Falling Sky (7 page)

I drive as far as I can manage, even letting the car coast down a hill until it butts into a tree (softly, though, as the brakes still work). Then I stay in the car as long as I can. I'm in strange territory, lightly wooded, the kind of place Ferals love to nest in. I have my revolver, a tiny bit of water, and the clothes on my body. And the night comes on cold, the way it sometimes does at this time of year.

Again, I force myself out of the car to relieve myself. I have a new system now. I climb on top of the car, which gets me off the ground and able to see around the area better. It's times like this that I thank God I am a man and can do this easily. I don't even want to imagine squatting somewhere.

It's as I'm scanning the area around the cart that I see the lights up on the hill. It almost makes me spray all over the cart.

Lights. That means people. Ferals can't make fire. I can't imagine they can use electricity. Someone is living nearby. Someone who feels comfortable enough to advertise their presence to the world.

Someone who might have food. Shelter. Fuel. Water.

Someone who might have friends. With guns. And bad attitudes.

This is the world we live in. For every good possibility there are at least three bad.

But I can't stay where I am forever. And I have to move.

I decide to sleep on it, returning to the cart and curling up in a shivering heap. My dreams are filled with horrific images. Ferals on hooks. People running, scared. Blood. Screams.

I'm awake before dawn hits, but when it does, I'm ready to move. Already my stomach is growling and I figure braving the place on the hill is better than slowly starving in the cart.

Moving on the ground is scary. It's been a long time since I've done it this way. Sure, working with Miranda required me to be on the ground, but I always had the
Cherub
at my back—there was always somewhere to retreat to. Now . . .

I try not to think about it.

I move over open ground, which means I'm more likely to be seen, but it also means it's easier for me to see anyone coming at me. Besides, Ferals are just as likely to smell or hear me moving, so evening the score works just fine for me.

The revolver is heavy reassurance in my hand. It's my only security and I'm glad for it. I only wish I had more ammunition. I have six bullets in the gun itself and another thirty bullets in my jacket. And the three in the automatic. Then I'm out. If I get swarmed, those could go in a few minutes.

I pray that I don't get swarmed.

The hill starts off as a gentle slope that grows more wooded as I climb it, but then I break through the trees and the incline gets steeper. It's another frustration—Ferals can climb better than I can. I'll be slower than them, and that's never a good thing.

With all this shit going round in my head, it's like phantom Ferals are already pursuing me.

I try to keep my focus on the top of the hill. And I push my legs as hard as they will go.

I'm sweating as the slope lessens, but I can see the structure where the light must have been coming from. Some kind of house. I quicken my pace.

And then I hear it.

The Feral howl.

I've heard many creatures howl—I've heard the occasional wolf, or mountain lion, or even, once, a pack of wild dogs—but none of those is quite as chilling as a Feral. Animals at least sound natural; they were meant to sound like that. But Ferals—their vocal cords should be used for speech. Their cries have the hint of that. Just enough to be unnerving, but not enough to seem human.

I sometimes have nightmares about them.

I scan the area I think the noise is coming from and see a few dark shadows moving toward me. I crouch and aim my pistol. But then I hear sounds behind me and I turn, quickly, to see another few.

They're surrounding me.

I fire off three quick shots at the closest Ferals, hoping the noise will scare them off, but they keep coming on.

All of them keep coming on.

I can't shoot them all. And I can't outrun them.

So I shoot and I shoot and I shoot again, not thinking, barely breathing, just jamming my finger back on the trigger. The automatic goes dry quickly, so I throw it at them, not thinking, just needing to keep them back.

I'm strangely calm. It's like the world slows and shrinks and it's just me and the revolver, one machine, shooting at the Ferals.

But there are too many of them.

And they're getting closer.

And panic starts to set in as I realize they're going to get me.

And bite me.

And I can't Fade. I won't.

I hold the revolver up to my head. My last friend in the world. My last connection to the past. Give me a kiss, friend, I think.

Then I hear a scream unlike any I've ever heard before. No Feral could scream like that. What possibly could?

And the Ferals' feet are pounding the ground around me, so strong I can feel the hits reverberating through my body.

Something large, some monstrosity that shouldn't exist, bursts through the Ferals and, as if by magic, they fall back from it, their bodies breaking and tearing.

“Get on,” a voice says loudly in my ear, and I'm pulled up, toward the beast.

Rationality asserts itself again and I realize that this is some kind of animal, with a rider, and he's trying to get me to safety. And seeing all the blood that's flying around, I think that must be a good idea.

The smell of the animal fills my nostrils and I clamber up clumsily, pulling on the man to help seat me. He takes only a moment to make sure I'm secure, and then he swings about with something long and hard, and it pushes the Ferals back. Many of them dead. Most of them injured.

“Grab tight,” the man snarls at me and I grip his body. Then, with the barest hint of a command, we're galloping away, up the hill and away from the Ferals.

I sneak a peek behind us and notice that none of the Ferals are following.

It's only then that I exhale, not even realizing that I'm holding my breath.

In what seems like only moments later, we're at the house on the hill, and, springing some kind of mechanism, a gate opens in the tall metal fence and then swings shut behind us with a clashing sound.

We slow, then stop, and the rider slips easily to the ground. I try to follow him and almost fall off the animal that I now realize must be a horse. My father told me about them, but most of them had been killed for food years ago. I'd seen a few pictures on the covers of old books, but I never imagined how big they were.

The rider helps me to the ground, which I gain practically on my knees, and then removes his helmet.

He's a big man. Burly. With dark hair streaked with gray and a large, bushy mustache. His eyes are dark and serious.

“Thank you,” I say, loosening my scarf. “You saved my life.”

He frowns. “Whatever were you doing out there alone?”

I grimace. “It's a long story. I was running from some raiders. In a vehicle, but then it ran out of fuel. I saw your lights up here last night and thought I would try to make it here today. The Ferals found me, though, before I found you.”

“Then you're incredibly lucky that I came along when I did,” he says.

“I don't know how to thank you,” I say.

He smiles, then, and the serious look is replaced by one of mirth, lines creasing the corners of his eyes. “I'm Viktor,” he says, and holds out his hand.

“Ben,” I say, and take it. Now that I have time, I can see he's wrapped well. He knows the drill, then.

“A horse?” I say.

His smile widens. “Not just a horse. This is Rex.” He pats the horse's flank. “Last of a fine breed.” The smile falters for a bit.

“I thought they were all gone.”

“Most are, I would expect. But I take care of Rex.”

And he does, taking off the saddle, rubbing the horse down, leading him to a special enclosure.

“The Ferals can't get in here?” I say.

He shakes his head and shouts over his shoulder. “The fence keeps them out. They can't jump it and it's barbed and also electrified.”

“Electrified?” I say. “Where do you get the electricity?”

He smiles. “That's a secret.” He winks. “Here, you better come inside. It doesn't look like they got you.”

“No.” I show him my coverings.

“Good. Then come in.”

And I do, following him through a thick wooden door into his house. I might as well be walking through an entryway to another time. The house is fully furnished and lit, and doesn't show any of the signs of deterioration or damage most homes have. Viktor beckons to a table. “Have a seat.”

The paranoid part of my brain pricks up just then, but I beat it back down. If he had wanted me dead, he could have left me to the Ferals. He risked his life to save me.

But what if he wanted you infection-free, the voice said. To eat. Or fuck. Or god-knows-what?

I still have my revolver, I think. One bullet is still chambered, the one I was going to put in my head.

He returns a moment later and passes me a plastic bottle filled with water.

This is the moment of decision for me. He could have put something in the water. Poison. Drugs. Whatever. But at the moment I'm thirsty and the attack didn't help with that, so I take a sip.

It tastes clean. Which doesn't mean much. But I take another sip.

“This is quite the setup you have here,” I say.

He smiles again. “I'm rather happy here.”

“And it's just you. Alone out here?”

“I'm hardly alone,” he says, and tips back his own water bottle. “I have Rex.”

I shake my head. “A real horse. What do you feed him?”

“I have some grain,” he says. “But Rex is mostly kept on pasture. He doesn't go out too often. Honestly, keeping him supplied with salt is my hardest problem. I've scavenged every source I could find from the surrounding area. Luckily I found a stash of salt blocks that's lasted for a while.”

“And the Ferals don't bother you on Rex?”

“They try,” he says. “Sometimes. If they get over their fear of his size. But typically they can only reach my legs and I keep those well-armored.”

“But what about him?” I say.

He laughs, a rich, deep sound that fills the room. “Horses can't get the Bug,” he says.

“You're sure?”

“Before Rex, I took care of other horses. One of them was bitten by a Feral. Nothing happened.”

I nod. “I guess it makes sense. It makes people
into
animals. I suppose it wouldn't be able to do anything
to
an animal.” I'd listened to Miranda's crew enough, though, to know that the Bug was unpredictable. Some animals, it could kill. But apparently not horses.

Viktor takes a seat opposite me. “So how did you happen to be out in a vehicle without enough fuel?” he asks.

“Not by choice,” I say. “I used to have my own airship.”

“A zep?”

I nod. “She was called the
Cherub
. I took her to try to help some friends, but . . . well, someone stole her while I was down on the ground. I took the Ferrari, the vehicle, to escape, but the fuel ran out.”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I bet you miss your ship. I sympathize. I can imagine how I would feel if I lost Rex.”

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Twenty,” Viktor says. “And still in his prime.”

“Well, then I wish him a long life,” I say. I don't add that the longer Rex lives, the longer that Viktor is likely to.

Viktor raises his bottle. “To a long life.” We both take long drafts.

“How did you end up here?” I ask.

He shrugs his large shoulders. “My grandfather owned this farm. Kept horses. When everything went down, his children held on to it.” He shrugs again. “I was born into this life. It's all I've known. I've tried to hold on to it.”

I nod. It's the same with me, my life—my former life—in the sky. It's all I've known.

“To legacies,” I say, and hold up my water.

He raises his, then frowns. “If we're drinking to things, then maybe we should be drinking something else. Hang on.” He shuffles out of the room and disappears for a little while.

I think of how lucky I am. To run into someone who isn't a complete lunatic. Someone who has survived being on the ground. Lucky plod.

Truthfully, I'm in awe of him.

He comes back with a jug. “I've been saving this.”

“What is it?”

“Elderberry wine,” he says, setting it down on the table. His smile grows wider.

“Are you sure you want to open it?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says. “I don't normally have occasion to. And I would be hard-pressed to finish this myself.” He twists off the cap and pours the dark-red liquid into two mugs. He picks his up and raises it to toast again. I clink his, and then we both take long swallows.

It's fruity, and sweet, with flavors I've never tasted before. It makes me curl my tongue. I've had wine recovered from cellars, but this is something different. But not bad. Very not bad.