The Boy at the End of the World (9 page)

CHAPTER   15

The way west was not easy. Kudzu grew everywhere, swallowing the earth in vines and broad, green leaves. Fisher found the jawbone of an antelope and used it to hack away at the plants, but he was like a minnow trying to swim up a waterfall.

For the mammoth, though, this was heaven. The only thing slowing him down was his desire to eat everything in sight.

The deeper they pushed into the jungle, the stranger the plants got. They ivy wasn't just green, but also bumblebee yellow and robin's-breast red. The leaves came shaped like spades, or dagger blades, or perfect circles. The buzzes and clicks and trills of birds and insects made the jungle seem like a boiling sea of life. And sometimes Fisher heard other noises too: the snap and crunch of twigs that sounded like footfalls.

But these sounds couldn't compete with the noise of his own thoughts. Again and again, he replayed the Intelligence's last words as its little voices died, mocking him.

It had told him of another Ark. A Western Ark. One that wasn't yet destroyed. One it said Fisher wouldn't survive long enough to reach.

If the Intelligence had tried to kill Fisher's hopes by telling him all he'd find was ruins, then it had failed. Fisher would find the Ark. And he would find it before the gadgets did, no matter what it took.

So Fisher and his friends went west, away from the impassable cliffs bordering the marshes and ocean shore, and inland into thicker plant growth. Fisher kept expecting Click to warn him against this course of action, but for once, the robot appeared to accept Fisher's plan.

The horrors of the Southern Ark seemed to have struck them all. Protein plodded on. He'd stopped bringing sticks and plants to Click and even seemed nervous around Fisher.

They spotted occasional gadget patrols overhead, but it seemed to Fisher they weren't searching for him and his friends, but for the Western Ark. At least that's what Fisher hoped, because if it was true, then the gadgets didn't yet know where the Ark was.

After several days of travel, the jungle floor revealed huge slabs of concrete. Gray pillars stood like trees, sprouting mushrooms and flowers in a riot of colors.

“This appears to have been a road once,” Click said. “They were called freeways, or turnpikes, and they were elevated above the ground.”

A bird landed on one of the pillars and picked at a bright orange pod on the end of a thick stem. The pod split open like a yawning mouth. It engulfed the bird and snapped shut, leaving just the tip of a tail feather poking out. In seconds, even the tail feather disappeared. The bulge of the bird's body traveled down the stem, like a mouse being swallowed by a snake.

“That plant just ate a bird,” said Fisher.

“Yes,” agreed Click, “it did.”

“Click!
The plants eat birds!
”

“Carnivorous plants have been around for a long time. They come in a considerable variety. There are snap traps, such as the Venus flytrap. But also pitfall traps, and flypaper traps, and bladder traps, and—”

Fisher cried out. A purple tendril with thorns was curling around his ankle. Small bugs wriggled, impaled on some of its thorns.

Fisher used his jaw-hacker to hack the tendril to bits. Then he hacked the bits to smaller bits, and he hacked those bits into even smaller bits until the bits were too small to keep hacking.

“Very interesting,” said Click. “The plants seem to have evolved a great range of movement. This could happen as a result of predator and prey species engaging in a biological arms race, each surviving by evolving more and more elaborate adaptations.”

Meanwhile, Protein chewed writhing plant stalks. He seemed to find them delicious.

The longer they trekked through the jungle, the more certain Fisher became that something was following them. He awoke every morning expecting to find himself covered in nano-worms. Every bug that landed on his neck gave him a violent start. Every tangle of kudzu gave the Intelligence a place to lurk.

On the tenth sunrise since leaving the Southern Ark, he woke to find a set of small, clawed paw prints stopping at the edge of their camp. Not a machine, but an animal. And judging from the placement of the prints, an animal that walked on two legs.

Fisher tested the thin branches around him for strength and flexibility. He ran through his catalog of knots and fishing lures. An idea formed in his mind.

“Click, those wires in the back of your eye socket—”

A hiss. “What of them?”

“Since they're not really doing anything anymore, I wondered if I could borrow some …”

Click's empty eye socket yielded about a foot of data conduit cable, which, when unwound, came out to almost four feet of thin metal wire that held whatever shape Fisher bent it into. He twisted the wire into a loop, fed the loop through a larger loop, and tied the whole assemblage to a strong green vine.

A fallen log provided the perfect place to put it. He leaned some half-sawed-through leafy branches up against the log and tucked the snare beneath them. Atop the log went a gathering of berries and seeds as bait.

The scenario played out in his head. The two-legged animal would climb up the branches to get to the bait, the branches would break, the animal's legs or entire body would fall through the snare, and Fisher would have it.

In case that didn't work, he pushed the stem of his slingshot into the earth, stretched the band all the way back, and pegged it in place with sticks. He tucked more berries between the pocket and the sticks, so that, to get to the bait, the animal would have to move the sticks. Doing so would trigger the slingshot and, if not kill the animal, at least startle it enough to make noise.

“I am impressed, Fisher,” said Click, watching him work. “This is the most work you have ever done in an attempt to catch food.”

“I'm not trying to catch food.” He scattered all the crunchy leaves he could find around his camp. If anything approached, the noise would wake him up and maybe he could at least club something.

“If not food, then what?”

He stopped to rub his ear, which had ached for the last few days. He hoped he wasn't getting sick.

“I keep feeling like we're being followed.” He dropped his voice. “Like something's been watching us from the forest.”

“You fear a predator?”

Of course Fisher feared predators. He always feared predators. But this was a different feeling.

The next morning Fisher checked his traps.

They were untriggered, but the bait was gone. Paw prints stopped mere inches from where Fisher had slept.

“Do you still have your broken eye?” he asked Click when the robot came up from his power-saving mode.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Fisher said, “something stole my flint chips and torches.”

The next day as they continued westward, Fisher occupied his mind with thoughts of nets and pit traps. He imagined spring mechanisms he could make from saplings that would fire deadly poison darts.

“Hey, Click, why didn't my personality profile include a knowledge of poison?”

“You are better off knowing how to fish. Poison is not very nutritious.”

Protein came to a halt. He growled and shook his head. His haunches shivered.

Something was coming through the jungle, pushing aside bushes and tree limbs. Tree branches cracked. A flurry of birds took to the sky, squawking. Whatever was coming was big.

And then it was upon them, a sphere about Fisher's height, studded with thousands of squat, twisted spikes. It rolled and bounded across the jungle floor, knocking over trees and bowling over anything in its way.

This couldn't possibly be a plant. Not even an animal.

It changed direction, heading right for Fisher and his companions. Fisher gave Click a mighty shove and leaped away, just as the huge spiky ball smashed into a tree mere feet from them. The ball rebounded into the air before thunking back down. It changed direction again, and, again, Fisher was in its path. He dove for cover and somersaulted as the ball knocked him hard into a tree. Pain flared in his hand, caught between the tree trunk and the full weight of his own body.

He could only watch now as the ball cut a destructive path across the jungle floor, crunching, snapping, bashing. When it struck the trunk of a broad, solid tree, there was a great pop of air and the ball exploded. Thousands of little brown globes clattered across the jungle.

Leaves and twigs settled back to the jungle floor. Birds fluttered their wings, resuming their perches, and the jungle returned to normal.

“Ah, I believe it was a seedpod, propelled by internal gasses,” said Click, examining the little globes. “When it hits a large object, it breaks apart and spills its seeds to grow more of its own kind. A very interesting adaptation. Or perhaps past humans engineered it as a method of expanding the parent plant's range … Fisher? You are not responding. Are you in distress?”

Fisher slumped against a tree stump and looked at his right hand. His index and middle fingers were wrong. They were bent at odd angles.

Broken.

Click came over. “Fisher?”

Protein nudged Click away and made to sniff Fisher's head, but then changed his mind and went off several yards to stand by himself.

Huge pain radiated from Fisher's hand. The pain was bad. It felt even worse as he thought about all the things he used those two fingers for.

To make fishing hooks.

To tie knots.

To start fires.

He used those two fingers for everything. They were as important to his survival as the legs that carried him.

Now they were injured.

Injured animals were weak.

Injured animals failed to survive.

CHAPTER   16

Useless. Mangled. Hurting.

Fisher sat curled up, his right hand loosely cradled in his lap.

He couldn't stop thinking about all the things he used his fingers for.

Digging worms to bait his hooks.

Climbing trees to raid birds' nests.

And while he sat there in pain, he also thought about gadgets. He wasn't afraid of them finding him here, helpless. He was afraid of them finding the Western Ark before he did.

“I have returned,” said Click, stumbling back into the clearing. Protein let out a small growl.

“Did you find what I asked for?”

Click showed Fisher what he was carrying: a bundle of twigs and some tough flower stalks.

Fisher took the twigs. Tucking the ends between his knees, he used his left hand to snap them into segments as long as his fingers.

“I need to make a splint to immobilize my fingers,” he said. “I know this, somehow. It must be in my personality profile.”

“Yes. You have a very basic knowledge of first aid. That is what you were drawing upon when you washed your piranha-croc wounds with salt water.”

“Okay. Great. The only thing is, I don't know
how
to make a splint. Do you?”

Click whirred. “No.”

“How are you supposed to help me survive and continue the human race if you can't even make a splint?”

“There are many ways to help humans,” Click said. “For example, keeping the Ark clean. That was my primary function. Other custodial units would have taken care of other needs had they not been destroyed. I am doing the best I can.”

Fisher swallowed in pain. He took a deep, slow breath. “I know.”

Fisher looked at the twigs and the flower stalks. In his mind's eye, he rearranged them until he came up with a design that would hopefully keep his cracked fingers from moving around.

He placed the twigs below and alongside the broken fingers. Then, directing Click to hold the end of a flower stalk in place, he wrapped the stalk around the twigs.

This was the easy part. There was still the matter of tying the knots. He couldn't do it one-handed, and Click didn't have the dexterity to do it himself.

The first knot took almost an hour. He had to tell Click how to hold the stalk, how to wrap it and tuck it through loops. And once the first knot was done, Fisher watched, heartbroken, as it immediately unraveled.

He wanted to give up. The slightest touch sent pain jolting through his fingers.

But he kept at it.

Finally, the splint was secured in place, at least for now.

His entire hand throbbed. But he'd given himself a chance to heal. All he had to do was survive until then.

To start with, he needed food.

He picked up his jaw-hacker and dragged himself to his feet.

Even the bugs eluded him. To catch bugs, Fisher had to be able to crawl fast and cup them quickly in his hands, and with only one good hand, he could do neither. His head throbbed. His vision swam. He had become a weak animal.

This was ridiculous. Fisher had been better at survival just a few hours after becoming born. He'd made his own weapons. He'd made his own tools. He had become a master at reshaping nature to suit his needs. But now? Even crawling in the mud for bugs was too hard for him. Maybe this was how humans had felt as their buildings crumbled around them, taunted by memories of their former power. Maybe this was how they felt when they realized they were dying.

Something moved at the edge of the streambed. Fisher ducked back into the bushes and gripped his antelope jaw-hacker. A froglike creature stood in the water on four stilt legs. Fisher's stomach melted with desire. The frog's green speckled body was packed with succulent meat. With a flash of its tongue, it snatched a fly right from the air.

The stilt-frog could keep the fly. Fisher wanted the frog.

His plan was simple. He would rush forward and smash the frog with his jaw-hacker. He wouldn't even need both hands for this. But he'd only get once chance. He drew in a deep breath and readied himself.

A
shfft
noise cut through the air, and a long wooden needle embedded itself in the frog's back. The frog spasmed once before keeling over.

Fisher drew back further into the bushes. From the reeds on the opposite side of the stream emerged a two-legged mammal, about three feet tall, with sharp-clawed feet that matched the prints Fisher had found in camp.

The mammal tucked a pistol-grip bow into a belt pouch and leaned on a long metal rod with a wicked-looking blade on the end. Using the pole for support, it limped forward and waded into the stream. Dried blood matted the yellowish-brown fur on one of its thighs.

Fisher held his breath in the shadowed bushes. This had to be the intruder he'd been trying to snare, and its backpack no doubt contained Fisher's flint rocks and torches.

The mammal reached the skewered frog and hoisted it under its arm. Bothered by its wounded leg, it struggled to return to shore.

Before reaching the muddy bank, the creature stopped and wobbled. Its arms went slack, dropping the dead frog in the stream. Then the creature fell forward and lay still, facedown in the shallow water. Bubbles rose around its head.

This was Fisher's chance. He could kill the mammal and take both it and the frog back to camp. This was a life-saving feast.

He crossed the stream, approaching cautiously in case this was some kind of trick. He tossed the frog ashore and stood over the mammal. If it was only pretending to drown, it was doing a good job of it. Fisher should just smash its head in. In a few hours, he'd be gorging on protein-rich meat. He may not be a stronger animal than the mammal, but right now he was the luckier one, and sometimes luck was better than strength.

So, why was he hesitating?

Transferring his jaw-hacker to his right armpit, he reached down with his good hand and lifted the mammal from the water by the scruff of its neck.

“Try to attack me, and I'll kill you,” he said.

But the mammal only coughed water.

He dropped the mammal on dry land beside the frog and returned for the creature's bladed pole. It was heavier than it looked, and more complicated, with switches built into the grip. This wasn't just some crude weapon. It was technology.

The mammal spat up more water and lay panting in the mud. Fisher aimed the bladed end of the pole at its chest.

“What are you?”

The creature coughed. “Zapper is prairie dog. Is obvious, no?”

Fisher's brain ran through its catalog of animals. Prairie dogs were a kind of ground squirrel, good at digging. But prairie dogs were half the size of this creature. And they didn't walk on two legs, or carry tools and weapons. They certainly couldn't talk.

“Why have you been sneaking into my camp?”

“Zapper wants to steal your stuff. You have good stuff. You not notice your missing stuff? Human ape is stupid, hah?”

“I'm not stupid,” said Fisher, moving the sharp tip of the pole closer. “You took my flint and torches.”

“Ai, yes, Zapper is doing that. Dig way in, dig way out, slide rock over hole to cover Zapper's way. You not even notice?”

Fisher hadn't, but he didn't say anything.

“Hah! Stupid ape.”

“If I'm so stupid, then why are you the one flat on his back with a weapon pointed at him?”

“Zapper not a ‘him.' Zapper a ‘her.' Ape too stupid to know difference.”

“I'm still the one holding the stick.”

Faster than Fisher could believe, the prairie dog was on her feet. She leaped into the air and grabbed onto the stick. Dangling from it, she pummeled Fisher's stomach with half a dozen brutal kicks, driving all the air from him.

Doubled over, he gasped for breath. Now the prairie dog had the stick. Fisher waited for another attack.

“Hah. Ape is at least a little stupid, no?”

“Maybe a little,” huffed Fisher.

Apparently satisfied by Fisher's answer, the prairie dog planted her pole in the ground and leaned on it. She was breathing heavily. The effort had cost her.

“We take frog to your camp now? Cook it up?”

“You … you want to share your kill with me?”

Fisher rubbed his belly. With those claws, he was lucky the prairie dog hadn't ripped out his intestines.

“You save Zapper from drowning, no?”

“I guess I did.”

“Then Zapper share food with ape. Is right thing to do.”

Without question, this prairie dog was the most peculiar creature Fisher had ever encountered.

He pointed into the bushes. “Camp's that way.”

She grunted. “Zapper remembers. Zapper's been there.”