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Page 24.

6. Friday

He felt a terrible urgency now that he knew where the women’s birthing cave was.

Maryan Shurey filled his dreams with memories of their intimate nights together. He could almost look over his shoulder and follow the latest detective drama or comical commercial, except that his passion kept bringing him back into her arms even as he awakened at night, filled with need. The purpose of things was falling into place in a vague manner. He knew that Beacham University had been pivotal in gathering genetic material. He knew something terrible had happened leading to humankind’s extinction. He sensed the desperate manner in which things had been done, to land him and his fellow clones in this far-distant exile beyond time. He knew, most of all, that he must find a copy of Maryan Shurey, though the realization weighed heavily on him that something in the unseen master plan had gone wrong: all the clones were sterile. Was there a point in going on at all?

Yes, because I am lonely, and I have a right.

He spent every daylight hour patrolling the cliffs from a safe distance away from the valley. His most immediate task now must be to neutralize the rippers so he could get close to the birthing cave.

He studied the individual rippers, getting to know them and their habits. How could he get over there—and how get into the birthing caves without being seen by the rippers?

What if he hunted the rippers one by one and killed them? How many days or weeks before the next pride entered the valley to take charge? Not a worthwhile plan. But maybe he could thin their numbers for a while, keep them on the run, fill them with fear if that was possible, maybe even scare them off for a time until their natural hunger and greed got the better of them.

How long until the next birth in the caves? A day? A month? A year? A century? This process had been going on for ages.

He must get into the opposite hill and make a determination, once and for all, if he had any hope of having a sound, sane mate in this world. What would he not give for her sweet company, her warmth beside him at night, someone to talk to? Just think—he’d never ever gotten a hug, a kiss, a kind word. He’d been struggling so hard to survive that he’d forgotten the depths of the misery he lived in.

He made himself a deadly new bow, stronger than the first, and a set of arrows. He would carry two bows—one a back up if the first failed. He would carry thirty arrows, each two feet long with a fire hardened point dipped in excrement. He would tie them in bundles of five, and five bundles together into one roll on his back, with five arrows in hand for quick use. These weren’t the all-purpose hunting arrows he’d been making. These were beast-killers.

At dawn, after eating a good meal, he climbed down from his plateau. He jogged across the beach carrying his weapons. Quickly he pushed the boat into the water and jumped in. He sailed along the coast with his bows and arrows on his belly neatly bundled, his spare arrows slung together and trailing in the water.

He passed the valley and came ashore on the other side, in a slightly different place as he did each time to keep potential stalkers guessing. He clambered up the hill, one hump at a time, until he came to the top of the coastal hills. He followed the canyon edge as slowly and noiselessly as he could, with one arrow ready to cock and fire and more at hand.

He stayed out of sight from the river. He saw the rippers lazing in the sun, unaware of him. Something long and white lay tattered among them, and he felt revulsion at the thought of what—or who—that might be. One of the adults was gnawing on something Alex was almost sure was a torso.

He searched up and down the ridge, going back finally away from the rim. He was becoming more paranoid by the moment, thinking he’d been crazy to come here. The more time went by, the more likely the rippers would come up here, as had that recent big one he’d slain. He kept checking the wind, which was very light and blowing northeasterly. Damn, it could shift just as easily and blow east, and they knew his scent. God, they loved his smell. It must be like an aphrodisiac, their holy grail.

Then he found something.

About 200 feet back in the woods was a pile of brush that looked oddly as if it had washed up somehow. He pulled some of it away, and found underneath a kind of slate slab. There might have once been a handle on it, but that would be worn away by now by the simple night wind over so many eons.

Looking over his shoulder constantly, he labored at the slab.

It wouldn’t budge.

He heard a distant roar.

He lay down and pushed against the slab with his hands, pushing his feet the other way against a tree trunk.

Nothing. He threw himself on the slab and frantically brushed off several feet of dirt and rocks.

Then he stretched out again.

He heard another roar, and froze listening.

Nothing. His heart pounded in his ears and his breath came in gasps.

Silence.

He pushed, and the slab moved aside. It made a stony noise almost like metal dragging on stone. Then he realized that it was what was left of a manhole cover.

A wan shaft of light fell inside, and he saw a hill of earth piled up. Over the ages, tiny rivulets of sand and water must have leaked in. But the tanks were still active. He lowered himself in resolutely. With an arrow cocked, he waited just below the hole for his night vision to return. He saw dim glowing objects, and knew what they were - mushrooms growing on the walls.

The cone of soil on which he stood yielded a bit, sending down a shower, and he sank a foot or so into it, but then his feet hit firm, compressed soil. He sat on his haunches, arrow ready, and waited.

He listened intently.

Wind moaned faintly across the hole above him.

Below, in the caves, he heard splashing. He heard a dull sound, like a voice.

He went down, cautiously, one step at a time.

He heard a murmur. Laughing? Crying?

A sharp cry. Pain? Fear?

Step by step, he made his way forward. In the darkness, his pupils opened wide, and the soothing light of the mushrooms began to let him see how his skin glistened a faint bluish-white.

He heard laughter, crying, then a scream.

He inched forward, his heart pounding.

Then he heard Maryan’s voice: “Please, no!”

He ran forward, splashing through puddles.

Here were the birthing galleries still active. He smelled the familiar freshness of the greens, and his ankles sloshed through liquid. His soles began to feel soft and comfortable—hadn’t realized how hard they’d become.

Despite the healing fluid, a smell of death hung in the air.