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

by Bobby Adair

  They were more than halfway up the mountain when Bray stopped again. The sun had disappeared, and the world was grainy and unclear. Bray was little more than an outline, his features indiscernible. He raised his hand and pointed at a jagged rock that protruded from the side of the mountain.

  “We’ll rest here,” he said.

  “Why here?” Ella asked

  Bray didn’t answer. She furrowed her brow as Bray scurried toward the rock. She watched as he traced the side with his hands, feeling his way around the edges, and suddenly he was gone, as if the darkness had swallowed him up.

  Was it some sort of cave?

  A minute passed. Ella’s panic grew as she glanced around the mountainside. What if Bray chose to leave them? For almost an entire day, she and William had been at the Warden’s side, trusting his guidance, and he was gone. She grabbed William’s arm, keeping him close while she waited for Bray to reappear.

  Ella and William remained still. The sounds of daytime had been replaced by newer, foreign sounds—sounds Ella couldn’t identify, and she found herself glancing every which direction, trying to pinpoint the sources.

  After another minute, Ella took a step toward the rock. William followed. She reached out and touched the outcropping, running her hands along the edge, trying to decipher where Bray had gone. She followed the contour of the stone until she’d found a small opening. She quickly retracted her hand.

  “Bray?” she hissed.

  No answer.

  Had something happened to him?

  “Bray?” she repeated.

  Her words echoed and died, as if she were nothing more than a specter, and the words she whispered were those of a ghost. There was no response from the dark hole. She envisioned Bray crawling through the cave, making his way toward some hidden exit, laughing as he left them behind. Was this some sort of trick? Had he ushered them up the mountain just to abandon them? Why wouldn’t he have abandoned them at the Ancient room?

  The longer she waited, the more Ella was certain that he’d left, and her fear turned to anger. She should’ve known better than to trust him. He was just a Skin-Seller, after all. She’d been warned about his ilk. And yet she’d followed him like a child.

  What a fool she’d been.

  Ella turned around, and was ready to collect her son and find safety, when a voice sprang from the darkness.

  “Ella? It’s safe. Come on in.”

  She hesitated, still in the throes of anger. When she looked back at William, she could hardly see his face.

  “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  She and William dropped to hands and knees, their elbows and knees scraping against the floor of the cave. Ella couldn’t see anything in front of her, but every once in a while she heard Bray’s hushed voice guiding her onward. The first ten feet were narrow, but suddenly the cave opened up, and she was able to straighten her back and lift her head.

  “That’s far enough,” Bray said.

  She felt around in the black and found William’s arm. He startled as she took hold of it. She glanced back in the direction from which they’d come, but could see only a pinprick of light in the distance. The cave reeked of animal urine.

  “I can’t see, Mom.”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  Ella settled into place. She grabbed hold of her son and held him tight against her. The cave was cold. Her arms goose bumped, and she felt drafts coming from unseen places. Even though it was early autumn, it felt like the cave had preserved the last remains of the dead winter before.

  “Why didn’t you answer us?” Ella asked.

  “I’m sorry. I was checking the other side. There’s another opening letting out about ten feet further along the mountain. I had to make sure no one else had gotten in. Don’t worry—we should be safe.”

  “It’s cold in here.”

  “There’s not much I can do,” Bray explained. “It’s too confined an area to risk a fire tonight. Besides, someone might see the light shining from the cave entrance.”

  “Do the other Wardens know about this cave?” Ella asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen anyone else here, and I’ve been careful not to share the location.”

  “How’d you find it?”

  “My father showed me.” Bray went quiet. He rubbed his hands together, and she heard him adjust his pack. A minute later, he stretched out on the floor. “We’re going to be here a while,” he said into the darkness. “So you might want to close your eyes and pretend you’re back at home.”

  Ella remained in a sitting position, her mind aflutter. Ever since she’d left Brighton, she’d been unable to relax, and she doubted she’d be able to relax now. Even her night in the ancient room had been restless. But at least there they’d had a fire. She heard the scuff of boots and hands next to her. William removed his pack, but he didn’t lay it down. It sounded like he was waiting for permission. Either that, or his mind was as preoccupied as hers.

  “Why don’t you get some rest, honey?” she urged.

  “Okay.”

  William took off his pack and dropped it to the floor. He adjusted and laid down. Ella remained upright, listening to the din of insects and animals outside the cave. Although she didn’t like their situation, it was better than being out there. She held her breath for seconds at a time, trying to convince herself that nothing was crawling in after them, that no one had seen them enter. After several minutes of silence, she finally laid down.

  Ella held her hands up in front of her eyes, but could see nothing—not a shape, not an outline. The walls and the ceiling were black. Even in her darkest dreams, there’d always been some measure of illumination. If it weren’t for the nervous breath of her son beside her, she’d have been certain she was in Hell.

  She didn’t know what Hell was like, exactly. She’d heard Father Winthrop’s stories and rhetoric, but she’d never been able to get a clear vision. Could anything be worse than a town that burned its citizens alive? A town where even the thickest of blood was betrayed? Even on her happiest days, Ella had always lived under a cloud of fear, a sobering knowledge that everything she had could be taken away in an instant.

  Losing Ethan had proven that. And now they’d want William.

  But all that is behind you now. You’ve made it out.

  She tried hard to convince herself, but found little comfort.

  Still cold, she held her arms to her chest and did her best to keep warm. She’d packed a few blankets, but she hadn’t thought she’d need them. Not this soon. Winter was still months away. She could hear the thin breathing of William beside her.

  “Do you need a blanket, William?”

  The boy paused. “Yes.”

  Ella shifted in the darkness, locating the drawstring on her bag. She loosened it by memory, untangling the knot she’d tied. She dug through her belongings and pulled out a thin blanket. The fabric felt strange in her hands. It’d been her aunt’s. She’d never envisioned using it in a place like this. She handed it to William. Bray shifted from somewhere beside them.

  “Bray?” William asked, after a pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “How’d your father find this place?”

  “My father was a wise man. He knew lots of things others didn’t.”

  “Was he a Warden?”

  “Yes. He was like me, only stronger. I have no doubt he sold two thousand scalps in his lifetime.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He was well revered in the wild.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Edward Atkins. But everyone called him Fuller. He was the toughest man I’ve ever known. If he hadn’t taught me the way he did, I would’ve died a long time ago.”

  “Why’d they call him Fuller and not Edward?”

  Bray cleared his throat. “According to legend, he was fighting a band of demons by himself, close to the mountains, when his sword snapped. Most men would’ve run. But not my father. Rather than flee, he fought the entire
swarm with a broken blade, and he didn’t stop until he’d defeated them.”

  “How many did he kill?”

  “Eight of them.”

  “With only half a weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why do they call him Fuller?”

  “The Fuller is the middle of the blade, between the point and the shoulder. That’s where his sword snapped, according to the tale.”

  “How’d he do it? How’d he defeat them?”

  “My father never spoke of it. The only way we knew was because of the blacksmith. He told the town after my father brought the sword in to be melted down. Word quickly spread. For years, my father wouldn’t respond to the nickname, but he finally gave in. Fuller was a tough man, but he was also humble.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  Bray went silent for a second. “Not anymore.”

  “Did the demons get him?”

  “William!” Ella warned. “That’s not polite.”

  “It’s okay,” Bray said, clearing his throat. “He died in combat. He was part of Blackthorn’s army during the Great War.”

  Ella’s heart thumped.

  “Blackthorn? General Blackthorn from Brighton?”

  “Yes, but not the Blackthorn you know. Blackthorn’s father. Fuller was promised a small fortune to join the man’s army, and he agreed so that he could provide a better life for us. Unfortunately, he never came home.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” William said, regret in his voice.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. My father died with honor. That’s more than I can say for a lot of people nowadays.”

  The cave went silent, filled only with the subtle chatter of insects outside. Ella heard the scuff of a boot, then the sound of her son turning over. She could tell William was getting tired.

  “My father was brave, too,” he said, after a pause.

  “Was he a soldier?” Bray asked.

  “No. He was a farmer. But he was a great man, and everyone respected him. They were all upset when he was taken to the pyre.”

  “He was infected?”

  “Yes, but he turned himself in. He was a courageous man. The only thing he cared about was that we were safe.”

  “He certainly sounds brave,” Bray agreed.

  “He was.”

  William stifled a yawn, and Ella reached over and fixed his blankets. “Why don’t you get some rest, honey?” she coaxed.

  “Okay, I’ll try,” he said.

  Within a few seconds, she heard the soft sounds of William sleeping. Ella lay awake for a while longer, contemplating the things her son had said about Ethan. William was right. Ethan had been brave, and up until the end, all he’d thought of was his family.

  She held onto that thought as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 22: Minister Beck

  Beck sat at the ancient table, alone. According to Blackthorn family legend, it was salvaged from some ancient building when The People numbered less than five hundred. The table was intricately constructed with various wood grains and colors, and the edges were cut in beautifully pleasing curves. The feet were carved into animals’ ornate legs that curved up to support the massive table, and each side seated a dozen. Beck knew of no such piece of furniture ever having been made in Brighton. The legend had to be true.

  At the moment, it was just Beck and Evan.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and through it came a woman with a single glass of water on a tray. It was an actual glass, not a carved, wooden cup that stank of all the soaked-in soup grease and wines it had once held. Beck knew from dinners and celebrations in Blackthorn’s dining room that Blackthorn had enough glasses to set one in front of every man at a full table. Such was the opulence of Blackthorn’s home.

  Beck knew that many merchants were wealthy enough to own glass cups, and even porcelain plates, but few had matched sets, and fewer still could feed two dozen with matching pieces.

  The girl sat the glass in front of Beck. “I can bring you a snack while you wait on the others, if you’d like.”

  Beck smiled. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  With a nod, she pointed to a little silver bell halfway across the table. “If you need anything, just ring.”

  “Of course.” Beck had been here enough times that he didn’t need that instruction. The girl must be new. He smiled at her again and she walked back to the kitchen.

  A moment later, Father Winthrop arrived with his novice, Franklin, in tow. “Good evening, Minister Beck.”

  “Hello.” Beck smirked. It was an immature game that angered Winthrop and amused Beck. Every man needed his simple indulgences.

  Franklin scooted the chair out for Winthrop, waited until Winthrop got comfortable at the table, and took his place against the wall behind him.

  Winthrop treated his novices like women, in Beck’s opinion. That was a shame.

  Another girl came out of the kitchen with a plate of berries and sliced apples. She sat the plate on the table between Winthrop and Beck. “General Blackthorn will be here in a moment.”

  “Thank you, girl,” said Winthrop.

  Beck smiled and imagined what she might look like under that dress.

  Once the girl had gone back into the kitchen, Winthrop said, “If you’d marry, you wouldn’t have to ogle every pleasant-faced woman you see, and spend your evenings touching yourself.”

  Well, it was certainly starting early this evening. “If only I had the practiced hands of a novice to touch it for me,” Beck answered with a wry smile.

  Winthrop turned red and Franklin stifled a giggle.

  Blackthorn entered the room, with two armed men following close behind. Franklin’s giggle stopped. The men took up positions against the wall behind the head of the table. Blackthorn crossed the room in silence, gave Beck and Winthrop a curt nod, and sat at the head of the table. He reached over and selected a slice of apple. “Eat, gentlemen.”

  Beck and Winthrop each took a piece of fruit.

  “Beck, you said you had urgent matters to talk about at this meeting. Why don’t you start?” Blackthorn crunched the green apple slice.

  Beck swallowed a strawberry and said, “All of you are aware of the work that Scholar Evan has been doing with the census.”

  “A waste of time,” Winthrop muttered.

  “So you say.” Beck reached out and scooted the plate of fruit closer to Winthrop. “Please, Father, have more berries.”

  Winthrop glared at Beck, but didn’t take any.

  Beck turned to Blackthorn. “What we hoped to learn from the counting, as you might recall, is how to manage our food supply. Since the times of the Fifty-Seven, ration management has been critical to the survival of The People.”

  “The farmers have always provided,” Winthrop said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “In our lifetimes, yes,” Beck said, “but not always. We’ve heard stories about the famines of old.”

  The table remained silent.

  Having captured their attention, Beck continued. “Through a variety of analytical processes—”

  “Spare us your meaningless words.” Winthrop smiled wickedly. “We all know you’re smart, Beck. That’s why you’re the minister of learning.”

  Beck was unfazed. “Our population is growing faster than at any time in the past.”

  “How can you know?” Winthrop asked.

  Beck looked at Winthrop innocently, thanking the stars Evan had provided him with the fodder he could use to humiliate Winthrop. “Analytical processes.”

  Behind Winthrop, Franklin failed to completely suppress a smile. Beck would have to talk with Evan about that boy. The boy didn’t appear to be completely enthralled by Winthrop, despite the years he’d spent as the man’s novice. Maybe he could be of use to Beck.

  “Continue, please.” Blackthorn was irritated early. Usually it wasn’t until the main course arrived that he lost his patience.

  “As you all know, the winters have b
een longer these past few years,” said Beck.

  Winthrop huffed and leaned back in his chair with a handful of berries. “I thought we were talking about how many people your odd Scholar Evan had counted.”

  “Enough.” Blackthorn pounded the table. That was exceptionally early. Beck wondered what else might be going on that he wasn’t aware of. Perhaps Beck would have to snoop around and find out.

  Beck looked at Winthrop. “Father, seven of the last ten winters have been longer than usual. The day of the first freeze arrives sooner each year. The date of the last snow comes later. What’s more, the springs and summers have been drier in six of those years. This has been particularly pronounced in the past five years.”

  Blackthorn crunched another apple slice.

  “The People do gorge themselves when the weather is good,” Beck conceded. “But The People also preserve food. They dry fruits, vegetables, and meats. They store grains and nuts. When times are good, their stores grow. When times are bad, their stores shrink, as do the stocks in the townships’ storehouses. When winters are long, the farmers cannot feed their pigs, goats, and sheep because they don’t have enough grain. They don’t have enough to feed themselves. So they kill some of the animals to feed their families and stretch their hay, so that the remaining animals will live through the winter. But when they kill too many animals, they have fewer baby animals in the spring. Fewer baby animals means less meat and less goat’s milk during the summer and the next winter.”

  Trying his best to seem bored, Winthrop said, “When the weather is better, the farm animals do well and have more offspring. Natural cycles. That is what we’re talking about here, right?”

  “No, it is more than that,” Beck said. “Weather variations are natural, of course. The history that my weathermen keep shows that we have cycles of five to ten years in which the winters are colder and the summers are dryer. Those harsh cycles are offset by periods of five or ten years when the winters and summers are mild.”

  “Then these cold winters are past us.” Winthrop dusted his hands together to dramatize his point. “Good riddance.”