Love, Death, Robots and Zombies Read online

  “She’m a creature of the earth. Don’t much like the water,” Wade comments.

  Franklin sings unabashedly as he works the sail. He stops at times to comment on things or mention some small story. I learn from him that Wade is far deadlier than he lets on. Apparently the Roaches even have a name for him, born of fear–“the Desert Scorpion.” Wade pretends not to hear when Franklin tells us.

  In addition to his local knowledge, the Ferryman knows all kinds of useless facts. He must have a library of his own somewhere. His politeness and fluency continue to astound me. He even keeps books aboard the boat, sealed in a water-proof chest. When the boat doesn’t need him, he reads to us aloud for entertainment–old stories, he says, from centuries ago. Poems too. I’ve heard about zero poems in my life. The ones Franklin reads are unique. They’re like songs sung in a single tone; they have a melody all their own, and you want it to go on and on, filling you when you didn’t know you were empty, enlarging you when you didn’t know you were small, until the words press like a finger upon your soul and stir what’s hidden there.

  One poem in particular affects us.

  “Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allan Poe,” Franklin announces, and my head snaps up. Echo, who has been staring out to sea, turns slowly, as though something monstrous has been said. I had forgotten her name came from a poem. The Ferryman doesn’t notice our reaction.

  “It was many and many a year ago,

  In a kingdom by the sea,

  That a maiden there lived whom you may know,

  By the name of Annabel Lee;

  And this maiden she lived with no other thought

  Than to love and be loved by me.

  “I was a child and she was a child,

  In this kingdom by the sea,

  But we loved with a love that was more than love–

  I and my Annabel Lee–

  With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven

  Coveted her and me.”

  Echo is transfixed, but whether in horror or some other feeling, I can’t tell. She’s taken more of Wade’s medicine as well, likely warping her perceptions.

  “And this was the reason that, long ago,

  In this kingdom by the sea,

  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

  My beautiful Annabel Lee;

  So that her highborn kinsmen came

  And bore her away from me,

  To shut her up in a sepulchre

  In this kingdom by the sea.

  “The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

  Went envying her and me–

  Yes!–that was the reason (as all men know,

  In this kingdom by the sea)

  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

  Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.”

  Echo’s eyes, if possible grow even wider. Her mouth is open. She blinks rapidly, then stops. Tears come to her eyes yet stay there unshed.

  “But our love it was stronger by far than the love

  Of those who were older than we–

  Of many far wiser than we–

  And neither the angels in Heaven above,

  Nor the demons down under the sea

  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  “For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

  Of my darling–my darling–my life and my bride,

  In her sepulchre there by the sea–

  In her tomb by the sounding sea.”

  As Franklin finishes the recitation, Echo stares at him, frozen. Then, slowly, she closes her mouth and looks back out to sea, revealing nothing. I want to say something. Instead, I quietly ask Franklin for the book. I read the poem over and over again, silently, until I’ve committed it to memory. It feels important, like the answer to a forgotten riddle.

  The winds are favorable. It’s a hundred and fifty miles to Scargo, yet we cover almost the whole trip in less than twenty four hours. We play cards in addition to Franklin’s reading–Echo joins in too, until the cycle of medicine and pain wears her out–and even though I’ve only just met these people and my paranoid fears of betrayal and disaster loom unmolested, for that one day I feel more like part of a family than I’ve felt in all the days since Farmington. There’s a bit of magic in a thing like that, a carefree simplicity that’s wonderful and refreshing.

  At night, the world is silent save for the gentle lapping of the sea against our hull. Before sleep, I probe Franklin for information on Haven.

  “Haven. Yeah, heard the name. Enclave to the north. Heard they had power there. Heard it was real nice. Had some folk going there a few years back. I’m afraid I can’t help you much though. Most travelers I meet only go one way. They don’t often come back to share their tales, especially once they cross the z-line.”

  By noon the next day, we reach Scargo.

  The shore is blanketed by fog, and the first substantial shape that appears is what Franklin calls “the Blue Tower.” It congeals out of the fog like an enormous gray-blue phantom, impossibly tall, a katana-like monolith impaling the sky. It must be seventy–no, a hundred stories! It’s the tallest thing I’ve ever seen. Nothing stands higher than a handful of levels in any of the other ruins I’ve been through. Franklin tells me it was built only a decade before the Fall, with newer materials strong enough to withstand all that followed–not only the quakes, riots and bombs but the slow, gnawing bite of time.

  As we approach, the rest of the broken city emerges, and I come to realize that it’s an absolutely massive ruin. Scargo was once a city of almost unimaginable size. The buildings toppled in such numbers and in such proximity that some actually died standing; their rusting bones lean together in drunken embraces, hulking metal corpses that collapsed with nowhere left to fall, still slanting hundreds of feet into the air.

  Then some kind of movement along the shore becomes visible. The ground itself is shifting. I get out my spyglass for a better look … and the blood drains from my face. Blanketing the broken streets, climbing aimlessly among the twisted girders and fallen monuments, are thousands upon thousands of walking undead.

  Chapter 10.

  “In the World Before, they called this place ‘Sh’cago,’” the Ferryman says, surveying the ruins.

  “Sh’cago, Scargo, ain’t much matter now,” Wade says, punctuating his assessment by spitting overboard. Half a mile from the shore, Franklin lowers the sail. The route inward is perilous. A portion of the city lies in the shallows just under our hull. Broken beams jut from the water like dragon’s teeth. Remnants of old buildings, highways, even an enormous winged flying machine are concealed just beneath the surface. Franklin guides us in slowly, a well-spoken Charon, nudging the ship to and fro with his long wooden pole.

  “We must tread with care. Sharks prowl these waters,” he warns.

  I peer over the side and discern a pale, man-like shape on the sea-bottom. Sharks would’ve been bad enough, but Franklin doesn’t mean the statement literally; a different kind of biter inhabits these waters. The roamer in Wade’s bag squirms as though sensing its kin.

  “Where’s the Doctor?” I ask.

  “We must hail him,” the Ferryman says.

  To my surprise, he takes out a small radio and hand-cranked generator. The generator is familiar–because I made it. Another trade with Toyota. I always wondered where my goods ended up. Franklin powers up the radio, adjusts the frequency and transmits a brief message. He does this several times as we wait for a response. Finally, it comes.

  “I read you, Ferryman. Have you brought me travelers?”

  The voice is pleasant but hard to nail down. I can’t quite tell if the speaker is male or female.

  “Yes, Great Doctor. I bring Wade Crow of the desert, and
two young companions bound for Haven. Wade brings you a gift. His young friends are injured and would seek a minor Miracle,” Franklin transmits. I frown–minor Miracle?

  “Do you make the Oath?” the Doctor asks.

  “I have made the Oath and keep the Oath,” Franklin says.

  “I’m be making and keeping the Oath,” Wade grumbles.

  “And the travelers?” the Doctor asks.

  Franklin turns to us.

  “You must swear an Oath before he’ll see you. Like so: ‘I, Franklin, give my word that my intentions are peaceful. I swear upon my life to bring no harm to the Doctor or his property. I promise to be just in my future actions and honorable in my dealings with all sentient beings. This Oath I take in the name of all that is sacred to me.’ Can you remember that?”

  I exchange a look with Echo. She shrugs.

  Franklin presses the transmit button and we swear our Oaths.

  “Welcome, Tristan. Welcome, Echo. Your Oaths are acceptable. An escort has been dispatched,” the Doctor says.

  “Wait ‘til you see this,” Wade says, black eyes twinkling.

  “Why the Oath business?” I ask.

  “He’s been attacked in the past. It’s part of his system now. It’s not just the words. He can tell a lot from your voice,” Franklin says.

  “Why would anyone want to attack him?” I ask.

  “Why do some men burn bridges and others build them?”

  For about twenty minutes, we inch closer to shore. There’s a floating pier of more recent construction extending about two hundred feet from the water’s edge. It’s surrounded by a sturdy metal wall five feet in height, preventing roamers from meandering onto it. I don’t see how we can get onto it very easily either, but Franklin has brought the Ferry within ten feet when there’s movement in the ruins.

  Something huge and plodding rolls out of the broken streets of the inner city: a twenty-foot dome supported by eight enormous wheels. Each wheel is as tall as me and operates on a flexible independent axle, allowing the vehicle to roll over large impediments with little trouble. As I watch, it tops a broken road slanting upward at a thirty-degree angle and tilts down the other side, crawling toward us.

  “Are they walking with …” Echo begins, her jaw coming down. Among the crowds of drifting plague-walkers are a dozen roamers walking ahead of the vehicle itself. The odd thing is that their movement appears to be coordinated. They are, quite astonishingly, holding an exact parade-like formation, moving in sync with the vehicle behind them. Franklin and Wade find amusement in our shock.

  The vehicle rolls to a halt at the far edge of the floating pier. A strange spectacle follows, as the dozen coordinated roamers slowly herd their wandering companions away from the pier. Then they stand guard. The zombies stand guard. The walls at both ends of the pier swing outward, yielding a clear path to the vehicle.

  “How is this happening?” I ask.

  “Doctor has his ways,” Wade says.

  Franklin poles us to the edge of the pier and we start to unload. Wade removes his body-bag, leaving the ATV aboard. Old Jude has backed into a corner of the boat.

  “Isn’t she coming?” I ask.

  “No. Old Jude don’t like roamers. Too many give her panic. She’m be waiting here with Franklin. Asides, she ain’t take the Oath,” Wade says. His face is dead serious.

  I help Echo onto the pier. The medicine is wearing off and she leans heavily on me, face screwed up in pain. She’s on my injured arm, so it’s not exactly comfortable for me either. Wade takes the lead, dragging the heavy bag behind him with one hand. Soon we’ll be faced with the daunting necessity of walking through a tunnel of twelve zombies. They stand six to each side, pale-faced, slack-jawed, hunched and dead-eyed–yet facing outward with unmistakable purpose. Beyond them, the dome-like vehicle waits, a front hatch lowered for our arrival.

  “They won’t turn on us?” I call ahead to Wade.

  “Nay. Doctor got them under his thumb,” he says.

  The others aren’t so inclined, however. A number from the throng along the shore have become alerted to our presence. They lumber toward the pier in an unnerving silence. The nearest is intercepted and driven back by one of our twelve guardians. There are far too many potential offenders to hold off, however. Our pace quickens.

  Some of the roamers have bad limbs or poor balance, but others are well put-together. The latter display frightening speed. Some are hurrying in from the distance. One stumbles, falls face first and rises again–all without ever taking its eyes from us. For a moment I’m transfixed by its gaze. Echo’s injury slows us. We’re starting to lag behind. A growing fear grips my heart–what if they break through?

  “Come on,” Wade urges.

  The pier feels a mile long. We’re on the final leg when it happens. The allied roamers have their hands full, and two of the faster zombies break the line of defense. They burst onto the far end of the pier, arms out and eyes bulging, racing toward us with eager mouths.

  I don’t see Wade draw, but the gun is in his hand. It’s simply there, white plasteel gleaming in the sun, and the roamers’ brains are exploding through the backs of their shattered skulls. It happens so fast I can hardly believe he’s fired two shots, let alone one. He never breaks stride, never hesitates or says a word. No wonder the Roaches have a name for him. Crom, I never knew just how outmatched we were back in the wastes. “The Desert Scorpion” makes Foundry’s scouts look like bumbling amateurs.

  Wade downs three more roamers before we reach the edge of the pier. The defenders are holding their own, but the action has attracted widespread attention, drawing in a whole throng from the distance. In less than a minute, the pier will be swamped. Wade stops and covers us while we cross the open space. Dead eyes and broken faces leer crazily only meters away. Then we’re in the vehicle, and Wade is backing in behind us, still dragging his burlap bag. He puts down two more roamers as the door is rising into place. It thuds and locks, shutting us safely inside.

  I help Echo to a cushioned bench and stare out a wide, translucent-blue window. It doesn’t appear the roamers can see in, but their energy is not yet expended. They reach the vehicle in scores. There’s a staccato of muted thumps as heavy limbs buffet the dome’s exterior. The crowd crawls over itself in its eagerness to reach us.

  The vehicle lurches forward.

  Big wheels turn. Bones snap like kindling. There’s not even an attempt at evasion. Gore spurts upward across the dome’s exterior. There’s no driver and no controls, yet we’re moving.

  It becomes apparent our goal is the Blue Tower. Our vehicle navigates the maze of destroyed buildings into the city’s interior. The tower is even bigger than I imagined. When we reach it, our transport is swallowed by a vast garage-like area in the rear. We’re sealed inside. When we’re allowed to exit the vehicle, we find a robot waiting.

  Its body is silver-white and vaguely humanoid, but the face doesn’t allow expression.

  “Is this the gift?” it asks.

  “This the gift. Roamer bound inside,” Wade says.

  The robot’s voice is the same as the Doctor’s–is he using an avatar then, a robotic puppet? The technology is rare but I’ve read about it. Full sensory immersion requires a brain implant for the user. Unless …

  “Wait. Are you the Doctor?” I ask.

  The robot regards me.

  “An interesting question. Particulate matter is no more separate than it is connected. That is to say, atoms do not touch and contain nothing to touch, and yet in another sense every particle is inextricably connected to and even contained within every other. All boundaries are entirely conceptual. Therefore, this body both is and is not ‘the Doctor.’ I ask instead, how is identity to be defined?”

  “Uh … I mean … Is your brain in there?” I ask stupidly.

  “This is an avatar,” it says, turning back to Wade, apparently deciding to dumb down the answer; still, the Doctor can’t help but add, “Then again, are not all these bodie
s mere avatars for the soul?”

  I don’t know how to answer that, so I stay quiet.

  “Why do you bring a roamer, friend Wade of the Desert?” the Doctor asks through the avatar.

  “He’m peculiar. Caught him eatin’ dirt and rotten wood. Seen some eat plants, garbage, animals, so on. Never seen one eat straight dirt–not more than a mouthful or two anyway–but this one be havin’ it for lunch and dinner. Thought it might be a new strain.”

  “Interesting. It is likely there were silicates in the soil. Silicon is essential for the operation of the synthetic virus. Nonetheless, your observation is admirable, and your gift is appreciated. The subject will be thoroughly tested. Enjoy a beverage in the waiting room. Tristan, Echo–you are bound for Haven?”

  Echo perks up.

  “You know of it?” she asks.

  “Indeed. An enclave north of the z-line, west of Pillar. I am curious. Why do you seek it?”

  Echo looks down at her hands a moment before answering. I’m not sure she even knows why. The idea of Haven appeals to her–a far off place where things are better, a dream to carry her through the nightmares–but she can hardly give that as a reason, whether or not she dares to acknowledge it herself. Finally, she lifts her head high and says:

  “They’re rebuilding things there. They have electricity and plumbing, and no one dares attack them. They’re making a better world, and we’re going to be a part of it.”

  She’s staring at the robot, daring the Doctor to doubt her, to challenge her blind hope. But our host shows no sign of opposition.

  “To make the world ‘better’ is a noble intention. Of course, in the World Before, there was a saying about noble intentions: that they paved the road to Hell. Still, sometimes one must pass through Hell to reach Heaven–which would mean that good intentions pave the road to both Heaven and Hell. Something to contemplate. Now tell me, do you think a noble end can justify unfortunate means?” the Doctor asks.