The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  He had to kill them all.

  Chapter 20: Kirby

  Whirs and clanks filled the air. Smoke from the city’s shops permeated the loud, sweltering room and lingered in Kirby’s nose.

  All around her, slaves toiled, dripping sweat. Some wore thick gloves, or aprons over their usual clothes, while a few wore crude masks. Some workers manipulated long sheets of metal in larger machines, curving or cutting, while others fashioned smaller bits. About half the workers were women. A few people peered at Kirby between their duties, even though she had already been in the building for a little while.

  Near the back of the room, several long workbenches sat at a small distance from the wall, with bins for scraps and piles of metal placed between them. Some of the benches contained smaller metal machines, with sweaty people using them, or using hand tools. Racks hung in orderly rows on either side of the room, containing the tools not in use.

  The woman named Rosita, with whom she’d been paired, led her to the back. Rosita’s face was ruddy, flecked with sweat. “We work mostly with sheet metal in here. I’ve heard you have some experience.”

  “Yes, I have experience, but it has been a while,” Kirby said.

  She hoped the lie wouldn’t bury her.

  “We wondered if someone would fill Jonah’s spot,” Rosita mused, loudly enough to be heard over the whir of the machines. “We thought they would increase our workload.”

  Kirby nodded. She knew the loss of a worker could affect the others. “I was in the fields.”

  Rosita nodded. “I remember you. You arrived a few weeks ago.” Handing Kirby a leather apron and gloves, she said, “You’ll want to wear these.”

  Kirby donned the clothes. As she put them on, she glanced sideways at a few guards who chatted outside the doorway, past the bevy of machines. They seemed glad to be away from the sweaty slaves.

  Pointing around the room, Rosita explained, “We have blacksmiths in other buildings that forge tools, or make molds, but most in this building work on lathes or English wheels. The people on the benches, like us, mostly use hand tools: shears, metal brakes, and a few other implements.”

  Kirby nodded. She’d been around some of the machines before, though she’d never used them.

  Rosita explained, “Right now I am working on a project for The Learning Building. We’re fashioning some sheets of metal to reinforce the windows on the lower floors. You can help.” Pointing to a stack of metal on the floor, between the workbench and the bin next to it, she said, “This is the material we’ll use.”

  Kirby examined the pile of metal. Most was in square or rectangular shapes, looking as if it had been pulled from the rubble in ruined cities.

  Answering Kirby’s unspoken question, Rosita said, “The metal was traded from people in the forests. The guards bring in new batches to ensure that we don’t run out.” Pointing at a piece of sheet metal leaning against the wall, she said, “That is the piece we are matching to make the barricades for the windows. It is our template. We don’t have to be exact, but the guards—and Rudyard—want it close.”

  “I understand,” Kirby said.

  Gesturing at a long rectangular tool affixed to the workbench, Rosita explained, “That’s our metal brake, which helps us keep straight lines. For this project, I have had luck with metal shears. We only need to make sure the metal is large enough to cover the window frames. The guards aren’t concerned with the edges.” Rosita nodded to a pair of thick metal clippers on the nearby bench. “Can you help me with a sheet?”

  Rosita directed Kirby toward the next sheet in the pile, which she helped pick up. With Kirby’s help, Rosita propped up the metal, making a straight line down the side with her shears, matching the template piece. When she was finished, she said, “We put the scraps in a bin over here, to be used by some other metal shops. Other workers take the bins away during our shift, as they get full.”

  Rosita tossed the long, skinny pieces of scrap in the bin nearby. Peeking over into the bin, Kirby saw a few other scraps at the bottom, in various shapes and sizes. Most were thin and small enough to give her ideas. She glanced outside the building. Past the slew of workers and machines, the guards chatted, looking in the room only occasionally.

  Ensuring that no one saw her gazing too long, she looked back at Rosita, helping with another cut.

  “Can I work on the next piece?” Kirby asked Rosita.

  “Sure,” Rosita answered. “Give it a try. When you are good enough, you can work by yourself.”

  Chapter 21: William

  “Where are you going, William?” Amelia called over.

  “I’m just taking a break,” he said, straightening his shoulders, as if he were proud of his robe. He gave her a friendly wave as he walked into the room with the glass cases. After he left, Amelia ambled over to chat with Barron. A few other Gifted grumbled, or held quiet conversation.

  Using his moments alone, William walked to the glass cases.

  Peering through the first, he studied a circular, glass bauble. The weapons and trinkets in the glass cases were more familiar than they were a few weeks ago, but instead of filling him with wonder, they filled him with sadness. Rather than picture the mysterious tribes who made them, he couldn’t help thinking of how they were dead. Who knew what ends they had met?

  Perhaps some died at the hands of The Gifted.

  Knowing what he knew now, William wouldn’t be surprised.

  Moving along, he studied one of the long knives with cryptic carvings on its handle, gleaming underneath the case. Next to it was a sideways bow with a long, wooden handle. He’d only seen one thing as strange in his travels, but not in a while. Beside them, he saw more knives and swords. Some had obvious uses. And it wouldn’t take much practice to learn the ones that were new to him.

  But how would he get to them?

  He peeked over toward the doorway, ensuring that no one was in view before tapping softly on one of the cases. The glass was thicker than most similar barriers he’d seen. He didn’t see a lock, or a place where he could pry the cases open. He recalled one of the buildings he’d been in long ago, filled with broken pieces of stone that came up from the floor, surrounded by glass. He’d been told that place was an Ancient museum. Such places were used to preserve artifacts, instead of using them. The concept was strange to William, but it matched what The Gifted had done here.

  The weapons were protected in a way that was difficult—nearly impossible—to get through without sheer force.

  And breaking the glass was a surefire way to get noticed, or killed.

  He’d be overwhelmed before he could take down more than one or two of his enemies. He needed to kill all of The Gifted—not just a few.

  Through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of Barron speaking with Amelia. More Gifted sat in their chairs around them. Looking at their large, imposing figures, William knew he couldn’t single-handedly kill all of them with primitive weapons. He might kill one or two before the others reacted, but they would overwhelm him. They might have weapons he couldn’t see, and they certainly had guards.

  He wanted the weapons in the room to be the answer, but he didn’t see how.

  A foolish fantasy played in his head. Maybe he could sneak up at night, barricade himself in the room, and break the glass cases. He could create a stronghold with his weapons and battle off anyone who came to harm him. He would be king of the shimmering tower, if only for a while.

  But that was a way to death, even if death didn’t come quickly. He would starve, or The Gifted would send more guards or demons than he could handle. They would beat down the door and overwhelm him.

  They would kill him before he raised a rusted knife.

  Or maybe they’d keep him alive, so he could watch his other friends killed.

  The glass cases weren’t the answer.

  He needed a better way to ensure that he wiped The Gifted from the earth. He needed a way that might lead to his friends’ freedom, as impossible as that sounded.


  He needed Tech Magic.

  Chapter 22: Bray

  Bray hurried down the alley. Around him, slaves carried buckets of water to or from their houses, or cleaned up from lunch. A few children played games with stones in the alley, stacking them and knocking them over. Relief crossed his face as he found Kirby.

  “I saw you pulled from the line,” Bray said. “What happened?”

  He looked her up and down, thinking she might have an injury he couldn’t see.

  “Ollie took me from harvest duty,” Kirby explained. “He took me to his house.” Seeing the worried look on Bray’s face, she added, “He did not touch me, though that was his intent.”

  Kirby told him about being brought to Ollie’s quarters, as well as the task she was assigned. She also relayed Esmeralda’s story about a vicious attack she had suffered. Bray’s anger roiled as he heard about Ollie’s demeaning words and his searching hands.

  “If his family wasn’t there, things might have gone differently,” Kirby said.

  “I will slit his throat before he touches you again,” Bray promised.

  “You will not have to,” Kirby said. “I will kill him myself.”

  Bray cooled his anger. Kirby had never needed his protection, as much as he wanted to give it.

  “I know men like him,” Bray said. “He will keep trying, until he succeeds.”

  “You think I do not know that?” Kirby’s eyes filled with the same rage he had seen that first day in the courtyard, when a guess had become a stinging reality and they were enslaved. “I will deflect him as long as I am able. I have dealt with many men like him. When the day comes that he touches me, I will kill him.”

  “You will die if you fight back,” Bray protested.

  “Would you have me submit?” Kirby’s eyes moistened with an anger that could quickly turn on Bray, if he pushed.

  “I’m not asking you to let that happen,” Bray clarified.

  “If I let him do what he wants, I have already lost,” Kirby said, her voice wavering. “I will not let it happen. A beating, maybe, but not this.”

  “I understand,” Bray said, and he did. “I will find a way to work nearby. Perhaps The Shadow People can get me into the metal shops.”

  “If The Shadow People had that power, don’t you think they would have offered?” Kirby asked, shaking her head. “Obviously, the guards will not help us. Such favors are beyond our reach.”

  “Maybe I can—” Bray opened and closed his mouth as no good answers came.

  “We have no control over where we are. We both know that.” Kirby’s eyes showed her internal struggle. “I will handle myself for now. In the meantime, we will keep working on the topics we spoke about last night. It is the only way.” Shifting the conversation to a potential plan, she said, “I am already getting ideas from my day in the machine shop. If I can figure out a way to ferret some scraps from the shop, we might have a solution to our weapon problem. Or at least something that will help.”

  “Shanks, to fill in our weaponry,” Bray caught on.

  “It is not a solution, but a start. Taken over time, some pieces of metal might add up. Perhaps we might even have enough so each person’s hands are filled, when the time comes.”

  “I have some ideas, too.” Bray briefed her on some of his thoughts from the fields.

  “You are thinking of an escape route, if the worst happens,” Kirby summarized.

  “I remembered what James said,” Bray commented. “If we have a better idea of the terrain, it can only help.”

  Kirby nodded. “Certainly.”

  “These slaves are not fighters, like us,” Bray continued. “Or at least not all of them. If we start a revolt, we might succeed for a while, but at some point, we might have to flee. A few moments’ lead can mean the difference between living and dying. We both know that. We need an alternate route to freedom.”

  “What does that mean for William?” Kirby asked, raising a topic that had plagued Bray.

  “Unfortunately, it sounds as if we will have to help ourselves before we help him,” Bray said.

  Looking up at the shimmering tower, Kirby said, “We will do what it takes.”

  Silence came over the conversation. Something else was on Kirby’s mind.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I am thinking of the others in New City, like Esmeralda,” Kirby admitted. “For every one of the two hundred Shadow People, there are many more that remain silent, scared to leave, or trapped in a position where they cannot run. Hopefully, we can help them, too.”

  “You think they all deserve a golden palace in the clouds,” Bray inferred.

  “Everyone does,” Kirby said.

  Bray fell silent a moment. “We should get back to lunch and to our afternoon duties.”

  Kirby nodded as she looked around.

  “Be careful, Kirby,” Bray said, touching her arm.

  Kirby watched him for a moment, anger and sadness in her eyes. He squeezed her arm.

  And then she broke away, walking off down the alley.

  Bray lingered until she was out of sight, fearing it might be the last time he saw her.

  Chapter 23: William

  William sat on one of the long, soft beds in his room. Amelia had suggested he read through a pile of books she had given him, but he was disobeying. It was a small act of defiance that probably didn’t help him, but it felt good. Looking out the windows at the bright sunlight, he allowed himself to remember what it was like hiking through the forest, Bray and Kirby at his side. They had so many memories that too many blended together.

  But one particular memory came back to him.

  He recalled a bright, spring day when the leaves were budding on the trees and the sting of winter had gone. The weather had been perfect.

  William had sat next to Bray and Kirby on a mountaintop, surveying the crumbled spires of a distant city they had yet to explore. With the sun hot on his face, a warm belly full of rabbit, and a flask full of water, William thought that city could contain anything. William had listened as Bray told exaggerated tales of the wild. He and Kirby had laughed, poking holes in Bray’s stories, making lighthearted fun. William remembered never wanting that moment to end. It was a simple moment, memorable in its happiness.

  It was so easy to take those days for granted when you didn’t know they were ending.

  But now he had hope.

  He had a plan, even if he didn’t know any details.

  A knock at his door reminded him that Amelia was coming for him. She had told him they would continue practicing letters.

  “Come in,” William called, broken from his reverie.

  Surprise hit him when he saw Barron standing there, his bulbous head tipped to the side. He trudged in, his robe swaying around him. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on this floor,” he said, nostalgically, looking around.

  Fear lodged in William’s throat as he recalled the hairpin underneath the dresser. Not wanting to prolong a visit, he crossed the room. “Where’s Amelia?” he asked, in an innocent tone.

  “She is upstairs. I offered to take you to the drafting room. She thought you might benefit from my explanation of what I am working on. Later, she will work on your letters, as she promised.”

  William nodded through the lump in his throat. “Okay.” He took a step toward the door, hoping Barron would follow.

  “You seem intrigued,” Barron said.

  “I am just excited to hear your explanations,” William said, keeping his expression innocuous.

  “Of course. Come with me.” Barron waved a hand. “Perhaps you will get bitten by the same bug of knowledge as I have been.”

  **

  William stared out the third-floor windows, overlooking the balcony and the crop fields beyond, Barron at his side.

  It seemed as if Barron could speak about the plans forever, audience or not. His eyes sparkled with an energy that William had only seen a few times—while they ate dinner
, discussing their books.

  Or when he watched Cullen die.

  William wished he could disappear into his head, like he did when he read upstairs. Instead, he gazed out the window, past the balcony and out into the crops.

  “What do you think of my revised plans?” Barron asked, snapping William to attention.

  “I like the pontoons,” William said, repeating the funny word that Amelia had told him.

  “They will help us set the plane on water, when no other option is available,” Barron repeated.

  “I understand,” William said.

  His attention drifted outside, where a string of strangely-clad men emerged from the distant woods, pulling a caravan of covered wagons. He watched as they toted their goods through the grass field at the forest’s edge, heading toward the dirt path between the crops. A few demons clustered by the edges of the path, watching the approaching newcomers. If only he had a way to harness the twisted men’s power.

  Of course he couldn’t, while trapped in a building.

  Mistaking William’s silence for reflectiveness, Barron said, “It is an adjustment, living with our intellect.” Smiling at William, he asked, “Have you found it so? You are learning things at a rapid rate.”

  Considering his answer, William said, “Yes.”

  “Too many thoughts enter our heads at once. Sometimes, we have to choose which ones to follow. But we pick things up much faster than any human. We have intelligence of which they can only dream. Much more than The Plagued Ones outside.”

  William made a show of his smile.

  “I get ideas at the strangest times,” Barron said, evidently enjoying hearing his own voice. “Sometimes I read something in The Library Room, and it will hit me days later. Other times, I will get an idea in the middle of the night, while I sleep. I’ve worked some long hours on my projects.” Barron’s tone was reflective. “In any case, the bug for knowledge is a strange thing. Perhaps you should pick up some books on aviation and see if you have a passion for it. You will not understand all the words just yet, but in time, you will.”