Robinson Crusoe 2244 (11 page)

The next three days were a soul-numbing experience of limited sleep and limitless despair. He had run too long on adrenaline. All he had left was vapor.

The day after the attack, Robinson returned to the white building only to discover the damn creatures had ravaged his belongings and scattered them to the wind. Of the few possessions he could scavenge, he found only two rations of food, half a candle, and his flint. Everything else was gone, including his shoes. Even if he scaled his already paltry meals back to a few rations a day, he had no chance of them lasting out the week.

Each day at dawn as the renders crept back into the shadows, he was left to face the city alone. He traveled through empty streets, across broken roads, and down to the river where he gathered materials for a fire. Two turns each day were spent purifying water. It was never enough.

Foraging was not a skill he had learned in school. He had little idea what he needed or where to look to find it. Since he was too afraid to travel outside the city, he mostly walked the residential areas, peeking over fences for an occasional tree bearing fruit or nuts. Both were hard to come by and of those he found, the birds and animals had often gotten to them first.

Animals were surprisingly abundant during the day, although they cut Robinson a wide berth. The sight of rats, squirrels, and the occasional rabbit became a common thing. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. They too feared the night.

For every healthy animal that walked the day, there were twice as many infected ones that emerged at night. Like the renders, they amassed in packs, always going after smaller prey in larger numbers. Mutations ran rampant through them—multiple heads and limbs. One bulbous marsupial looked to have been mixed with a feline, its fur matted with mange; it dragged its legless body across the street, leaving a wake of gore. It was so ugly and so damn pitiful he almost felt sorry for the thing. But then a render bounded out of nowhere, snapped it up, and ate it in several gurgling gulps.

How long had such madness been going on? Since man had walked these streets? Or was this some ugly evolution that had followed? Where had the renders come from? How had they been infected? Had they been human once? Were they fellow travelers who had unluckily stumbled upon this city? Or had this same madness spread across the continent? Robinson tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand, but the questions kept coming.

If his days were full of exhaustion, his nights were full of terror. He had built an improvised shelter in the middle of the oil rich park, but that didn’t stop the renders from stalking outside the gates, taunting him with their cries. They spoke no words, but the message was clear: we know you’re there and one day you will be ours.

The mistake they were waiting for came on the fourth day as Robinson expanded his search of the city. He was passing by something called the library of congress when his head turned just in time to see a silhouette in one of the windows. At first he froze, convinced his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then he heard the sound, like a shuffling, followed by the rapid padding of feet.

It could have been a render. While they mostly came out at night, he had seen them during the day, swathed in tattered clothes to brave the power of the sun, presumably driven mad enough by hunger to root them from their hovels. Still, he had to know.

Robinson ran into the building, hustling through a turnstile so quickly that its rusted guts snapped under his weight. The room was enormous, large enough to fit his entire school under its eaves. The windows above were long gone, but the intricate designs remained.

For the moment, he was too awed to move, but then he heard another noise from above and he continued for the stairs.

Everywhere he looked, there were stacks and stacks of books. The elements had rotted most of them. Paper spilled out like so much porridge gone to seed. But a few remained. There was no rhyme or reason why one book amongst so many should have survived, but the ones that did stood out like trees in a barren field.

On the third floor, Robinson heard the movement of a single form, and through the remnants of these paper skeletons, he saw the figure dash southward. He ran parallel, angling for a better look, but he was blocked by some kind of reading room. The figure was smaller and faster and was running on pure desperation.

As he approached the final bookshelf, the shadow darted by Robinson, so close his fingers felt the rush of wind. But as he turned the corner, he saw a dirty hand whip a metal door closed. He slammed against it, breathless, only to find it locked.

“Wait!” he screamed. “Please! I’m not going to hurt you! Come back!”

He pounded on the door for what seemed like forever. When he finally stopped, his hands felt swollen. “I’m alone here! Please! Please don’t leave me!”

His cries went on for some time, but the door never answered.

The combination of exhaustion, starvation, and a mind stretched near the breaking point proved too volatile a concoction. Robinson fell asleep. When he finally woke, it was to the sight of dusk and the sounds of terror that had accompanied each night of this nightmarish land. He wanted to flee, to find an escape, but there was nowhere to go or hide.

He tried looking for weapons, but there were none to be had. When he ripped the leg off a chair, it disintegrated in his hands like kindling.

Only when he felt his legs go weak did he realize he’d given up.

Robinson’s mind ventured to simple things. The last time he saw his mother. How she’d cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on both cheeks. How that final kiss still lingered with the sting of its hidden goodbye.

He remembered other kisses. The ones that bore him to sleep like lullabies and unrequited dreams. Of Tessa. Her mouth. Her hands. The blush his smile brought to her cheeks whenever he dared to glance in her direction. Her final look in the Crown before his world fell apart.

But mostly he thought of his father and siblings. What must they be thinking, half a world away? Did they suspect he was dead like his mother? Or did they lay awake at night, wishing they, too, could flee and join him on his grand adventure?

Dusk was hot. Sweat trickled down his skin. The howls surged closer.

Downstairs, he heard the doors crash in and heavy footfalls plod up the staircase.

In the growing darkness, his mind reached for something to grasp, but it was not escape it found. Nor rescue or love. But raindrops and their familiar pattering on the windowpane of his bedroom back home. Their furtive flight down the limbs of the trees in the yard outside. Footfalls in the grass. Dampening lichen on stone. The smells of the earth as she opened herself up to drink.

Robinson’s eyes flickered open to see his hand extend, hungry not for the books before him but for the sweet sting of water when brought to his lips. In his other hand, he held tightly to his mother’s locket and wondered for the last time what was so important that his parents had risked everything to hide that little disk.

When the lumbering shadows approached from behind, Robinson slid down and laid his head into the bosom of books, wondering if their words would have brought him any more comfort had he had the time to read them.

He smelled the hot breath before he felt it. On his neck and back. The books were thrust aside. A hand reached through the shelves. Claws tickled his skin.

He closed his eyes for the last time.

And then the metal door flew open and someone with astonishing strength pulled him within.

Robinson hit the back wall hard with barely enough time to turn and see the man wrench the door shut and bar it as the wave of renders descended. The concussive force of their attack shook the walls as they charged again and again. In complete blackness, Robinson listened to their frenzied howls as heavy fists rained down and talons gouged the metal outside.

Through it all, the door held.

They stood in silence, listening to the assault as it reached its crescendo and then slowly dissipated. Robinson tried to remember what he’d seen of the man before the door had shut. He’d been wearing some kind smock, patched together with a variety of fabrics that smelled of sweat, dust, and something else. Defeat, maybe. His hair and beard were thick and unruly, more grey than black.

“
Zu cair
,” he said once the renders had gone.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Something hard struck Robinson across his outer thigh and he cried out.

“Zu cair,” he repeated with a grunt.

“I don’t understand,” Robinson said.

He hit him again. Twice. Both strikes came close to buckling Robinson’s legs. Both would bruise.

“Zu cair,” he said impatiently. This time, he cuffed Robinson on the shoulder, turning him to his right. He wanted him to walk.

“I-I can’t see where I’m going.”

The man made a noise of disgust before striking him across the back. The instrument felt long and hard, like a piece of wood.

Robinson’s hands groped for something in the darkness. They found a railing at the head of some stairs. A hollow echo delved downward.

“You want me to go down—?”

Again he felt the sting at the back of his legs, placed with remarkable precision.

“Okay, okay. I get it. You want to go down. I’m going down. Just don’t hit me anymore, all right?”

He was struck again and Robinson stumbled down the steps, grasping onto a railing that wobbled precariously. The man followed in silence. If it weren’t for the sound of wood striking each step as he walked, Robinson wouldn’t even have known he was there.

After the first floor, his nerves were once again on edge. He had no idea where he was being led. It didn’t seem logical that the man would risk saving him earlier only to kill him now. But for all he knew, the man might be a flesh eater too. Or a slave trader. Or the kind of monster his parents warned him about—the kind that had a weakness for boys.

Only when the second set of steps turn into the third did Robinson’s panic turn visceral. He started imagining scenarios by which he could overtake him, disarm him, and flee. But it was almost as if the man read his very thoughts. He suddenly felt the sharp point of his staff press against the center of his back. Not hard enough to cause pain or draw blood. Just enough to let him know it was there.

His feet continued to descend. Robinson became certain he was being marched to his grave. Then a dim light appeared below. As they turned the fifth and final stairwell, he saw faint words scratched on a heavily barricaded door that read: SUB LEVEL 3.

The stairwell eventually emptied into a stone room no bigger than six meters square. The source of the light was a small, brunette candle that flickered from a rusty tin can. Next to it was a larger can, over which someone had perched a blackened metal spit with some kind of meat on it. A mound of small, delicate bones was strewn across the opposite side of the room—the same area where the man signaled Robinson to go.

He walked over and looked down at the bones.

“
Sentar
,” the man said, motioning for Robinson to sit. He remained standing. The edge of the man’s mouth curled cruelly as the spear began to twirl.

Robinson sat.

The man huffed and then sat on a mess of blankets that made up his sleeping area. His eyes never left Robinson as he reached up and set the staff on a shelf behind him.

He took a heavy breath and closed his eyes for a second. Then he opened them, reached down, and lifted the tin with the animal on the spit. Underneath were a few half-burned twigs. He pulled out a tattered book, tore its last remaining pages out, and stuffed them under the twigs. He then used the candle to rekindle his small fire.

As his meal cooked, Robinson studied the man. He was older than he had imagined. If he had to guess, he would say no younger than sixty. And yet there was a strength to him—a vitality. His skin was bronzed from a lifetime in the sun, but as he peeled off his smock, Robinson saw a multitude of white scars that shone against his skin. Some were as small as a gnat’s bite, while others crisscrossed his entire body. Back home, such disfigurement would make a citizen a pariah, but here, in this context, the man was a god.

When his meal was cooked, he took it off the fire. That’s when Robinson saw what he’d missed earlier. The man had no right hand. It was gone just below the wrist, replaced by an angry sheath of raw flesh that could have only been fashioned by fire. Robinson imagined a dozen stories that might account for that missing appendage but doubted any could rival the truth.

Just below the shoulder of that maligned arm was another wound, but this one was some kind of tribal marking or brand. It was in the shape of an inverted V, like the gable of a house.
Did he put it there himself?
Robinson wondered. Or had someone else?

The thought of food made Robinson’s mouth water, but his host offered none. When he was done, he tossed the bones, hot and smoking, against the wall to his right. The smell was both repulsive and intoxicating.