by Bobby Adair
“Be careful,” Phillip said, coming up behind him. “You don’t want to get a cut from the metal that will spread sickness through your body.”
“I know,” William said, recalling how one of his friends had developed a shaking disease that seemed to last for months.
They continued exploring the lowest levels, which were nearly identical. A few times, they stepped around cracks in the ancient stone that were wide enough to stick a foot in. Several hearty weeds crept from these cracks, as if they were trying to pull William, Jasmine, and Phillip in. On some levels, they encountered other blood printed men and women, and they traded speculations and held up empty hands they’d hoped to fill with treasure. William guessed that anything valuable had probably been scavenged a long time ago.
After walking by most of the other groups, they moved on up the stairs. William watched the girders grow closer and the people on the ground grow smaller until they were at the landing of the top layer, breathing heavily, looking around.
“It’s wonderful,” William marveled.
People were everywhere in the dome. Deep in the center of the building was the bonfire where they’d slept. The gaping entrance at the front was clogged with people that were passing in and out, some carrying demons, some carrying flasks. Smaller entrances dotted the sides, where people gathered and looked from the city to the dome. William scanned around until he found Winthrop speaking with a circle of people, waving his hands.
“He’s still busy,” Jasmine noted, pointing. “I don’t think he’s had his breakfast yet.”
“It looks like we have some time,” Phillip said.
They chose a spot to sit that was free from debris, where they could rest from the climbing and exploring. William sat on the end, Jasmine and Phillip next to him.
“I haven’t seen this many people together except at the square,” William said with wonder.
“Was the Davenport square large?” Jasmine asked.
Remembering his lie, William said, “Not as large as this, or as Brighton’s, I imagine.”
“You’re looking at the strongest of Blackthorn’s army,” Phillip said proudly. “The ones who lived on, even after Blackthorn was killed. Those who lived long enough to see the devil die so they could follow Winthrop.”
“We will be the ones to deliver the message to Brighton,” Jasmine said. “We are Winthrop’s chosen.”
William nodded. He looked down at the blood print on his chest, feeling a sense of belonging that he hadn’t felt in a while. The last time he recalled feeling that way was when he was walking with Bray through the forest, following the tracks that would lead to Melora. His mother had trailed behind, and Bray had regarded William with admiration—respect, even—as he led the way.
But that moment was over, and it would never happen again.
William pushed the thought from his mind and remained in silence next to Phillip and Jasmine for a while, observing the parade of the army below them. And there was plenty to look at. Every so often, a stream of men left the dome through the gaping entrance and another returned. William looked up, watching several birds take flight from the top of the dome, disappearing into a cold, clear sky. Looking back at Jasmine and Phillip, he caught them trading a smile. A sense of peace came over William. For once, he wasn’t running from Brighton. Instead, he was headed back into it, under Winthrop’s protection.
Chapter 22: Winthrop
Winthrop walked through the stinking army of pig chasers, dirt scratchers, and foul women, out of breath from crossing most of the giant dome. He headed for the big fire that had become his quarters. He was hungry. Several stringy-haired priestesses clung to his arm, but he shook them loose.
He’d already had his pleasures.
Besides, they stank from too many days without a bath.
Winthrop’s human urges were starting to annoy him. Over the course of days, a dull pang in his stomach made Winthrop realize he needed food, and other aches made him realize he needed women. He indulged those urges, but only because he was still completing his transformation into a god.
Wiping his hands on his robe to clean off some of the filth, he reached his fire, which had already being stoked by some of his faithful. He avoided the stares of a group of people who were waiting for a reverent gaze and looked for the tall man who had been coordinating his orders.
“Where is he?”
A few of the priests stopped turning the demon in the fire and looked around.
“Who do you mean, sir?”
“The tall one.” Winthrop waved his hands, agitated.
“Phillip’s off getting more demons, I think,” one of them said.
Winthrop shook his head disgustedly. If the dirt-scratcher were around, he’d reprimand him, but the snarl in his stomach told him food was more important. He walked to the fire, staring at the roasting demon as it turned from pink to black and the men handed him a piece. He looked around the campsite, chewing. He needed to coordinate the army to leave for Brighton. He needed to free Brighton the way he’d freed these ignorant people, showing them the true light of the blessed.
Winthrop stared up at the ceiling, listening as the gods whispered a word into his ears that he’d almost forgotten. Tenbrook. He felt a shimmer of fear, then excitement as he thought through ways to dispose of the devil’s servant. He’d feed him to the demons. Or he’d feed him to his people.
He’d killed Blackthorn, and he’d kill whoever was left in his stead. Winthrop had more than enough men to tear down the Brighton wall, running over all who opposed him with the blood of a thousand demons. His men and women would sacrifice themselves on the altar of Brighton so that they could create a path back to Winthrop’s rightful chair.
One of Winthrop’s nameless priests approached him, shifting from foot to foot.
“Father, I have news.”
Winthrop tried to project his answer into a thought without speaking. The man stared at him, confused. Reverting to human-speak, Winthrop asked, “What is it?”
“We found something outside the dome.”
The man beckoned behind Winthrop, and Winthrop turned to see several of his followers breaking through the crowd, guiding several large horses with matted fur and fear in their eyes.
“Where did you find them?” Winthrop asked.
“Outside in the streets, while we were looking for demons,” the man answered.
Another man said, “They were clustered together, drinking from a puddle. We were able to coax them over.”
Winthrop thought back to the battle on the hill. Most of the horses had been killed or run off after he’d killed the devil Blackthorn. But these must have survived.
“They’ve come back to serve their god,” Winthrop pronounced. “How many are there?”
“About a dozen. We have the others outside.”
“Good. Keep them ready, until we march. My priests and I will use them as we head back to Brighton.”
Chapter 23: Oliver
When Oliver came down the stairs and got to the bottom level of the tower, he saw Ivory across the big room standing near the closed door, looking confused. Kirby had her big gun strapped across her back, but in one hand she held one of her hand grenades. In the other hand, she pointed a hand-sized, metallic device at Ivory.
“Where are the rest of them?” Kirby demanded.
“Upstairs,” Oliver told her, answering for Ivory. “They’re on the way down.”
Kirby waved the metal device at Ivory.
Ivory looked at the device like he wanted to walk over and touch it.
“Move,” she said.
“Why?” Ivory asked.
“Because I told you to.” She wasn’t pleased.
Pointing at the metallic device in Kirby’s hand, Oliver asked, “Is that a gun, too?”
Kirby looked at the gun as though checking to make sure it wasn’t invisible. “Of course, it is.”
“A real gun?” Ivory asked.
Kirby nodded.
“Is it big enough to kill a demon?” Oliver asked.
“Yes,” Kirby answered Oliver but kept deadly eyes focused on Ivory. “And big enough to kill you. Go over by the stairs with Oliver.”
Ivory looked at the gun and weighed the choice on whether to comply, but didn’t move.
“We’re not a danger to you,” Oliver told Kirby. “We’re friends.”
“Friends?” Kirby asked.
“We’re friendly,” Oliver clarified. “I told you we didn’t come here to hurt you. We saw you from up on the hill and wanted to talk to you.”
Kirby looked back at Ivory. “I don’t want to hurt you either, but you understand now that this is a gun. I can kill you with it so fast you won’t even know you’re dead. Go over there.”
Ivory blinked as he looked at the small gun in Kirby’s hand.
“C’mon.” Oliver waved for Ivory to step away from Kirby and cross the room to stand by the stairs.
Melora and Beck rounded the corner at the top of the last flight of stairs on the way down.
Beck stopped, staring at Kirby, her strange clothing, and her Tech Magic weapons. His mouth hung open in wonder.
Melora ran to the bottom of the stairs and waited for Ivory to cross the room.
“Is Jingo coming?” Ivory asked.
Beck pointed behind him and absently answered, “On the way.”
“She has one of those things,” said Melora, tugging at Ivory’s arm to pull him back onto the stairs.
“It’s a hand grenade,” Oliver told her. “But she’s not going to hurt you with it.”
“It’s insurance,” said Kirby. Then she glared at each of them for a second. “All of you understand what this can do, right? You saw it explode outside. You saw it kill those mutants.”
“Mutants?” Oliver asked, but was ignored.
Taking the steps downward, one at a time, deliberately, Beck pointed at the warm flames burning in the enormous fireplace and the crudely constructed chairs arrayed in a semi-circle in front of it. “We should sit down and talk. We mean you no harm.”
Kirby looked over at the chairs and the inviting fire.
Oliver guessed that she hadn’t been warm in a long time. Hiding in that cold, wet ship had to have been miserable. He took a few steps toward the chairs. “We should all sit down.”
“We have lots of questions,” said Beck, “as I’m sure you do. We’ve never met somebody who wasn’t from Brighton or the smaller towns.” He laughed, nervous or giddy. “We thought we were the only people in the world.”
Kirby looked at each of them, taking a moment to scrutinize each. “Bows. Swords,” she observed, and then mumbling to herself, she said, “you people really are backward. No guns?”
“None,” Oliver answered. “I told you. We’ve never seen a gun, and I’d never even heard of a hand grenade, until today.”
“That hand grenade was amazing,” said Ivory anxiously. “Can you show me how to make one?”
Kirby looked at Ivory strangely, and then a noise from the stairs caught her attention.
Jingo had just come onto the last flight. “You are the Kirby that Oliver told us about?”
She stared at Jingo but didn’t answer.
As Jingo descended the stairs, he pulled the hood back from his cloak.
Kirby gasped when she saw the deformity the spore had made of his head. She involuntarily stepped toward the door.
“Uninfected people find me ugly,” Jingo called across the room. “I’m not offended.”
“You…” Kirby started but had trouble finding her words. “You sound normal.”
“He’s not normal,” Oliver cut in. “He’s three hundred years old. He’s one of the Ancients.”
“Three hundred?” Kirby asked. “That’s not…” But Kirby stopped talking, and her eyes betrayed some thoughts she didn’t voice.
“It is possible,” said Jingo, “and I can see from the look on your face that you know it’s true.”
“And you’re not a crazed monster?” Kirby asked, in an empty tone of voice, as though repeating someone else’s words.
“As sane as you,” said Jingo.
“He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met,” said Ivory. “He’s not a monster.”
“The spore didn’t ruin your mind?” Kirby asked.
“It opened my mind,” said Jingo. “It made me more intelligent than I was before.”
“They told us the spore made men into monsters.” Kirby muttered it to herself more than anyone. “The forbidden stories told the truth?”
Jingo stopped walking and cocked his misshapen head. “Forbidden? Stories about me?”
Kirby shook her head, and she gazed absently as though the timber wall all around were invisible. “The stories about us.” Tears trickled out of her eyes and tumbled down her otherwise stony face.
“About you?” Jingo asked.
Kirby holstered her pistol. She shoved the grenade into a row of others on her belt. She peeled off her overcoat and dropped it to the floor, then took off a heavy shirt. And then removed an undershirt. She turned around and pulled a final, dirty shirt over her head, leaving her naked back exposed for all to see. Starting at her neck, and running down the length of her spine, small spore warts, each the size of an egg yolk, grew out of her vertebrae.
Chapter 24: William
Men and women chattered excitedly as they grabbed their packs, filled them with their belongings, and filed behind one another, forming a line that weaved between the fire pits and extended all the way outside the dome. From somewhere outside, William heard the whinnying of horses and the shouts of men passing along Winthrop’s orders.
“We will march on Brighton, and free the ignorant of their comforting wall!” Winthrop shouted. “We will show them the ways of the blessed!”
Winthrop was buried amidst a circle of priests who were listening to his instructions by the fire. The men roared and thrust their swords and spears in the air.
Motivated by Winthrop’s rousing words, a few men extinguished the fire while Winthrop’s priestesses stood ready, listening or chatting with one another. William stood next to Jasmine. His mind swirled with a mixture of emotions.
“This is really it. This is the moment our god has chosen us for,” Jasmine said with a smile.
“I know,” said William.
He couldn’t believe he was going back to Brighton. So much had happened in the wild that his memories of home were a blur. He could barely remember his friends, his room, or his neighbors. Were any of them still there? Had a rich merchant bought and sold his house? Flashes of emotion came back to him as he recalled that last, nervous day in Brighton. He and his mother had fled from soldiers and climbed the circle wall to escape. They’d spent the night in the forest in that strangely-layered ancient building. From the top of that building, where they could see over the tips of the trees, they’d watched the smoke rise from the Cleansings of the various towns and villages. William recalled the dying look on the soldier’s face after Ella had stabbed him when they were attacked outside the buildings on the outskirts of town. That had been the moment he knew he was never going back.
And now he was.
He reminded himself that he was under Winthrop’s protection now, and that he’d find a new role as one of Brighton’s chosen. No one would persecute him with Blackthorn dead. They couldn’t.
At least, he wanted to believe that.
“Brighton will be different when we get there,” Jasmine said confidently, as if reading his thoughts and offering him reassurance.
William nodded.
>
“Here,” Jasmine said, handing him one of two swords she carried. “Most of us carry two after the battle on the hill. I found an extra for you.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling at her appreciatively, clutching the weapon.
Winthrop finished his speech, and the shuffle of feet began as the slow line of the army moved from the dome and out into the street. Phillip and the other priests clustered protectively around Winthrop, holding their swords as they ushered him outside. The priestesses surrounding William followed, with him next to them. From somewhere far behind, William could already hear the other half of the army starting the chant, boots stomping the earth as they caught up, skirting around the carcasses of dead demons. The sunlight glanced off William’s face as they walked out from under the dome’s expansive shadow and the priests stopped next to a row of horses that had been lined up in preparation. William and the line of people behind him stopped and waited.
Winthrop motioned to the horses, looking for the best one. He chose a tall, black steed that still seemed spooked. Several priests held the horse’s reins while Winthrop climbed onto the saddle, perching himself on the beast’s back, his massive girth bunching up his robe.
“My priests!” he pronounced, motioning to the line of men. “Take your horses!”
William watched with envy as the men chose their animals and took hold of the reins. The sight of the majestic animals still entranced William. He recalled riding on a horse when he was younger and one of the cavalry had taken a liking to Ella. That had been after his father died. The man had gone off to war and never come back.
Phillip was one of the last to choose a horse—a brown animal with a white mane. The other priests had fallen into a row next to Winthrop, waiting. A final horse clomped its hooves nervously next to Phillip.
