Robinson Crusoe 2244 (10 page)

On the westward side of the obelisk was the residue of several large fires that had blackened the wild grass to its roots, leaving ash in its wake. But it was the grisly spectacle at the base of the obelisk that left Robinson’s stomach churning. There, someone had hammered a dozen iron shackles deep into the stone, half of which held human remains. Most were bones, the forearm or lower leg. All had been stripped clean of flesh. Pools of blackened blood stained earth and stone, but unlike the scene from the military base, this blood was relatively fresh, no more than a month old.

Robinson grew instantly nervous. Had his own naiveté once again lulled him into complacency? His mistake wasn’t in believing renders only came out at night, but that they were his only threat. The shackles were a sign of intelligence, but what kind of creature was capable of such savagery? Only one that he knew of:

Human.

His head snapped around, scanning the buildings and the streets. Nothing moved. Not even the grass in the breeze. Still, someone could have been out there, watching from the shadows, waiting for him to let his guard down. He swore it would not happen.

The afternoon was moving quickly. Robinson needed to get out of the open. He glanced around for a suitable structure.

The one he found was positioned at the far end of the park, behind formidable black gates and a host of other defensive fortifications that suggested at one time, the compound held some importance. Like so many other structures in the city, it was an impressive sight. Though only two or three stories tall, it bore columns that secured a great, rounded portico. The most distinct thing about it was that it had once been painted white. Despite years of neglect, it had retained a strange vibrancy.

The walk across the park took almost half a turn. By the time Robinson crossed the final street—Pennsylvania Avenue—blisters from his new shoes had become companions to the previous ones. He took off his shoes for a spell to cool his feet in the clover.

The gates bore signs of some violent ingress with a number of carriages strewn upside down, lying in ruins in the festering weeds. Many were pocked with holes like the ones at the military base, making it painfully clear that some kind of battle had taken place.

Of all the curious sights, none matched the one Robinson discovered on the lawn. Hidden under a blanket of flowers was the cracked shell of an ancient flyer, its gangly rotor appendages bent and snapped, with a number of oval windows looking up from the earth and with several distinguishable letters: —ITED STA—. A tail section hung in scorched pieces in a nearby tree. Had this ship been fleeing
to
this place when it had fallen, or
from
it? And had Robinson escaped their fate or had they escaped his?

A gust of wind kicked leaves across the yard. The breeze felt cool, but a prickling sensation struck Robinson once again and told him he was not alone.

Robinson felt an odd sense of excitement as he approached the twin doors beneath the portico. Maybe inside he would get a glimpse of this mighty empire before it had fallen. If he was truly lucky, the building might prove a capable shelter in which he could strategize what to do next. He tried the door and it clicked.
Maybe the stars aren’t aligned against me
, he thought. And as he pushed them open, he heard the whine of cables and gears as a weighted pulley sent a metal plate swinging down from above. He barely had time to turn his head when the booby trap cracked him flush on the ear and catapulted him backward in an explosion of stars and pain. The last thing he remembered was the sting of gravel and the warmth of his own blood before everything went dark.

The animal was chewing on his face.

Robinson screamed and scrambled back on his haunches.

The animal also leaped back and began baying in sharp, staccato bursts. The sound was foreign to Robinson, but somewhere in his mind, he knew it had a proper name that was intrinsically tied to the animal itself.

It was called a bark. And the animal was a dog.

He had never seen a dog before. He’d been told, like so many other animals, that dogs had gone extinct in the Great Rendering. But this dog was real. It was stout and lean, between four and five stones. Its muzzle was extended with a protruding jaw under dark eyes. It had a brindle coat that bore the distinct scarring of rendering infection.

Robinson’s hand went to his face, which was slick with blood, but to his relief, he found no bite marks. The blood stemmed from his brow, brought about by the booby trap. The dog, for its part, hadn’t been biting him but
licking
him. His immediate fear was that he’d been infected. But he remembered his mother telling him that the disease could only infect a person when it entered their bloodstream. Could a dog’s saliva do that?

The dog continued to bark. Robinson sat up, confused as to why it wasn’t charging. He was easy prey. Maybe it feared him. Or maybe it was waiting for others of its kind to arrive. His walking stick lay just inside the front doors, out of reach. He considered running, but the dog must have sensed his intent because it whined and padded closer.

“Back!” Robinson shouted. “Get back!”

To his surprise, the dog obeyed. There was no way it could have understood him. It must have been responding to his tone. Then it lay on all fours and whimpered.

The ringing in Robinson’s head sounded like the tinkling of brass keys. He had taken the kind of blow that would put a man in the House of Healers for a week, but he hadn’t a week to work through this and no healers to call on. He needed to get away. But something stymied him, like a tick buried beneath the surface that continued to itch.

When the truth finally came, it arrived in three realizations.

The first was that there was intelligence in the dog’s eyes. Though it watched Robinson, it never attacked. Its mouth never curled into a snarl. It wasn’t angry or defensive, but agitated. There was no dripping saliva, flaring nostrils, or upturned hackles. This dog bore the signs of the Rendering, but his actions suggested otherwise.

The second realization occurred when Robinson discovered the tinkling sound was not a ringing in his ears, but came from a small medallion attached to the dog’s collar. A collar suggested domestication. Domestication suggested man
.
But what man would domesticate a diseased animal? And did that mean they were nearby?

The third and final realization happened with a literal whimper as the dog looked not at him but up at the sky. Robinson followed suit and felt a new flush of dread.

Night had arrived.

The first render’s cry almost made his legs give out. He turned back to the dog, but it had taken off like a shot. He considered following, but to where? More shrill howls filled the air as additional renders emerged from their slumber. He thought about darting inside the white building, but the booby trap persuaded him otherwise. Plus, he had caught scent of an odor he was growing familiar with—renders.

The half-moon loomed just above the river, but it would be no friend tonight. At that moment, Robinson would have given anything to be back in the safety of the house where he’d spent the previous night, but it was a world away. He turned for the river but halted immediately in his tracks. Twenty meters away was the largest render he had ever heard of, and it was staring straight at him.

He wouldn’t have thought for a second such creatures were capable of stealth, but there it was, close enough for him to see its chest rise and fall. It was a towering creature, easily taller than him by half, but stooped with rows of densely packed muscles. It wore tattered rags that glistened with ulcerations that oozed with every twitch. A second, smaller creature emerged from behind it, bearing a second mouth that protruded from its neck, its gnarled yellow teeth beckoning in the night. These were not like the creature he’d seen in the Crown. These beasts were hardy and thick, with calcified bone borne like armor and distended muscles that leaked from every crevice.

On instinct, Robinson leaned back, but the movement was enough for both creatures to charge. He turned to run but slipped on the grass. He realized he’d never put his shoes back on. He had no time to retrieve them now.

The renders were not fast runners. In fact, they were sluggish and clumsy, likely due to the body mass they carried, but if their gasping howls and frenetic movements proved anything, it was that they would not quit once they’d begun tracking their prey. They would pursue him until the sun rose, or they caught him.

Robinson ran with pure abandon, following the path the dog had taken around the back of the white building. He slipped through a narrow gap near the rear gates. More renders emerged from the tree line and as he ran past, he felt a heavy hand full of claws cut through his jacket and tear his skin. With no light to guide him, he was quickly lost. Several times he turned into a street or alley only to find more renders emerging from doorways and sewers, each frothing from a rictus full of razor-sharp teeth.

The city blurred together. Twice Robinson had circled back onto streets he’d already run down only to find more pursuers amassing. The streets now seemed full of the creatures when turns before, there had been none.

His luck went from bad to worse when he turned down a road and found it blocked by a barrier of rusted carriages. They were stacked together haphazardly but had stood for some time. As he drew closer, Robinson saw bones littered at its base.

With a render on his tail, Robinson leaped up to scale the blockade. A meaty hand locked onto his leg. He wrenched it free just as the rest of the horde hit the blockade like a battering ram. He nearly lost his footing. Even worse, the structure started wobbling badly. It was only a matter of time before it toppled. Several renders tried to climb after him but fell back into the crowd where they were swarmed and torn to pieces.

The horrific scene made Robinson’s stomach churn. But as he reached the top of the blockade, his foot flew out from under him and he fell down the other side, landing hard on his shoulder and hip. Pain flared up his legs and spine, so excruciating he couldn’t move. Just when he thought he might pass out again, he heard the breaking of glass and the shattering of wood. A render had circumnavigated the blockade through a storefront. The beast rose up on two massive legs and let out a piercing howl that Robinson knew would be the last sound he ever heard. But just as it took a step in his direction, he heard a snap of metal. The creature never saw the barricade as it toppled over and crushed him.

Robinson limped off again, but the pack stormed after him. His hip was hobbled and he was beyond exhaustion. It wouldn’t be long now.

As the creatures closed in on him, Robinson’s only path was a small park on an adjacent hill. He burst through its gates as the creatures closed in behind. He limped along until he stumbled from the path, his feet submerged in mud that felt like cold, viscid gruel. He fell and scuttled on his back up the hill until he could no longer move. There he waited for the renders to descend on him in unison.

They never did.

The beasts lingered at the edge of the path but would venture no farther. A few still had sight of him, but the majority had been turned away by the scent of something stronger than blood. Robinson looked down and felt the stuff coating his skin. It was black and thick and smelled vaguely sulfurous.

“Oil,” he said in comprehension. “You won’t go near oil.”

The renders thrashed and howled at the sound of his voice, but none would enter the wet part of the field. Robinson scooped up a handful of crude and slung it at them. They quickly scattered. His anger suddenly boiled to the surface as he rose to his feet, screaming for all his worth. There, he fell to his knees, too tired to sob or to celebrate that he was alive. It should have felt like a great victory, but all he could think of were the days ahead. Twice in two days he had faced death. Twice he had persevered. To survive here long term, he would need more than blind luck. He would need help.

The answer came like a thunderbolt. Not from the sky but from the earth. There, in the mud before him, was a boot print.

And it was fresh.