The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  “The cavalry are valuable, and they are worth defending,” said Blackthorn. “They can sally forth and kill demons in greater numbers than this militia ever will, but the horses need time to rest. They need to graze and drink.”

  “So that is the reason for two lines then?”

  “In truth, no, it is not,” said Blackthorn. “I have two lines of defense because I have two enemies.”

  “Two enemies?” Beck was lost but only for a moment. “You’re putting Winthrop and his followers behind the first wall?”

  Blackthorn nodded. “And many of the weaker militiamen and the remainder of the cohorts who ran last night. Winthrop will be the death of us all if I don’t solve that problem.”

  “Do you think Winthrop will understand what you’re doing?” Beck asked.

  “Winthrop is lost in a dream.” Blackthorn grunted. “I doubt he understands much of anything. But I have had my captains provide to him the rationale that we must defend the cavalry for the very reasons that you and I talked about. They told Winthrop and his men that the hilltops are a relatively safe zone to which each cohort will be rotated during the fight over the days to come. The hilltops are the place where men can rest and regain their strength before returning to the battle.”

  “But you won’t rotate the men?”

  “No, I won’t,” said Blackthorn. “Not Winthrop’s bloody fools. They and the remainder of the cowards will stay on the line until they die.”

  Chapter 64: Oliver

  Oliver was frightened.

  Demons were howling out in the dark, a lot of them, from every direction. It didn’t sound like as many as had been in the canyon the night before, but the hour was still early.

  When the sun had been up, and the cavalry squadrons were working their way across the fields between the trees, the demons had been held at bay. Oliver had seen the horsemen kill every band of monsters that threatened Blackthorn’s men. None were a match for them. They ran, screamed their demon nonsense, and died.

  Now they were out there massing.

  The cold set in for the night. The men worked in the trenches, trying to dig them deep and trying to connect them into a solid line of fortifications around the hill. They weren’t going to finish before the first attacks came. Even Oliver, with his two nights of experience, saw that. No doubt the officers in Blackthorn’s army saw it, and all the militiamen saw it too. But they desperately dug, because they knew the fortifications were their best chance of living through the night. Running wasn’t an option. They were backed up on a hill that dropped off to a river. Few men in Brighton knew how to swim.

  But some did, Oliver among them. He’d been disobedient his whole life, even when his mother was washing at the river in those years before she’d been taken to the pyre. Superstition frightened most people away from getting into the water, and that made the river all the more intriguing to Oliver. His friends said monsters lived in the depths. Others told of ancient treasures beneath the surface. One kid even told a story of a man his father knew who’d found a trove of valuable steel in the water not far from Brighton. That man’s family was never hungry again.

  That’s what Oliver was thinking about that day he first jumped into the water and nearly drowned. It was in the weeks after that he taught himself to keep his head above water and get from one side of the river to the other. Now, it seemed that risk of learning to swim might produce a benefit. If the demons overran the fortifications, Oliver had the option of jumping off the cliffs into the river and swimming to the far bank.

  He tried to tell himself that wasn’t an awful plan, but it was better than feeling like he had nowhere to run.

  Oliver was on the hill, halfway between the two defensive lines, close enough to keep an eye on Winthrop, but not so close that Winthrop would see him. Winthrop hadn’t noticed him in camp so far, but until now Oliver had been surrounded by Winthrop’s zealots. Now, they were all busy digging, and Winthrop was kneeling in the grass near a bonfire. Winthrop’s priestesses, dozens of them, knelt in semicircular rows behind him, taking turns fawning over him, whispering in his ears. They chanted what he chanted. They encouraged him when he slipped into his god-speak gibberish. They moaned and swooned as though the words were caressing their lonely hearts.

  The demons’ familiar cry of battle, though it was expected, sent a shiver through Oliver’s cold bones. He stood up and looked at the dark. The moon was up again, but the night beyond the firelight was black, impenetrable, and alive with the sound of demons.

  All the digging stopped. All the talking and chanting ceased. Every man and woman was doing what Oliver was doing: looking at the dark, guessing at numbers, and trying to figure where the monsters were attacking.

  Oliver looked to his right. He guessed a hundred or so were coming toward the hill’s eastern slope, where it was hidden from most of the army’s sight.

  In the trenches, men were getting back to work at a fevered pace. Many of the men from the previous nights battle climbed out of their trenches and stood atop their low ramparts. Oliver doubted they were positioning themselves to fight. Most were looking uphill rather than out into the dark.

  A rally cry of men sounded—weak at first, but building.

  Winthrop made a noise like a toad being stepped on, and then changed the pitch of his wail into a chant, powerful and quick, like a dirge for those in a hurry to get to the grave. The priestesses took up the song. The men joined in. The song spread as Winthrop’s bloody men hauled themselves out of their shallow trenches and onto their incomplete ramparts.

  They were done digging and were now shepherding their energy for the long night of bloodshed to come.

  Chapter 65: Melora

  When Melora awoke, William was gone again.

  She listened for the sounds of his steady breathing, but the room was silent. Heart hammering, she cast aside the blanket and scrambled over to check his bedding. Her stomach plummeted when she found it empty.

  He promised he wouldn’t leave again.

  The loud screech of a demon in the distance made her pulse pound. She spun to the archway, certain it would’ve awoken Ella or Bray, but neither stirred. A pang of responsibility coursed through her. She’d seen William leaving the other night, and she hadn’t said anything. This is my fault. I’ve done this.

  What would Ella and Bray do if she woke them? Was this the incident they needed to convince them that William was turning? She knew he was infected. She knew he was acting strangely. But she’d seen his face when she’d confronted him. The look of guilt and shame wasn’t a reaction a demon would have. He didn’t need to die yet. On top of that, he hadn’t been acting strangely when they’d been exploring the Ancient City.

  Maybe he’s just outside the door.

  She’d collect him. She’d bring him back before anyone noticed.

  Scurrying for the other side of the room, Melora treaded quietly into the hallway. Pale moonlight seeped through a crack in the ceiling, illuminating her path as she avoided divots in the stairs. She envisioned William sneaking down the same steps. When had he left? Had it been minutes? Hours?

  She tried to convince herself he hadn’t been gone long, but her uncertainty led to panic. Crossing the main room downstairs, she weaved around the ancient platforms, careful not to brush into any. A rustle made her tense. Or was she hearing things?

  “William?” she hissed, loudly enough so that he might hear her.

  No answer. Reaching the entrance, she noticed some of the rubble had been moved. He must’ve done it quietly enough that she, her Mom, or Bray hadn’t heard it. That fact did little to assuage her guilt or her conscience.

  Turning sideways, she slipped through the entrance, as William must’ve done, biting her lip as the rubble scraped her. She ignored the pain and sucked in a breath of night air. She looked around. In the moonlight, the hulking b
uildings and toppled rubble seemed like giant creatures, ready to spring to life.

  William was nowhere.

  Melora pulled her sword. She strained against the dim lighting, convincing herself that if she looked hard enough, she’d find him. But nothing stood out. The latent demon scent was a reminder that her brother was in danger.

  “William?”

  A rustle snapped her attention to the right. A figure broke from behind a piece of ancient stone. The figure looked at her. It ran. It was about the shape and size of William.

  Melora chased after her brother, her pulse thudding behind her ears as she kicked up loose stones.

  “William!” she hissed.

  It had to be him. A demon would’ve run toward her, not the other way. What if he’s having delusions? If she could get him and bring him back, she’d convince him to go back to sleep. She’d tell Ella. She’d tell Bray. She’d make sure he never left again.

  Rounding a corner, the figure looked back at her, but William didn’t slow, and he didn’t stop. She followed him down several more streets, winding past relics and stones, things that would have given her pause in the daylight but were little more than obstacles now.

  Melora stumbled. One minute she was running full speed; the next, her boot stuck in a hole in the ground. She caught herself before falling, losing hold of her sword. The clatter echoed through the empty street. The figure disappeared down a distant alley.

  “William!” she cried out in a futile attempt to reach him.

  Picking up her weapon, Melora noticed the silence had deepened. The clatter of her sword rang in her head—a betraying sound that she couldn’t erase. She looked around, the adrenaline of the chase giving way to fear of the unknown. The shadows seemed like they were encircling her. Too late, she realized she hadn’t been keeping track of the turns. She had only a vague idea of where she was, or how to get back.

  Panicked, Melora spun and looked behind her, as if someone might show her the way. But no one was there to guide her.

  She was alone.

  Chapter 66: Winthrop

  War god.

  Man beast.

  Maker of The Word. Cast aside your fear.

  Feminine fingers danced over Winthrop’s shoulders and down his back. Girl voices echoed his song. Men took up the tune, carrying the words that only Winthrop understood, words from the language in his head. Words of the gods revealed themselves to him one at a time, floating powerfully in the air.

  The demons were coming; some were attacking the militia to the right. More ran out of the shadows, individuals, rogues, fearless.

  A man screamed, left his place in the line, and ran up the hill.

  Other men piled more wood on the bonfires. Swarms of sparks rode the heat into the sky. Orange light flickered across the hillsides and the faces of the men.

  Out in the blackness, far from the reach of the orange light, near the limit of hearing, a host of demons thousands strong howled as a single twisted beast.

  Winthrop gritted his teeth.

  I am an immortal god of war.

  He wet himself.

  Chapter 67: Jeremiah

  Jeremiah had searched the building and the beach for a while. The only light left was from the moon.

  Ivory and the demon-man hadn’t returned.

  “Afraid,” Jeremiah muttered, liking the way the word sounded. He grunted and spat snowberry-laced snot in the sand.

  A whiff of something foul led him to his armpits. He wrinkled his nose. It’d been a while since Jeremiah had a bath. Normally, he was impervious to his stench. Not today. Days of hiking up snow-covered mountains and battling wildcats had worsened his odor. A warm tub and a refill on his drink were high on his priority list, maybe even more important than giving the books to Beck.

  He laughed at the thought. His path to wealth and power was certain. Did it matter if he frolicked with a barren woman on the way? Jeremiah headed back up the beach, intent on returning to the building. Maybe he’d stay for one more night before he relocated the books in the morning.

  Movement on the road next to the book building startled him. Jeremiah readied his sword, squinting into the dark road. He could only see shadows in the moonlight. Who—or what—was it? Cursing, he progressed off the beach and onto the road. He measured his footsteps, trying not to give himself away.

  Something rustled. He sniffed the air, trying to ferret out demon smell, but nothing except the ocean and the latent odor of demons graced his nose. He walked further. If it were a demon, it’d be running at him by now. The flash of a pale face in the darkness gave him confirmation that it was a human.

  Probably Ivory worried about his cache of books.

  Smiling, he decided it must be Ivory and continued more hastily. The figure moved in the opposite direction, kicking rocks up from the road. Jeremiah fought the urge to call out. More noise would draw demons.

  The moon glistened off errant pieces of metal and cast a dull sheen over the streets. He followed Ivory for several streets, taking turns and keeping his sword high. The pain in his arm returned, as if it’d come to claim penance for what Ivory had done earlier. He didn’t see the demon-man, which meant he’d already fled or was waiting for Ivory somewhere. Either way, Jeremiah would get more information from Ivory. He’d force it out of him using whatever methods he needed.

  Jeremiah’s body shook as he charged up the street. Regardless of how things had turned out, he wasn’t happy with being forced to run. He was delighted when Ivory took a turn down another street and promptly halted. The moon revealed an alleyway with buildings on either side, a large mound of rubble at the end. Ivory feinted in several directions, caught between poor choices. Jeremiah smiled.

  Ivory was trapped.

  “Finally caught you, eh?”

  Ivory didn’t answer. His winded gasps were proof that he was contemplating escape. He was probably running on adrenaline, unwilling to give up. But Jeremiah would beat the fight out of him until there was nothing left.

  As Jeremiah got closer, he realized something. The figure was too small to be Ivory, probably by a foot or so. That meant another young person—a boy—was wandering the demon-infected streets alone.

  Whoever it was, Jeremiah could exploit him.

  “Lost, are you?” Jeremiah asked with a grating chuckle, guessing that the boy was part of a pack of settlers.

  The boy said nothing, at first. If Jeremiah had encountered him in the woods, he might’ve put away his sword.

  “Can you speak, boy?” he asked.

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  Growing agitated, Jeremiah waved his sword. He took an intimidating step forward. He didn’t have time to babysit frightened settlers.

  The boy managed a frightened response. “William.”

  “Are you alone, William?”

  “No.” At least, the boy was being honest. He’d probably already pissed his trousers.

  “Who are you with?”

  “My family.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Further in the city. Are you going to hurt them?”

  Jeremiah hesitated. “No. I’m just going to talk to them.”

  Probably a lie. Jeremiah advanced a few more steps, cornering William. He pushed him up against the wall. The screech of a distant demon made Jeremiah spin and study the alley behind him, but he saw nothing.

  “Where are they?” Jeremiah asked again, gruffly this time.

  He took hold of William’s shirt and shook him. The boy struggled. Jeremiah’s neck bulged as he thought of how he’d lost Ivory and the demon-man. He wouldn’t let this boy escape. He couldn’t have settlers running through the streets, catching sight of him moving the books. Another screech of a demon startled Jeremiah. Cl
oser. He looked over his shoulder but saw nothing.

  “Get off me!” William roared.

  The tone in the boy’s voice was suddenly menacing. Startled, Jeremiah loosened his grasp. He studied the boy as if he’d misheard him, but William stared, the fear gone.

  “Have you gone mad, boy?”

  “Take him!” William screamed.

  “Take who?”

  Jeremiah looked around him, wondering if the boy had lost his mind to the wilderness. A boy would be even more susceptible to that insanity. Something rustled from the top of the alley. A hiss echoed off the walls.

  “Who’s there?” Jeremiah asked.

  The alley went quiet, save the boy’s rapid breathing. Had the boy’s family come to claim him? Jeremiah let go of the boy. He stepped back. Whoever had made the noise had made a grave mistake.

  Another hiss followed another set of footsteps. Jeremiah’s blood froze as the odor of demons crept into his nostrils. He swung around and prepared his sword. He made out several shapes, but not well enough to know if they were men or demons.

  “Over here!” William screamed. “Take him! Take him!”

  “Be quiet, boy!” Jeremiah warned.

  The boy was insane or stupid. But it was too late. The demons moved in Jeremiah’s direction. He clutched his sword, listening to bare feet pound the alley. Several sets of footsteps multiplied into more.

  Fuck.

  Shadows burst from the darkness as if they’d been lying in wait for him. The stench of demon skin was so fetid that he thought he might vomit.