Robinson Crusoe 2244 (15 page)

And then one day he went out foraging for clothes to fend off the cold that had begun creeping in. Only one area of the city catered to such attire. When he arrived at the northern edge of the city, he recognized the faded symbol of a clothing company that matched the inside of his trousers. Unfortunately, the windows and doors were boarded up, making it impossible to see inside. He knew the likelihood of renders living in such a place was thin—they typically avoided street-level areas when possible. But just as he bounded up the steps, a growl startled him from behind. He spun, his hands wrapping around the knife, only to find the dog in the street behind him.

“Crown’s sake,” Robinson muttered. “You scared the stuffing out of me.”

The dog whined but didn’t move any closer. Robinson’s eyes fell to the afflicted patches on his hindquarters. He was marked like a render, but he didn’t behave like one. The contradiction still puzzled him.

“Well? What do you want? Food? I suppose I owe you after the other day.”

The dog barked again in two sharp yelps.

Robinson reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of squirrel meat. “You must have a keen nose,” he said and tossed it to him. “That makes us even now.”

To his surprise, the dog sniffed the offering but didn’t take it. Instead, he looked about pensively and let loose another low whine.

“What? Too good for squirrel? That’s some cheek. You’re rather scrawny to be turning down a free meal.”

And then the dog started barking aggressively.

“Whoa,” Robinson said, as he held up his hands. “It was just an observation. Nothing to get your tail in a twist over.”

Suddenly the dog’s ears pinned back and he bared his teeth. The snarl left no room for interpretation. He was about to attack.

“Easy now. I’m just going to step inside. No need to—”

And then the door crashed open behind him, followed by a blood-chilling cry. Seven razor-sharp claws tore through the strap of Robinson’s bag as he stumbled into the street. The knife shot out of his pocket and clattered a few feet away.

The render howled, momentarily blinded by the afternoon light. Robinson’s hand groped for the knife. The render compressed its legs, and with incredible force, leaped high into the air. Its good leg struck the concrete just by Robinson’s hip while its mutated leg smashed into his chest, instantly knocking the air from his lungs. He had just picked up the blade when the creature caught his wrist, knocking the blade away.

The creature’s other hand swung straight for his head. He turned at the last second and felt the air bend as its nails passed by and cut into the asphalt. When it wrenched its hand out, chunks of black road scattered. Robinson bucked his hips in an effort to escape, but the render pushed him back down. It howled again and the foul stench that washed out of its maw nearly made him pass out. Its hand went back for a final strike, but before it could launch, a flash of mottled fur slammed into it and sent it flying. Robinson’s lungs filled, but his vision still spun. He turned in time to see the render fling the dog away. It tumbled several times before regaining its feet. Its heavy barks were met by the render’s howl as they squared off, both prepared to spring at the other again.

Robinson knew the dog would continue to charge. He also knew it had no chance of winning, so he yelled for it to get back. The dog retreated a few steps as Robinson darted by the creature. It halted at the edge of the shadows.

When Robinson reached the end of the block, the render was gone. The dog, however, remained by his side. Curiously, it had saved his life twice that day. Though afflicted with the same disease as the renders, it appeared that the disease had halted its progression. Were all dogs like this? And if so, why weren’t there more around?

The animal had been domesticated, that much was certain. So Robinson led him back to the library and to the door of the stairwell. It stood there, sniffing the air and whining. It wasn’t because it smelt renders, but because it knew a cage when it saw one. Still, Robinson coaxed it with a soft voice and patient manner. Eventually it followed.

Robinson filled a small pan with water and slid it against the far wall where the Old Man used to sleep. The dog crossed to it and lapped. Twice he filled the pan and twice the dog emptied it. On the third go, Robinson tried to pet the dog to put the little fellow at ease. When the dog looked around skittishly, he knew he wasn’t ready.

“Okay, Dog,” he said. “Everything in its time.”

That night, he read a novel aloud and every time he glanced up, he found the dog watching him from the stairs. The only time he moved was when a draft of wind plunged in from above and the candles flickered. On those occasions, the dog would lift his head and whine softly.

“You know what?” Robinson said, closing his book. “You’re right. This is no way to live. What do you say tomorrow you and I go out and find a new home? Something less …
dramatic
. With a view. Would you like that, boy?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t whine again either. Robinson smiled.

“It’s a deal then,” he said before yawning deeply.

Robinson put a mark between the pages of the book and set it down. Then he bundled his ragged blanket under his head before blowing out the candle. He knew he would sleep well that night. His belly was full. He was safe. And when he heard the dog finally pad over to the Old Man’s corner and paw at some blankets before settling down, he had to smile. For the first time since coming to Washington, he had more than a companion.

At last, he’d found a friend.

The next morning, Robinson packed up his belongings and bid adieu to the haven. Before he left, he made sure to disguise the entrance to the stairwell just in case he ever needed to return. He hoped he wouldn’t.

He and Dog set out to find their new haven, something that would protect them from the elements and prove inhospitable to renders. That excluded most of the towers and any shop with fewer than one or two entrances. Most government buildings were too large or too exposed. Robinson wanted to be close to the river, not only for its abundant source of water, but so he could see any threat coming. Still, he wanted to be far enough away from the monolith that its ghosts wouldn’t haunt him when he passed.

Eventually, he settled on a building at the far western edge of the arcade. It was another commanding stone structure perched high atop a hill with a range of stone steps leading up to some mighty limestone columns that towered several stories high. The structure was devoted to another one of the continent’s fallen leaders and it paid homage to the man in the form of a giant statue of him seated in a chair, overlooking an expansive pool of water, the city, and everything beyond. The man wore a grave countenance, devoid of humor or mirth, but there was a stern wisdom fixed on his face that was undeniable. Behind him, these words were etched:

In this temple as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the Union, the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.

Those words, like his expression, gave Robinson an unexplainable confidence. And he knew in that instant, he wanted to do more than survive. He wanted to live.

A road had once encircled the memorial, but the river had overrun it long ago and now lapped up against the southern edge of the building. An old bridge spanned the river, but it too had succumbed to the steady flow of time. To the north was a barren field with nothing but the husks of old, dead trees and a marsh teeming with mosquitos. To the south, the darkened river flowed steadily past.

“Well, boy? What do you think?”

Dog yapped once and looked suspiciously at the building.

“You’re right. I guess we should see what’s inside first.”

Inside the atrium, they crossed pink, marbled floors to find a gold-flecked door marked “elevator,” but no knob to open it. On the other side, they found a regular door, which after much prodding gave way to some sort of custodial room at the back of the building. It only had one physical entrance. A ladder framed to the far wall gave access to an exit panel adjacent to the colored glass ceiling. Not every panel was intact and some rainwater had gotten in, but for the most part, the room was undamaged and well lit. Robinson wanted to see the view from the roof, but when his feet hit the first couple of rusty rungs, Dog moaned to make it clear what he thought of this undertaking. The risk paid off when Robinson rose into the clear morning air with a view of the entire city. The husks of towers and web of roads, once so terrifying to him, became identifiable from on high. The fact that he could see threats coming helped alleviate his many fears. If this were to be his kingdom, he would need a perch from which to lord over. And this one even had a throne.

When he made his way back down, Dog had curled up in a corner underneath an old, dusty desk and wagged his tail when Robinson’s feet hit the ground.

“Yeah,” he said, “I like it too.”

For all the strengths their new home afforded, security still came down to a single door. Any creature or aggressor determined enough would eventually get in no matter how well it was reinforced. So Robinson decided to build a barricade. While the columns outside were too big and too numerous to secure on their own, the three interior columns at the atrium’s entrance were each under three meters apart. The question then became what to barricade them with. The answer sat on the street outside.

The metal carriages that littered the city would no longer move and Robinson didn’t have the strength to lift them by force, so he set out to find something that would. A dozen blocks away, he stumbled across a grocery store and found many stacked metal carts inside. Dog watched as he drew them out one by one, testing the wheels to see if they turned. When Robinson was satisfied with four of them, he drew them down the street.

Two blocks away was a garage that catered to carriages. He added as many tools as the carts could carry, including hammers, saws, chisels, and pry bars. Lastly, he dismantled two hoists used to raise engines and the chains attached to the sliding doors of the garage.

After returning to the memorial, Robinson cut the box portion from every cart and used the long pry bar to slip each four-wheel base along the rusty carriage frame. He then secured the hoist and chains to pitons on the roof before maneuvering the carriage to the foot of the steps. Using makeshift sandbags on a pallet, he used the hoist to pull the carriage into place between the interior columns. Exhausted but thrilled with his progress, he settled down to supper with the last of his rations and Dog at his feet.

“A good day’s work, Dog.”

Dog barked twice, his eyes on the food in Robinson’s hands. Robinson split what he had and tossed it to him. After gobbling it down, he looked up, expectantly.

“I’m afraid that’s the last of it. Maybe if you spent more time hunting and less time playing, we could both fatten up some.”

Robinson chuckled and turned back to stoke the fire. Then he felt the oddest thing. Dog had crossed over and began licking the grease from his fingers. Very slowly, he reached out and set his other hand on his head. He didn’t stop licking, but when he scratched him behind the ears, his eyes closed and he knew they had turned a corner.

“Man’s best friend,” he said. “It’s a tough moniker to live up to. Still, if we’re going to be pals you and me, we’ll need to find you a name more suitable than ‘Dog.’ A proper name, yes?”

Dog barked.

“I’m glad you agree. Now, it should be something representative of who you are—that is to say, your character—but also something with style.”

Robinson offered several suggestions, including Patches, Shadow, and even Renderbane. Perhaps he sensed a change in tone, but when Robinson said “Jaras,” the dog growled.

“I was just teasing!” he said with a laugh. “This is harder than I imagined.”

Dog groaned and lifted his leg to lick his nether regions. With each swipe, the tag on his collar tinkled.

“What’s this?” Robinson asked.

Dog went still as he reached for the tag. It was bronze and much worn. One side had an image of what looked like shooting stars escaping a clutch of clouds. The other side was almost entirely faded except for four raised letters on the outer edge: RESI.

“Resi,” Robinson said. Dog picked his head up. “Is that your name?”

Dog licked his hand again.

“Well, I can’t say I know what it means, but it suits you. ‘Resi’ it is.”

Resi barked and Robinson scratched his ears again.

For the next two weeks, they followed the same routine. In the mornings, they traversed the food route, collecting game from the traps that were still fruitful, while moving the barren ones closer to the memorial or wherever Resi’s nose signaled there were animals to catch.

In the afternoons, Robinson returned to the fortification of the sanctuary. The work was grueling, but he developed a system that got easier with each attempt. By the end of the week, he was stacking one carriage every afternoon. Many of the vehicles were corroded with brittle frames that bent or snapped under significant weight. As he stacked them, he was forced to make repairs to keep them from toppling over.