The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  And then Kirby was back in the thick of battle, surrounded by islanders trying to get her from her steed.

  Chapter 74: Bray

  With a feral cry of rage, Bray charged at Bartholomew. Bartholomew's face registered surprise for a brief moment before he brought up his sword. They crashed blades, grunting and heaving as each tried to get the upper hand.

  "You're a fool to come back here!" Bartholomew shouted.

  "And you're a fool to stay," Bray spat, as he pushed. "Cowardly pig. Where are your soldiers now?"

  They pushed until they were away from each other. Bray swung again. Metal scraped metal. The swords slid off one another. Rage drove Bray as they struck several more times, each vying for the superior position. Bray's arm bent as he pushed against Bartholomew's blade, cracking open one of his old wounds. The sting drove more anger as he shoved Bartholomew away, gaining enough distance to circle and stare in the light of the moon and several fallen torches.

  Noticing the gun at Bray's side, Bartholomew said, "You should have used your god weapon!"

  Bray gritted his teeth. He hadn't had time to finish reloading.

  "I don't need it!"

  He charged.

  They struck swords again, grunting as they fought. Bray swung for Bartholomew's stomach, then his face, but each time Bartholomew moved aside, countering with swings of his own. Bartholomew swiped sideways, catching Bray's left sleeve, tearing fabric but missing skin.

  "Son of a bitch!" Bray cried.

  Behind them, cries of war continued as Halifax men fought the islanders. Bray had no time to guess what might be occurring behind him. To look away was to die.

  Bray stabbed hard, but Bartholomew leapt backward, avoiding it and countering. Sweat ran down Bray's forehead as he jumped back. His clothes reeked of the river he crossed, reminding him of the raging current, dragging him away. Rage found its way into Bray's sword again as he ran and swung hard, catching Bartholomew's upper leg with a deep slice before he could block. Bartholomew cried out in anger, but he got up a sword before Bray could finish the job. He pushed Bray backward.

  Knocked off kilter, Bray fought for balance.

  Bartholomew charged.

  This time Bartholomew knocked into Bray, sending him to the ground and landing on top of him. Bray's sword fell from his hands, clattering on the ground. Bray shot up an arm and grabbed the wrist of Bartholomew's sword hand, managing to keep him at bay, but he had no control over Bartholomew's other hand, which found Bray's neck. Bray struggled to breathe as Bartholomew squeezed. Robbed of air, Bray clasped at the hand around his windpipe, staring at the man atop him, whose angry face was illuminated in the light of a fallen torch.

  "I will make sure William dies screaming," Bartholomew spat, his eyes filled with a hateful satisfaction.

  Bray tried retorting, but couldn't.

  Renewed rage filled Bray, but it was rage with no outlet. His pulse thudded in his neck as he tried to breathe. He was losing his grip on Bartholomew's sword hand. His right hand was free, but Bartholomew was pinning him in a position where he couldn't reach his knife, and he was still trying to breathe through Bartholomew's vice-like grip on his neck. Giving up on prying loose Bartholomew's fingers, he swung at Bartholomew's face, but his blows were weak and ineffective.

  He'd survived the attack of Bartholomew's soldiers.

  The river.

  Flora.

  Perhaps this was the moment he failed.

  Bray stopped weakly hitting Bartholomew as the last of his air left him and his eyes glazed. His hand hit the ground, and something hot singed his fingers. The pain snapped him alert.

  An idea became a hope as he found a last burst of strength, located a torch's handle, and closed his hand around it. He shoved it sideways into Bartholomew's face and held it there. He didn't need much strength. Flesh met fire. Hair singed. Bartholomew screamed as the hot torch sizzled his skin and scalp. He let go, staggering to his feet and shrieking. His sword fell.

  And then Bray was free again.

  He sucked in precious gulps of air.

  Rolling to the side, some of Bray's strength returned, and he forced himself to his feet, staggering over and retrieving Bartholomew's dropped sword. Bartholomew screamed and held his face. Seeing Bray coming, Bartholomew stopped his screams long enough to look up. In the light of several other torches, Bray saw the flames had found Bartholomew's eye. Blackened, burnt skin marred half of his face. He blinked with his good eye as he looked for a weapon, amidst more screams.

  It was time to end it.

  With a vengeful cry, Bray ran at Bartholomew with Bartholomew's sword, spearing him deep in the stomach and leaving the sword there. Bartholomew gasped and doubled over as the sword cleaved his flesh. He spat blood and fell to his knees, gasping for air. Bray stepped back as Bartholomew found the strength to look up at Bray, as if this was somehow a mistake, and he was still on top of Bray, choking him, instead of dying. He pried at the sword still stuck in his belly.

  Bartholomew had made a mistake by letting Bray go.

  Bray wouldn't repeat it.

  Pulling out the knife at his side, the only thing left after he'd been thrown in the river, Bray sliced Bartholomew's throat.

  Chapter 75: William

  William rode his horse slowly through a dense cluster of trees. Thick, looming shadows from the moonlight surrounded him. Despite the intermittent gunfire in the distance, and the faraway shouts and screams, he felt completely alone. In fact, he was lonely. Bray and Kirby were dead. They must be. He wondered if this was what death felt like—not the arrow or gun that would ultimately end his life, but the hollow feeling of being lost, with nowhere to go.

  Soon, war would reach him. War touched everything around it. William had seen the bloodied bodies on a battlefield. He'd seen the tears on the women's cheeks, before and after war, and heard the wails of children who had lost relatives. He'd killed enough people of his own, since leaving Brighton.

  He'd hoped to escape war, but here it was, coming to grab him.

  William steered the horse through more trees, looking for somewhere to find respite, until he could figure out what to do. The horse swayed nervously as it weaved through the forest, picking a path between the trees.

  William was on the western portion of the island. That was all he knew. He looked for houses, or people, but saw neither. A memory hit him. He recalled Bray sharing a story of his travels that first day on the island, when William had lain in bed, and Bray had gone exploring. Bray had talked about some of the remote farms on the banks of the river, far away from the road and heading toward the second island. If William continued southwest, perhaps he could find a place to hide. Perhaps he could wait out whatever was happening.

  Riding in the opposite direction of the noise, he rode until he reached a clearing. The moon cast a white glow over rows of choppy, uneven dirt that looked like they held crops. The horse contended with the bumpy terrain, making its way across the field as William looked out for torches. The field was vacant. Soon he'd reached the other side. He saw no buildings, but something glistened, past a small cluster of trees and down a slope.

  The river.

  Thinking he might get a glimpse of something that would help him, William rode through a copse of trees, stopping on the root-covered riverbank, looking across the river. He saw nothing but a dark patch of forest on the opposite shore. The current foamed and spat, seemingly much quicker and stronger than it was in most places he'd looked on the second island. Crossing it wasn't an option.

  He knew better than to try.

  Looking right, he saw the outline of the bridge deep in the distance. A few pinpricks of light burned in various spots as men and woman shrieked. More guns cracked. William backed his horse away.

  Something moved across the river.

  A handful of silhouettes emerged onto the opposite bank, yowling as they looked across the river, probably drawn by the noise. William's horse stamped the ground and stepped backward.
r />   William's brothers.

  He stared at the twisted men. They would never make it across, but they would try, if he told them.

  They would die for him.

  More guilt hit him.

  He couldn't get the gurgling, dying scream of the first, drowning demon out of his head, or the shrieks of the second demon that had fought the second island's soldiers. Two of his brothers had fallen, because of his judgment. Those deaths are my fault.

  William looked down at the black, raging current.

  He looked back at his brothers. He couldn't kill more of them. They might be all he had left.

  Without a word, he backed up and rode in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 76: Kirby

  Kirby rode through a tangle of battling, screaming men and women. She felt as if she were in a dark maze of wails and bloodshed. Her life was one giant battlefield, killing and defending, one she'd been trying to escape. But this was a new battle, and she'd die if she didn't keep fighting.

  She'd lost track of the rest of the Halifax men with whom she'd initially charged.

  She'd lost track of Flora and Deacon.

  An islander ran at her, his face streaked with blood as he finished an altercation and found her. She shot him in the shoulder, pitching him back and into another skirmish. The horse plowed through several more islanders, knocking them to the side. One man latched onto her boot as she rode past, but she kicked him off and kept riding. More people jumped out of the way as she rode faster. To stop was to die.

  Her rifle was almost out of rounds.

  She fired at several more islanders, killing them with shots to the head, or the chest, before her gun was empty. Reloading was a nearly impossible feat, on the back of a running horse, in the midst of a raging battle. She kept the horse moving as fast as she could, trampling those that she could steer into. She drew her pistol as the horse clopped over scattered bodies.

  Some people battled by the sides of the bridge, swinging their swords as they overlooked the water; others spilled out in all directions, blocking her way. She knocked a few more men aside as the horse squealed and spit.

  Three islanders ran toward Kirby, screaming as they tried to take her from the horse. She fired, sending two of them reeling backward, wounded. One man tripped over a dead body. Some Halifax men nearby quickly finished him off.

  More and more gunfire subsided as Enoch's men ran out of bullets, reloaded, or abandoned the idea of the guns, taking to their swords. She looked for Enoch, but couldn't find him. She rode the horse wherever she had an opening, or to wherever she could help, sometimes riding diagonally, but always forward. She shot an islander in the leg who was charging a Halifax man, sending him sprawling. She shot another two men before they could attack a lone Halifax woman, who ran in the other direction once she was free, finding another target. Kirby watched as a Halifax man lifted a short, skinny islander, tossing him off the bridge. His cries quickly vanished.

  An islander ran at Kirby from the right flank, swinging his sword at her leg, but she got her gun up in time to shoot him, sending him tumbling. Her pistol had even fewer shots left than her rifle. She needed to reload soon. Kirby fought her way through more men, trampling some, and shooting others, making her way toward the other end of the bridge, and what looked like a clearing.

  Enoch's men had killed most of the islanders near the boulders at the eastern entrance, creating an opening. Perhaps she could battle her way around them and take a moment to reload. Bodies lay everywhere, mostly dead islanders who had fallen under the initial gunfire. A few wounded men crawled away from her horse and toward the sides of the bridge.

  An arrow hit her leg.

  Kirby cried out and reached for the protruding arrow, but stopped herself before pulling it out. She turned her attention to a crevice between two boulders, where an injured man had propped himself, readying his bow. Kirby fired at him. He ducked, but not before releasing another aimless arrow, which landed a few feet away. Anger stung her as she veered toward the gap next to the boulders, hoping to ferret him out. She charged up on the other side and found the man kneeling, reaching for his quiver and another arrow. He looked up, surprised, as Kirby shot him in the head.

  Kirby looked around.

  A patch of worn-down dirt on the other side of the boulders was empty, as was the long, moonlit road, and the woods behind it curving up into the mountains, the place from which Enoch and his men had attacked. She looked behind her. The battle was still going strong, but it had moved toward the middle of the bridge. No one was nearby.

  Perhaps this was her chance to reload.

  Chapter 77: Flora

  Flora rode her horse as fighting men and women fell around her. At the sound of gunshots coming from the descending road, she'd veered in the other direction, having just enough time to catch a glimpse of a man coming up the road with a gun.

  Deacon.

  She couldn't be certain it was he, but she had no time to analyze it further. The raging battle enveloped her. She'd lost track of Kirby.

  Everywhere she looked, there was a vicious attack. The Halifax men fought the islanders, either slicing them open with swords or shooting them with their god weapons. Burning torches littered the ground. She couldn't see much of anything through the constant commotion. The battle against Halifax—an idea sewn in the minds of the islanders as soon as they were old enough to understand words—was happening faster than she'd expected.

  She gripped the sword that Enoch had given her as she rode through the battle, swinging at a few island soldiers that came in her direction, but the prospect of slaughtering her men stopped her. It had been easier to agree to the plan when she was in Halifax, bargaining for her life, but she couldn't imagine cutting down people she might know. Neither could she slay the Halifax men, who had kept her alive, and with whom she had marched to kill Deacon.

  She was a confusing piece in a bitter war.

  Several times, men ran toward her, only to take the opposite direction. The islanders were looking for the marked men and women. The Halifax men were looking for the islanders. Some people might be looking for Kirby, but no one knew what to make of Flora.

  She looked around her, catching sight of some men fighting near the edge of the bridge, screaming. That sight made her recall her father's final moments, as he was hoisted over the edge and pitched to his death.

  Deacon.

  Renewed anger stirred Flora as she turned her horse, knocking aside an islander and heading back in the direction she thought she'd seen him. She passed clusters of men, deep in battle, striking each other with blades. Much of the gunfire had stopped. Halifax men slashed and screamed at the islanders in their language. The islanders defended themselves with slicing blades and foul words. Several men and women ran by her without stopping.

  A group of Halifax men nearby jogged in the direction she was headed, toward Deacon. In the light of the moon and several burning torches, she recognized the man in the center. Enoch. She opened her mouth to call out to him, slowing her horse.

  A hand grabbed at her boot.

  Someone tried ripping her from the horse. Flora looked over to find one of the islanders, a man she thought was familiar.

  "Get off the horse!" he shouted.

  "No!" she yelled, kicking him away.

  The horse whined nervously as it turned, and Flora raised her sword, threatening him.

  "I need it! Get off and let me ride!" he argued.

  Another man had joined him, aiming an arrow at her head. "Do it. Or we'll shoot you!"

  "I'm an islander, like you!" she said.

  "I know who you are," the second man said. "I saw you riding up to the bridge with the stranger. You have something to do with this."

  "That is not true."

  Anger raged inside Flora as she held her sword. She wanted to ride and swing at these men, but she'd more likely take an arrow than win. She looked around, as if someone might assist her, but everyone in the vicinity was battling. No
one else came in her direction. Enoch was gone. Gunshots sounded toward the center of the bridge; loud cries filled the air.

  "The horse will do us more good than you," the first man said. "Get off, or Clark shoots."

  Anger filled her response as she said, "I will get down."

  She had just put her leg over the stirrup when the man with the bow cried out in pain. A sword appeared through the front of his stomach, and blood leaked down his shirt. The sword retracted. A Halifax man stood behind it. Another Halifax man slashed at the first islander, who had turned in time to get up his sword. The blades clashed.

  Jumping back into the saddle, Flora rode toward the place where she'd last seen Enoch.

  Chapter 78: Enoch

  "That way!" one of Enoch's soldiers cried to him.

  Enoch's eyes blazed as he looked across the bridge, spotting the man who had spread too many lies, and caused the deaths of too many of his people. He strode across the bridge, making his way toward Deacon as the death cries of his men echoed around him, sounds he'd hear in his sleep.

  Too many of his men had died over a land they should never have lost.

  It was time he finished the battle started long ago.

  Enoch clutched the sword in his hand, a weapon that had served him faithfully for most of his life, and felt almost as comfortable as his arm. He threw the lightning weapon over his shoulder. The gun had spit fire long enough to cause the deaths of many islanders, but he was out of the metal pieces they called bullets. No matter. He would do what he had to, in order to fell the man who stood in the way of the islands.

  Reaching the intersection of the sloping road and the bridge, he saw Deacon rounding the corner and moving farther onto the bridge, aiming his loud lightning weapon, sending cracks of fire through the air. Enoch grimaced as several of his best men fell, dying bravely. No more. Four Halifax soldiers walked beside Enoch, following him as he went after Deacon. None faltered, or turned around.