The Boy at the End of the World Read Online Free PDF Page A

the Ark attack.”
    Fisher started walking again, following a gully cut by the stream. He tried to pick his path more carefully, seeking the most even ground.
    The ghostly towers remained far off, but Fisher and Click came to more humble ruins. Little more than concrete overhangs, they emerged from the slopes on either side of the gully, so weathered and crumbled and overgrown with vegetation that Fisher almost mistook them for boulders. A few stubby lengths of rusted, twisted steel poked from the rocks, like robotic fingers clawing from a grave.
    Climbing up the side of the gully, Fisher ducked into one of the overhangs. He looked for bits of wire or glass he could scavenge for fishing hooks, or fibers to use as fishing line or netting, or anything useful. But whoever had lived here, however long ago, had left nothing good behind. On his way out, he happened to glance at the low ceiling and paused. The concrete was coated with a thick, waxy layer of black. Fisher closed his eyes and imagined sitting here beside a fire, boiling fish or roasting spitted game, or just warming his hands. He imagined smoke rising, curling against the ceiling before drifting out into open air. Judging from the thickness of the smoke residue, someone had dwelled here a long time. Or maybe many someones, for shorter periods.
    A spiderweb occupied a corner of the ceiling. He didn’t relish eating spiders, but if the web’s maker had caught a cricket …
    Markings on the ceiling near the web took Fisher’s mind off his hunger. Wavy lines were scratched into the sooty concrete. And other lines that looked like water spraying into the air. And yet other markings. The concept of letters formed in Fisher’s head. Words . Writing .
    There wasn’t much there. “Wha” and some letters too weak and smudged to read, and then an “R,” some more smudges, and a “D.”
    â€œWha … R … D,” Fisher whispered. He blinked. “Hey, I can read!”
    â€œYes,” Click said, startling Fisher. He’d been so absorbed in the writing that he hadn’t heard the robot approach. “All Ark-preserved human personality profiles possess the ability to read. Reading is fundamental.”
    â€œBut I can’t make enough of it out. What does it say?”
    Click’s neck creaked as he looked up at the ceiling with his good eye.
    â€œI cannot confirm that this is writing,” he said. “These markings could have been left by animals or be the result of random weathering.”
    â€œBut it looks like writing,” Fisher said, realizing how badly he wanted it to be writing.
    â€œYour brain has evolved to see patterns,” Click began. “The ability to see patterns helped your ancestors recognize faces. It became an important part of human social interaction. The same mechanism is why you might think you see faces in a cloud, or in the bark of a tree, or writing in the random scratches on the smoke-stained ceiling of ruins.”
    â€œOr,” Fisher said, “maybe whoever stayed here wrote something. Maybe it’s a message.”
    â€œI cannot confirm that this is writing,” Click said again.
    Fisher used some of his profanity. It turned out that profanity was useful for expressing frustration. He gazed at the markings a while longer, and the falling-leaf feeling returned.
    He spent more time exploring the parts of the ruins he could climb to, but he found no more evidence of campfires, no more markings, nothing to scavenge, and nothing to eat.
    After about an hour he finally gave up and resumed his way down the gully. He tried to keep his mind on what was before him and around him, the noises that might be things he could eat or things that might eat him. But it was hard to stay focused. He thought Click was wrong. Someone had stayed beneath that overhang. Maybe just for a short time. But they had left behind something of themselves.
    As the tall ruins slowly