Page 86 of Dustwalker
With his fragmented memory, all he had were assumptions, but he guessed these tapes were recordings of music. And if they could be played, they would offer a unique glimpse into a bygone era. A taste of a civilization that had collapsed two hundred years ago.
Further examination of the tape player led him to the battery compartment, which was empty. That was good. Leaked battery acid had damaged many electronic devices he’d discovered over the years. If he could figure out an alternate means of powering this tape player, Lara could listen to music. Maybe it would inspire her to move in new ways.
He knew he needed to save space for tradeable scrap, but he couldn’t leave these behind. Not when they were so likely to bring Lara joy.
Strange how quickly I’ve come to value her happiness…
After dumping out the hangers, he transferred the tapes into his bag as neatly as possible, setting the player and the dusty earpieces that seemed to go with it atop them. He spread a rag over the items before repacking the hangers.
Ronin stood and swung his pack over his shoulders, running his optics over the room one more time. They fell on the stack of drawings.
Tabitha would live on in Lara’s memory, but there was no evidence of her existence apart from a simple grave just west of Cheyenne. She’dleft nothing behind but her love for her adopted sister. Was that enough?
Crouching, he returned the papers to bin. Though the broken lid wouldn’t seal, he put its pieces back in place, rose, and slid the bin onto the closet shelf. Perhaps the drawings would last a few more years there than they would have on the floor.
And perhaps Lindsey, whoever she’d been, would exist for a little longer through them.
Activating night vision, he resumed his search of the premises.
There was little else worth taking in the rest of the house, apart from a few metal and plastic scraps and a pot that would clean up nicely. The last door to check behind was on the interior kitchen wall. The writing on its face was peeling off with the paint, but it was still legible.
NOTHING FOR YOU HERE
GO AWAY WE WILL FIGHT
Those words must’ve been spray-painted decades ago, and the state of this place suggested that it had been deserted for many years before Ronin’s arrival. Unless there was an active bot lurking behind this door, there was no one left to fight.
Ronin drew his handgun, grasped the knob, and pulled the door open.
A narrow staircase led down into a dark basement. On one side, the concrete foundation met the wall, creating a ledge that was cluttered with objects made unidentifiable by the excessive cobwebs and dust gathered upon them.
He lowered his foot onto the first step, and eased his weight onto it, listening to the wood creak. When it didn’t break, he repeated the process with the next step. He’d fallen through floors and stairs before, and had never suffered more than minor damage, but it was best to be careful. Especially with someone awaiting his return.
Were these the places Lara wanted to see? The ruins of buildings once inhabited by people long since forgotten, containing fragments of stories that had been lost to time?
These places are her people’s history.
Bots endured while generations of humans were born, lived, and died. Were the long, dull, logic-driven existences of bots fuller than thequick, emotion-saturated lives of humans? Ronin wasn’t sure which people were the favored of the Creators anymore.
His boots came down on solid concrete at the base of the stairs. Bare joists and beams from the floor above ran overhead, the gaps between them filled with rotted, disintegrating insulation and thick spiderwebs. Dingy blankets and sheets, hanging from the wood by nails and staples, divided the space. A stack of dilapidated boxes rested beneath the only visible window, which was completely covered by dirt from the outside.
Holding the handgun at the ready, Ronin reached forward with his empty hand, brushing aside one of the sheets. Dust rained from the fabric and grit crunched beneath his boots as he walked past.
His foot hit something. The hollow, metallicclangsof the object bouncing on the floor were thunderous, followed by the more muted sound of it rolling over the concrete. He shifted his optics to follow the path in the dirt, gun leveled, ready to open fire.
The tin can he’d kicked rocked slowly in place. There was more trash scattered around the floor nearby, mostly empty cans and wrappers.
Frowning, he advanced through the maze of dangling fabric to the far wall. There were more boxes and plastic bins there, none in any better shape than what he’d seen upstairs. He turned to the left, pushed through more sheets, and finally emerged in an open area.
A workbench with a vise bolted near its center spanned the rear wall. More cans were scattered over its surface, along with small boxes, jars, and bottles. Articles of clothing, as dirty and worn as the bedding suspended from the rafters, hung along the edge of the bench as though placed there to dry.
One item caught his attention, recognizable despite the cobwebs enveloping it because of the lever on the side. It was a press from a reloading kit.
He shifted his optics to the floor, where a collection of blankets and pillows formed a pallet upon which three skeletons lay in ragged clothing. The two smaller ones were huddled in the arms of the third. Each skull had a small hole in its forehead.
Several feet away, a fourth skeleton, taller than the rest, lay facedown on the concrete. The back of its skull was shattered—an exit wound.
Ronin crouched beside the lone skeleton. Its fingers werewrapped around a rusted revolver, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath its torso. In its other hand, it held a paper wrapped in a plastic sheath. Ronin slid the paper out of the clawlike grip. The writing on it was a sloppy scrawl, not unlike the latter entries in the journal Lara had found.
