“Incredible,” he said. “Someone has surgically implanted a control device inside this creature’s brain. If I had to guess, I’d say it was operated by that masked fellow with the pipes.”
“Pipes?” Friday repeated.
“A musical instrument. Like a flute.”
“But it was alive.”
“If you can call a permanent state of physical and mental enslavement ‘alive.’ Half monster, half machine. Someone with real skill did this.”
“It is an abomination,” Friday said, making a warding gesture. “The one who did this is evil.”
“No doubt. The question is: what do they want with us?”
“It is of no concern. We have defeated them. Let us bury this thing and be done with it.”
Robinson agreed, but something told him he hadn’t seen the last of these augmented Renders.
After retrieving their gear from the shelter, Robinson and Friday gathered at the edge of the structure to peruse Pastor’s map. It was dirty and wrinkled, but the plastic sleeve had kept it in good shape.
“So we travelled north to this point—Lake Superior.”
“I still say it was an ocean,” Friday quipped.
“Oceans are salty. This was fresh. Then again, who knows what’s for real in this country? I can only go by what I see and what's on the map.”
“This map is old.”
“Everything here is,” Robinson said, kicking the structure’s eaves. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Plus, I trust the man that gave this to me.”
Robinson had told Friday about Pastor and the time they spent on the road together—their mutual love for history and books. She knew these things were important to Crusoe. He was a thinker, like her father. But to her, ideas were dangerous. And the bigger the idea, the greater the danger. The trouble was, Crusoe liked big ideas.
Robinson tapped the map. “So, we searched Iowa, Missouri, and Kansas but found nothing.”
“Corn,” Friday said. “Plenty of corn.”
“Those people did love their corn,” Robinson agreed. “But now we’re in Oklahoma. We could continue south, but I’m not optimistic about Texas. Looks even bleaker than here.”
Friday watched him look out over the plains. He was a patient decision maker. It was another thing she admired about him. There were times when she wanted him to act on instinct, but some things shouldn’t be rushed. She waited for him to decide.
“Those miners we ran into said the largest population this side of the Missup was here,” he pointed at the map, “in Denver, Colorado. If we make our way up through this pass, we can probably reach it in a week or two. The concern is elevation.”
“Why is this a concern?” Friday asked.
“The higher the elevation, the lighter the air. It might get hard for you to breathe.”
Friday glowered. “I can hold my breath and still reach Denver before you.”
Robinson laughed and held up his hands. “All right. No need to get testy. It’s just the thought of my little chatterbox staying quiet all that way doesn’t sit so well with me.”
“You want to see ‘doesn’t sit well’? Come here.”
Robinson ran off laughing with Friday in quick pursuit.
It was just past midday when a pair of willow grouses landed atop the refueling station in need of rest. They’d had a bountiful morning trolling centipedes and small snakes when movement drew their eyes to the shifting dirt where a gloved hand broke the surface.
Cassa’s head rose from the sand, gasping as the birds took flight. Then he finished pulling himself out of the dirt and struggled to his feet. He knew he was lucky to be alive, though the thought rankled him. Lucky would have been to finish the boy and girl before the storm swallowed him. One look at the pair of footprints leading off to the west, and he knew he’d failed again.
The master would be furious, but what could Cassa have done differently? A superstitious man might have believed the gods were aligned against him. Cassa was not such a man. He knew there were no guarantees in life. Every victory had to be earned, and the best victories were those earned on the back of defeat. He had mustered a good pack, conceived a successful plan of attack, but how could he have foreseen a dust storm?
The one saving grace was the master’s hatred of the boy. It was a fire that consumed him. If Cassa was allowed a third opportunity to track his targets, he swore he would succeed or die trying.
Cassa returned to the pit he’d crawled from and lifted his mask. He raised the pipes to his lips and blew. Bull burst from the sand. As the bison scrambled out the pit, Cassa looked at the old rusted shell of the buried fuel tanker that had saved his life. Maybe the Gods favored him after all.
One look around told Cassa the rest of the pack was dead, and yet he raised the pipes to his lips once more and blew the note to call them. The only sound he heard was the desert wind. With a final sigh, Cassa mounted Bull. He looked west. His enemy was likely reveling in their victory. It would be short lived.
Cassa pulled the reins and spurred Bull in the opposite direction.
Chapter Three
What Lies Beneath
Once past the boundary of scoured earth, the prairie grew rich with buffalo grass, blue grama, and fields of bluestem. Patches of purple verbena and coreopsis spilled over the mesas, leaving the world in colors and hues new to Robinson’s eyes.
He felt a strange contentment during that time, a sense of harmony that ran counter to the fears that spearheaded their quest. It was almost as if he believed finding the City of Glass and curing Friday was not only a mere possibility, but also their destiny, after which they might continue their journey across this magnificent land to discover new people and new wonders.
If Friday shared such sentiments, she didn’t reveal them. More likely, she felt the opposite. She had given her heart wholly to Robinson, and yet he understood how deeply her heart lay anchored to the Aserra and the mountains she called home. He believed when she dreamed of seeing their family whole, it was among her people. Robinson wondered if he would ever see his again.
And yet no matter where they traveled, Friday managed to bewitch sustenance from the land. What looked dry and dead atop the soil fed from waters deep below. Yucca, turnips, and beets were easy for her to find. In narrow springs, she found currants and wild plums. Antelope and jackrabbits were ever-present. They began to do more than survive. They thrived.
Robinson had been right about one thing: the higher altitude was taxing on Friday. As they passed into the borderlands of Colorado, her pace slackened, though neither spoke of it.
In the residue of a ghost town, they managed to unearth leftover camping supplies. Using laces from old boots, they patched together two ancient tents to form a passable shelter. They even foraged an old sleeping bag for warmth, though those summer nights never got too cold.
After three weeks without seeing another person, they risked their first fire made of limbs from a piñon tree. There, huddled together, they basked in the fickle warmth as the sky bled to stars.
“What’s the Aserra name for the stars?” Robinson asked.
“We call them zhēng caído amados,” Friday answered. “It means ‘watchful eyes.’ In the old days, when one of the tribe met death during great service, their body was bound in the flesh of our enemies and carried to the highest mountain in our land. Its name is Ele Fundo Quán.”
“The deep well,” Robinson translated.
“Mountains to the Aserra are like trees or people. However high they rise above the surface, their roots sink twice as deep beneath. Ele Fundo Quán descended so far it draws its life-water from the sacred pools at the heart of the world. These are the same waters that fed the first Aserra.
“For this reason, Ele Fundo Quán is a holy mountain. When the dead are placed atop her, birds will not feed of their flesh. Nor insects or snakes. They are left in peace to await the passage of the Goddess who circles behind the sun on wings of mist. If the dead meet her approval, they take
their place in the sky, joining our other ancestors to watch over and protect us.”
“Do they all make it?” Robinson asked.
“No. But those that do send a signal by blinking their eyes to let us know they have arrived. Even now, you can see them.”
Watching Friday survey the firmament, Robinson felt a tugging deep inside him. He loved several people in his life, but never so deeply.
“Do the people of your Isle share such a story?” Friday asked.
Robinson had always been loath to speak of science in front of Friday. He knew magic and mysticism were anachronisms of primitive races, and yet he did not begrudge them. People needed myths and stories to survive as surely as they needed food and water. Human existence was tumultuous and lonely. Stories were one of the few things that could make the solitude bearable.
“A lot of the ancient cultures looked to the stars for inspiration. In classic antiquity, the Greeks were one of the most significant. They named most of the planets—the larger stars—after their Gods. Venus, Mars, Jupiter. They also grouped stars together in constellations.” Robinson pointed to the northern celestial hemisphere. “That one there is called Ursa Major, or The Great Bear. It contains the youngest known galaxy in the universe.”
“What is a galaxy?” Friday asked.
“Another system of worlds like ours. Just imagine, somewhere among all those lights, there might be a world very much like this one where two people not too dissimilar from us are alone on the plains, being warmed by a fire, and looking up as our star winks at them.”
“You believe this is possible?”
“I believe everything is possible. Especially when I’m with you.”
She snorted, but he knew she enjoyed the sentiment. She lay her head on his chest as she ran her hands over her belly.
“I hope our child shares such wisdom.”
“They will,” Robinson said. “We’ll teach him or her both our ways, so they’ll have the best of the both of us.”
“Your mind.”
“Your strength.”
“Your heart.”
“Your stubbornness.”
“My stubbornness?” Friday balked, smacking him lightly.
Robinson shook with laughter.
“Your beauty then.”
“Beauty,” she scoffed.
“A beauty to rival the stars.”
“Ooh,” she said, quickly reaching for his hands. She placed them on her belly. “Feel.”
When he felt a gentle bump, his heart swelled.
“She enjoys the words we make,” Friday said.
“She?”
Friday shrugged demurely. “It is the Goddess’s will, but I feel it is so.”
Robinson wrapped Friday tightly in his arms, never wanting to let go. But just an instant later, Friday sat up, the lines on her forehead darkening.
“What is it?” Robinson asked, already reaching for his axe.
Friday held up a finger, tilted her head, and listened to the night. There was nothing but the crackling of fire and the wind buffeting the plains. Friday rose anyway.
Robinson stood quietly as Friday crept beyond the edge of the fire to the boundary where flickering shadows met the crepuscular night. She halted there to let her eyes adjust, her head turning as she scanned the darkness.
Robinson felt his palms moisten as Friday crept beyond the edge of the fire to the boundary where flickering shadows met the crepuscular night. He was about to call out when he heard a vague rustling to his left. Something about it sounded familiar, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Instinct prompted Robinson to move, but he didn’t want to distract Friday. Then her head snapped right as a subtle rattling echoed in the darkness.
Adrenaline ticked into Robinson’s system as he rose to peer beyond the void. Then he heard the rattle again—this time closer—and looked down. A large furrow moved in the sand, cutting a path toward Friday.
Robinson screamed, “At your feet!”
Friday leaped back as a massive serpent sprung from the sand, its dual heads snapping at Friday with fangs four inches long. Friday swung her sword instinctually, cutting both heads off the snake as a spray of bioluminescent poison splattered the rocks at her feet. Friday kicked the coiling, headless reptile into the night, its rattle, the size of a fist, quavering menacingly before the sound slowly ebbed away, replaced by the wind.
Chest heaving, Friday stood her ground, braving a single look at the severed heads before the tension started to leak from her body. Then all at once, another rattle sounded, followed by others, until the entire night seemed filled with their call.
The earth moved in rippling waves, streaming for both Friday and Robinson. They barely had time to prepare before snakes shot out of the dirt, fangs hissing as they attacked. Robinson spun away, swinging his axe through the first snake’s meaty body as it passed him by, narrowly avoiding a second snake that bit into the dirt by his feet. This one bore three tails and landed in a huff before coiling back, preparing for a second strike. Robinson kicked one of the logs off the fire, and the snake hissed before delving back under the earth.
Three other snakes were snapping at Friday in a frenzy—a coordinated attack. She maneuvered deftly under the assault. Those with multiple heads used staggered attacks to work its body closer. Friday held her ground well, refusing to overextend herself until one got close enough for her to cut it down with her blade, sending a torrent of deadly venom into the air.
Robinson backpedaled toward some rocks when he felt something cut through his boot before a moment of blinding pain. Robinson hacked at the creature twice before he fell, and his axe flew from his hand. He heard more rattles surging in his direction and leaped for the only weapon near him—the burning branch from the fire. Robinson swung it at the snakes, who coiled back, hissing, before burrowing back underground.
Before Robinson could process what had happened, he heard Friday shout and looked to see the snakes edging her farther into the desert, where she was struggling to see. Her arms were already moving slower, and she looked desperate. Then at least three more snakes emerged behind her, their rattles shaking in anticipation.
“Friday!” Robinson shouted. “Get back to the fire! They fear fire!”
Friday leaped forward instead, swinging her sword with a wild, looping arc that sent the massive reptiles slithering back before she turned and rushed for the fire. Two leaped in unison after her, narrowly missing her heels as they plunged into the ground only to come up a few feet later for another salvo. Friday was a few feet away when she saw Robinson throw his torch. She caught it and swung around, striking the closest mutated snake on the snout. It immediately hissed in pain and burst into flames, convulsing around as fire consumed it.
“The venom,” Robinson realized. “It’s flammable.”
Friday backed up to the campfire, swinging the torch back and forth as the rattling snakes edged back into the darkness, until the only thing she could see were their glowing eyes. Then, all at once, the rattles stopped, and they were gone.
“Are they gone?” Robinson asked.
Friday shook her head.
“They’re circling,” she said.
“Sure enough, Robinson could hear the sand rustling as they moved beneath the earth. He backed up to the fire until it felt like his calves might burn. He never stepped away.
“What do we do?” Robinson asked. “We can’t stay here until morning. We don’t have enough firewood.”
Friday continued scanning the desert. “I saw some kindling out there. We’ll wait a few moments and then I’ll go after it.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll go.”
Friday glanced at him and saw his legs wobble. She looked down and saw something glowing on his pant leg. And blood.
“You’ve been bitten,” she said, worried.
“Only grazed,” he said, though he knew it was more than that. Already he could feel the poison moving through his body. “I saw a range of rocks a hundred meters to the no
rthwest. If one of us stays here and keeps them busy, I’m sure the other can make it there.”
“Then you had better get ready to run.”
“Friday—”
“I am not leaving you.”
“But our child—”
“Will know both its parents. Or none.”
“You are so damned stubborn. Sometimes I could just…”
She looked across the fire at him and nodded.
“Me too,” she said.
“Then we run together,” Robinson said, picking up a second burning torch from the flames. Friday did the same. “On three. One. Two. Three!”
The second they separated from the fire, a rhumba of mutated rattlers launched from the earth, their rattles sounding like the leaves of an autumn tree. Both Robinson and Friday swung their torches across their bodies and behind them as the snakes pursued them. In the moonlight, Robinson thought he saw the rocks ahead of him before his vision began to blur and he fell. He shouted for Friday to keep going, but it came out garbled. His heart felt sluggish as he watched her plant legs on both sides of his prone body, swinging the torches as the snakes moved in, their fangs glowing in the dark, their rattles blotting out every other sound.
Friday spun three hundred and sixty degrees. Robinson heard her mumble, “They’re everywhere,” before his eyes fluttered. He fought to stay conscious as the poison washed over him. Then, just as darkness began to close in, he heard a whoosh in the sky above him and looked up to see several flaming satellites raining down from above. They struck the earth and burst into a tide of flames. Many of the mutated snakes burst into flames, hissing as the fire spread through their ranks. What snakes didn’t catch fire, slithered back and dove underground, their furrows beating a hasty retreat into the night.
The smell of burning reptile and pungent kerosene made Robinson’s eyes water, but he managed to see the eight torch-bearing figures appear on the small rise behind them. They were wrapped head-to-toe in red cloth, save a narrow slit for their eyes. Each was holding weapons at the ready.
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