The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  He’d never had snowberry before.

  He recalled a time when he was at home in Brighton, and Ella had caught him sniffing one of Uncle Timmy’s flasks. William had been left alone in the house while his parents and Timmy had gone outside. Curious, he had uncapped Timmy’s flask and stuck his nose in it, inhaling a strong odor that reminded him of the pubs. Despite his mother’s warnings—or maybe because of them—William had tried to take a drink. That’s when Ella had come in, surprising him.

  He’d nearly dropped the flask.

  He’d had to clean the house by himself for weeks after he’d been caught.

  William looked down at the flask in his hand. Ella would never have allowed this. But these people were offering it to him.

  William drank.

  He resisted the urge to spit out the foul-tasting drink, or to cough. Instead he swallowed and watched Winthrop. He went to hand back the flask.

  “More,” Winthrop said, raising his arms as if he were conducting a sermon.

  William drank some more while the people murmured their approval.

  “The demon boy is one of us!” someone yelled.

  When he’d had enough to satisfy Winthrop, William handed back the flask and drew up his legs, protecting the lumps on his knees.

  William felt something warm in his belly that seemed to spread to his extremities. He no longer felt the scrapes and bruises from when the men had carried him. He no longer cared about the demons. In fact, he felt better than he had in quite some time. Now he knew why his Uncle Timmy had carried two flasks.

  “You are one with your god,” Winthrop boomed, prompting a cheer of approval from the captive audience. “You have been saved from the mouths of the demons.”

  Winthrop raised his arms. He took to his feet. “The demons have been eradicated. The others will hide in the woods until my army leaves, and they will shiver with fear when they consider coming to the Ancient City, or to our towns. For too long, we have withered under the teeth of the demons, waiting for them to strike us down. We no longer have any need for fear! We have come to the Ancient City, and we have conquered it!”

  All the priests and priestesses, and the people surrounding them, cheered in agreement. Winthrop held his hands high in the air. The warmth in William’s belly grew.

  “We are free in the wild!” Winthrop boomed at the crowd. “We have conquered our fear and walked among the demons. We have beat them back while our relatives huddle behind a circle wall in Brighton!”

  “FREEDOM! FREEDOM!” a few people shouted in unison.

  More people woke up, joined the rowdy huddle, and lent their voices to the chant, as if they’d never been asleep at all.

  “FREEDOM! FREEDOM!”

  “There is no need to shelter Brighton any longer. We need to return and show them the way. As your god, I will lead you! We will tear down the circle wall and show them there is nothing to fear!” Winthrop’s voice rose to a crescendo as he stomped around and waved his arms.

  The crowd picked up on the new chant. “TEAR DOWN THE WALL! TEAR DOWN THE WALL!”

  “We will march back to Brighton in the morning! We will tear down the wall!” Winthrop shouted.

  “TEAR DOWN THE WALL! TEAR DOWN THE WALL!”

  The chant started and spread as more people in the giant dome awoke from their sleep, joining the chorus. William looked around, the feeling from his stomach extending to a smile on his face. This time, he didn’t even try to stop himself. He chanted along.

  Chapter 15: Bray

  Bray was woken several times in the night by loud chanting or the laughter of dim-witted men. He sat up, watching the people feasting on demons, smearing their faces with their blood. Each time, he made sure to spot William and see that he was safe before he went back to sleep.

  When he opened his eyes in the morning, the first rays of light were breaking over the Ancient City. Bray looked out the windows. Several of the army were already headed into the streets, picking through the rubble, looking for demons. A few chased rats through the weeds. He swore as he watched several coming toward the building in which he was hiding, seemingly to explore.

  He collected his things and departed out the back entrance, deciding to keep an eye on the army from a little more distance.

  Chapter 16: Fitz

  Fitz looked across the courtyard behind Blackthorn’s house, watching birds soar in the cloudless blue sky. For the first time in as long as she could remember, some of the oppressive weight in her stomach had lifted.

  The smell of Tenbrook and his men’s burnt bodies had dissipated over the course of days. She’d burned them without pleasure. It was a chore to be done, much like cleaning a chamber pot, tidying a room, or performing one of a multitude of tasks that she looked forward to never performing again.

  She gave no special treatment, good or bad, to Tenbrook’s corpse. A fire was built near the southern edge of the circle wall in a pit, where the ashes of the Cleansing Day pyres were dumped twice each year. Tenbrook’s body, like those of his men, was tossed naked into the fire. Fitz had watched the fire burn down to coals and had ordered the women to stoke it with more wood until no lump was left in the ash large enough to identify as a bit of bone.

  Much of Tenbrook had turned to smoke and blown away in the wind. What remained was the anonymous ash of a mound of unclean innocents, mixed with his heartless soldiers’ powdery gray cinders. No evidence of Tenbrook was left in the world, save a sword that looked like any of a hundred others. No one mourned Tenbrook’s passing.

  He was gone and would be remembered fondly by no one. His brutality would live on in stories among the women. Fitz couldn’t erase that. But Tenbrook’s name would come to represent all the evil one man’s heart could ever cage. His name would be told to children to frighten them when they traded stories around the fire. Women would spit the taste of his name from their mouths. Tenbrook’s name would be a curse. A foul word.

  That was Tenbrook’s deserved legacy.

  She appraised the tall stone buildings that formed a boundary around the spacious courtyard behind Blackthorn’s house. The walls gleamed with a shine she’d rarely seen in the exterior of The House of Barren Women, or any building for that matter.

  The majority of the Strong Women—the women from town who had holed up with her in the Sanctuary, which seemed so long ago—and those from The House of Barren Women, as well as the Sanctuary’s stranded young novices, had been staying with her, eating Blackthorn’s food, sleeping in his guest rooms, and occupying the quarters formerly used by soldiers. They’d become her advisors, helping her communicate with the townspeople. Over the course of days, they’d started calling Blackthorn’s house the New House, and they were its women, the New Council.

  Blackthorn’s servants had accepted them. Most were women that had been mistreated by the soldiers, or were forced to cater to Tenbrook’s whims. Most had lived in fear that a burnt meal or an unclean room would lead to the pyre. To them, almost any change was better.

  Fitz had been trying to speak with the Academy, but she’d had no luck. The remaining members were barricaded in the Academy building, too frightened to come out after Evan’s death. Fitz visited them daily, trying to convince them they weren’t in danger, but they had refused to open the door.

  Or they were afraid to be implicated.

  She wanted them to join her in making a better Brighton.

  She just wasn’t sure how.

  She walked across the courtyard and over the imprints of soldier’s boots in the grass. Her Strong Women had placed several large stones down in the center of the browning grass. Several women dug through the soil in the center of the courtyard, making piles of dirt on the ground next to them. Fitzgerald walked over to Ginger, smiling.

  “You were able to get through the soil,” she observed.

&n
bsp; “Yes,” Ginger said, spearing her shovel into the ground. “The top layer was hard, but the ground wasn’t frozen yet underneath.”

  “Good.” Fitzgerald held up the jar of Evan’s ashes in her hand, appraising them with a sad smile. She set the jar on the ground next to the others.

  Ginger and the other women had transferred the remainder of the jars they’d pulled from Tenbrook’s dining hall into the courtyard. The courtyard would be a memorial, a reminder of how quickly words could turn into reprehensible action.

  “Some of the mason’s wives offered to help carve the names of the dead into the stones,” Ginger said.

  Fitz nodded. “I’m sure their relatives will appreciate that.”

  After emptying Tenbrook’s dining hall of the ashes, Fitz decided she’d choose a new meeting room to conduct her business.

  She watched the women bury the ashes, then Fitz walked back to the other side of the courtyard, a pensive look on her face. Noticing the change in her demeanor, Ginger broke from the group and walked with her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Fitz admitted.

  “We all have, after what happened. That’s why The People have been coming to see you at all hours.”

  “I know. They want to know what’s going to happen in Brighton,” Fitz said with a sigh.

  “You must be tired, after so much talking.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met so many people in my life.” Fitz rubbed her eyes. “I’ve been trying to soothe their concerns, but in truth, I’m not certain what’s going to happen myself.”

  Ginger nodded sympathetically. “Things have been peaceful in the streets. No soldiers to worry about. No wondering whether we have enough to eat, or whether we’ll be spiked or burned.”

  “It’s nice,” Fitz agreed. “But I can’t stop thinking about what happens when the army comes back.”

  “Maybe they won’t come back,” Ginger suggested.

  “That would be good in one sense, but not in another. People have been asking about their relatives. The people left in Brighton are concerned about their family members that were forced to march in Blackthorn’s army. They think most of their relatives are dead.”

  “I’m worried about the same thing.” Ginger lowered her eyes. “The only people likely to survive are the blue shirts and the cavalry. Everybody suspects that.”

  “I’ve made my peace with that, as awful as it is,” Fitz said. “But that hasn’t stopped me from wondering if someone worse than Tenbrook will come back with rule on his mind.”

  “Or retribution,” Ginger added. She touched Fitz’s arm. “What should we do, Fitz?”

  Fitz blew a breath. “We need to find out what’s coming, Ginger. We can’t hide behind the circle wall and pretend everything will stay this way forever. Send a few of the best women riders out past the circle wall. Tell them to take every precaution, but bring us word about Blackthorn’s army.”

  “I know a few women that will be perfect for the task.”

  Chapter 17: Oliver

  With the sun barely up and a morning fog shrouding everything in gray, Oliver approached the wooden tower where he’d left everyone the night before. The heavy timber door swung open and Melora ran out a few steps. “Oliver, where were you?”

  Ivory tentatively stepped out behind her, his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked.

  Oliver didn’t say anything until he was close enough to answer in a voice that wouldn’t carry so far as to wake nearby demons. “Is everyone up?”

  Melora came to a stop a few paces in front of Oliver. She looked at him with her head cocked to let him know what a strange question that was. “Of course.”

  “We thought something happened to you,” Ivory hissed from where he stood just outside the door, looking right and left. “How did you get out?”

  Oliver didn’t answer Ivory’s question. Instead, he stopped and raised his hand to show them the device that Kirby had given him.

  “What’s that?” Melora asked, stepping forward to touch it.

  “That’s metal,” said Ivory, staring, his interest piqued.

  Oliver pulled his hand back to keep the device away from Melora. “Don’t touch it. Okay?”

  “What is it?” Melora asked, perturbed by Oliver’s refusal to share.

  “I snuck out last night,” said Oliver. “And I found the woman with the gun.”

  Ivory was taken aback.

  “She’s real?” asked Melora.

  “She asked me to gather everyone around and show them this.” Oliver raised his hands again to display the heavy, metal device, which was about the size of a fat apple.

  “Why?” Ivory asked. “What is that thing?”

  Holding it up for both Melora and Ivory to see, Oliver told them, “She said it was a hand grenade.”

  Ivory shrugged and looked at Melora. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Is it Tech Magic?” asked Melora. “What does it do?”

  Oliver pointed to a metal pin sticking out near the top. “She said I’m supposed to pull this out to show everyone how it works.”

  Chapter 18: William

  William opened his eyes, unsure when he’d fallen asleep. Morning light lanced over the girders that curved over the enormous ceiling of the dome, temporarily blinding him and causing a dull ache in his skull to worsen. He raised his hands up to shield his face. He felt nauseous. His breath reeked of the drink he’d taken. He wiped away the remnants of sleep and forced himself to sit up.

  A few others were stirring. Some were picking breakfast from the remains of the demon corpses. Others were stoking fires. William removed the blanket tucked over his legs. He didn’t even remember putting it there. Looking around, he saw a bigger pile of blankets where Winthrop had slept, but he didn’t see Winthrop.

  Jasmine walked over and greeted him with a smile, a bag slung over her shoulder. A night’s sleep had stripped more of the blood from her face. In the daylight, he saw that she had high, curved cheekbones and blue eyes. She looked like someone who might be picking berries in the forest next to his mother, though he didn’t recognize her.

  “How’d you sleep?” she asked.

  “Okay,” William said, unwilling to admit that the drink had probably made him sick. “Where’s Father Winthrop?”

  “He’s off with a few other priestesses for his morning rituals,” Jasmine answered without hesitation. “I had my turn yesterday.”

  William had a guess as to what that entailed. He pictured Winthrop’s hands crawling over the women, and he turned away to hide his disgust. Winthrop might be a god, but he was a foul, blubbery man who smelled worse than the stench coating William’s tongue.

  Jasmine unslung her bag, placed it on the ground, and pulled out a small pouch. William wondered what sort of new, strange ritual she was preparing for. He was surprised when she opened it and revealed some berries.

  “Want some?” she asked.

  William couldn’t help staring at the pouch. His hunger had grown over the course of the night, so much that he felt his mouth watering. He held out his hand and accepted a small handful. It was better than eating demons—that was for sure.

  “Thanks,” he said as his mouth turned tart from the berry’s juice. Recalling the words Winthrop had said the night before, still not convinced it wasn’t a dream, he asked, “Are we really headed back to Brighton?”

  “Yes. We’re leaving later this morning. Are you excited?” Jasmine asked, a smile spreading across her face.

  “I’m not sure how I feel,” William said, before he could figure out whether he should say that.

  “We’re going to fulfill our destiny, Rowan,” Jasmine said, patting his arm. “This will be a moment in history our future families will tell stories about
—the day we set Brighton free. They’ll tell tales about the day we broke down the wall.”

  William nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Watching Jasmine, he determined she didn’t look old enough to be sent out with the army. “Why are you here? Don’t you have children in town?”

  A sad look crossed Jasmine’s face.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” William quickly retracted. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.”

  “You’re not being rude, just curious,” Jasmine said. “I was to be married last spring, but my husband was smudged. The army was called before I could be paired off with someone else.”

  William flinched at the reminder of the burnings. He tried his best to hide it.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Eighteen. They sent me out here to help carry supplies. And to fight, of course,” Jasmine said with pride. She watched William. “You’re not scared anymore, are you?”

  “No,” William said. He still felt the same sense of safety that’d come over him the night before. “I thought I was going to be eaten last night, though,” he admitted.

  Jasmine chuckled. “We don’t eat people. We eat the demons. Their flesh gives us their strength. It makes us immortal children of the new god. Our leader brings us to victory. Now we’re going to bring that victory back to Brighton, and the demons will no longer bother us.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The demons fear us, Rowan.”

  William nodded. He wanted to believe Winthrop had changed. He wanted to believe that Brighton could be a better place. Looking around at the few demon corpses that hadn’t yet been eaten, he was still horrified and disgusted, but maybe the bloodshed was necessary, if it meant less bloodshed in the future. Maybe the demons would stay away from Brighton, and the people of Brighton would stay away from the demons.