Free Falling Sky by Rajan Khanna

For any sign of Viktor. For a shout. A groan. Anything.
    But nothing comes, so I read instead, hoping that cowboys will distract me.
    I fall asleep with the book on top of me.

    I dream of gunslingers and horses and revolvers and gunfights. The book I was reading is about a sheriff in the Old West, a lawman, trying to bring order to his chaotic town. Only without the Bug to dog his steps.
    I wonder if anyone back in the Clean ever longed to live in a time like that. It was rough if the book is any indication. People dying left and right. Disease. Violence. Lawlessness. But you could live the life you wanted. You could have a house. Friends. Neighbors. Family. You could make a living doing something. Running a store. Building things. Training horses. Farming. I find myself longing for even the simplest of lives back then. Something quiet and comfortable. Maybe even a marriage. Growing old and getting fat with a woman beside me.
    And if lawlessness or violence did come my way, well, I know how to deal with that.
    There’s only one real law in the Sick: survive.
    When I wake I go back to the Ferrari and take it out again, looking for any sign of Viktor. I know what it’s like to get caught outside. Sometimes the best thing to do is to hide, hole up somewhere warm and safe and come out when things get quiet. Stirred-up Ferals tend to stick around. But they didn’t have the best memories sometimes. Let them get distracted by something else and you could often make a run for it.
    I drive around, hoping that if Viktor is out there he sees me and comes running. Without Rex he’ll be easy prey unless I can get him in the Ferrari.
    But he doesn’t appear. I stay out as long as I can, only returning when my stomach starts howling at me to fill it. I know I’ll be better with some food in me, so I go back and go through some of the food I foraged from the house. The canned beans are a little funky but seem to be mostly okay. You tend to develop instincts about this sort of thing. The fish, likewise, seems good if a little salty. I wash them down with some of Viktor’s fresh water and a sip of tequila.
    That flat, gray voice is starting to speak inside my head again. It’s the voice of Reality, the one that always kicks in when I start to stray into wishful thinking. It’s saying that Viktor isn’t coming back. It’s saying that he got caught and he’s either dead or Faded and there’s nothing I can do to help him. I try not to listen to it.
    But I start thinking about what happens if he doesn’t come back. What do I do then? I look around at his comfy digs and think, can I really just stay there?
    The gray voice says, can you really afford not to? Here I have protection, security, food, water. It’s not the Core, but it’s close. I have the Ferrari. I can forage through the nearby houses until I amass a suitable stash. And if I end up with some really good salvage, maybe I can barter it to get back in the air. I could sign up with a crew, work my way up to my own ship again.
    The thought makes me want to spit because I had my ship. I had my home. But then I think about how I didn’t really bleed to get the Cherub . Don’t get me wrong, I’ve bled lots. For my ship. For my family. Sometimes even for strangers. But I got lucky growing up on the Cherub . Some other zeps out there had to earn their ships, bit by bit. I never had to deal with that. And isn’t being in the sky worth it?
    You’re getting ahead of yourself, the voice says, and I know it’s right. For now, I have a place to live, food, and shelter. I’ll deal with the rest as it comes.
    But first, I go out to look for Viktor one more time. I spend a more time this round on looking for hiding places, under rocks, beneath bushes, things like that. Those are often places that Ferals hide out in, but what can I do?
    Nothing. The air smells fresh and wild and I think of Viktor out wounded in it.