The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  Franklin shivered at the thought.

  All those screams told a story of the unbearable pain the unclean felt when bound to a pyre pole.

  Did so many have to die? Was that truly the greater good?

  Franklin’s feet grew heavier as he trudged up to the front doors of Blackthorn’s house, now Tenbrook’s residence. He was wet from the lingering rain.

  “You’re here to see the General?” a guard asked.

  Franklin looked up from his feet, disappointed but not surprised that the guard didn’t address him as his position required. The other guard looked on without protest.

  Resisting the temptation to admonish the guard, as Father Winthrop would have done without a second thought, Franklin simply nodded. A rebuke would be a waste of effort. The guard likely knew why Franklin was at Tenbrook’s door. Both guards knew how Franklin’s morning was going to end, just as Franklin did.

  “Not much to say today, eh?” the guard asked. “You forget The Word when you left the Temple?”

  The other guard chuckled and opened the door.

  Franklin silently marched through into the banquet room that he’d entered countless times, attending meetings with General Blackthorn as Father Winthrop’s novice. In all of those gatherings, Franklin had the luxury of standing invisibly against the wall while the most prominent men of Brighton sniped and argued. Those first meetings were distressing, but as subsequent meetings passed, Franklin’s fear subsided enough that he could watch with amusement as Minister Beck skewered Father Winthrop over his hypocrisies and superstitions.

  Now it was Franklin’s turn to sit at the table and try to browbeat an arrogant man with four hundred armed goons to enforce his will. Franklin’s only hope, the only way he saw the meeting working out, was to fake enough strength to make Tenbrook believe nineteen thousand women, children, and old men would stand behind Franklin no matter what, that they’d do Franklin’s bidding, that they’d stand united against Tenbrook’s tyranny. Franklin had to make Tenbrook believe that he was the weaker of them both.

  Franklin wished he could believe the lie with a little more conviction. Because it was only that lie that would keep Tenbrook at bay.

  A serving girl standing beside the fireplace stepped away from the wall as Franklin entered. She walked toward a chair to the left of the head of the table. She pulled it out. “Please sit, Father, and dry off.”

  Franklin walked over and seated himself, feeling a little hope at the formality of being seated in Father Winthrop’s chair, the one he used in his private meetings with Blackthorn and Beck.

  “Would you like a drink?” the girl asked. “Perhaps something to eat?”

  “Water,” Franklin told her, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep any food down.

  The water came and the waiting started.

  And it went on and on.

  Franklin sipped at his cup as time dragged.

  He watched the fire burn down in the hearth as his clothes grew warm.

  He politely told the girl when she periodically checked on him that he needed nothing else.

  He stared at the grain of the wood on the table and fidgeted. He squirmed in his seat as he grew uncomfortable sitting in one place for so long.

  When his cup was empty, the girl came and offered to fill it again several times before Franklin accepted. He asked whether anyone had alerted Tenbrook that he’d arrived. “Yes, of course,” was the answer.

  Still, Franklin waited.

  He looked at a collection of jars on the mantle, a long row of them stretching from one end to the other, each looking about large enough to hold a ladle of soup, each a perfect match for the one beside it. Only the Ancients produced goods with such precision. The collection of glass had to be worth an enormous sum.

  That made Franklin wonder. How had Tenbrook come up with the coin to acquire such a collection? He was a cavalry captain until, what, a week ago? Cavalry captains weren’t wealthy men. Merchants were, and that’s where a collection like the one on the mantle belonged, in a merchant’s house.

  Had it been a bribe? Had Tenbrook stolen it? Franklin doubted that Tenbrook had any qualms about using his new position for such corrupt purposes. Given Tenbrook’s brutality, Franklin didn’t doubt that he’d had a merchant tossed on the pyre for the mere sake of stealing the man’s collection of ancient glass.

  And what about the contents? Most of the jars were empty, but some, starting on the left, were full of ashes. Ashes of what? Dead relatives? Maybe Tenbrook’s clan? Perhaps the men of his line going all the way back to the first fifty-seven? That was possible. Franklin knew that some people revered their ancestors to a superstitious degree. Perhaps the jars had been passed down from father to son since those ancient days.

  “The jars fascinate you?”

  Franklin jumped at Tenbrook’s voice.

  Tenbrook, seemingly pleased with himself for the insignificant cruelty of startling Franklin, swept across the room from stairs to fireside, as though a thousand eyes were in awe of his arrival. Tenbrook propped an elbow on the mantle, clinked a few of the empty jars together, and then leaned with all the confidence of a father about to whip a disobedient child.

  He reached up with his free hand, selected a jar, and gazed at it for a moment. He held it up to look at the morning light shining through the glass. Then, without warning, he tossed the jar at Franklin.

  Surprised, Franklin grabbed at the jar. He fumbled the catch as the jar hit his fingertips. He watched helplessly as it tumbled, hit the edge of the heavy wooden table, and shattered. Shards—some tiny and sparkling, others large and glimmering—scattered on the table and the floor. Franklin’s mouth fell open and his eyes went wide, shocked that Tenbrook would treat a valuable antiquity with such recklessness.

  “You’re a nervous boy,” said Tenbrook.

  A boy? Franklin felt insulted. Sure, he often saw himself as a boy, a young man at best, but he was the Bishop of Brighton as well, Speaker of The Word, Councilman of the three townships.

  Rather than lower himself to the insult, he put on an air of haughtiness that seemed to be a comfortable disguise for Winthrop’s true personality. And it occurred to Franklin in a moment of insight that maybe that’s why Winthrop had worn the disguise of superiority. Maybe he’d clung to it with such ferocity because Winthrop didn’t want anyone to see any of what he truly was. Maybe Winthrop was a boy, in his way. Maybe he and Franklin had the same dilemma.

  Tenbrook walked to the other end of the fireplace, stopped, and selected another of the jars. This one was packed with ashes.

  Franklin repressed a grimace. The jar most likely held the hundred-year-old stinking ashes of one of Tenbrook’s ancestors. He didn’t want Tenbrook to toss it. Franklin’s confidence at catching was shaken after his first attempt. He didn’t want the broken glass and ash all over him.

  But would Tenbrook disrespect his ancestors that way, just to emphasize whatever childish point he was trying to make?

  As if in answer to Franklin’s thought, Tenbrook tossed the jar in the air above him, caught it in one hand, once, twice, and then a third time.

  Franklin made a guess at to what was about to happen. He started to bring his hands back up just as Tenbrook tossed the jar.

  Franklin leaned forward, grasped, and nearly fell out of his chair as he snatched the jar from the air. He cradled it in his palms, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d held as he sat the jar gently on the table and gave Tenbrook a cross look. “I’ll not catch another. If you don’t value the trinkets or your ancestors’ ashes, then don’t expect me to value them either.”

  Tenbrook barked a laugh and seemed genuinely amused.

  That threw Franklin off. Either Tenbrook was outwitting Franklin with disturbing ease, or Tenbrook was unbalanced and playing a game by rules that only ex
isted in his mind.

  Tenbrook stepped over, dragged the heavy chair away from the head of the table, brushed some shards of glass onto the floor, and draped himself over the chair. He looked as casual as a man waiting for a girl in The House of Barren Women.

  He stared at Franklin with a cocky smile.

  Franklin sat in his chair, back straight, lips pursed and head tilted back, snobbish and silent. He’d match Tenbrook step for step in this stupid little contest of confidence.

  Without preamble, Tenbrook leaned forward, reached across the table, and grasped the top edge of the plugged jar in his fingers. He gently turned the jar until a little leather tag tied around the jar’s mouth came to face Franklin. “You can read, can’t you?”

  “Of course.” Franklin tried to keep Tenbrook’s eye, resisting the urge to turn his attention to the label.

  Tenbrook let go of the jar and leaned back to his comfortable position in his chair. “Then read it. You may find it interesting.”

  Franklin pretended boredom with a sigh as he slowly reached for the jar, still holding Tenbrook’s gaze. He took the label between his fingers, angled up, and glanced down.

  It read, “EVAN”.

  Evan’s ashes?

  No!

  Franklin felt a terrible urge to pee.

  Chapter 60: Oliver

  Oliver sat atop a pile of broken stones, looking out at what had once been a window on the third floor of the building they’d taken shelter in. The window faced down the beach, sparing him from some of the rain being blown off the ocean. From the window, Oliver saw the beach, the dunes, and the direction they’d come from. The beach was empty.

  After climbing up stairs made of ancient stones that seemed, despite their age, to be as sturdy as any Oliver had ever climbed back in Brighton, he’d wondered about the Ancient’s Tech Magic. To be able to form stone so perfectly and to have it stand for hundreds of years, still useful, amazed him. But the amazement was tempered by the general state of the building. It was built in the shape of an enormous rectangular house facing the ocean, five layers tall. Half the building had collapsed, as if stepped on by a gargantuan beast and crushed flat.

  “See anything out there?” Beck asked as he sat by the fire they’d built, plucking the feathers out of the large bird he’d killed.

  “Nothing but rain,” said Oliver. “I still can’t believe you caught that thing.”

  He and Beck had happened upon the bird, along with a dozen more just like it, on the second layer of the building. Most had taken flight into the wind coming off the ocean, but several had blown back into the building right at Beck and Oliver. Since the birds’ wingspans were as wide as Oliver could spread his arms, and their beaks were large enough to swallow his entire head, Oliver did exactly what instinct had told him. He dove for the ground.

  Beck, apparently thinking more with his stomach than his head, reached out and grabbed one by the wing. It squawked loudly and flapped around, throwing feathers and debris off the floor until Beck had broken its neck. Now they were preparing to cook it.

  “It’s the strangest bird I’ve ever seen,” said Beck, holding it up and stretching out a large flap of skin on the underside of the beak. “I wonder what purpose this skin serves?”

  “Right now,” said Oliver, “I only hope it tastes good.”

  “It better,” said Beck. “There’s plenty here for both of us.”

  Oliver smiled. It’d been too long since his last good meal.

  Chapter 61: Franklin

  Franklin’s heart raced, his palms sweated, and his lips quivered as he stared at the label on the jar of ashes, trying not to pay attention to the question that Tenbrook was repeating.

  “I said, it doesn’t bear much of a resemblance, does it?” Tenbrook asked.

  Franklin shook his head as an answer, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He was, after all, holding some of the remains of Evan, his burned friend, in the jar in his hand. Franklin understood that he’d underestimated Tenbrook’s twisted cruelty.

  “Why do you think I burned him?” Tenbrook got up from his chair and sauntered over to the fireplace, making a show of looking at each of the jars as he passed.

  “He was smudged,” Franklin squeaked, hating the sound of his voice as he heard it, knowing how weak and frightened he sounded, knowing that his words were giving away the emptiness of his bluff. Franklin reached for the empty water cup. He coughed as he brought it to his mouth, as though something was stuck in his throat.

  “Are you okay?” Tenbrook asked, his voice overflowing with concern. He rushed over and smacked Franklin hard on the back. “Are you choking?” Tenbrook turned toward the kitchen doorway and called, “Girl! More water for the Bishop.” Tenbrook smacked Franklin on the back again much too hard, jarring Franklin forward and knocking the cup out of his hand.

  “I—” Franklin started, raising a hand to stop Tenbrook. “I’m fine.”

  A girl rushed into the room with a cup in hand, splashing water in her haste. She banged it on the table in a hurry to get it to Franklin. She then jumped back and lowered her head, awaiting instructions.

  “Thanks,” Franklin told her as he grasped the cup.

  “Drink, man,” Tenbrook commanded. To the girl, he said, “Go.”

  She hurried off.

  Franklin took a big gulp and placed his water cup back on the table next to the jar that contained the remains of Evan.

  Tenbrook seated himself back in his chair. He took a slow, silent measure of Franklin before he spoke again. “Smudged, you say.”

  “Yes. That was the finding in the square, was it not?” Franklin found some courage upon hearing his voice. “You made the accusation yourself.”

  Tenbrook grinned and nodded. “But you didn’t believe it, did you?”

  Franklin didn’t answer, fearing he was being maneuvered into something, but not seeing what it was.

  “Come now,” Tenbrook told him, “you said as much, there on the dais. You said Evan wasn’t smudged, that there had to be a different explanation.”

  Franklin ground his teeth and considered his answer, still trying to see the trap. He took a deep breath and decided that if he couldn’t see the trap, then he didn’t care. He’d meet it with defiance. “Yes, of course, I did. I don’t believe he was smudged. His mark was a bruise, that’s it.”

  Tenbrook nodded and relaxed back in his chair again. “And you’d be right.”

  “What?” Franklin nearly yelled. “How can you admit that you’ve made such a mistake?” Franklin grabbed the jar, resisting the urge to throw it at Tenbrook’s face, resisting the urge to follow that by jumping up and smashing it on Tenbrook’s smug grin. Instead, he shoved it hard across the table at him.

  Tenbrook effortlessly caught the jar before it went over the edge. “I didn’t admit a mistake.”

  “You burned him.”

  “Evan was burned according to the law.”

  “He was burned because you made the accusation, which you now tell me was a lie.” Franklin sat up straight, full if indignation. “It had to be a lie if it wasn’t a mistake.”

  “Call it what you will,” said Tenbrook. “Lies, truths, meaningless words to describe meaningless rules. Only simple men need simple rules.”

  “Stop playing games with me,” Franklin snapped. “Why did you burn Evan? Tell me!”

  “You know why I burned Evan. The smudge was a necessary expediency to burn Evan in front of Brighton as an example. The men and women who were aware of Evan’s deceit knew he was put on the pyre for being a traitor. And those that weren’t aware, know it now. Women’s gossip spreads faster than fire. Evan was a lesson for the whole of Brighton, and any residents of the three townships that haven’t snuck away to their empty houses and unprotected gates.”

  Franklin was appall
ed and he was angry. He was so torn up that he couldn’t form the words he wanted to scream at Tenbrook.

  “Drink more of that water,” Tenbrook told him dismissively as he stood up and paraded himself in front of the fire and the jars on the mantel. “Tell me, Franklin, or, Father Franklin. Seeing your disapproval, I wonder now if I should have sought your council before handling the Evan situation as I did. What would you have had me do? How would you have suggested I handle a traitor to the three townships?”

  Franklin glared at Tenbrook as he seethed.

  “Well?” Tenbrook asked, innocently.

  Franklin saw the trap then, but he didn’t care. He knew Tenbrook was playing a perverse game to force Franklin to select his own method of execution. Franklin knew Tenbrook thought he was some kind of traitor. Franklin knew he had no power, but he wasn’t going to face his fate with cowardice in his heart. He was going to defy it with all his strength. “I’d build a pyre in the center of the square, the biggest pyre Brighton has ever seen, and I’d put the traitor on the pile of wood. I wouldn’t gag him, though. I’d want him to scream loud enough that the whole town could hear his agony when the fire peeled his blackened skin away.” Franklin set his jaw and imagined the words that he’d shout to every woman and man in Brighton as the fire burned at his flesh. He’d give them all the truth they needed to find the strength in their hearts to rise up together and rid themselves of this aspiring, conniving little despot, Captain Tenbrook.

  Tenbrook scrutinized Franklin as he leaned on the mantle. He took his time before responding. “Yes. You and I are of the same mind, then. And here I feared we’d disagree. That makes this next part so much more necessary, I think.”