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

by Bobby Adair

  He released the breath he’d been holding.

  Ella and William remained silent. Even if the soldiers were gone, the forest wasn’t safe. They’d wait until morning, and then all three of them would head to Davenport. Bray would just need to avoid the common road.

  His eyes flitted across the stars, as if he were plotting a trip of the heavens rather than planning a trip to Davenport. If all went well, they’d reach town by midday. He’d give Ella and William their belongings back, and then they’d part ways.

  More minutes passed.

  He’d wait a little longer. If he heard nothing in that time, he’d get some sleep.

  The opening of the cave went dark.

  Bray’s pulse spiked.

  He tightened his grip on the knife. Someone was breathing heavily outside of the cave’s entrance, but he could make out nothing of the person’s appearance. A voice echoed across the walls of the cave.

  “Throw your weapons and come out of there. Don’t make us come in after you.”

  He recognized the speaker.

  It was Rodrigo.

  Chapter 27: Father Winthrop

  Father Winthrop sat in his favorite evening chair, watching the light from the fire reach across the large room and play along the wrinkles in his bed sheets.

  He was angry and he was sad.

  The image of young Jenny’s head on the spike would not leave him alone. Between the Cleansing yesterday, and Blackthorn’s putting all of Ella Barrow’s friends’ heads on spikes today, it was hard to bear so much death. The Cleansing was necessary, of course. But the spiking?

  Jenny, eyes glued to Winthrop, had begged him to spare her life in front of half the town, right in the middle of the square. She’d looked at him with those engaging brown eyes, as wisps of her wild, sandy hair blew across her face and clung to the tears on her cheeks. Her wrenching pleas seemed to have been birthed rather than cried, thrust into a ghost realm where they could haunt him over and over. And the ghost of her familiar voice keened above the crackle of the fire in his bedchamber. Imagination? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell.

  What he did know, what he felt, as solidly real as he felt the hard wood of the chair beneath him, was hate. Not hate for simple-minded Jenny, but for Blackthorn. It was on Blackthorn’s whim that the sword came down on the back of her neck, crunching bone and tearing ligaments, squeezing one last attenuated scream from the condemned woman. Those sounds haunted Winthrop, too. They turned his grief into nausea that rose in his chest and burned his throat when he swallowed it back down. Together, it mixed with the guilt in his gut and turned his bowels to water.

  Father Winthrop grunted audibly at the cramps in his belly.

  If he’d known that cowardly Ella’s Barrow’s best friend had been a sandy-haired girl from The House of Barren Women, he would’ve prearranged for Jenny to be elsewhere before Blackthorn’s men pulled her to the platform. But Winthrop didn’t have that foresight, and for that reason he felt guilt.

  Unfortunately, once Jenny had been rounded up and corralled in the square with the rest of Ella’s friends and acquaintances, Winthrop had no choice but to ignore her. To brush away the brutal hand of Blackthorn’s justice in front of all the town’s men and women would be to sow the seeds of anarchy in the minds of the simple peasants. It would give them the false hope that they too could sidestep deserved justice. Anarchy would grow and that would be the death of them all.

  Or would it?

  That made Father Winthrop wonder. Was it the thick sword arm of a brutal dunce terrorizing the townsfolk that coerced them into obedience, or was it something else? Certainly Blackthorn was the leader of the Council of Elders—though no such position formally existed—so his brand of rigid rules and harsh justice was most visible. But no, Father Winthrop suspected that the foundation of society was not fear, but love of The Word and devotion to it.

  Our beliefs. Our god. Those are the threads that hold the fabric of our society together.

  Winthrop sat up straight and repeated that epiphany in his head.

  Surely that had to be true. Winthrop nodded, letting this conviction sink down to his core.

  That epiphany almost made Jenny’s death meaningful.

  The Council of Elders should not be a military dictator with two impotent figureheads alongside. In fact, it shouldn’t be a council at all. As the Bishop of Brighton and head of the church, Father Winthrop was the natural choice for leading the government. Who else would know what was best for the people? Who else knew the divine Word as intimately as he?

  Something needed to change. The government needed to change. And as a pillar of the government, Father Winthrop needed to change it. He let those thoughts germinate for a bit while he tried to repress the fear he felt for Blackthorn. In the meantime, he went back to staring at the bed sheets, watching Jenny’s head topple from her neck and reliving her haunting scream.

  The knock on his door came later than expected, but it was a welcome one, chasing away the memories of the day’s brutality. “Enter, boy.”

  The door latch scraped and Franklin pushed the door open. He squeezed through the small gap he’d made for himself and closed it behind him.

  “Tell me about her,” Father Winthrop asked.

  “She is from The House of Barren Women.”

  “I should hope so.” Father’s Winthrop’s emotional distress turned to vitriol. “That is where I sent you, is it not?”

  Franklin flinched back a step. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Winthrop turned to look at the fire. In a tone that belied his words, he said, “You are forgiven. What is her age?”

  “Twenty-six at most.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Yes Father, but most of those women either don’t know or they lie.”

  Father Winthrop nodded slowly. That was true enough.

  “But she looks to be of that age,” Franklin added.

  “Good.” Winthrop turned on the boy. “Two years ago, when Jenny was down with the fever, you brought me a wrinkled crone to take her place. I wonder sometimes if you can tell a young woman from an old one.”

  Franklin looked at the floor, futilely hiding a smile. “I may not recall correctly, Father, but I understood that you enjoyed your morning with Beverly very much.”

  “Beverly. Was that her name?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I did enjoy my time with her.” Winthrop smiled weakly. “That is true.”

  “If you enjoyed her, why did you not ask me to bring her again?”

  “She was not pleasing to my eye. Still, one wonders, with her skill and imagination at bringing a man to pleasure, how she could have remained barren for all the years of her long life.”

  Franklin meekly said, “Some say the fault may lie with the man.”

  “I assure you, young Franklin, that no fault lies with me. I spent my seed just as any true man should. I do my duty every time you fetch a barren woman for me.”

  “My apologies, Father. I didn’t mean that.”

  “Of course.” Winthrop’s voice softened. “Speak no more of such heresies. Tell me about the girl you brought. If she is a girl of sandy hair and brown eyes, I’ll flog you. I have no desire to be reminded of yesterday’s atrocity. I wish to forget all my times with Jenny by drowning those memories in the arms of another.”

  “Her hair is raven black. Her eyes are blue ice. Her skin is milk white.”

  “And her breasts?”

  “Large.”

  Winthrop nodded approval as he mumbled. “Jenny had small breasts.” This woman didn’t sound like she looked anything like her. “How long has she been in The House of Barren Women?”

  “Two years.”

  “Good. I have no desire to work through a woman’s fear of men. And the woman who runs the place, Mary, what did she say of this girl?”

  “Mary assured me that Fitzgerald—”

  “Fitzgerald?” Father Winthrop didn’t like that name at all. “An odd name
for a girl, don’t you think?”

  “It is the name of one of the first fifty-seven.”

  “Do you think I do not know that, Franklin?”

  “My apologies, Father. I…I don’t know why I said that. Would you like me to bring her in?”

  “In a moment.” Father Winthrop’s face turned thoughtful. He appraised Franklin as he recalled his vindictive hate for Blackthorn. A dim hope was brimming in his head, a hope that he might have the strength and cunning in him to make the change in the government that he yearned for. Winthrop asked, “You are good with numbers, is that true?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “What is the highest number you can count?”

  Franklin giggled. “There is no theoretical limit to the numbers that can be counted. Thank you for testing my knowledge with that question, Father.”

  Father Winthrop snorted. He’d have to ask someone else to find out whether that was true. It couldn’t be true though, could it? No limit? That made no sense at all. “You spend too much time in the company of that strange bird, Scholar Evan.”

  “He has taught me much, Father.”

  “Good.” Winthrop scratched his head and thought about his nascent plans. “I have questions that I want you to find answers for.”

  “Questions with numbers?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What answers would you like me to find, Father?”

  “How many men take their devotion to The Word to heart?”

  “All men do, of course,” Franklin answered.

  “I don’t ask how many men sleep through the recital of The Word, young Franklin. Nearly all of the men attend our devotional service. I ask how many men sit in the pew and passionately assimilate every word, longing for the next word in the way a soft-hearted man longs to touch a woman under her skirts.”

  Franklin said, “Pardon my ignorance in these matters, Father, but may I ask why this number is important?”

  “I need to know how many men’s devotion to The Word is absolute,” said Winthrop.

  “This may not be an easy answer to find,” said Franklin. “It may not be a matter of simply counting. How soon will you need this number?”

  “I know that it may be hard to find this answer. Consult with Scholar Evan. Perhaps he has knowledge of these things through the census that he runs each year. We’ll talk more about this in a fortnight. Tell me at that time what you know.”

  “I will.” Franklin gestured to the closed door behind him. “Would you like me to let her in now?”

  “Yes. I’m tired of talking and thinking.”

  Chapter 28: Bray

  Bray sat silent in the cave, listening to the demands of the men outside. Someone must’ve heard him. Someone must’ve seen him enter. He gritted his teeth. He sensed Ella and William behind him, huddled in a corner.

  “Get the hell out here, now!” Rodrigo yelled.

  It sounded like the man’s rage was increasing by the second. Bray could probably spring from the cave and slash the man’s throat, but there was at least another soldier with him. As confident as Bray could be, he wasn’t careless, and he wasn’t stupid.

  He crept backward on hands and knees, keeping his eye on the darkened entrance. Soon, he was crouched next to Ella and William. He felt for Ella’s arm, drew her close, and hissed in her ear.

  “I’ll check the other exit. Hold still.”

  He gave one last look at the dark entrance, then turned and made his way to the other side of the cave. As he crawled, he held onto his scabbarded sword, trying to distill any noise it might make. It didn’t take long to determine that the other exit was compromised.

  The soldiers had them walled in on both ends. It looked like there were three—two at the main entrance and one at the other. He wasn’t sure where the fourth had gone. He returned to Ella and William and gave them strict, whispered instructions to hug the wall, then took out Ella’s knife and pressed it back into her hand. He made for the original entrance.

  The soldiers conversed loudly. One of them talked about coming in. Another insisted tossing in a torch and burning them out.

  “Wait a moment!” Bray yelled. “I’m coming. Can’t a man get some sleep?”

  “Throw your sword and come out slowly!” Rodrigo yelled. By the sounds of it, he was in no mood for jesting.

  Rodrigo stepped away from the entrance, revealing the glow of several torches outside. The light permeated the cave, bouncing off the walls, and Bray had the sudden, panicked thought that Ella and William were about to be exposed. He continued crawling, trying to block the light and capture the men’s focus. When he’d reached the entrance, he unsheathed his sword—a difficult task, considering he was in the cave’s mouth—and tossed it in front of him.

  There were three soldiers at the main entrance. The one from the back had already joined the others. Bray’s eyes darted from Rodrigo to his two companions, taking them in. The fourth—the one with the beard—was missing. Bray glanced instinctively down the mountainside, as if he’d catch a glimpse of him, but saw only the dim outlines of stones and mountain shrubs. It was possible the inebriated Warden had killed him. Either that or Rodrigo had.

  Rodrigo’s face was yellow and hardened. He bent down and retrieved Bray’s sword, grinning. A second later, one of the others walked over and held a blade under Bray’s chin.

  “Is that any way to treat a protector of the settlements?” Bray asked.

  “Shut up, Skin-Seller. Come out the rest of the way. If you make any sudden movements, I’ll slit your throat,” the soldier warned.

  “Relax. I was just trying to sleep.”

  Bray climbed out of the cavern. He attempted to stand, but the soldier kept the blade at his throat and prompted him to stay on his knees. Bray’s anger rose. He envisioned thrusting a knife into the man’s neck, watching him spill blood onto the side of the mountain.

  But not yet. Not while he was outnumbered.

  Rodrigo bent down, coming to within inches of Bray’s face. His cheeks were flecked with wet blood. His breath stank of woodland squirrel.

  “Hopefully, you’ll be as uncooperative as the last one.” Rodrigo grinned wickedly.

  His eyes effused the same madness Bray had seen before, but this time the madness was amplified, fueled by confrontation and violence.

  “Aren’t you breaking the pact between Wardens and Soldiers?” Bray reminded him. “Unless you have proof of some wrongdoing, I haven’t done anything to warrant this treatment.”

  “To hell with the code,” Rodrigo spat.

  “Even out in the wild, there are rules. You know that. Aren’t you from Brighton? Blackthorn must’ve taught you that.”

  At the sound of the General’s name, Rodrigo backed up a step and lowered his sword. The soldier next to him followed his lead. The one with the knife to Bray’s neck remained in place.

  “I’ll answer your questions,” Bray said. “But I’ll do it on my feet.”

  Rodrigo gave a reluctant nod, and the third soldier lifted the blade from Bray’s neck. All at once, Bray was free. He bent down, making a show of getting to his feet.

  “Now, how can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for a woman and a boy,” Rodrigo said.

  “A woman and a boy? In the wild?”

  “Yes. They’re infected, and they killed two soldiers back in Brighton while fleeing The Cleansing.”

  “A woman and a boy wouldn’t last long out here,” Bray said, making it so obvious that even the dim-witted, angry Rodrigo might conclude the same. “Did you search for remains?”

  Rodrigo didn’t bite. “There’re no remains. We know they had help.”

  “It’s possible, but I haven’t come across them.”

  Rodrigo glared at him, and Bray noticed the two other soldiers eyeing the cave’s entrance. He held his position, doing his best to appear cooperative, but blocking their view.

  “If they passed through this area, I probably would’ve seen them. I’ve b
een out hunting all day.”

  “They’re infected,” Rodrigo reiterated, giving him a sideways glance. “They’re dangerous.”

  “Like I said, I haven’t laid eyes on them.”

  The other two soldiers scowled in silence.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” one of the other ones asked.

  “Sleeping. What’s it look like? I’m on my way to Davenport.”

  “What do you have in the cave?”

  “My bag and belongings.”

  “We’ll need to check. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  Before he could protest, the soldiers moved to push him away from the entrance, torches held high. Rodrigo remained in place, locking eyes with him. He was still holding Bray’s sword. It felt like Rodrigo was daring him to make a move.

  The man’s eyes were like coals.

  Bray kept his eyes locked with Rodrigo, reaching for the knife he had tucked in the back of his pants.

  Bray sprang at Rodrigo.

  Chapter 29: Ella

  Ella listened to Bray and the soldiers talking outside the cave, her pulse climbing. She held William in her arms, waiting for the inevitable to occur—for the soldiers to find them—to be forced to fight.

  On Bray’s instructions, they’d crawled as far from the entrances as possible, doing their best to stay concealed in the cave’s darkness. Even then, she knew hiding was no guarantee of safety. If the men were to come inside, surely they’d find her and William.

  She listened to the soldiers outside speak about the escapees from Brighton. The words sounded strange, as if the events had transpired to people she’d never known, in some place far away. It was hard to believe what her life had become. In just two days, her living space, her profession, and her safety had been stripped from her, all because of a society that would rather kill than listen.

  She couldn’t go back there. Wouldn’t go back there. And neither would William.

  The soldier’s harsh young voice came to an unexpected stop. Bray had made his case, apparently hoping to convince the soldiers the cave was empty, but they’d insisted on seeing for themselves. The torches grew brighter in the cave entrance, and Ella closed her eyes, as if she could make herself invisible. They’d almost made it undetected. They’d come so far…