The Last Survivors: A Dystopian Society in a Post Apocalyptic World

by Bobby Adair

  William said, “We could stay here and live. I like this place. I could be king of the ancient box building.” He smiled and turned, taking off at a serpentine run. “King William. King William.”

  Ella turned and followed. She veered close to one of the clumps of blueberry bushes and was pleased to see they were covered with berries. She called to William, “Remember what I told you.”

  William spun around in circles. “I remember everything,” he called.

  “Look for big tracks and look for scat. Bears like berries as much as we do.”

  “I looked already.” William took off at a sprint to another side of the meadow. “Nothing’s up here but us.”

  Ella looked out across the meadow again. Any animal big enough to hurt her or William would be visible, unless it crouched in the blueberry bushes. She hoped. She walked slowly, looking for signs of animals, but all she found were tiny round pellets of rabbit dung.

  If only she knew how to hunt those quick little tasty rodents.

  ***

  With William’s help, Ella found enough long branches to lean against one of the walls in a corner of the meadow. Beneath that crude shelter they laid their blankets. When the last of the sun’s light faded from the evening sky, they’d have a place to cover themselves. Their bellies were full of blueberries. Their flasks were getting low on water, but they’d find their way back to the river in the morning.

  Despite how the day had started, Ella felt good about their situation. They’d escaped The Cleansing. William was acting precocious and energetic, as always. And they hadn’t seen a single pursuer.

  Perhaps they’d already escaped.

  “Mom, what do you think happened to the Ancients?”

  “I don’t know, honey. Nobody does.”

  “There are stories, right?”

  Ella leaned up on an elbow to look at William. “People say the twisted men killed them. Some legends say the Ancients turned into the twisted men.”

  “The demons are the Ancients? Do you think that’s so?”

  “That isn’t the kind of question that little boys should spend their time thinking about.”

  “I’m curious, though, Mom. Tell me what you think.”

  “I’m not sure, William. I heard Father Winthrop talk about it once at the devotional service.”

  “What did he say?”

  Ella laughed and thought about it. “I honestly don’t know. He’s full of more meaningless words than any man I’ve ever met.”

  They both laughed. After a moment, William’s face turned serious. “Dad used to tell me that I’d understand when I got older. He told me that in time, The Word would become clear.”

  Ella leaned in close and whispered. “I’ve got a secret to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s just something parents tell their kids when they don’t have the answer. Don’t tell any of the other kids, okay?”

  William laughed, and so did Ella. Soon they were asleep.

  Chapter 12: Oliver

  Oliver stood beside Franklin, watching the morning bustle. The people on Market Street went about their business as they always did, but the energy had drained out of them. There were few jokes and few smiles. Conversation was hushed. It wasn’t unusual for the mood in the market to be a little off the day after The Cleansing, but this morning’s gloom made Oliver stay close to Franklin’s side. The mood frightened him in a way he couldn’t define.

  Pointing at a stall of vegetables, Franklin said, “Usually at this time of morning there’s plenty to choose from. I wonder if all the women shopped early today.”

  Oliver looked around, afraid his voice might carry. “I think people are afraid of what General Blackthorn is going to do with Ella Barrow’s friends.”

  Franklin rolled his eyes. “That’s got nothing to do with a food shortage in the market.”

  Oliver punched Franklin in the arm, hard enough to show his displeasure. “Father Winthrop treats me like I’m stupid all day long. Don’t you start.”

  Franklin turned to Oliver, started to say something and stopped. He took a deep breath and said, “Father Winthrop talks to you like you’re stupid because you won’t stop playing that game with him.”

  Oliver looked innocently at Franklin. “What game?”

  Franklin pushed Oliver, turned, and started up the street. “That game. You act like you’re a naïve, ignorant peasant and everybody believes it because you’re just a little kid. But every time you do it, you start asking Father Winthrop questions and at the end of it, he starts to feel stupid and loses his temper. That’s why he talks to you like your stupid. Because you make him feel stupid.”

  Oliver shrugged. “He beats me with a switch. He deserves it.”

  “Because you make him feel stupid. Just—” Franklin gave up on what he was going to say. “Don’t worry about it. Do what you want to do. Maybe you like getting beaten.”

  Oliver shook his head. He didn’t like it one bit. Under his breath he said, “I hate him.”

  Franklin spun on Oliver and leaned over. “Don’t ever say that out loud again. You hear me?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “He’ll beat you and put you in the orphanage or he’ll see a smudge on you—”

  “I don’t have a smudge,” Oliver said, suddenly frantic.

  “That’s what you don’t understand, Oliver. It doesn’t have to be there. Men with angry eyes see what they want to see. If you make him angry enough, he’ll see a smudge and he’ll put you on the pyre.”

  “The pyre?” Oliver’s mouth hung open.

  Franklin’s face softened and he straightened up. “Don’t you start crying. Not here. Not in the market.” Franklin looked around.

  Oliver cleared his throat and stood as straight as he could. “Sorry.”

  “Men don’t cry. You know that.”

  Oliver nodded. Everybody knew that.

  Franklin put an arm over Oliver’s shoulder and pulled him along. “Come on. We need a rabbit. Father Nelson is on his way from Coventry. He’ll be here for lunch and Father Winthrop wants Rabbit Stew.”

  Oliver sniffled and rubbed his eyes. “How did Father Nelson get here from Coventry so fast? What about The Cleansing there?”

  “They moved Novice Willard up to Father Willard,” Franklin said.

  “Willard is an imbecile.” Oliver spat on the ground.

  Franklin shook his head. “Father Willard took Father Nelson’s place in presiding over The Cleansing in Coventry.”

  Oliver asked, “What’s Father Nelson doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” Franklin said, “I want to help you, Oliver. You know that right?”

  “I know. You’re my only friend, Franklin.”

  Franklin nodded, gave Oliver a squeeze and let him go. “If you have questions, ask me, okay? Just do what Father Winthrop says, smile, and get good at keeping your mouth shut.”

  “But there are so many things I don’t understand.” Oliver planted his feet. He pointed back in the direction of the church building where Father Winthrop was probably still lying lazily in his giant bed, scratching himself and farting. “He knows The Word. He says The Word has all the answers but he never answers me.”

  Franklin shushed Oliver. “That’s what I mean. You need to learn not to say those things.”

  “I can’t ask questions?”

  Franklin leaned in close and in a whisper said, “Don’t ever question The Word. Ever. I don’t care if you believe it or not. You learn it when Father Winthrop teaches you. But you don’t ever, ever question it. If you think Father Winthrop’s beatings are bad now, wait until he hears you say something like that.”

  Oliver looked at his feet. “Sorry.”

  Franklin straightened and pointed to an empty place on the street. “Muldoon used to set up his stall there.”

  Oliver looked over. “He won’t be bringing anymore rabbits, I guess.”

  “I guess not.” Franklin started up the street again.
“As I was saying, you can ask me anything. I might not have the answers, but Scholar Evan is a friend of mine, and he knows things most people don’t. Beck’s scholars have a collection of ancient books—nearly twenty of them.”

  Oliver’s eyes went wide. “They’re rich?”

  Franklin nodded. “But they don’t see it that way. They study the books trying to learn about the past.”

  “What do they learn?” Oliver asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask Evan about it next time I see him.”

  Oliver walked along beside Franklin for a moment, trying to think of all the questions that nagged him, but his mind was suddenly blank.

  Franklin walked up to a stall where a vendor had five rabbits hanging by their feet. “I need a fat one,” he told the vendor. “A fresh one. It’s for Father Winthrop.”

  Oliver looked at the vendor’s face as Franklin said it. The vendor’s face flashed resentment, then stretched into a fawning, artificial smile.

  The vendor looked at the rabbits he had hanging by their hind feet. Then he glanced down at a covered basket by his own feet.

  “The rabbit?” Franklin said with a frown.

  The vendor seemed to deflate. “Of course.” He knelt down, flipped back the cloth that had been covering a basket, and exposed a rabbit that hadn’t yet been hung. “I killed this fat one before dawn. Father Winthrop will like it more than these others.” He pointed at the hanging rabbits. “These aren’t as fresh.”

  He extended the rabbit, and Oliver reached up and accepted it. As the younger novice, it was his duty to carry it for Franklin.

  “My compliments,” said the Vendor.

  Of course, thought Oliver. That’s what they all said. The clergy ate for free. It was the duty of any farmer or hunter to provide food upon request.

  Franklin said, “Father Winthrop thanks you for strengthening The Word through your efforts.”

  With that, the transaction ended and the two walked on to find some vegetables.

  Oliver said, “I thought of a question for Scholar Evan. I don’t understand where the circle wall came from.”

  Franklin laughed. “Of all the complicated things you ask Father Winthrop, that’s the question you want me to ask Scholar Evan?”

  Oliver smiled. “No. But that was all I could think of.”

  Franklin laughed some more. “Nobody really knows where it came from.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I asked the same question when I was your age.”

  Oliver asked, “What did you find out?”

  “Keep in mind, nothing is certain. These are just old stories passed down through the generations.”

  “Like The—” Oliver stopped himself before he finished saying The Word.

  Franklin gave him a stern look and raised his eyebrows.

  “I didn’t say it.” Oliver smiled. “The circle wall. Tell me what you know about that.”

  “They say the circle wall was here when Lady and Bruce founded Brighton.”

  “Why would there be a wall here?” Oliver asked. “There’s no ancient city, just a few ancient buildings.”

  “When the Ancients were dying, it is told that some of them fled here to get away from the twisted men that were conquering the ancient cities. They built the circle wall a full mile in every direction from the center of town.”

  “The square?” Oliver asked.

  “Of course.” Franklin frowned, as though the question were stupid.

  Oliver said, “That explains why there’s so much ancient stone in the circle wall.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And in the places where the stones are stacked,” Oliver asked, “those are the places where The People repaired it?”

  “Yes. That’s what I understood,” said Franklin.

  Oliver said, “There’s another thing I don’t understand. Why is it so big? Why not just build it around the town?”

  “Because they needed room for fields. They had to grow crops and they had to have places for the sheep to graze. Without the wall, the demons would have destroyed everything.”

  “But…” Oliver thought for a moment how to ask the next question. “If the Ancients built the wall and if it really worked to keep the demons out, what happened to the Ancients that used to live in Brighton? Lady and Bruce founded Brighton with the first fifty-seven people.”

  “The spore,” answered Franklin. “The spore took the Ancients who built the circle wall. That’s why we have The Cleansing twice each year. The circle wall protects us from the demons outside, but the only way we can protect ourselves internally is to get rid of the unclean before they harm anyone.”

  “Couldn’t we just turn them out to the forest?” Oliver asked.

  Just then, a group of merchants walked by, staring at Oliver and Franklin. They spoke in hushed tones.

  Franklin eyed them and then looked away. “No. We need to burn the unclean to keep safe. That is the only way.”

  Chapter 13: Bray

  Bray peered across the campsite at the man he intended to rob. Jeremiah was snoring. Next to him, thin smoke trickled from an extinguished fire, and the skinned remains of a squirrel hung on a stick. It was well past dawn, and they were up on one of the cliffs just outside Brighton. Bray had been following the other Warden since the previous evening. Jeremiah had set up camp next to a crumbled wall of stone, probably thinking he’d be protected from demons and thieves. The man’s bag was slung loosely over his shoulder, heaving up and down with each inebriated breath he took.

  Jeremiah wasn’t the smartest man in the wild.

  Unlike Bray, Jeremiah spent his silver almost as fast as he earned it, blowing it on as much snowberry as his stomach would hold. Any money he had left over was spent at The House of Barren Women. Jeremiah wasn’t even a skilled Warden. In the time Bray had known him, the man had brought in about eighty-five demon scalps—a pittance compared to the others.

  And yet Brighton continued to employ him.

  It was a shame, really, but the township was in no position to deny assistance. As long as demons roamed the countryside, the township would need the help of the Wardens to slay them. Each scalp netted a Warden five bits of silver—enough to fund a few decent meals.

  Or in Jeremiah’s case, a few more jugs of snowberry.

  Goddamn louse.

  Bray’s anger simmered as he stared at the sleeping man. Jeremiah was a waste, really. No one would miss him if he were gone. But killing him wasn’t Bray’s style. He’d rather let the man live and quietly leech off his earnings.

  Killing the man would be a poor investment.

  Bray crept across the campsite, stepping over several loose twigs and leaves, doing his best to mask his presence. He held his knife at the ready, even though he was confident he wouldn’t need it. He kept his sword in his scabbard.

  In the event the man awakened, Bray had a backup plan. He’d tell Jeremiah that he’d been chasing a demon, and that he’d stumbled on the campsite. In all likelihood, Jeremiah would be too drunk and disoriented to care.

  He’d probably even fall back asleep.

  Bray circled the doused fire, watching the sleeping man through the thin veil of smoke. He stopped to examine the smoldering squirrel. There was still some unclaimed meat on its bones. He reached out and poked the animal. Still warm. Smiling, he plucked the leftover meat and stuffed it into his mouth, pausing for a second to chew. He’d been so busy stalking Jeremiah that he hadn’t had a chance to eat.

  Free food and a demon scalp. What a take.

  After he scavenged the rest of the man’s meal, he continued over to Jeremiah. The drunken man was still snoring, with his pack looped over one shoulder. He was clutching the strap to his chest, as if it were the pale arm of a woman instead of a dirt-stained piece of fabric. The pack was tied shut.

  Damn.

  That would make things more difficult.

  He’d do what he had to do, and then he’d flee the area. When Jeremiah woke up, he p
robably wouldn’t even remember he’d had a fresh scalp in his pack. Bray smirked at the thought.

  He knelt down, paying close attention to the man’s breathing. Up close, the snoring was even louder than he’d anticipated, which gave him ample cover to do his business. He set his knife in the dirt and reached for the strings on the pack. As he’d expected, the knot was loosely tied. After a few pulls, he tugged the pack open.

  Jeremiah snorted.

  He released the pack and went still. Nerves crawled through his body; his pulse raced. Jeremiah readjusted, pulling the bag over his side and out of Bray’s reach. After a few seconds, he resumed snoring.

  Bastard. Bray shook his head.

  He’d wait another minute, just to make sure the man was asleep, and then he’d try again. His plan was to take the scalp to Davenport, where he’d hopefully trade it in for more silver than he’d get in Brighton. He already had a pack full, but another scalp would mean at least another five silver. He’d add it to his stockpile in the ruins once he got paid.

  Bray shimmied closer. The pack was resting on Jeremiah’s side, and it moved up and down with each alcohol-tainted breath. Bray could smell the man’s body odor—a mixture of dried demon blood and unwashed sweat—and he fought the urge to vomit.

  Rather than spending all his money on snowberry, the man should’ve bought himself a bath.

  Bray reached inside the pack again, weaving his way through the fabric, grazing a few items of clothing. A shirt. Pants. He searched for anything else of value. Maybe he’d find a few bits of silver. Eventually his hand closed around the scalp. Got it. He smiled and withdrew his hand.

  Before he could get it out of the pack, a large, calloused hand enveloped his wrist.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Jeremiah was awake, and he wasn’t happy. Bray tried to leap back, but the hand had a firm grip, and Bray lost his balance. He grabbed for his knife, but it was just out of reach.

  “Jeremiah! I was just—”

  “I know exactly what you were just trying to do, you goddamn thief!”

  Before Bray could retort, Jeremiah punched him. The blow was sloppy, but it was powerful enough to send Bray sprawling to the ground.