Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (32 page)

Vardan Saah heard the attack outside, but never once turned to see what was going on. He was too busy sifting through the contents inside the refrigerator. Many of the tubes contained liquid that had long ago rotted or solidified, but several appeared to have kept their form.

Saah eventually found what he was looking for. Four vials marked EBU-GENC1 PROTO-VIRUS. He ignored the first two and reached for the two in back. They were marked: STRAIN II/UNRELEASED. The dark-green substance had nearly caused the end of mankind, and now he had two unreleased vials in his possession.

For the first time in a long time, Vardan Saah smiled.

Baras’Oot stood in his private room atop the pyramid and looked out over the kingdom he had wrought. The only blight was the scorched earth to the northwest where the Big Hats had set off their devices to kill his men.

They would pay greatly for that.

To his east, the preparations for winter had begun. The fête had not gone off as planned. Too many trader guests had been killed, and it would take time to regain the trust of others.

Not that it mattered. He could always revert to taking what he wanted. But the benefits of an established trade market far outweighed the costs of war. And war reduced the likelihood of obtaining the rarer objects he now coveted.

Then there was the matter of his brother. He wasn’t surprised when his spies returned with word Arga’Zul had finally decided to move on the throne. What surprised him was the reason behind it.

The girl.

Even now, his animosity for her spewed forth like a spigot. She was one of their life-long enemies, a princess even. She stood for everything they had worked for all their lives to destroy. To see his brother reduced to a lovesick child for her was the ultimate revulsion.

And what was worse: he could have gotten rid of her at any time. His own people expected it upon her recapture and were shocked when he decided to send her to the graves instead. In truth, he did it to make his brother suffer. It was fun, watching him brood around the place, but now Baras’Oot lamented not finishing it. Now, he would have to find a replacement war chieftain. That would be no easy feat.

Arga’Zul had been more than a great earner. His name alone struck fear into the hearts of clans up and down the length of the Missup, and all the way to the coast. His talents would be greatly missed.

But so would the army he’d sent to Atlanta. Another foolish mistake. Only greed for the weapons promised by the flying man could convince him to split up his army. With barely twelve hundred Flayers left at his disposal, it would take time to replenish their numbers. Maybe he would open the old games. The slaves these days were malleable. He could allow, say, two among every fifty to join their ranks. Training would not be a problem. It was nearly winter. The entertainment might also provide some relief to his villagers. He’d heard the whispers among them, the doubts. They were saying he’d overextended his reach. There were even rumors of schisms among the elites. Those were always equally quelled. Feed the loyal, kill the rest. It was a philosophy as old as time itself. And it never, ever failed.

Baras’Oot signaled his valet.

“Bring me my spy,” he commanded.

The man bowed nervously before hustling away. He was an older slave, slow of gait, and often had trouble hearing. Baras’Oot shook his head at the loss of Valud. Dead at the hands of the stranger boy. Another debt that needed settling.

The spy arrived shortly after. His wounds had been stitched since his return, but he wore no bandages, as was their custom. Scars were a bragging right. And this man had much to brag about.

“Tell me of my brother again,” Baras’Oot said. “You’re certain he lives?”

“As I said before, Great One. We left our chieftain after the big battle. He had many wounded, but he was alive and entrenched safely in a tower. I cannot speak of what happened the following day, but his plans were to continue on.”

“But there were more demons left to face?”

“The city bled them as the night sky bleeds stars. If the numbers on the second day matched the first, they would have no chance. But your brother is hard to kill, Great King.”

Baras’Oot smirked. “I’m well aware. Tell me of the flying man. Did he reach his objective?”

“Not before we left, but from what I could gather, he was close.”

“Then why did you leave before you knew for sure?”

“My l-lord,” he stuttered, “that night I saw the flying man looking over a map. I believe I saw the location of the weapons you seek. Forgive me, but I thought you valued this information over all else.”

“I do not command you to think. I command you to follow orders! Though, in this case, your instincts do offer us an interesting opportunity. Can you retrace this map from memory?”

“I already have, my king.”

The Flayer pulled out a piece of paper drawn by hand and checked it against an ancient map that revealed where he believed the weapons were located. “Atlanta is closer. Even if my brother were to set out on foot the morning after the battle, it would take us a week to cross on horseback. By then, we would be too late.”

“But, Great One, are the weapons not useless without the fire powder?”

“Yes.” Baras’Oot grinned. “If only Arga’Zul hadn’t also robbed me of half my stores.”

“His army will not rally against you,” the spy said.

Baras’Oot made a tsking sound.

“Never discount the motivation of a war chieftain, especially on the heels of a great battle. If he survives Atlanta and they recover the weapons, we will have our own fight on our hands.”

“What will you do?” the man asked.

“I will take what remains of my army and beat him to these weapons.”

“But, my lord. You’ve already said it can’t be done.”

“Not on foot. Or even horseback. But there is one way that we can cross this expanse in two days’ time that no one would ever expect.”

It was clear Baras’Oot had a surprise up his sleeve. He signaled his valet.

“Ready my men. We leave tonight. And bring what remains of the fire powder.”

“But, My King,” the spy protested, “we have no weapons to use it.”

Baras’Oot grinned.

That was his second surprise.

Black smoke spilled over the trees as the train wound down into the valley.

In two days, they’d traversed a number of different terrains, passing many small towns that had been reclaimed by forest and grasslands.

Along the way, they’d seen small groups of people here and there, farmers rushing to finish their harvest before winter arrived. When most saw the steel giant pushing through their land, they ran like sheep before a pack of wolves. It wasn’t hard to understand why.

The train had been forced to stop five times. Thrice because of natural impediments, like fallen trees or stands of foliage that had overtaken the tracks. Once to realign a track that had collapsed into a ravine. The last time was the most odd. Someone had raised a series of deities in worship to the rails and staked them between ties.

Each night before dark, the train would stop, and the Aserra would send a party of hunters into the woods. They were as quick in their preparation of food as in their retrieval of it.

Robinson ate alongside the Aserra. While they hadn’t actually embraced him, their eyes had grown less dark and more curious. Chimosh would never warm to him, but neither did he look at him as if he wanted to kill him.

It was just after sunrise on the third day when the train crossed a final mountain range into some lowlands covered in mist.

“Is this it?” Boss asked. Like most, she’d slept little in the past few days. The worry was now beginning to show through her outward confidence.

“If Tier Saah … my fellow countryman’s, calculations are correct, the tracks should run alongside the armory in another kilometer or two.”

Slowly, the train pushed forward until a collection of old warehouses emerged from the haze. On Boss’s orders, the train began to slow.

When they were a kilometer out, they got a better view of the station. In some places, wire fences still stood, rusted razor wire spooled about like confetti. The site looked familiar to Robinson, and he soon realized why.

“What?” Boss asked.

“It reminds me of a certain place,” Robinson answered. “An airport in D.C. I think that’s what this was once too. See that broken slab of road? That was probably the old tarmac.”

The Aserra were first off the train, speeding off to scour the area. Robinson, Boss, and her men remained at the edge of the field.

“I read that after the virus first struck,” Robinson said, “the government set up roadblocks everywhere to prevent people from traveling. You see how this valley is centered between two mountain ridges? There was a road here once that connected the north to the south and the east to the west. Maybe that’s why they brought the weapons here.”

“A choke point,” Boss said.

Robinson nodded. “Maybe their last stand. Doesn’t look like they ever got to use them.”

Chimosh approached and asked if they should enter the building.

Robinson nodded. Chimosh and a few of his warriors accompanied Boss’s crew as they crossed over the tarmac. Robinson paused when he saw an area where the undergrowth had been scorched away in a familiar pattern.

“This is where he landed,” he said to no one in particular.

Rusted military vehicles surrounded the building. A few pocked holes suggested some light skirmish might have taken place here once. The building was surprisingly secure. Robinson was unsure why, given its location, but then he saw the biohazard signs everywhere and figured this was the last place people in an epidemic would have wanted to go.

A door with a broken lock was found on the lee side of the building. Chimosh and the Aserra entered and returned a few minutes later to give the all clear.

A single-engine plane sat under a dusty tarp just inside the door, its days of flight a distant memory. But it was the mountain of dusty wooden boxes in the center of the hangar that drew everyone’s attention. They were marked with flags and had rope handles, but they appeared untouched, save one. Robinson reached for it, but Chimosh’s new staff struck the top.

“There’s no danger,” Robinson said. “The writing on the outside says there are rifles inside. Even if they were loaded way back when, time would have rendered the gunpowder inert. Plus, this one’s been opened recently—see?”

Chimosh still looked skeptical until Boss spoke up.

“Kid’s right. Gunpowder only has a shelf life of a few years. It’s not volatile like other substances.”

Chimosh lifted his staff, allowing Robinson to open the first box, to reveal a dozen long-stock rifles inside. They were black and lean and unlike anything he’d ever seen.

“We’ll need to catalog everything. And do it quickly. There’s no telling how long it will take Arga’Zul and the Flayers to arrive.”

“
If
they’re coming,” Boss said.

“You don’t have to take my word for it. These footprints in the dust and those marks outside tell you everything you need to know. Saah’s been here. And if I’m right, this is the only chip he has. Regardless of what he wants in return, Arga’Zul isn’t about to let him go free without keeping his end of the bargain. They’ll be here. The only question is when.”

“And it’s still your intention to lay a trap for these savages?” Boss asked.

Robinson looked to Chimosh. “If it’ll work.”

Chimosh nodded. “It will.”

“Then you’ll need me and my people out of here,” Boss said. “One sight of that old iron horse out there, and your pony’s out of the gate for good. Of course, I’m not leaving until we settle up.”

“Then we better get to it—”

Suddenly, an Aserra scout rushed in, out of breath, to report to Chimosh.

“What’s she saying?” Boss asked.

Robinson’s heart sank. “A party of warriors is approaching from the south.”

As a group, they ran to an old window on the south side. Robinson took one of the long glasses from Boss’s men.