The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  What’s wrong? Why am I sinking?

  Unable to get his head above water, Oliver panicked. He needed to breathe soon. He tried to remember what it was that had made swimming so easy when he was small. He needed to remember because whatever he was doing now, it wasn’t working.

  Oliver felt a tug on his collar. Something had him by the back of the neck. Something was pulling him.

  No!

  Oliver imagined one of those river monsters from the stories, with the gaping mouth and teeth longer than a big man’s fingers. That monster could eat a boy Oliver’s size in a single bite.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Oliver looked up, seeing the silvery black glimmer of the surface. He wasn’t so far away. He could get to safety, if he could kick his legs a little harder. Oliver struggled and flailed. But he couldn’t swim up there no matter how hard he tried. All he could do was flail uselessly while the monster dragged him through the water.

  Inexplicably, the surface got closer, close enough that Oliver imagined taking a breath. If he could get his head above water, get a big mouthful of air, maybe he could get away from the monster. Maybe he could get to shore and run away before it ate him.

  Oliver’s head broke the surface. He gulped as much air as he could suck in. He pushed his feet against a rock and spun, ready to punch the beast in the snout.

  “Wait!” screamed Beck. “I’m just trying to help!”

  Oliver couldn’t believe it. There was no monster.

  “Your chainmail pulled you down,” Beck explained between ragged breaths. “You’d have drowned if I didn’t grab you!”

  The chainmail. Of course. Oliver felt like an idiot. Again, he’d forgotten he was wearing it.

  “Let’s go,” said Beck. “We need to get down river before Winthrop’s men figure out we’re still alive.”

  Oliver followed Beck, wading in water up to his chest while Beck floated with the current, dragging his feet on the bottom to keep from getting too far ahead. Behind them, the fires on the hillsides lit up as men stoked them in preparation for the evening. Men and demons screamed and fought on the hillsides. Oliver didn’t need to ask the question to know they’d all die tonight.

  “Where are we going?” asked Oliver.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Which direction is Brighton?”

  “Back up the river,” Beck said as he caught his breath. “Way back.”

  The screaming from the tops of the cliffs got louder.

  Oliver said, “Maybe we won’t die tonight.”

  “Sunrise is a long time away. Don’t get too optimistic.” Beck smiled grimly.

  Chapter 84: Tenbrook

  Tenbrook looked out over the crowd of nervous people that had gathered in the square. He’d been sure to leave out the details of the meeting, letting the rows of pyre poles speak for themselves. A row of a dozen kindling stacks were to the right of the dais, indicating a burning that would rival some of the worst in recent memory. His soldiers had spent the last hour preparing them.

  The look of panic in the crowd was even more potent than during the Cleansing. At least then, the townsfolk had prepared for the loss of life. Now, they were frightened and unsure. Mothers cradled children to their breasts, as if soldiers might rip them away. Farmers and tradesmen spoke in quick, nervous bursts. No one knew what was happening, and that was the way Tenbrook wanted it.

  He smiled.

  The surprise—and the urgency—with which he’d called the meeting was a tactic to instill fear into each of their hearts. That was the lesson he wanted them to learn today. Not that they should worry about the spores, but that they should dread him.

  His smile held as he drank in the fear emanating from the square. When the shuffling of nervous bodies had stopped, he stepped to the center of the dais, glancing triumphantly at Scholar Evan and Franklin. The newly-appointed Elders sat, stiff in their chairs, ashen-faced. Neither broke his gaze. The town fell into a nervous silence, each resident of Brighton wondering whether they’d live to see the other side of the meeting.

  “It has come to my attention that the spore has invaded our town once again,” Tenbrook said, projecting his voice into the crowd. That announcement led to a barrage of confirming gasps and whispers. “We need to dispose of the unclean ones before it spreads further.”

  The crowd grew unusually still, as if he might pick out the afflicted from among them. They averted their eyes.

  “The only way to protect Brighton is to be swift and decisive. That is the will of The Word. Isn’t that true, Father Franklin?” Tenbrook turned to face the nervous man in the chair on the other side of the dais. The crowd swiveled their heads to Franklin, waiting for his response.

  “Yes,” Franklin replied. He kept his mouth open, as if he might speak again, but quickly closed it.

  “Due to the urgency of this matter, I have taken the precaution of rounding up the unclean so that we might inspect them here. I hope that is acceptable to the other Elders. Is it?” Tenbrook barely waited for Evan and Franklin to nod. “My hope is that we can stop the spread of the spore before more are infected.”

  The crowd shuffled and looked around, searching for the unclean ones. Tenbrook waited several more moments before beckoning the guards. Several blue-shirted soldiers nodded at his command, disappearing through a door on the side of the dais and reappearing with a group of kicking, screaming men. The men’s mouths were stuffed with gags. Among them were Tommy and Timmy Dunlow. Ten others—the most prominent leaders of the rebellion—were pulled out next to them, looking as if they’d been plucked from the middle of an evening dinner. In reality, Tenbrook had pulled them from their hideouts across Brighton. Tommy and Timmy had given up all they knew.

  Afterward, Tenbrook had killed the Dunlows’ mother, father, and sisters.

  “I’ve taken the precaution of gagging the unclean. They were trying to bite my soldiers when we rounded them up. I fear the spore has spread to their brains.” Tenbrook suppressed a smile. “Bring the smudged ones to the inspectors,” he bellowed with a conviction that bordered on ecstasy.

  The soldiers dragged the smudged men to the white-gloved inspectors on the edge of the dais. The smudged men writhed and screamed into the cloths.

  Tommy was the first to be inspected. The inspectors reached out to receive him, yanking at his clothes. He struggled and shrieked unintelligibly as they tore his pants and shirt from his body, revealing a barrage of scratches and bruises. The inspectors nodded and shook their heads disappointedly.

  “Smudged,” one of them pronounced.

  Tenbrook nodded to reinforce the inspector’s assessment. He looked over at Franklin and Evan, who were seated in their chairs, shocked looks on their faces.

  “Do you have anything to add, Father Franklin? Scholar Evan?”

  Franklin and Evan looked at each other, considering a protest, but neither spoke. Without waiting for a response, Tenbrook had Timmy and Tommy dragged off the dais and toward the pyre. One by one, the inspectors looked over the other rebel leaders, finding similar marks on all of them. Tenbrook smiled proudly as he looked out over the crowd, envisioning the fear lurking in the hearts of the remaining deserters. Even if they weren’t watching, they’d certainly hear about this.

  They were powerless. But then, they always had been.

  He was the true ruler of Brighton.

  Tenbrook lined up the men to be burned on the pyre, giving directions to his soldiers. The Clergy looked as if they were frozen in place. The Scholars wrung their hands. Tommy and Timmy stared at Tenbrook with frantic eyes as they were dragged away.

  “We’ll rid this town of the unclean, so that others might live,” Tenbrook boomed to cover the muffled cries of the Dunlows. He arched his back in triumph. “But before we burn these men, we have one more matter to addr
ess. It has come to my attention that another among us is unclean.”

  The crowd waited silently.

  “This matter is even more concerning, and is the reason I’ve called this meeting so swiftly.”

  Spinning, he turned to face Franklin and Scholar Evan. Franklin’s mouth fell open in shock as he shot a glare back at Tenbrook. Evan looked as if he might collapse.

  “One more person needs to be put on the pyre,” Tenbrook called over his shoulder. “One more, so that the rest of Brighton shall live.”

  Chapter 85: Franklin

  Fear stabbed Franklin’s heart as he met Tenbrook’s eyes. Beside him, Evan gasped in fright, visibly shaken. For a second, Franklin considered running, taking his chances in the crowd. He looked off the dais, wondering if he could make his way through the townsfolk in time to avoid his fate. The logical part of him knew that he had no chance, but his survival instincts begged him to act. Even if he made it off the dais, the townsfolk would give him up, following the will of The Word.

  Father Winthrop’s sermons were drilled into their hearts.

  Tenbrook cleared his throat and said, “Scholar Evan, please stand and face the inspectors.”

  Franklin’s body unclenched as he realized what Tenbrook had said. His relief immediately flew to guilt. His friend had just been condemned to die. He couldn’t let that happen. Forcing himself into action, Franklin stood. He cleared his throat. His hope was that he might prepare a sermon—some rousing speech like the one he’d given the other day—to protect Scholar Evan. He never got a chance. The guards knocked him aside as if he were a street dweller, cutting off any speech he might’ve made. He caught his balance before he fell to the ground.

  Scholar Evan squeaked in fright as the men half-dragged, half-carried him across the dais. His eyes were wide and manic as he tried planting his feet, but he was no match for strong men who hefted swords and slayed demons.

  “Wait!” Franklin yelled, finding his voice at last.

  He took several steps and stopped. The crowd swiveled to face him, but Tenbrook dismissed him with a wave. Evan yelled something unintelligible at Franklin before he was delivered to the pawing hands of the inspectors. They circled him and tugged at his clothes, burying him in a circle of interrogation.

  “I’m not smudged!” Evan shrieked.

  He emerged a few seconds later, disheveled, naked, shivering. The soldiers spun him sideways, pointing to a single bruise on his side.

  “Right here, sir,” one of them said. “A smudge.”

  Tenbrook strode over as if he were preparing a killing blow, still ignoring Franklin. “Do you see this?” he proclaimed to the gasping audience and to Franklin. “One of our Elders has concealed his uncleanliness. A Scholar! An esteemed member of the Academy! An appointed Elder of Brighton!”

  One of the women in the front row toppled sideways. Her family caught her before she fell.

  “One of the soldiers punched me this morning in the marketplace!” Evan explained in a voice that sounded too nasally to be his. His fear turned to horrified understanding as he realized what had been done to him. “He set me up!”

  “It’s a sign of the infection! Any of these people can see that!” Tenbrook shook an enraged fist. “Does anyone dispute the existence of this smudge? Does anyone dispute the mark of the unclean?” He bellowed the words, as if the next person to speak might be burned.

  Swallowing his fear, Franklin walked across the dais. This time, his voice found volume. “Captain Tenbrook, I won’t dispute that Evan has a bruise. But surely there is a mistake. There might be some other way this was received, some manner of—”

  “There is no other way!” Tenbrook roared, his voice turning to anger. The insistence in his voice might as well have been a clenched hand, strangling Franklin into silence. “This temptation to lie must end! We will not have our own Elders turning a blind eye to the truth!”

  Franklin’s desire to defend Evan was trumped by the very real fear that he’d be thrown on the pyre. His eyes welled up as he appraised his helpless friend, a man with whom he’d shared meals and stories, a man who was going to die.

  “Franklin! Please stop him!” Evan’s mouth bubbled with spit as he begged for mercy.

  Tenbrook lowered his hands to his scabbard. For a second, Franklin feared he might pull his sword and end the pleading Scholar’s life if he spoke another word. Instead, he stepped back and appraised the audience, the maniacal look in his eyes fading when he realized Franklin wasn’t going to speak.

  “This man hasn’t earned the right to the blade. He’s concealed his uncleanliness. By doing that, Scholar Evan has earned the pyre.”

  **

  Franklin made the walk to the square in silence. The clergy followed. The walk reminded him of the one he’d made when he followed Father Nelson, only this one required his silence, not his action. He contemplated running at the guards, doing what he could to free his friend. But that act would be brash and ineffective.

  If Franklin were killed, he’d leave Tenbrook as the only remaining ruler in Brighton.

  Burn one today, save twelve tomorrow.

  Damn those words!

  Franklin’s silence was a trap of guilt. Either way, he lost. He watched helplessly as the soldiers bound the screaming men, including Evan, to the poles. The crowd watched with a single, held breath as the first man—a black-haired man with stubble—screamed into his gag, trying to get the soldiers’ attention. The soldiers ignored him.

  The women in the crowd were too shocked to sing the fire dirge. The soldiers surrounded him and held up the torch. They lit the kindling, watching with stone hearts and faces as the flames rose, licking the condemned man’s boots, then his pant legs. A baby cried, wailing in unison with the first man’s agonizing screams into the cloth over his mouth. Immobilized by the ropes and unable to speak, the man wagged his head back and forth, as if that might somehow free him from the pain.

  It didn’t.

  The soldiers walked to the next man in line, a deserter with long scraggly hair. They lit him up only when his predecessor had stopped moving, ensuring he’d watch the previous man burn. It was a heartless tactic that Franklin had never seen, not even under Blackthorn’s rule. He shuddered with fear.

  The gagged screams of the burning men died down as the soldiers lit up the Dunlows. Timmy was first. His face contorted in agony as he let out a muted shriek. Franklin felt a cold pit in his stomach as Timmy’s muted shriek became Tommy’s.

  Evan burned last. Even though he wasn’t gagged, the Scholar remained silent, as if he was thinking up a logical plan to escape. But there was no logic behind brutality. They all knew it. Once a person’s feet and hands were bound, they were halfway to the grave.

  Evan had been right. So had Minister Beck.

  Evan found Franklin’s eyes and opened his mouth, as if he might issue a final warning. Instead, he shouted a string of disconnected, illogical phrases. His mind had given way to fear. His brain was numb with terror. Franklin’s legs buckled as Evan twisted and flailed on the pyre pole, his shouts turning to screams.

  Franklin found Fitz in the crowd. She stood rigid, waiting behind the Clergy, her helpless look mirroring his own. She met his eyes.

  They shared an expression that needed no interpretation.

  We’re next, that expression said.

  CONTINUED IN “THE LAST REFUGE” BOOK FIVE

  The Last Refuge

  A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

  Book 5 of The Last Survivors Series

  Preface

  Hey Everyone!

  We’re steering toward a conclusion of THE LAST SURVIVORS series (Book 6 will be the final). As always, we hope you’re enjoying the ride. THE LAST COMMAND was a trying book for the characters both in and out of Brighton, and THE LAST REFUGE will
be no different.

  We’ve been calling this book “the answers book”. Some of our characters learn things that no one in Brighton has ever known. As you can expect, this has significant outcomes for the characters, both good and bad.

  Expect many things to change. And wish our characters luck.

  They’re going to need it.

  -Tyler Piperbrook & Bobby Adair

  March 2016

  Chapter 1: Franklin

  Candles flickered, casting ominous shadows on the walls, deepening the dread that had settled over the Sanctuary since the burnings. The hallway outside the room was silent. Normally, Franklin heard murmured conversations, or the scuff of shoes from passing clergymen. Not tonight. His brothers were huddled in their rooms, clutching old books, worry stones, or talismans, praying they wouldn’t be the next on the fire.

  Nervous sweat dripped down Franklin’s back as he sat on the edge of the bed, a kitchen knife clutched in one hand and his arm around Fitz, holding her close.

  “I keep waiting for footsteps in the hallway,” Franklin whispered, trembling.

  “Me too,” Fitz admitted, swallowing her terror. “They’ll take us both.”

  “No, they won’t.” Franklin tried reassuring her, but his words lacked conviction. He turned the knife in his hand. “They only want me.”

  “Tenbrook saw us together. He knows Evan was meeting with both of us.”

  “Why don’t you go somewhere safe, Fitz? Hide in one of the servants’ quarters,” Franklin suggested.

  “I won’t leave you. Besides, I wouldn’t get farther than two steps out the door, if that’s what he wants.”