As the plane settled into a monotonous rhythm, Robinson allowed himself to think of Saah. For two months, they hadn’t understood why the pack continued to pursue them. Now it made perfect sense. Robinson had seen Saah on the battlefield after Arga’Zul fell. He’d read the madness in his eyes. There was little question if he had seen Jaras’s body in the warehouse and no question who he blamed for his death.
In the weeks that followed, Robinson wondered what had happened to Saah. He thought he might have been killed by the Aserra hunting parties or by the Bone Flayers as they fled the area. Now he knew Saah had not only survived but had captured Mr. Dandy in the process. For only Mr. Dandy had the skillset to create those hybrid abominations. Fusing weapons with flesh. Controlling the minds of the uncontrollable. It made Robinson shiver.
The one thing Robinson didn’t know was the identity of the man in the mask. Not that it mattered. He was just another extension of Saah’s reach.
What was patently clear was that Saah would never quit. He would hunt them to the ends of the earth or until he was dead. That notion frightened Robinson more than anything had, short of losing Friday. Because Saah’s cruelty had no bounds. It wouldn’t be enough to kill Robinson. He would want him to suffer. And that meant Friday and their unborn child were at even greater risk.
The plane was cruising a thousand feet above the dusty, barren landscape below. After a spell, the clouds parted and the air begin to warm. Friday had gone to sleep.
Robinson couldn’t say how much time passed before he saw the dark line running horizontal below, but there was little doubt it was the freeway on Pastor’s map.
The yellow brick road.
As the plane turned north, a crosswind made the fuselage shudder. That’s when Friday rotated in her sleep, pulling her blanket open as her arm fell into her lap. That’s when he saw it. A crimson mark near her elbow. His chest tightened in an instant.
“Friday,” he said.
Friday woke. “What is it? Are we there?”
“No. What is that on your arm?”
She saw the worried look on his face and tried to act nonchalant as she covered it up.
“Nothing,” she said. “A burn from the fire.”
“That’s not a burn wound. Let me see it again.”
She refused.
“Let me see it,” he insisted, panicked.
“It will do no good,” she said at last.
“It’s a lesion, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer. Robinson was a thousand feet in the air, but he felt like he was plummeting toward the earth.
“Are there any more of them?”
She shook her head but didn’t answer.
“Damnit, Friday. How am I supposed to help you if you keep these things from me?”
“You cannot!” she cried. “No one can help me. This is happening in my body. I carry this disease, not you. What would you do if I were to show you? You are no healer. You are no priest. What would you do?”
Friday’s lip trembled, and her eyes began to water. She looked away. When she spoke next, Robinson barely heard her over the rush of air.
“I need you to be strong. If your head is full of worry for me, who will see to the tasks ahead? Lead. I will follow. And the Goddess will decide our fates. She has carried us this far.”
Robinson wanted to say that they had something to do with it too, but at that moment, the engine sputtered.
“What is it?” Friday asked.
“I don’t know,” Robinson answered. He thumbed the fuel mixture. This time, the engine coughed, and the entire plane jolted. Robinson increased and decreased the throttle, but the plane only sputtered as it began to lose altitude.
“I think we might be in trouble,” Robinson said. “It doesn’t sound like the engine's getting enough fuel.”
“But the children filled it. Can it not get us to Denver?”
“It should,” Robinson said, looking out the window. “I don’t see any smoke.”
Friday crawled into the back to peer through the hole in the floor. That’s when she saw a bolt sticking out the undercarriage.
“I see an arrow,” Friday said. “And dark liquid coming out.”
Robinson cursed. “Must be an oil line. Strap in. I’m taking us down.”
Friday got back in her seat just as the engine died and the plane began to drift. Robinson hit the engine start button again, and after two revolutions, it spun to life.
“Hold on to something,” Robinson said.
He pushed the yoke down, and the plane dove toward the freeway. The engine continued to sputter like angry bees under glass. As the road rushed up to meet them, the engine shuddered and cut out for good.
“Brace yourself!” Robinson shouted.
The wheels violently hit the road. The plane skipped across the pavement until the wheels settled down, and the plane rolled forward. Unfortunately, the brakes floundered, forcing Robinson to swerve to avoid an old tanker. He overcorrected and shot into the opposing road. That’s when the front left tire struck a pothole and the wheel snapped off, sending the plane whipping around, its metal undercarriage showering the cockpit with sparks as it gashed the freeway and slammed into a concrete abutment before coming to an abrupt stop.
The plane sat at a pitched angle over a step rise. Friday’s ragged breaths intensified as she looked out over the abyss.
“Are you hurt?” Robinson asked.
Dazed, Friday shook her head.
“Quick,” he said. “We have to get out before it falls. This way.”
The door was rusted shut, which forced Robinson to crawl through the window. He reached back. “Give me your hand. Slowly.”
Friday reached out, but just as her fingers stroked his, she erupted into a coughing fit. The jerking movement prompted the plane to slide farther over the ledge. Robinson grabbed the wing support beat and pulled back, shouting for Friday to hurry. Halfway across his seat, she stopped.
“The rations,” She said.
“Leave them,” Robinson said.
But Friday had already crawled into the back and was tossing the containers out into the road one by one. The plane shifted again. This time, the tail started to rise.
“Friday, there isn’t time!”
“Just a few more.”
The undercarriage screeched as it ground the asphalt, pushing inexorably closer to the abyss. Robinson was pulling with all his might when the undercarriage snapped, and the plane slid with a jolt.
“I can’t hold it!” Robinson screamed. “You have to get out!”
The plane continued to tip until momentum took over. At the last second, Friday dove for Robinson’s hand, and he yanked her through the window just as the plane toppled and fell to the void below.
Robinson looked up from the wreckage to see Friday already gathering the rations.
“You know, one of these days you're going to be the death of me.”
Friday grinned. “But not today.”
Chapter Sixteen
Another Promise
The day was warm and without wind, allowing them to make decent time. But as the sun fell, rain clouds moved in, and by the time night had arrived, the pair were drenched and struggling to see where they were going.
Neither had been expecting rain in the middle of summer. Their clothes were drenched, along with the blankets they’d used to try and keep their supplies dry.
With no light or stars to guide them, the two kept a lookout for any type of shelter. They thought they might end up sleeping in the open shell of a vehicle before they spotted a concrete structure off the side of the road. They made their way to it, discovering the structure was an old concrete bathroom with caged eaves that opened to the outside.
“We'll get soaked if we stay here,” Robinson said.
“We'll get more soaked if we don’t,” Friday replied.
She was right. Robinson went in search of firewood. With no nearby trees, he ended up breaking down some old wooden signs and
tearing fabric from the seat of an old car. As the room filled with smoke, Robinson removed his boots, laying them near Friday’s to dry by the fire.
Friday used an old runoff to fill their waterskins with rainwater. Then she checked the rations to make sure they were dry.
“Your feet look like sausages,” Robinson said.
Friday looked at her feet before shaking her head.
“Meat stuffed in skin,” he clarified.
“This is normal for one with child. I remember the women of our village huddling in rivers to ease the…” She searched for the word.
“Swelling,” Robinson said.
Friday nodded. “Some years the water was so cold they needed me to pull them out. I hated that feeling—frozen feet and toes—but I could not let it show. I stood in the water with them until my mother let me leave.”
“No wonder you can’t swim,” he said.
She glared at him, so he reached out and began to massage her feet. The returning circulation almost made her swoon. Robinson thought of a memory.
“When my brother and sister were born, my mother used to bathe them in the kitchen sink. It was Vareen’s—our housemother—duty, but I think my mother found it soothing. I used to sit on the counter as she lathered their hair and scrubbed their bodies, listening to them squeal. Usually she’d do it after supper, and if the floor stayed dry, we all got a treat. Biscuits were my favorite. Some nights, when there was no wind, you could hear the surf from beyond the Wall. It used to frighten the twins—that sound—but I loved it. When they cried, my mother would shush them. And if they didn’t stop, she would sing.”
“What would she sing?”
“Lullabies mostly. Outlawed ones. Most songs were outlawed. But I remember the one. I think it was her favorite.”
Robinson hummed softly.
When the snow is on the ground, little Robin redbreast grieves,
For no berries can be found, and on the trees there are no leaves.
The air is cold, the worms are hid. For this poor bird what can be done?
We'll strew him here some crumbs of bread, and then he'll live till the snow is gone.
Friday watched him as he sang, his fingers working wonders on her feet. She didn't understand all the words, but she didn't need to. The fact that he was singing after all they’d been through only reinforced everything she believed about him. She felt her eyes well up As much as she hated sentimentality, she hoped the moment would not end.
When they set out the following day, the earth was muddy, but the sky was clear. Robinson managed to find an old plastic bag to wrap over his torn boot. The noise made him feel foolish, but it kept his foot dry.
“First thing we need to do when we reach Denver is find some new boots. And clothes. It looks like the seasons are changing again.”
“We will find shelter first.”
Robinson chuckled. “You’re the boss.”
They spent the next four days walking. Despite the constant motion, Robinson thought his foot was getting better. He no longer walked with a limp. Unfortunately, Friday’s cough was getting worse. And every time he asked to check her for more lesions, she refused. Both tried to keep their minds occupied with something else. For Friday, it was the beauty of the mountains that rose high to the north and west. They reminded her of home. For Robinson, it was playing out the scene in his head when they finally discovered the City of Glass. He would need to be his most articulate when facing its inhabitants, but he didn’t see how anyone couldn’t find their story compelling.
After passing by a few roadside towns, they eventually spotted Denver in the distance. There was no mistaking it with its high towers and sprawling volume. Beyond it sat another imposing mountain range made of dark stone that jutted high into the sky. The juxtaposition gave the city the appearance of life even though it had likely died at the same time as every other they’d encountered.
The gradient steepened the closer they got, and the air did become harder to breathe. Like most big cities they’d encountered, the freeways leading in and out of the city were glutted with the shells of old vehicles—a harrowing reminder of the mass exodus that had occurred long before. Time had eroded most of them to rust and debris, but occasionally they found one pieced together, awaiting its master’s return like a faithful dog. Passing the relics always made Robinson sad. He couldn’t imagine the terror of those final days.
“We should be prepared in case we run into people here,” Robinson warned.
“I am always prepared,” Friday said.
“I meant, this isn't Washington, DC or even Chicago. Those documents Dustynose showed me suggested this was an outpost once. Maybe it still is. I doubt there are any Renders given the climate, but someone lives here.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I see smoke.”
Friday cursed herself for not seeing the dark haze hovering above the city first. Whatever was causing her cough was also sapping her energy, and that affected her concentration. She had hoped it was the pregnancy and the grueling walk. She hated not being at full strength.
They entered Denver just past midday. An enormous arena sat vacant to the west. It reminded Robinson of the one he’d seen behind the Cat People’s island—immense and imposing, a mammoth achievement meant solely for entertainment.
They continued down the freeway until they came to an impasse. The road had collapsed into a river below. Working their way back to the previous exit, they carefully made their way down a steep grade until they reached one of the main arteries that pushed east into the city.
Friday covered her mouth with a blanket to prevent the sound echoing through the streets like gunfire. Her fatigue was soon apparent, however, and given the rapidly falling sun, Robinson declared it was time to stop.
“This looks good,” he said of a two-story building with a pitched roof. The sign outside said it was a museum. “No windows. Door appears secure.”
Friday was too tired to argue.
Once inside, they could see the building had been trashed. Frames had been torn off the walls. Sculptures had been tipped over and smashed. Colored scribbling stained the walls. At least the place smelled free of Renders.
“Someone’s been here,” Robinson said.
“Not in a long time. Let’s make a fire. I’m cold.”
They broke old frames to use as kindling before gathering them in a small steel trash can. As the room warmed, they huddled together and parsed out the day’s rations. Robinson found an old picture book showcasing photos of art.
“What is this?” Friday asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Art.”
“I thought art was supposed to be beautiful. This is ugly.”
“Well, art by its very nature is subjective.”
“I do not know subjective, but I do know ugly, and this is it.”
Robinson chuckled. “Can’t argue with you there. I read once the ancients used to place a high price on stuff like this. Well, maybe not these pieces in particular, but art from the masters could cost more than the towers outside.”
Friday grunted in disproval. “The more I learn of these ancients, the more I see why they died. They did not value the proper things.”
“Let’s not ever make that mistake,” Robinson said.
Friday nodded, sliding Robinson his rations. Leafy greens, a few carrots, and a turnip.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, passing them back to her.
“Your stomach says you lie.”
He looked up.
“I can survive without you, Crusoe, but it would make things harder. You need strength.” She put her hands on her belly. “And we need you. Eat.”
He did. All the while, he stared at the lesion on her arm.
“Does it hurt?”
He wasn’t sure she would answer.
“It … how do you say?”
She made a scratching gesture.
“Itches,” Robinson answered.
“Funny
word. Yes, it itches.” She leaned back, her tired eyes staring into the fire. “Since that day on the battlefield, I have felt my body keenly. Aches. Pains. Senses both good and ill. I know these to be normal, but I cannot stop myself from seeing the disease moving through me like one of those serpents as they moved beneath the earth. Small at first but growing bigger. I hear death at night and it sounds like the serpent’s rattle. Only the venom is already inside of me, consuming me one breath at a time.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is. But this…” She put her hands on her belly. “She saves me. Each time the snake coils inside of me, it is the blood of the Aserra that repels it. Her blood. It gives me hope. Because of that, I can go on.” Here, she took a heavy breath, the lines in her forehead creasing. “But the fear is always there that one day, she will not be strong enough. The snake will strike her and she…”
“You can say it. We both know it’s a possibility she will die.”
“But it’s not her death I fear. It’s the idea that she will be born a snake too. A monster like the ones we hunt. Or worse.”
“That’s not going to happen, Friday.”
“But if it does?” Hot tears fell down her cheeks. “I will not be a mother that brings about the death of the world. I have seen enough of it to know it is evil. Crusoe. I have prayed to the Goddess about this, and she has answered me. But I struggle to say it to you.”
“You can tell me anything. You know that.”
She looked in his eyes and nodded. “Crusoe. If our daughter is born with this evil, I will take her life, and then I will take my own.”
“Friday—”
“I know this pains you to hear. And I know what it will make of you. But I have prayed on it, and the Goddess tells me it is just. If she is a snake, I will do this thing. And if I cannot … you must do it for me.”
“I-I could never—” Robinson whispered, his throat tight.
“Promise me,” she said, touching his cheek. “If I’ve taught you anything of strength, let it be shown in this way. If we cannot sacrifice everything for paradise, then we are not worthy of it. Promise me, Robinson Crusoe.”
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