Robyn's Egg (43 page)

He had an idea. He pushed a chair to the door and laid it down on its back. From foot to the top of the back it was a couple of centimeters longer than the width of the door. It was close enough. He placed the foot near the hinge and rotated the chair like a compass to mark out the door swing. He dropped a book to mark the distance. He put his back to the nearest set of shelves and shoved it toward the door. He stopped where he’d dropped his marker, with the rack parallel to the entry wall. He worked the next rack into position butting it against the first. He was no longer shivering. In fact, he was working up a sweat. When he was done he stepped back to admire his makeshift wall. His shirt stuck uncomfortably to his dewy skin.

Seven bookshelves lined up end to end created a corridor about a meter wide. If he opened the door halfway so it butted against the end of the shelves, the dogs would have to run down the twenty meters of his makeshift corridor and round the end to get at him. Twenty meters down, and twenty meters back. Forty meters in all. How long did that give him?

He positioned the chair and rotated it again to check his work. It was good. The door would open without hanging up, yet if partially opened even with the bookshelf, the gap was small enough that they would be forced to go down the corridor the long way around to get him. Still, so many things could go wrong. In fact, his plan would only work if everything went right.

The dogs waited, heads on paws, ears perked for sounds from inside. Moyer admired their patience. They seemed so sure that there was only one way out and they would remain on station for however long it took. Didn’t they ever doubt? Perhaps they weren’t smart enough to. Lucky them.

Moyer dropped the book again and they snapped to their feet. It wasn’t good enough. He wanted them worked into a frenzy. A tentative straggler would undo everything leaving him exposed and defenseless.

He rapped against the door and one of the black dogs threw itself at the sound. Moyer knocked again and they bared their fangs. He opened the door a crack and the pack rushed forward. They thumped heavily against the door when Moyer slammed it shut. He did it again. The dogs snarled. Hackles rose along their backs and they growled as though close to turning on one another. It was time.

Moyer positioned himself so the wall of shelves he’d assembled was between him and the door. He’d be safe for as long as it took the first dog to navigate his mini maze and round the end. He reached through the shelves and cracked the door and let them charge. Snapping jaws wedged in to the crack trying to push through. Moyer resisted and they pushed harder. He opened the door half way and they rushed in. They shot down the narrow makeshift channel between the row of shelves and the wall. Claws clicked against linoleum. Moyer was safe for the moment behind the door and his wall of protective shelves. The lead black dog sprinted for the far end undeterred as the last of the pack ran through the door.

The lead dog attempted to arrest a skid rounding the corner, its claws slapping out a rapid staccato. It was mere seconds from a free run at Moyer. The animal skidded onto his side and slammed into the wall. It recovered its feet and started its charge. Moyer opened the door wider, slid past the shelves, and exited the library. He grabbed the bag of books on his way out, and slammed the door shut behind him trapping the dogs inside.

He heard claws skidding and a thud against the door. He laughed nervously. The lead dog had rounded the corner much faster than he’d anticipated, almost before the last dog entered the corridor. It had been close, too close. If it hadn’t been for the slick floor and the animal’s inability to round the corner, he wondered what the outcome might have been.

Dingy light filtered through darkening clouds. Darkness was fast approaching. The snowfall limited his visibility to fifty meters or so. The dogs snarled and barked inside the library. Moyer slung the heavy pillow case over his shoulder and trudged for home. Robyn would be out of her mind with worry by now. In the distance, howls rang out from somewhere on the hill.

Chapter 42

Thursday, 14 February

R
obyn’s belly swelled while layer upon layer of snow thickened over the fields during one of the worst winters in recent Indiana history. It was the day of lovers in the world Moyer and Robyn had left behind, a day for flowers and chocolates, and Moyer had neither.

After Moyer milked the goats, Betsy Connors pulled him aside and led him to the pantry. She handed him a bouquet of dried flowers, muted oranges, yellows, purples. The arrangement was made up of native wildflowers; coreopsis, milkweed, cowslip, coneflower, lupine, dull reflections of summer colors. Moyer was speechless. An understanding smile brightened Betsy’s face. “I wish I could do better. Whose idea was it to put this holiday smack in the middle of winter?”

Moyer carried the flowers upstairs with Robyn’s breakfast. She lay in bed reading. She flinched in pain when he entered the room.

“Are you okay?”

“The baby kicked. Give me your hand.” Robyn raised her nightgown and guided his hand to the hot, taught flesh of her belly. “Moyer! Your hands are cold.”

“I don’t think they are. It’s that your stomach is so hot.”

“Oh, there it goes again. Did you feel it that time?”

“Yes.” Moyer set down the tray and grinned.

Robyn lifted the bouquet, her eyes wide with astonishment. “What’s this?”

“They’re from Betsy, a gift for both of us.”

While Robyn picked at her food and admired her flowers, Moyer thought of Margret and her baby, the first pregnant woman he had ever seen, the first proof of Viktor Perko’s lie. She represented the promise of a new truth, a truth that now included Robyn. When Margret and her baby died, he realized promises, no matter how bright and hopeful, are not always kept.

Maybe Viktor Perko’s ways were better, the lie palatable because of the certainty of the result. In Viktor Perko’s world, babies were born healthy, and mothers were never at risk. He guaranteed it. Yes, the monetary cost was high, but now with a baby kicking inside Robyn and knowing what might happen, he would gladly pay if it weren’t already too late.

“You’re quiet,” she said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He smiled as if it was true so she wouldn’t worry. “Do you regret me bringing you out here?” The question brought a smile from Robyn. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

“Yes. I hated you the first day. But not since. I’ll admit I wish for privacy and a place of our own every now and then, but I don’t regret a minute of it. We belong here.”

Sunday, 24 March

By mid-March the snow had melted enough to permit travel. Wagons went back and forth to assess the state of families in the valley and to spread the word. Church services were organized for the following Sunday. Moyer had misgivings about Robyn riding in a cart, swollen as she was, but Betsy reassured that everything would be all right. She had made the trip dozens of times during her four pregnancies. Armal Connors took a horse and rode to town alone two hours ahead of service. When Brothers Duffy, Bonderenko and Wilson rode past the farm, Moyer knew the elders were meeting and something was afoot.

Betsy remained at the house to tend to Frieda who was ill with a fever that was wending through the household. A tickle in Moyer’s throat signaled he was next and would have to be careful around Robyn.

Joshua bridled the horses and rigged the carriage. Moyer laid a thick layer of straw in the front corner of the bed to cushion the ride for Robyn. He extended his hands and helped her up, swaddling her in blankets, and sat with his arms wrapped around her to protect her from the wind. Joshua eased the carriage out from the barn and along the road, never letting the horses above a walk.

After the service, valley residents clustered together catching up on events. Women gathered around Robyn asking about her pregnancy, wanting to touch her belly and feel the life inside. The elders huddled and Moyer knew he was the topic of conversation. Moyer headed to the library. The supply of books he’d brought home months before had been exhausted, read and reread a number of times.

When he opened the door, a foul stench and a cloud of flies pushed him back gagging and coughing. Betsy’s breakfast of fried eggs and smoked goat which had fortified him against the cold during the carriage ride, churned in his stomach and threatened to make a return. Moyer didn’t feel well. The pack of dogs lay dead and putrefying near the entrance. He left the doors open to let in some good air.

A few minutes later, Moyer went in to begin the grim task of dragging out the rotting carcasses. They had died huddled together and left a brown viscous stain beneath them crawling with maggots. When he dragged the last carcass out to the street, he saw the elders striding toward him. Moyer’s instinct was to run. He walked toward them instead, determined to meet trouble head on.

“How is the virus coming?” Brother Duffy asked. His black, porcine eyes bored into Moyer. At first, Moyer wondered how Duffy knew he was getting ill. It was only a sore throat and he hadn’t mentioned it to Armal or Betsy. Then it dawned on him Duffy was asking about the Worm virus.

“It’s done.”

Duffy’s cynicism brightened to joy. He glanced at the others who were also grinning, brows raised. “We need to discuss when to insert it,” Duffy continued. “We all feel it would be best to proceed before your baby is born.” The other men nodded. “Once you have your child, we feel it might not be possible to motivate you.”

“Why me?” Moyer asked. “What about your network of spies? Can’t they deliver the virus?”

“Most of our spies died when the Worm went active. We have an asset inside Digi-Soft who won’t trust anyone he doesn’t know, and he knows you. It’s the only way.”

Moyer nodded. “Who is it?”

Duffy looked at Bonderenko, who shook his head. “We prefer not to tell you in case you are captured and tortured. You cannot reveal what you do not know.”

“When?” Moyer asked.

Duffy watched Robyn and the women clucking around her, his face grim. “Soon.” Duffy cast his eyes down at his feet. Duffy had assumed Nastasi’s crown as the leader of Begat and it was heavier than he expected. The fact that the decision troubled Duffy comforted Moyer. It meant Moyer was more than a pawn to these men and he could trust them to care for Robyn and his child if he didn’t return. Moyer closed his eyes and nodded. He needed to think of how to break the news to his wife.

For the moment he’d been spared the chore as Robyn rode home with the women. She seemed in her element, the center of attention, a smile plastered to her face. Women leaned in to offer advice and touch her protruding belly.

That afternoon, Robyn tired quickly while performing chores. Moyer brought lunch and a cup of rosehip tea up to the bedroom where she rested. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Moyer scooted a chair over to use as a table for her meal.

“The elders have made a request of me today,” he said. Robyn stopped stirring the tea and gazed at Moyer. Her face was stern, as if she knew the news was bad. “They need me to go into the city to deliver the virus.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

“Nooooo. Our baby, Moyer. I need you with me. Tell them no.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” she pleaded.

“Their man on the inside knows me and won’t trust anyone else.”

“But this is their cause, Moyer, not ours. Tell them to find someone else.”

“I can’t.”

“Stop saying that. You can. Begat has been in this valley for over fifteen years. What’s the point of stirring the pot and bringing corporate wrath down on us now?”

“Last fall, a pack of wild dogs attacked the goats killing the white female. Armal said we needed to put a stop to this wickedness lest it swallow us up. I sensed he was talking about more than wild dogs and goats. These people survive only because the government has turned a blind eye for now. The minute the political climate changes, or someone needs a scapegoat, they will hunt us down and wipe us out.

“If we don’t do something to change the way things are, the likelihood of our child reaching adulthood are slim. You know me. I’m no hero. But I know I must do this for all of us. It won’t change the world. But it’s a start, and will make what must follow possible.”

Robyn kicked the chair across the room. Moyer caught the porcelain cup before it hit the floor, and burned his hand with hot tea. When he turned, Robyn was lying in bed facing the wall, her back quaking. He cupped her neck in his hand and bent close to her.

“I wouldn’t consider it if I didn’t love you,” he said. Tears fell from his lashes and splattered against her cheek.

Monday, 1 April

The trip to Mannington Station was frigid, the grass beside the trail gilded silver with an unseasonable frost. A stiff breeze brought on a chill as the horse hauled the wagon through the darkness. Armal and Betsy Connors and their son Joshua sat on the bench seat, Moyer huddled behind them holding Robyn, his hands clasped over what would soon be his child.

When the train pulled into the station, Armal whispered that he would look after Robyn and his child no matter what. When Moyer tried to shake Armal’s hand, the big man pulled him into a hug and told him to be careful. Moyer was so nervous and frightened all he managed was a nod.

Moyer held Robyn for a long time. Her tears warmed his cheek. He tried to put on a brave face, as if there was little need to worry, but he couldn’t stop quaking.
He wanted to kiss her one last time, but the illness that days before had been only been a tickle had forged a flaming path down his throat and into his lungs. The risk of infecting Robyn and affecting his baby was too great. He promised Robyn he would return soon, and nearly broke down when Armal’s son Joshua cried. The cars started moving down the platform without him. Moyer had to break his embrace with Robyn and run to make the train. When he turned back, Robyn had collapsed into Armal’s arms.