The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  Paralyzed by indecision, Ivory looked back again at his pursuer. He looked along the crest as it rose up to the mountain on the right and the one on the left. All paths were hard. All were dangerous.

  Chapter 61: Bray

  Bray, Ella, and William made their way back to the burned house. Flames still licked at the structure, eating at the sticks and metal that had once comprised it.

  “Did anyone survive?” Ella asked, peering into the collapsed structure.

  “I don’t think so,” Bray answered, his voice somber. “They wouldn’t have lived through the smoke or the fire.”

  They stood in silence, staring at the yellow and orange flames. The dead bodies of the soldiers lay around the area like funeral decorations. One of them—a soldier Bray had kicked into the fire—was blackened, stuck to a piece of Ancient metal. His skin was melted. Bray felt no pity.

  The soldiers had gotten what they deserved.

  He cocked his head, listening to the sounds of the forest. The fire crackled. After a moment, he searched the grounds for the dead soldiers’ provisions. He rounded up several flasks of water and pouches of dried meats and berries. He opened his pack, made room, and dropped them inside. He hid the soldiers’ swords where he could find them later, if needed.

  Despite killing the soldiers, the forest was far from safe. There were bound to be others—and demons, too, with the scent of burnt flesh ripe in the air.

  “We should get going,” he said to Ella and William.

  He watched the boy as he said it, still suspicious of the boy’s demeanor. Whether William had acted in defense or retribution—or something else—was impossible to ascertain. Ella wore a grave expression.

  “I wish this fog would clear,” she said.

  “We’ll find our way. It’s not ideal, but it’ll give us cover from the soldiers.” Bray gave a last glance at the house. Something glinted from the side of the building, catching his eye. “Hold on,” he said.

  He walked over next to the house in search of the object. The area was scattered with remnants of the dwelling. Wood, limbs, and scraps of Ancient metal lined the forest floor. He walked to where he’d seen the object, pushing aside errant foliage until he found what he was looking for.

  It was a knife.

  Bray reached for the weapon, testing to see if it was hot. It wasn’t. He picked it up. The handle was short, as if it’d been smelted for a youth. A pit formed in his stomach. He turned it in his hands and put it in his pocket.

  He was about to leave when something moved in the trees.

  Bray’s senses heightened. A moment ago, he’d been certain they were alone. Now he wasn’t so sure. He raised his sword and crept into the woods. Ella and William stared after him. He padded around the smoldering ruins, measuring his steps, watching something slip out of view. He increased his pace to a brisk walk. The figure in the distance looked behind them, then dipped behind a distant tree. The person was crouched so low he couldn’t make out specifics. Was it a wounded soldier? Bray increased his speed, intending to confront the person, whoever it was. He raised his sword.

  He wouldn’t leave witnesses.

  He approached the place where the person had disappeared. Ella and William trailed nervously behind him, swords high. When he’d reached the tree, Bray took a wide berth around it, then raised his blade and prepared to strike.

  A gaunt, bloodied girl stared back at him. She clutched her chest in fear. Her face was covered in soot, her dark hair ratty and tangled. At her feet was the body of a mangled, dead boy.

  “Bray?” Ella called from behind him. “Who is it?”

  Bray didn’t answer. He lowered his sword, his eyes locked on the frightened girl. Despite her disheveled appearance, her face was hauntingly familiar. He looked over his shoulder at Ella.

  “Ella?” said Bray. “I think we found your daughter.”

  Chapter 62: Oliver

  Oliver woke to Franklin’s jostling him and whispering harsh words. Franklin shook his head.

  “What did you do, Oliver? What did you do?”

  Oliver was confused, waking up in the middle of the day. “Nothing,” he mumbled, out of defensive habit. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Get up. Hurry.” Franklin stood up, pointing vaguely toward the temple’s sanctuary, where Father Winthrop typically took visitors. “Father Winthrop is grouchy and blaming you.”

  Oliver sat up and rubbed at his bleary eyes. “What’s going on?”

  Franklin ceased his near frantic motions and looked down at Oliver. “Did you sneak out last night?”

  “No,” Oliver lied. “I was here. This is where you left me when you went to fetch a woman for Father Winthrop, and here I am now.”

  “Don’t you lie to me,” Franklin told him shaking his head. “Don’t you lie.”

  Oliver looked down at his hands. “Who’s here?”

  “The city guard.”

  Oliver felt a lump in his throat and had an urge to run out the door, out of the temple, and across the fields to the circle wall. He didn’t want another beating.

  “Get your shoes on,” Franklin told him. “How many times do you have to be told? How many times does Father Winthrop need to—”

  “—beat me?” Oliver asked defiantly, finding some strength as he stood, at the same time, reaching up to the welts on his back. He had them all up and down his back, buttocks, and legs. The last time Father Winthrop went after him was for sneaking half a loaf of bread. Winthrop had seemed to be past the limits of his short temper, and had found some kind of determination in his black maggot soul, a determination that if he only hit Oliver hard enough, often enough, he’d eventually win, turning Oliver obedient.

  It had taken a full week before Oliver was able to sit without pain after that. Some of the welts were still crusted in scabs where Father Winthrop’s leather strap had torn the skin.

  Franklin helped Oliver to get his shoes tied.

  Oliver said, “I need to go to the latrine.”

  Shaking his head, Franklin said, “You’ll have to hold it. Father Winthrop wants you now.”

  “But…”

  Franklin shook his head again and half-dragged Oliver out into the hall. In a whisper he said, “You better start thinking up something.”

  “What are they saying?” Oliver asked in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t know all of it,” he said. “Two of the guards came to the temple. They made me get Father Winthrop.”

  Unfortunately, the hallway wasn’t long enough for more to be said. Franklin and Oliver entered the sanctuary.

  Father Winthrop sat in his big, puffy chair up on the stage where the pulpit usually stood during worship. After the last of the peasants left the temple after each sermon, Franklin and Oliver’s first job was to move the pulpit aside and put the chair at the center of the stage. From there, Winthrop could sit like some kind of ancient king on his throne and accept his supplicants.

  The supplicants in the sanctuary standing below Father Winthrop in front of the stage at that moment were two of the city guards. Oliver’s heart sank. It was the pair that had stopped him on the way to the Dunlow’s house.

  One of them looked over, pointed at Oliver and said, “That novice, right there.”

  “He’s no novice,” Winthrop thundered at the guard. He turned his dark gaze on Oliver and in a seething voice said, “And he may never live to be one.”

  CONTINUED IN “THE LAST HUMANITY” BOOK THREE

  Map of The Last Survivors World

  Want to know what the world of The Last Survivors looks like? You can find a copy of Bray’s Map, which includes the townships, major villages, and other hidden dangers at the website link below. Thanks to Ren for the great job on rendering the world (and helping us keep our shit straight).

  LINK: http://www.bo
bbyadair.com/tlsmap

  The Last Humanity

  A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

  Book 3 of The Last Survivors Series

  Preface

  Before you read Book 3, we wanted to say thanks for continuing on this journey with us. THE LAST SURVIVORS has been a very different and rewarding experience. Bobby and I agree that writing together has created a unique story that neither of us would’ve come up with on our own. Right, Bobby? (This is where he agrees, or starts ignoring my calls. One or the other.)

  Anyway, if you’ve enjoyed the series this far, you’ll know that Bobby and I like surprises. What we didn’t anticipate was that some of the characters would surprise us. In Book 3, some of our “minor” characters literally clawed their way onto the page, begging for more “screen time”.

  But that extra “screen time” didn’t come without its scars. In fact, you’ll see some of the characters in this book forced into brutal, trying situations, things that will alter how they view and react to the world around them. A few of these characters became our favorites along the way, and have altered some of our plans for the series. Going forward, they will play a pivotal role in how the story unfolds.

  Some readers have asked us how long the series will go. There will be 6 books. Because of the depth of the world and the story, it’s going to take some time to tell. Bobby and I agree that we’d rather tell it the right way than end it abruptly and leave you feeling unfulfilled.

  Rest assured, we have a definitive ending in mind for THE LAST SURVIVORS. As excited as we are to get there, we’re even more excited for the ride.

  We hope you are, too.

  Tyler Piperbrook

  -July 2015

  Chapter 1: Oliver

  With Franklin at his side, Oliver stood under Father Winthrop’s seething glare.

  The two city guardsmen stood side by side at Oliver’s left, smelling of unwashed clothes and muddy sheep dung.

  Oliver felt the cold seeping off the soldier’s thick leather armor and layers of clothing. The chill that had bled into their garments in the long hours they spent outdoors hadn’t had time to thaw. The guards hadn’t been inside long. That meant Father Winthrop must have sent Franklin for him immediately upon their arrival. Oliver grew anxious as he worked through the logic as to why he’d been dragged away from his room in such a rush.

  A beating was coming, and that was the best he could hope for.

  Oliver shivered, not because he was cold, but because by the end of the day, he feared he might be on the pyre pole.

  Winthrop harrumphed and looked back to the guards. “Show the boy what you have.” He settled back into his puffy throne-chair and looked down his nose.

  The guard, the simple one, sheepishly stuck an arm out, palm up, and opened his hand. In it lay three shiny coins.

  On top of the dread he was feeling, Oliver was confused. He’d been thinking of a lie to explain the note the guard had seen. He’d also been trying to concoct another lie to explain his presence in the street at night. The sight of the coins gave him the briefest moment of hope. Maybe all of this had nothing to do with his nighttime excursion.

  The simple guard dashed those hopes into cruddy nothingness when he looked at a guilty faced Oliver. “Novice Oliver, you dropped these when you stopped to talk with us last night.” Then, rushing through the words, he said, “I didn’t mean to keep ‘em. I…I…meant to get ‘em back to you.”

  Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off the coins.

  Maybe if he stared at them long enough, he’d delay what was to come next.

  Maybe he’d think of a plausible fiction to explain the coins, the guards, and why he’d been carousing around at night.

  He started hyperventilating.

  The simple-minded guard stepped closer to Oliver. “They must have come out of your sack. My apologies.”

  A tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek.

  “Take the coins, boy!” Winthrop bellowed. “Take the bloody coins!”

  Oliver lifted his hand but didn’t want to reach out, didn’t want the incriminating evidence to touch his skin.

  Misunderstanding Oliver’s trepidation, the simple-minded guard said, “They’re yours. I found them right in the snow where you were standing.”

  “Not right away, mind you,” the smart guard said. Anybody could tell that was a lie. “No, not then. We saw them later. After you were gone. When we were making our rounds.”

  “Yes,” said the simple guard.

  The guards looked at Winthrop, fidgeting and glancing around.

  In a wave of flowing robes and belly rolls underneath, Winthrop scooted suddenly forward in his chair. He boomed, “Take the damn coins, Oliver!”

  Everyone flinched.

  Oliver extended his hand. The simple guard silently dropped the three glittering circles into Oliver’s palm before retreating a few shuffled steps. The smart guard, half bowing, said, “Our apologies, Father. We came here to return the coins as soon as our duties allowed.”

  The simple guard cast a glance toward the door. “We should go.”

  “To the circle wall,” clarified the smart guard. “We have a duty.”

  “Go,” Winthrop commanded, shooing them with a limp-wristed gesture. He looked away from the guards, his angry eyes settling back on Oliver.

  Oliver looked at the coins still glistening in his upturned palm. He wanted to clench his fingers over them, maybe stuff them into his pocket, and hide them. He wanted to toss them away. He wanted to hand them over to Winthrop. He wanted to chase after the guards, shove the coins back at them, and insist they were mistaken.

  He needed a fantastic masterpiece of a lie to make all of this reality appear to be something that it was not.

  The Sanctuary’s heavy double doors slammed shut behind the retreating guards, leaving only the sound of Winthrop’s clipped breathing through his big, hairy nostrils.

  Without looking up, Oliver felt Winthrop’s scowl burning into the top of his head. In the mousiest of voices, Oliver started to speak, hoping inspiration would find its way into the syllables as they came out. “I—”

  “Torture me not with your lies!” Winthrop shouted. “My weariness of your wicked ways has run its course. My patience for your petulance has been pissed upon for the last time. You’re a stupid runt. An incorrigible pig chaser, just as your father was. Demon fodder. Pyre kindling.”

  Franklin gasped.

  Oliver thought he might lose control of his bladder.

  “Please,” said Franklin. “Please.”

  Oliver’s tears flowed as he bit his lips, trying not to cry out loud. He was a boy, not a baby.

  “Please?” Winthrop’s scowl fell on Franklin. “Please, what?” He huffed, pushed himself back in his throne, and started pounding on the arm of the chair with a fist, each blow harder than the one before.

  Franklin looked over at Oliver, seemingly lost for words. “He’s not stupid.”

  “All evidence points to the contrary,” Winthrop groused.

  “He was raised with his feet in the mud and the filth of the pig sty on his hands.” Franklin took a step forward. “He doesn’t know how educated people behave.”

  “Educated?” Winthrop spat the word to get the taste of it out of his mouth. “You spend too much time in the company of Scholar Evan. All of my novices have fallen into bad habits.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said Franklin. “I didn’t mean to use the word that way. I simply meant that he was raised in such squalor and ignorance that he has difficulty learning even the most basic behaviors, things that come naturally to eminent men like you.”

  Winthrop glared at Franklin. “You learned.”

  “I started at a younger age,” Franklin said, nodding emphatically. “I was able to begin befo
re I picked up too many bad habits of the pig chasers and dirt scratchers.”

  Winthrop shook his head and heaved a great sigh. He leveled a finger at Oliver but looked only at Franklin. “In all my years, I’ve not had one like him. I’m at my end. My anger boils so strongly that I fear I’ll be in a sour mood the whole of the day. Even the thought of the runt turns my stomach to acid and flusters me with frustrations. I cannot fix that boy. I will no longer try.”

  “We can’t give up,” said Franklin, sounding more like a woman than a man. “We must try.”

  “Orphanage or ash.” Winthrop’s voice found its fire again, echoing through the big empty temple. “All I must decide is which.”

  Chapter 2: Ivory

  Ivory forged directly down the rocky, snow-covered slope, his feet sliding left and right in his boots as he fought for traction, trying to outrun the bear-man. He looked over his shoulder, but having descended the crest of the hill, he saw no sign of the pursuer that seemed to have been tracking him since Brighton.

  The mountains on either side watched him like majestic gods, waiting for him to slip so they could swoop down and devour him. But that was only his imagination.

  The real danger was that if he fell and injured himself, the bear-man would overtake him. Either that, or he’d die of starvation, thirst, or cold before making it back to town.

  Don’t think like that.

  Concentrate on your advantages. Do like your uncle taught you.

  Although he couldn’t see his pursuer, Ivory was pretty sure his pursuer couldn’t see him, either. And Ivory had much less weight to carry. If he fled fast enough, he could outrun the bear-man. He’d disappear into the woods, find a way to cover his tracks, and lose the man.