Falling Sky (8 page)

Viktor tells me about horses and his farm and how he cares for himself. I get the feeling that he's lonely. Why wouldn't he be, living out here, with no one to talk to?

It makes me question my life in the sky. Before Miranda. It was just me and the
Cherub
. Like Viktor and Rex. But Rex at least is living. Rex has a pulse.

Indignation rises up in me. The
Cherub
is as real to me as Rex is to Viktor. She's as precious to me, as important, as useful in surviving the Sick.

But even before I lost her, it was just me and her.

Is that enough?

We drink through our mugs, and then Viktor pours us more. This continues and continues, the two of us trading stories, until the jug is empty and I can barely see straight.

The rest of the night passes in a haze. At some point I stand up, only to realize that I can barely walk a straight line.

I move to a long, flat couch that has some ratty pillows on it, fall onto it face-first, and know no more.

I awake the next day with a pounding headache and a dried-out riverbed in my mouth. That's the problem with alcohol. There's always the temptation to drink your cares away, to escape the harshness of the world with a good tipple, but the repercussions are difficult to deal with. Especially if you're about to deal with Ferals or raiders. Especially if water is something that's at a premium.

Luckily there's still some water left in the bottle from last night, and I finish it in one swig.

The headache resists my crafty measures.

I tell myself I need to start thinking of next steps. Even if Viktor were to invite me to stick around—and really, why would he? I'm just another mouth to feed—what would I do? There's only the one horse. I could help groom him, I suppose. Help gather water and food and tend crops and things. But the thought makes me want to crack open another jug of Viktor's wine and drink until I can't see straight again.

The
Cherub
is gone.

Miranda is gone.

The Core is gone.

What do I do?

As I'm wrestling with such weighty issues, Viktor reappears. His hair is windblown and he's wearing his outside clothing, so I assume he's on his way back in. I ask him about it.

“I wanted to check around,” he says. “The local wretches don't usually bother me much. They've learned better. But you must have riled them up enough to try something.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh, it's okay,” he says. “It's not like I didn't hit the point home again for them.”

I laugh. “You certainly know your way around Ferals.”

“Down here you have to.” He says it lightheartedly, but I hear an undercurrent in his tone. I expect he doesn't have too high an opinion about us zeps. To him we're probably living in some fantasy world above the clouds while plods like him try to eke out a living down here on the ground.

I don't know that I can disagree with that opinion. But, given the choice right now, I would take the sky every time.

“I expect you're trying to figure out your next move,” he says.

I nod. Then shake my head. “I've only known a life in the sky. I don't know how to do anything down here.”

“That's not true,” he says. “Sounds like you do a lot of foraging. You know your way around abandoned buildings. That could come in handy, I think.”

“You want me to help you forage?”

He takes off his boots and eases his bulk down into a chair. I think suddenly of how I didn't think to check him for any wounds. But he just seems so capable. And all I can remember is being up on Rex and feeling like I was out of reach.

Viktor leans forward and presses his hands together. “I'm limited in my range. Rex can only go so far and he needs steady terrain. He's already thrown two shoes and I'm running short on replacements.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I was thinking—I have some fuel I've used for the farm. We mostly use solar power, but I have some gas for generators as well. I've scavenged some from the surrounding farms. If we could get your cart up and running . . .”

“We can look farther afield.”

He slaps his leg and nods.

It would give me something to do.

“What do you say?” he asks.

“I say, why the hell not? You don't mind me sticking around?”

“Not at all. It will be nice to have someone who can actually talk back to me.” Viktor smiles. “Then it's set.”

And it is. And I'm happy. But we're going to have to go get the Ferrari. And it might not work with the fuel he's got. And it will put us out in the middle of Feral territory. But it's a place to live. Someplace safe. And something to do. And since I have nothing else I say yes.

My heart is thumping as I sit behind Viktor on Rex's back. The horse doesn't seem inconvenienced by the extra weight. Viktor hits the release and we shoot out of the fence and gallop down the hill.

The pace throws my ass around like a balloon, first up in the air, then down hard against the saddle. Somehow Viktor avoids the worst of it, like he's floating above the horse. I try to imitate how he's sitting, but it doesn't seem to work.

Still, I have to admit there's something exhilarating about speeding down the hillside, the wind blowing in our faces. I've often fantasized about riding at the front of the
Cherub
as she cuts the sky. This is the closest I've gotten.

But still . . . my aching ass.

We're getting near where I left the cart and I'm scanning all around us for Ferals. It's hard moving as fast as we are, but I do my best nonetheless. So far it looks clear. Viktor says the Ferals don't get moving this early in the morning (and I don't blame them).

“It's up ahead,” I yell in his ear. Normally I'd worry about yelling so loud, but the sound of the horse's hooves on the ground swallow up what I'm saying.

Then, there it is. The Ferrari. Sitting there against the tree, it looks ugly as hell—all ungainly metal and rubber.

And this is the tricky part.

Strapped to my back is a large can of Viktor's fuel. I now have to dismount and make myself vulnerable as I move to the cart, hoping that no Ferals are hiding around or beneath it.

For a crazy moment, I wonder if any could have gotten inside. So it's with my revolver in hand that I approach the cart.

“I'll keep an eye out,” Viktor says. But it doesn't stop me from darting my own around. Then I'm crossing to the cart and the fuel chamber and pouring Viktor's mix inside.

When it's done, I nod back to Viktor and move to the door. With a deep breath, I open it, my pistol out, ready for something to jump out. When nothing does, I cautiously look inside and see that it appears to be empty.

Muttering thanks to my father, like I often do, I climb behind the steering column and press the ignition button. The engine coughs but doesn't start. I punch it again. The same thing.

It's then that I hear Viktor yelling. I know what that means. He's caught sight of Ferals. He's a sitting duck standing still, so he's already off moving, and as I slide over to the other seat to look out the window I see Rex's hooves kicking up dirt and grass as he tears away.

I count to twenty, timing the beats to my heart, which is beating pretty fast at this point. I'm protected in the cart, but not against everything. Even with my racing heart, the count seems to take forever. Then I hit the button again.

This time it catches and the engine roars to life. With a smile as wide as Rex I press on the accelerator and pull away from the Ferrari's hiding place.

There's a thump as I slam into something solid and I wince, but there's no blood splatter on the window as I watch the Feral's grimy body spin away.

Then I'm shooting down the hill and to the west.

Viktor and I had planned this part as well. Whether or not we were discovered, I would continue on to the old country road and down to the farms at its end. Viktor couldn't guarantee that they weren't infested, but he was optimistic there might be some good forage there.

It feels good to be moving again. And as much as I enjoyed riding Rex (well, all of me save my ass), this feels somehow better. To have an engine under my control. It's not the air, of course, but it's definitely closer.

I leave the Ferals far behind me and pull onto the dirt road and open up the cart. Viktor assured me that it's clear at least of vehicles, which is rare enough. I've foraged and flown over enough roads to know how unusual that is.

I wonder how it went down out here when the Sick came down. Were people enjoying their quiet country lives when the Bug hit? When the Ferals caught up to them? Did they flee to the big cities like so many others did? Or were their homes empty? Waiting for a day when they could visit them?

Of course there's no way to tell. So many stories. So much horror.

The Ferrari's wheels handle the rough road easily. That was something that Sergei got right—I think he pulled the wheels off a vehicle they found. But it handles easily.

It's not long before I see a house approaching rapidly. It's a tall one, dilapidated after all this time but still standing. It doesn't look dangerous enough to fall on me, which is important.

I slow the cart down and let it coast to a stop in front of the house, angling my head to scan the structure. One of the difficulties with foraging is finding the right way in, which often, but not always, serves as your way out.

There's a front door that looks mostly rotted away, which means easy access. But doors like that mean that Ferals might have gotten in. Though they also could have entered by the windows that circle the porch. From here the panes look mostly intact, but I can't see all of them.

The second floor looks difficult to get to without special gear. If I had the
Cherub
it would be a piece of cake, but I don't and so that's out of the question.

The third floor is a pipe dream.

I pull up close to the house and circle round until I see another door alongside. This one is a set of double doors with more windows than the other.

I get out of the cart. Here I'm faced with a dilemma. Do I leave the door open or close it? Leaving it open means that I can get back in quickly. But so could a Feral. That would be a nasty surprise. So closed it is.

I creep up to the door and look inside through the panes that are intact. I see furniture, but little else.

“Fuck it,” I say and start breaking panes. It's easy to push the door in then and I'm inside. It's some kind of kitchen area, with the stove and other appliances to my left and a small sitting area straight ahead. Plenty of space hidden from view. So I walk in with my revolver out, my eyes scanning, my tread light. I have twenty-five bullets left. That's it. Then I'm defenseless.

The place smells musty, and I know that some of the food here has spoiled. It's not a fresh spoiled smell but something older. It doesn't tell me anything. The food could have gone long ago and there still could be Ferals about. I move into the kitchen, my gun preceding my every move. Nothing's there. So I set about rooting through the cupboards, trying not to be too loud, keeping my eyes moving, first on a cupboard, then all around me, then another cupboard, and so on.

I turn up a few cans early in the search. Cans can be tricky—they might be intact and still turn up rancid or give you bad stomachaches—but they're still valuable. I stuff them into my bag. The next few drawers and cupboards turn up some dry goods. They're likely full of bugs, but I stuff them in the bag anyway. I'll have time to check later.

The next set of cabinets turns up a prize. Liquor. If I were on the
Cherub
I would have a hard choice with this. A good drink is always a good thing to have around, but I could also barter quite a bit for this. Vodka. And . . . yes, deeper in the back there's a smaller bottle. Tequila.

The house is a veritable gold mine. Viktor's idea had been sound. By the time I clear the kitchen, my search has been Feral-free and I've added a stash of rice and some dried corn kernels to the mix. I could walk way right now and be happy.