The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  “There’s something else I wanted to ask you about,” Melora said.

  “What is it?”

  “Did you hear Bray and Mom last night?”

  “No.” William furrowed his brow. “What were they doing?”

  Melora stared out into the hallway before answering. “Talking, I think. I’m not sure, but it sounded like Bray was bothering Mom.”

  “Bothering her?” William’s body bristled, and he stopped chewing.

  “Not in a violent way,” Melora clarified. “In a…different way.”

  “Like he wanted to lie under her blankets?” William asked.

  Melora cracked a smile at his observation. “Yes, exactly that. Have they done that before?”

  “No.” William’s face was stoic. “Mom hasn’t been with a man since Dad died.”

  Melora nodded. “I’m sure that’s true. But we’ll keep an eye on Bray, just the same.”

  “Okay,” William said.

  Chapter 23: Blackthorn

  General Blackthorn dismounted in front of his tent. Holding the reins, he ran his gloved hand over the horse’s snout. It was a sturdy horse with a strong heart, but after an entire night carrying Blackthorn, it needed rest. It didn’t understand the necessities of duty. It only did as it was commanded.

  Blackthorn looked at the camp spread over most of the meadow. It was a vast, disorganized throng. Tents were everywhere. Many were down. Some had been trampled in the night. Fires burned. People gathered around them. In other places, they sat in groups. Platoons of militiamen guarded the perimeter between the camp and the forest. From the look of them, they were tired. Tired and undisciplined. Their ranks were ragged. They shuffled rather than marched. Some dragged their weapons and hung their heads.

  They disgusted Blackthorn. Real men shouldered their burdens and rose to the challenge, no matter what the hardship. These weak militiamen were letting the rigors of battle defeat them after just one night.

  Blackthorn hated their weakness.

  His aversion to them made easier what had to be done, relieving some of the guilt of his deceit.

  Captain Swan stepped up. “What are your orders, sir?”

  “See to the horses. Give them until mid-morning, and then we’ll march.” Blackthorn gestured at the rabble under his command. “Let them know. That will give them time to eat as well.”

  “Shall I send out scouts for a place to camp?”

  “We’ll camp on the hill by the river, in the pass.”

  Captain Swan nodded. Both he and Blackthorn knew the place, as did most of the cavalry. The pass was a narrow trough of a valley seven miles long, between walls of stone a thousand feet high. A river ran down the center, placid in places where it flowed through meadows and the valley floor widened to a half mile. In other places the water ran swift through forests of tall pines. Just over half way through the pass, the canyon bent in a hairpin turn and at the inner elbow of the turn a hill rose up twice the height of the pines but still much shorter than the granite walls. With views both up and down the canyon, it was a favored campsite for the cavalry when they were ranging in the area on patrol away from Brighton. It was defensible, and on those nights when the demons came, they only approached from one end of the valley at a time. The demons didn’t have the ability to coordinate an assault from both sides of the mountain range.

  Swan asked, “Shall I send a squadron to ensure the valley is clear?”

  Blackthorn shook his head. “We’ll keep scouts out, as usual. In front, behind, and to our sides when possible. As for the valley, if it is full of beasts, it matters not. The mission of this army is to slaughter them. If we find them there, we’ll put this militia to the test.”

  “Yes, sir.” Captain Swan stepped away and then stopped. “What of the distance? If we stop in the meadows along the river, it is only a half day’s march from here.”

  “These soldiers,” Blackthorn’s reluctance to use the word was obvious from his tone, “will be lucky to march that far today.”

  “Yes, sir.” Captain Swan looked to his left toward a handful of cavalrymen standing close to a tattered Minister Beck. “What of him?”

  Blackthorn passed his horse’s reins to his attendant. “Find eight dependable men. It seems Minister Beck was too slippery for the previous four to handle. Is Father Winthrop still in camp?”

  “Yes, General.” Captain Swan scanned across the meadow and pointed. “Down there. You see that large gathering? He’s at the center of it.”

  General Blackthorn squinted. The last he’d seen of Winthrop, he’d been stumbling around aimlessly and mumbling. “Why are they around him?”

  “Some kind of ceremony. I don’t understand. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Is he preaching?”

  “Sort of.” Captain Swan turned back to the general. “He’s singing. Touching the corpses. Wearing demon blood.”

  Blackthorn grimaced.

  “The men down there seem to believe he’s made them invincible.”

  “Superstition only protects from monsters of the imagination. We’ll see how invincible these men are when the demons come to eat their flesh. Send some of your men down there to keep on eye on Winthrop.” Blackthorn looked back at Beck. “I’d as soon watch a young mother’s toddlers than keep these ministers on a leash.” Blackthorn saluted his captain. “That’ll be all.” He waved Minister Beck to come over.

  Beck walked up, haggard, bruised, and bloodied, but with no wound that had done more than break the skin. He stopped in front of Blackthorn.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” said Blackthorn. “The forest is no place for a man who has spent his life with his nose buried in ancient books.”

  Beck pointed to the tent he shared with Father Winthrop. “The demons came and—”

  Blackthorn stopped Beck with a raised hand. “I’m too tired for lies. I’ve doubled your guard to protect you from the demons. If my captains or I find you outside of their company again, I’ll assume you are a deserter.” Blackthorn leaned closer to Beck. “In my army deserters are burned.”

  “I—”

  Blackthorn turned and walked toward his tent. “Good day, Minister Beck.”

  Chapter 24: Bray

  Bray stood at the entrance of the ancient building they’d spent the night in, surveying the magnificent towers up and down the street. A thin mist encircled the tops, making its way from the ocean. Birds circled in slow, lazy patterns. He looked over at Ella.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Her eyes sparkled with a wonder he hadn’t seen since she’d found Melora. The Ancient City was magnificent to behold. He recalled the first time he’d seen it when he’d had the same look in his eyes. He’d been fourteen. Fuller had taken him through the woods and into the outskirts of the Ancient City, showing him the marvelous buildings and crumbled ruins, just like he was doing with Ella, William, and Melora.

  “How’d you sleep?” Bray asked.

  “Good, thank you.”

  “It would’ve been warmer if we shared a blanket.” Bray smiled.

  “We wouldn’t want to give William and Melora any ideas.” Ella dusted off her pants and looked away. He thought he detected a smile. After a few moments of silence, she cleared her throat.

  “You said the ocean is close?” she asked.

  “Yes. Off that way,” Bray said. “We can see it today if you’d like.”

  “I’d love that. I’ve heard so many stories. I can smell the salt in the air, just like people said.”

  “Not many are lucky enough to smell it and come back to tell the story. I should scout the area first. Make sure there are no demons. Maybe collect a few skins.” Bray pulled his sword, wiping at a stubborn stain. “I’ll check out the area and come
get you when it’s safe.”

  “How long will that be?” Ella asked.

  “Long enough to make you miss me.” Bray smiled at his evasive answer.

  “I’m going to check on Melora and William,” she said, turning toward the doorway. “No need to hurry.”

  He watched her go for longer than was necessary before venturing away from the building. She might have rejected his advances, but he’d win her over eventually. In any case, he was glad to be back with her.

  Bray smiled as he walked down the cracked street.

  **

  Bray crept through a thick pocket of dying foliage, making his way down a steep slope and into a paved gulley at the bottom. He was careful not to bend any branches or forge a trail, even though the ground was hard.

  He didn’t want anyone following him.

  Not when his wealth was concerned.

  Across from him, a steep slope similar to the one he was traveling curved down to the gulley in the center. Normally the middle was puddled with rainwater, but now it was encased in a thin layer of ice. As Bray broke through the underbrush and onto the ice, he looked left, studying a protruding wall of stone that housed a single, circular tunnel at the end of the gulley. A gray squirrel scurried ahead of him, chattering as it fled. He studied the entrance carefully.

  Nothing seemed disturbed. The opening was partially covered by a piece of ancient stone that he’d put there years ago.

  In all that time, it’d held up.

  Approaching the entrance, he looked around. No one seemed to be watching through the thick foliage on either side of the gulley or up the slopes. Setting down his sword, he moved the stone and climbed into the narrow entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the thin light. He retrieved his sword and crawled inside, his knees scraping against the stone as he ventured farther into the cave. At one time, the tunnel might’ve contained water, but it had dried up. Bray had no idea what the Ancients had used it for.

  He didn’t care.

  He crawled deep enough so that the light didn’t penetrate, far enough to reach a small room with just enough light from the cracks above to see. He held his breath and listened. Occasionally he encountered a possum or a raccoon in the tunnel, but never anything bigger. The other entrances leading to the room were barricaded. He made sure of that.

  Satisfied he was alone, Bray located a thick, latched wooden box with metal hinges on the side. A swell of excitement went through him as he dug a key from his pack and opened the lid, admiring the piles of silver and jewelry he’d collected or stolen over the years. Several were rare—pieces he’d taken from merchants that were too rich to notice. He held up a long, thin necklace, smiling as he envisioned the wealthy woman he’d plucked it from. She’d fallen asleep in the front room of her house and had forgotten to lock her door. Bray had pilfered it from her neck, bristling when he’d heard her husband coming down the road. He’d escaped out an open window in the back of the house. He smiled at the daring encounter.

  Bray breathed a sigh of relief. His stash was safe. That meant he’d have something to sell when he was old and unable to slay demons.

  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the earnings he’d made since his last deposit, counted them, and tucked them into the box. He locked it.

  Then he headed back to the ancient building.

  Chapter 25: Blackthorn

  Blackthorn watched the licking flames transform an uncertain fire into a raging morning blaze. In a few hours, they’d leave. All around him, soldiers unslung bags and prepared meat. The excited chatter of the day before had settled into road-worn comfort, an acceptance of the mission. It always did. Times like this bred memories of past battles, grim laughter, and recounting of old comrades. Blackthorn often listened to these conversations.

  Not today.

  Blackthorn wasn’t thinking of demons or the decision he’d made. He was revisiting his younger years—memories he hadn’t considered for some time. He knew that nostalgia was the path to a weak man’s heart. His father had taught him that. But the aches and pains in his bones prompted feelings of weakness that he’d buried years ago.

  The disease was consuming him. His legs were swollen. Fatigue rode on his shoulders. He wished he could blame it on fleeting youth, but Blackthorn knew better. He was dying. All that was left for him was to carry out the plan, to save the people who’d grown to fear and hate him and hope they’d remember him as something other than a tyrant.

  Would Tenbrook carry on his legacy in the way Blackthorn hoped? The more he thought on it, the more uncertain he was. He’d given Tenbrook several lessons before he left, but nothing could bequeath the amount of experience he’d gained in his lifetime. Blackthorn’s lessons were from riding on a horse, not talking in ornate dining halls and sharing stories that couldn’t be seen with the eyes. Tenbrook would substitute his experience for Blackthorn’s, coloring it with whatever interests he had in his mind.

  Blackthorn hoped those interests were aligned with Brighton’s.

  Stretching his legs by the fire, Blackthorn resisted the urge to massage his swollen skin. Showing weakness would be as good as condemning himself to death. He looked around, but none of the soldiers were paying him attention. He gritted his teeth and numbed his pain with memories of his youth.

  Instead of remembering his father, the man who had taught him to swing a sword, he recalled his grandfather, Phineas, the man who’d cared for him in General Blackthorn’s absence. Among the many lessons Phineas had taught, there was still one that confused him.

  **

  Twelve-year-old Blackthorn walked through the forest, kicking off the pine needles that clung to his boots. Phineas followed a few paces behind. Even though they were within the circle wall, Blackthorn envisioned demons lurking behind the trees, waiting to spring. He swung his sword, wishing he were battling them. It wasn’t until Phineas scolded him that Blackthorn realized he’d walked several paces ahead of his grandfather.

  “Hold on,” Phineas called, limping to keep up.

  Blackthorn spun and found a look of shame as he saw his grandfather hobbling after him. Phineas walked with the assistance of a crutch. The left leg of his trousers was pinned up just above the ankle, the result of a nasty demon bite years earlier. That demon bite had condemned Phineas to a life in town. Or at least, Blackthorn thought of it as condemned.

  “Sorry, Grandpa,” he said.

  “I don’t have the energy you have,” Phineas admitted. “Not anymore.”

  Blackthorn didn’t answer.

  Phineas took his grandson’s side. He never admitted his weakness in town, but every now and again, he slipped up in front of Blackthorn. Perhaps sensing the look of guilt on Blackthorn’s face, Phineas reminded him, “I was the General before your father rode out to battle. I taught him everything he knows. Don’t forget that.”

  “You’ve told me, Grandpa,” Blackthorn said, anxious to get back to his game.

  It was easier to envision his father, the current General Blackthorn, slaying demons and riding out with the cavalry than to imagine his grandfather doing the same. The man had been injured as long as Blackthorn had known him.

  Blackthorn’s attention shot to the forest floor as a squirrel ran by. He raised his sword. If only the critters weren’t fast enough to outrun him. He chased it back into the trees while Phineas hobbled after him.

  The excitement of chasing the squirrel gave way to the anticipation of what they might find in the snares. Blackthorn smiled excitedly. His grandfather often let him collect the animals, finishing off the ones who were still struggling against the rope and hadn’t been picked off by a larger predator. His grandpa had taught him the importance of keeping up with the traps. Full traps meant a fresh meal they could deliver to the cooks.

  “Where do you think Dad is now?” Blackthorn asked.

&nbs
p; “Probably a dozen miles from the circle wall,” Phineas said.

  “Do you think he’s fought demons yet?”

  “I bet he has. If the forest is filled enough that he had to call up the cavalry, there are bound to be some demons close to the circle wall.”

  Phineas’ confirmation was enough to make Blackthorn’s imagination wander. He pictured himself among the other soldiers, fighting bravely. “I wish I could be there with him.”

  “You will, in time. Don’t rush your lessons. You’ll know all you need to know soon enough.”

  Blackthorn’s face settled into anxiety. “Sometimes I wonder whether he’ll come home.”

  Phineas put his hand on Blackthorn’s shoulder. “To die in battle is an honorable thing. You know that. We all do.”

  “Of course, Grandpa.”

  They continued through the forest. This time, Blackthorn stuck close to Phineas. Thick oak and pine trees gave way to a small clearing, and it was at the edge of that clearing in which Blackthorn and his grandfather liked to set their traps. Blackthorn kept his eyes peeled for a splash of movement in the forest, an animal writhing against a rope.

  “Be careful,” Phineas warned, as always.

  Blackthorn forced himself to slow down. The presence of a human sometimes caused the rare animal to break free of its binding. He didn’t want to risk losing a catch. Creeping closer, Blackthorn’s heart pounded as he saw something struggling against a trap. He snuck over to the snare, feeling a jolt of joy. A small rabbit had entangled its leg. Sensing Blackthorn and Phineas, it kicked frantically, spraying up dirt and debris.

  Blackthorn knelt down next to it. He readied his knife as his grandpa taught him.