patrick say, and Cavalo was pulled by his face, the pressure bordering painpainpain and thinking his skull would crack and split. He brought his hands up, grabbing onto the robot’s arms, his feet scrabbling for purchase behind him, dragging in the snow.

  And then there was nothing. Nothing below his feet.

  The pressure stretched into his neck as he held on to the robot with his hands, feet kicking out into nothing. His breath was rattling dangerously in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears enough to almost wash out the sound of the helicopter.

  SIRS, his friend, one of his very first, was holding him over the edge of the dam by his face. Cavalo could only focus on the hand that held him, the way he felt heavy and weightless all at the same time. The way his hands gripped his friend’s arm, his broken wrist screaming, the bees screaming, everything just screaming. Cavalo heard his own muffled groans, his pleas.

  The whine and thump of the helicopter grew louder, and out of the corner of his eye, Cavalo could see the machine getting closer, the wind stronger. The helicopter hovered briefly near the edge of the dam, and for a moment nothing happened.

  Then Patrick stepped out onto Dworshak. The axe strapped to his back caught a blinking light at the bottom of the helicopter, causing a brief shining reflection mixed in with the snow. His coat whipped around his body. He looked strong. Amused.

  The helicopter pulled away, moving up behind SIRS, hovering above the partially collapsed building, at the rear of the dam. The noise from the machine was noticeable but no longer deafening. Cavalo could actually hear himself think now, but none of it was good because it was all DEFCON 1 and LOSE SOMETHING, CHARLIE and I CAN’T BREATHE I ALMOST CAN’T BREATHE.

  Patrick, of course, took his time.

  He moved slowly, every step d
eliberate. He was calm. Cool. Collected, and in charge. He knew he had won, he knew they hadn’t stood a chance, maybe more so than Cavalo ever had, because Cavalo had come here expecting to die. Expecting all of them to die. To kill Lucas if he had to so no one would get the map on his skin.

  But now.

  Now Patrick had Cavalo hanging off into nothingness. Patrick had Lucas back in his hands. Patrick had guns pointed at the people who had followed Cavalo into the dark, even though he’d never wanted them, never wanted to mean anything to them. They’d made mistakes. They’d killed innocent people in the name of survival. Cavalo had been no better (undoubtedly much, much worse), but he’d judged them and they still followed him.

  He said, “SIRS, please don’t do this. Please help us.”

  It came out muffled and intelligible.

  He thought he felt the spider-fingers tighten briefly, but the eyes remained red.

  Patrick stopped in front of Lucas, who was now restrained by two Dead Rabbits standing on either side of him, hands curled around his biceps. Patrick reached out and dragged his fingers along Lucas’s cheek, wiping away a smudge of black. Lucas’s eyes were dark with rage, and Cavalo thought maybe he too had been submerged. He waited for Lucas to lash out with claws and teeth, but it didn’t happen, even if his skin vibrated with it.

  “Stay,” Patrick said. “Good boy.”

  Lucas only stared murderously.

  He ignored Bad Dog and Richie, both held off to the side, Richie with a knife to his throat, Bad Dog growling at the end of a catchpole, the noose circled crudely around his neck. The dog was saying no and Tin Man and MasterBossLord please don’t hurt please don’t. But since only Cavalo could hear him, his cries went unanswered.

  Patrick came to stand next to SIRS. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. He rolled his shoulders and shook his head.

  Patrick said, “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

  Cavalo didn’t believe him. He struggled and kicked, his arms tiring.

  “I didn’t,” Patrick said. “My hope was that we could have found a peaceful solution to all of this. I told myself when I left St. Louis that I would do anything I could to protect the people who deserved it. That we would survive by whatever means necessary. You know. My son and I.”

  Kill you, Cavalo thought. Kill you. Kill you. Kill you.

  “They were like monkeys when I found them,” Patrick said, glancing back at the Dead Rabbits, an almost fond expression on his face. “Living in the trees. Crude. Some semblance of hierarchy. It was funny, really. I stumbled upon them and expected to be eaten then and there. Instead they made me their god. It was their weakness, Cavalo. They desperately needed guidance with a harsh yet loving hand, and I knew no one else could do it like I could. So I accepted my responsibility. My lot in life. My fate or my destiny. However you want to see it.”

  The showman’s smile fell away. Cavalo could see the monster hidden in his depths rising up.

  “Then there was you,” Patrick said.

  Cavalo futilely kicked his legs again. He thought he heard the metal in the robot’s arm creak.

  “You,” Patrick said, “a mere slip of a man. A forgotten relic. A ghost. You chose to defy me with such fire that I could not help but be awed. Enraged, yes, but awed. You took from me what was mine. You fought for something that never belonged to you. You convinced a town of frightened sheep to go against me. I am in such awe of you, Cavalo, and I wish this could end differently. But it can’t, because as long as there is someone like you, some thorn in my side, then… well. I guess it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, speaking only for Cavalo. “They’re scared of you,” he said. “The Dead Rabbits. Seeing me kill you will only cement my position as a deity. I thank you for your sacrifice.”

  Kill you. Kill you. Kill you.

  Patrick must have understood what Cavalo’s muffled protests had meant. His eyes softened, and he clucked his tongue. “If it’s any solace, I’m sure your wife and son are waiting for you. You’ll be with them soon. Rest, Cavalo. Leave me here to do my work, and you can just rest. Robot.”

  SIRS straightened, eyes brightening. “Yes.”

  Patrick frowned, but it fell away quickly. “You hold in your hand a mistake that must be corrected.”

  “A mistake.”

  “A mistake. We are going to demonstrate what happens to those who chose to stand against me. And how fitting would it be to have his blood spilled upon this place, this glorious construction that will be our future. Robot. I want you to crush his skull in your hands. I want you to do it slowly. And once his body has stopped twitching, you will drop him off the edge, and he will be nothing. You don’t fuck with a god!”

  The Dead Rabbits roared their approval.

  “Robot!” Patrick bellowed. “Kill James Cavalo!”

  And Sentient Integrated Response System said, “No.”

  The quiet fell immediately. All that could be heard was the thumpthumpthump of the machine hovering overhead.

  Cavalo opened his eyes. They felt like they bulged from the pressure on his skull.

  The robot’s eyes were red. And they watched him.

  “What was that?” Patrick asked, low and dangerous.

  SIRS began to click and grind. “I am… there is nothing. Most… most… direct. Directive. Directive four, eight, fifteen, sixteen, twenty-three, forty-two. D-d-direct—” His head rocked back, eyes pointed toward the nuclear-struck sky. He blared, “MOST UNFORTUNATELY IN THE LIVES OF PUPPETS THERE IS ALWAYS A ‘BUT’ THAT SPOILS EVERYTHING.” The gears ground together. The robot sparked and sered and that deep burning came from inside him, more pungent and severe than it had ever been before, as if it was cancerous and eating him from the inside out.

  For a moment, the pressure on Cavalo’s head increased, and he thought this is it this is it this is—

  The robot’s head fell forward again. His eyes flashed between red and yellow and orange, and in that orange, that warm fire orange, Cavalo saw glimpses of his friend, the robot who’d saved him again and again, and he was fighting it, he was fighting the commands of Patrick, and they were running out of time—

  “I am not a monster,” SIRS said, voice harsh and broken. “I am not like you. I am… I am… corruption. Partial system failure. Mark twenty-one. Mark seventeen. Mark one, mark one, and aren’t we all having fun? I can’t….” SIRS screamed, gears snapping and falling apart. “Cavalo! Oh, James! Check the room. It’s behind the watchful eyes because the boy of wood has led you there. Where has this day—Mark sixteen. Mark mark forty. Mark the square root of pi in your eye, and I am not a monster!”

  “You are,” Patrick said, teeth bared and snarling, “whatever I say you are. You are metal and wires and numbers in code. You are nothing but a servant, and I gave you an order.”

  The robot’s eyes flickered back to orange. “No,” he said. “No. No. I am not a monster, I am not a servant. I-I-I-I am a friend. I-I-I have friends, but I am not a puppet on strings, you motherfucker, you fucking asshole, because I-I-I AM A REAL FUCKING BOY!”

  It happened then. Everything slowed down around them, the Dead Rabbits tensing, the snow falling, the rage-filled curve of Patrick’s lips as he reached behind his head to grab the axe. Cavalo saw Bill move out of the corner of his eye, dropping down low to the ground, moving quicker than Cavalo had ever seen him move. He brought his arm in close to his body and then flung it out. As soon as his arm crossed in front of his chest, his hands splayed wide and a dark disc flashing blue flew toward SIRS.

  EMP, Bill had said.

  Electromagnetic pulse.

  Cavalo tightened his grip on the robot’s arm and swung his legs in, then out because he would have only once chance at this, one chance before the EMP detonated and the robot shut down, letting him fall. One fucking chance—

  SIRS held Cavalo’s face with his left hand. Without looking away, he snapped his right arm over his left and caught the disc before it struck the side o
f his head.

  “Not quite,” SIRS said, eyes flickering between yellow and red, the disc beginning to whine high-pitched and angry, ramping up louder and louder and—

  SIRS threw Cavalo up in the air, arms and legs flailing as he rose ten feet or more above the dam. Before Cavalo even reached the apex of his ascent, SIRS was spinning below him, his upper half twisting around on gears and wheels as his bottom half stayed firmly planted. As soon as he was fully facing the opposite direction, he released the disc with a snap of his arm, rocketing it up toward the helicopter. The robot kept spinning as Cavalo began to descend, and he wasn’t close enough to the edge, he wasn’t close, he was going to fall the fuck down—

  SIRS grabbed Cavalo’s left arm and pulled him back, Cavalo’s feet scraping against the concrete edge, one foot slipping off into nothing and—

  Through his haze of shock and panic, through the sound of the robot’s insides breaking down, through the startled grunt that came from Patrick, he heard the loud whine of the EMP device charging up.

  SIRS pulled him up onto the dam, solid ground beneath his feet, and he could breathe—

  Patrick said, “What have you done, you—”

  There was a sharp electric crack from above them. Cavalo didn’t know what to expect, had never seen an EMP device before, never had even heard of such a thing. They were mystical devices from that time Before that sounded like it was nothing more than a dream, when people lost things, Charlie, and they got their kicks on Route 66. He didn’t understand things like cars and DEFCON 1 (though, in his head, it was always DEFCON 1 even if he didn’t quite grasp the concept). He couldn’t understand the basics, so understanding something as complicated as an electromagnetic pulse was beyond him. He didn’t know if it would explode or if there would be a flash of light or if any and all of the above would be the last thing he’d ever see.

  He didn’t expect to feel lightning-struck and ozone-sharp, the snarl of electricity crawling along the helicopter above in arcing flashes of blue and white. The effect was instantaneous: the machine immediately ceased to run, engines failing and propellers slowing their rotations. For a moment nothing happened, and the machine seemed suspended in air, caught in the swirling moisture of the snow globe.