Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2)

by R. R. Roberts

  Passing an open door, a bathroom, Mike glimpsed himself in the mirror over the sink and was shocked to see he had a raging shiner. There was dried blood on the side of his face, his lip was split, and his wig was gone. Hard to hang onto a wig when someone smokes you in the head repeatedly. His Cloud Rez tattoos were there for all to see—meaningless here, but showing his high status in his home world, like it ever mattered—along with numerous cuts and scrapes. Fear seized Mike’s heart and squeezed. He hadn’t even registered these blows. What had Cherry endured? Little Tigg?

  Those monsters on the street, destroying everything in their path, cared nothing for the people around them, had no respect, no regard for the world in which they lived. They tore apart, they destroyed, they wrecked, they killed. And they felt this was their right? Their God given right?

  On this, Zhang had been correct. These people were a blight on this world, smashing everything good in their way. Oh Moses, wouldn’t you be surprised to know that for once, I agree with you? Everything, on every level, was corrupt. Nothing went unspoiled.

  And this is the world into which I bring my son?

  Things must change.

  He plodded on, found the staircase, even hotter here, and climbed to the maternity floor, keeping hold of the railing to stay balanced. He was so light-headed. Must have been quite the punch. If it was a punch. He barely remembered it. He remembered a cop carrying a limp Cherry. He remembered yelling, and cold pavement rushing up to meet his face…

  Reaching Maternity, he opened the door and looked around. Not so crazy here. A cop approached him at once. “What’s your business here, sir?”

  Mike tried to answer, but found his voice was non-existent. He’d screamed it away? He swallowed painfully and whispered, “My wife is having a baby in this hospital. Cherry Eggers.”

  “Any ID?”

  Mike showed it to him, though his fingers were stiff and hard to work.

  The cop nodded. “The nurse’s station is down this hallway. They’ll help you out.”

  Mike nodded, and mindful of his fingers, gingerly stuffed his wallet back into his pocket and shuffled to the nurse’s station. The cop’s expression sent a trickle of apprehension down his spine. He craved cool, fresh air.

  At the nurse’s station, he introduced himself to a tired looking older nurse with wire-rimmed glasses and a wilting gray bun, more damp tendrils of hair falling on either side of her flushed, haggard face than was in the actual bun. It was maybe safer inside the hospital than out? He asked after Cherry Eggers and from the swift reaction he received, he knew already the news was not good.

  He rocked on his feet, fighting to stay upright.

  He croaked, “She’s okay?”

  She made her face smile; he could see, and even vaguely appreciated her effort. She answered softly, “Oh yes, Mrs. Eggers is in her room recovering.”

  He wanted to ask but couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t come. He just nodded but made no move toward where she’d indicated.

  She stared at him with sympathy. “You’ve seen the doctor already?”

  He nodded again. A lie of course. He would not be put off, waiting on the doctor. He wanted to see his wife and son. Needed to see them.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Eggers.”

  He staggered as her words slammed into his chest, grabbing for the edge of the counter. If he went down now, he’d never get up. Nothing unspoiled.

  “We heard what you went through to get your wife to the hospital. It’s small comfort, I know, but your little son, though he is no longer with us, has a wonderful father. Know that you did everything you could and more.”

  He swallowed around the boulder stuck inside his throat and stared at her, unseeing.

  “She’s in room 518.”

  He made himself nod, forced his screaming body to carry his shredded heart away from the station, away from this woman’s kindly meant words, the hospital no longer insufferably hot but icy cold—so cold he should see his breath before him.

  Shivering, and in a daze, he moved down the new hallway, his legs unwieldy chunks of lumber under his frozen torso. The numbers floated in the air beside each door as he went. He strained to read the room numbers, moving his lips, telling himself what they were so he might understand. The pea-green walls waivered, stretching in and out, making him dizzy. He needed to lie down. He needed to put his head between his knees. He needed to throw up.

  The door to room 518 was closed.

  He stood outside the door, his courage gone.

  Cherry was in this room.

  Cherry was on the other side of this door and she needed him. It took all his strength to place his hand on the cold metal handle. It made him shiver more and he wondered if he would feel warmth ever again. He gazed down at his motionless hand, and from a great distance, wasn’t surprised to see it too was scraped and scabby. So was his forearm. His shirt was torn and soiled. No fixing that his trusty mental voice offered, stepping up to take charge when needed, as always. You’re kind of a mess, actually.

  He pushed down the lever. The door swung inward with a sigh. He stepped into the darkened room.

  14

  INDIES: DAY FOUR: WEN 2047

  NELSON WAS RIGHT. The Port Mann bridge was a no go. The River Rats had the whole area sewn up—there were heavily armed thugs everywhere. But once the Indies skirted their territory and moved south, the river’s edge was free of resistance of any kind. The River Rats didn’t care; they were well fed. Wren read a few of the River Rats minds, relaying her discoveries to Coru and Mattea silently, keeping them in the loop. She found that the Rats weren’t the free agents they purported themselves to be to other gangs in the city. The River Rats had a price and Professor Red had paid that price; the River Rats worked for the Professor. The strange discovery was they had no knowledge of Moses Zhang. It was all about the Professor.

  What did this mean? Who was in charge? Where did the death blow to this monstrous plan need to strike? She could read Coru’s unease with this news. His brother—it was all about his brother, and he still didn’t quite believe it of the boy. Okay—the man he was now. It just did not add up.

  Mattea came through. Stay the course, man. We’ll know the truth soon enough. And when we do, we’ll act accordingly. Mattea’s steady hand was what Coru needed.

  They moved along the river’s lapping edge, the smell of the river water sharp, laced with foaming spoil and rot. The smell was sufficient enough that no one thought of food—there could be no appetite here. The ground underfoot was often spongy and uneven, and littered with trash. Still, they kept up a swift pace despite their heavy packs with Mattea in the lead and Coru at the rear, the two men book-ending the group with their deadliest weapons, the only sound that of their heavy breathing as they ran, the ragged, dark city skyline beyond the river an ominous presence that reached across the waters toward them.

  They’d secreted their trannies back in the warehouse they’d hidden in while waiting for darkness, knowing they would not come back for them. Wren couldn’t help feeling the loss of Beast and Beastette, her trusty side-by-sides since this whole disaster had begun. They’d seen her and her D.O.A. family through so much, had come through time and time again. But she did see the value of the POE’s trannies. They were twice the machines her old vehicles were. Waylon’s advice had been smart and Coru had made the right call.

  It wasn’t long before they could see the hulking structure of the old Patullo Bridge, sagging across the glistening Fraser River in the moonlight. It did not inspire confidence. And the smell! Here it was putrid; a cesspool. They quickly learned why.

  Bridge People.

  There was a long, curved onramp to the old bridge, the pavement on its surface broken, with ancient but effective barriers to accessing the bridge itself. Under the bridge, however there were long stretches of shelter, shelter that people had claimed and built a sketchy community beneath. It spilled out into what had once been open, flat river bottom land. Humble
abodes of all ilk bubbled outward, one upon another.

  This smelly, hot jumble was a living, humming testament to man’s ability to create with whatever was at hand. Corrugated tin, rescued lumber, plastic tarps, glass windows, doors, tents, Alcan trailers. All these and more tangled together, with an intricate pattern of narrow passageways snaking throughout. The air was pungent with smoke from dozens of fires. A warren of humanity, on the brink. It was crude, with little thought put to waste, thus the pungent odor. Wren read there were factions within this stretch of bridge, a hierarchy if you will, though for the most part, they seemed to live with one another relatively peacefully as long as protocols were followed.

  MacMillan was the top clan and they got first crack at any scrounge, fish, and meat. Cameron MacMillan was the name of their leader and namesake of their clan. He was a hard man, but was, for the most part, fair, or so these people believed.

  The Till Group were a lower caste, led by a thoughtful man named Pete Till. The Tills scrounged the waterways, paying tribute to the MacMillans with offerings of what they recovered and received protection in return. The Tills had cordoned off a huge flat area and managed to plant a variety of vegetables there, growing crops of peas, beans, potatoes, carrots, beets, garlic, and onions, thus ensuring their place of value to the MacMillans.

  With the mild coastal weather, they enjoyed a long growing season, planting in waves and ensuring a steady supply of vegetables for more than half the year, though their use of “night soil’ as a natural fertilizer made Wren cringe.

  The third group was simply called Plains, their leader interchangeable almost daily. A messy crabs-in-the-bucket system. And plain their lives were. They depended upon theft and subterfuge to get by. They were sickly, sneaky, and resourceful. The MacMillans made good use of these talents.

  The one thing that united these people was their fear of the River Rats.

  The good news was the half-hearted night-watch the Macmillan clan had set up, which was strange in light of their fear of the River Rats. The fact was, these people were more concerned with their tenuous position within the Bridge People community and where their next meal would come from than they were worried about protecting the bridge that shielded them from the elements. In their minds, the Patullo Bridge led to nowhere good.

  All good news to the Indies. They drifted through the dark encampment and its fading barrel fires, with only a few suspicious eyes cast their way. Fewer still took the time to follow their movements.

  The Indies gained the bridge surface and moved beyond the barriers swiftly, leaving the Bridge People encampment, smoke, and smell behind them well before midnight. They travelled the Patullo’s crumbling surface, mindful of their footing, aided by moonlight until they came upon the first break. This was only a ten-foot gap—but—it was a ten-foot gap over a long fall into a swift, cold river. If the fall didn’t kill them, hypothermia surely would.

  Tom and Gary dropped their bags and set about preparing the lines that would take them all across. This was their specialty. Coru watched them intently, wanting to learn.

  Waylon dropped his pack and stretched his long arms, his joints cracking noisily. “Why do they stay there? Why not come out into the country, build a life? That back there is my idea of hell on earth.”

  Nelson shrugged. “They don’t know any better? They don’t know there’s a place for them? They’ve been told there is no alternative?”

  Mattea murmured, “The devil you know.”

  The two gazed at him with interest. Nelson said, “I think you’re right. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

  Wren said, “I wish we could help them. They’re facing the same evil we are. It’s only their reaction that’s different.”

  Waylon pulled his water bottle out and drank. Recapping it, he shoved it back into his bag. “If we win this thing. If we succeed—.”

  Nelson interjected, “When we succeed.”

  Waylon grinned, his teeth flashing in his fiery beard. “When we succeed, I’m of a mind to come on back and gather up those folks and bring ‘em out to God’s Country—show ‘em how it can be if you work hard.”

  Nelson grimaced. “Anything’s better than what they have now.”

  Mattea, Coru and Wren exchanged glances. They didn’t know the half of it.

  Traversing the gap was frightening, at least to Wren, and truth be told, to Nelson and Waylon as well. They didn’t like the feeling of helplessness or specter of being beholden to those who pulled them across with the ropes. Just one slice of a knife and they’d be lost…

  The twins saw it as stepping over an inconvenience. Mattea and Coru were so focused on what was ahead, they were impatient to arrive on the other side and to get started. They were already gauging how soon the sun would rise, considering their chances of moving during the day or if they would be forced to hunker down until nightfall once again. Was there another Bridge community on the other end of this bridge? If there was, would they protest the Indies presence or warily watch them as they passed by?

  Once everyone was safely across, the Hansons left the ropes in place. They had more in the packs the Indies were carrying and couldn’t afford the time it would take to retrieve these. Energized by their success, the group took off at a fast pace, covering ground quickly, and were almost to the other side when they came across a second major break.

  This break was bad, the yawning divide closer to twenty feet. Looking down at the dark water below, with its winks of glitter now and then, Wren felt herself sway, suddenly dizzy. She backed away from the edge, trying to hide her almost overwhelming fear.

  She could not do this.

  She had her end to hold up.

  She caught Nelson watching her speculatively and made herself smile. Nelson saw her as a weakness—Coru’s weakness—and he did not agree with her being here. Like his wife Amanda, he believed someone might die because of her, protecting her. You don’t put your woman in danger, he believed. Wren couldn’t be angry he was thinking of her welfare. He had no issue with her, personally. He simply thought of her as a member of the fairer sex—had he forgotten the Vedder Bridge already—and felt she deserved better treatment. How could she be angry at that? It was misplaced, but well meant.

  And he was extremely curious about her emotional breakdown back at the side-by-sides. There had been no explanation given and he burned to ask about it.

  The Hansons put their heads together with Coru and were talking out the thorny issue of traversing this larger span, pointing, studying, arguing, shaking their heads, nodding. It was looking like they’d come up with a plan.

  They pulled the ropes from Waylon’s and Nelson’s pack and began stringing a complicated rope and pulley affair across the expanse, starting with shooting a lead line across the expanse, then pulling it back once it caught securely on the other side.

  Wren couldn’t help doubting the viability of the entire thing. Really? They would trust their lives to this network of flimsy ropes? A cold wind blew down river and sent a haunting whistling sound as it slipped through the bridge’s ancient structure.

  Yet, upon reading the twin’s minds, she saw that they would. And saw that the rigging would in fact work as designed. The Hansons had this. Coru was learning this. They were all very happy with the configuration. Tom tested it, going across first, reaching safety in less than a minute. The rest followed, leaving the ropes behind once again. There—three sets of ropes gone, with only four left. They still had the high rises to contend with to avoid hand-to-hand combat with the inner-city gangs plus—who knew what they’d find at the Pitt River Bridge coming back? Apprehension squeezed Wren’s chest as they broke into a run across the downward grade of the last of the Patullo’s rusty expanse. Almost half gone and they weren’t nearly started.

  There was a tent city at this end of the Patullo, though nowhere as large as that on the south side, nor as socially organized. Most of the city dwellers who’d survived the pandemic seemed to have disa
ppeared into the relative safety of the high rises. This made sense. The tall buildings were highly defendable, their footprint small, with few access points. Here was where Wren learned that New Pacifica was not totally controlled by the POE. Pockets of gangs lived throughout the entire area, referring to their controlled portion of New Pacifica as New Pacifica Wild.

  Casting her sensors out, Wren detected a low buzzing of hundreds of minds, many awake and alert, having round the clock details guarding their hard-earned territory. There were still thousands of souls in this city and judging from the mood she received in waves there was one thing these gangs did have in common, beyond their need to protect their own: A healthy fear and respect for the POE who made regular appearances. A show of strength, a show of who was ultimately in charge. The message was: You survive only by our leave. It was a humbling message, but still not strong enough to unite the gangs, who saw each neighboring community as a threat to their own survival, and fought for it, block by block, spilling blood for every captured foot of territory.

  Wren strained for names, ways to differentiate the gangs. There were the Ravens, who controlled Glenbrook Raven Park, the large area north of the bridge’s exit. There were dozens of high rises here, each with a sub-captain in charge of his own building and crew, all over-seen by a woman named… Tanya. No last name—simply Tanya. It was Tanya’s willingness to grant each sub-captain his own autonomy inside his building that ensured her continued success.