The Last Survivors (Book 6): The Last Conquest

by Bobby Adair

  A fierce loyalty blazed in the women's eyes.

  That gave Fitz the courage to speak.

  "People of Brighton, I thank you for gathering in the square on such short notice. I know you have been wondering what is going to happen in Brighton. And I'm here to address your concerns."

  The crowd watched her intently as almost everyone fell silent. Women hushed their children.

  "A few days ago, I sent out some riders to find General Blackthorn and his army. Those riders brought me back the news that most of us expected." Fitz waited, dreading the announcement she'd have to make. "The best we can tell, General Blackthorn is dead, and most of his army has fallen. Most of our relatives will not be returning home."

  A few gasps of shock went through the crowd as the rumors whispered in the streets for days were confirmed. Women and children bent their heads as they stared at the ground. Some wailed. Others held their faces. Fitz retained her composure as she waited through their reaction. She'd expected it. Even so, it was difficult for Fitz to watch.

  She continued. "We've been preparing for this day for a while in our hearts. And while that should make it easier, it doesn't. We grieve our loved ones and honor their courage. That is what they deserve. While we wait for more news, we need to think of our children, and the people we need to protect here in Brighton. We have a duty to protect our loved ones left behind."

  Fitz fell silent as she watched the crowd. They were still processing what she'd said. A few women cried through the angry expressions on their faces. Before they could direct that anger at her, she went on.

  "For years, the leaders of Brighton have told us to harden our hearts, to listen to The Word, to do what's best for the townships and villages. We've been told that every action we take is for the best, that each burning, each spiking, each beating is for Brighton's betterment. We've been told that the smudged need to be Cleansed, so the rest can live. For us women, we've been told that we need to lie on our backs and accept the decisions of our men. And most recently, we've been told that nineteen thousand men and women were sent out from Brighton for a reason. I could stand up here and tell you that they fought courageously, and that they died for a purpose, but that's not what I'm here to say. I'm here to tell you that the Elders lied."

  A ripple of confusion and anger went through the crowd. A few women clenched their fists and prepared to shun her. Fitz arched her back. She thought about what Franklin might've done, had he still been alive. A flicker of doubt crossed her mind. He was supposed to be standing up here—not her. But she quickly dismissed it. If she failed at what she was about to say, she would fail Brighton.

  "The people in Blackthorn's army were sent to die because of the mistakes of our leaders," she said, increasing her volume. "A while ago, we watched Scholar Evan burn for a smudge that didn't exist. Tenbrook told us he was burned because he was infected, but most of us knew that was untrue. That smudge was the smudge of the truth. Evan knew something that he was about to share. A famine was coming to Brighton. That famine would wipe out most of our people. That famine would not be caused by your lack of hard work, or your lack of faith, but by the mistakes of our leaders. That is why our people were sent out to die."

  This time the crowd's anger found an outlet as more rumors were confirmed true. Fitz glanced at a few women from the New House, who had made sure to spread those truths throughout the town prior to the meeting.

  "Blackthorn did this!" someone yelled.

  "The Elders killed our men!"

  "Blackthorn got what he deserved!"

  Fitz watched as the anger spread through the crowd. Some women looked behind them, as if they feared retribution, while others shouted with abandon, letting their anger and grief drive them to things they wouldn't normally say. Mothers clutched their children tightly.

  "I have more news," Fitz said, holding up her hand to quiet them. "I said most of Blackthorn's army is dead, but not all of them. A few thousand live. Those few thousand are marching back here under the direction of Father Winthrop, with the intention of breaking down the circle wall." She explained how many people that was.

  The fright and confusion returned. A few shouts echoed over the rest.

  Someone yelled, "We'll be killed!"

  "Why would they do that?"

  Holding up her arms to quiet the uproar, Fitz drew a breath and allowed the people to settle. Some of what she was about to say was speculation. But she needed to project certainty in her voice if she wanted the people to believe. "Few of you know Winthrop the way I do. His heart is cruel and sick, though his lies are strong. He has convinced the army's survivors it is in the best interest of Brighton. But whatever the case, we cannot allow ourselves to be exposed to demons. If we do, the rest of us will die. I mourn with you for the people we have lost. I mourn for the people who have been sent out with Blackthorn's army. I wish I could bring your relatives back. But all I can do is promise that no one will have to suffer the way we did under the Elders. Whatever is coming our way, we need to be prepared. We need to convince the men and women marching back here that what Father Winthrop is saying is a lie. And above all, we cannot let Father Winthrop come back to Brighton."

  Some of the crying in the crowd turned to anger as people yelled for Winthrop's head on a spike. Several others cursed his name.

  "Death to Winthrop!"

  "The Word is a lie!"

  Those shouts built into a chant that quickly spread from the front of the square to the back, to the rooftops and the windows, to the crowds hovering in places she couldn't see.

  "LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ!"

  Invigorated by the power of the audience, Fitz yelled, "The reign of the Elders must end!"

  Fitz raised her hands in the air and motioned to her Strong Women, who picked up several torches from the side of the stage. One of the women handed a torch to Fitz. Together, they walked over to the chairs at the back of the dais—Blackthorn's, Winthrop's, and Beck's—while Ashley dumped a bucket of oil on the seats, pouring until no liquid was left. Fitz and her Strong Women laid the torches on the expensive chairs. Orange and yellow flames burst from the chairs as the fire took hold, consuming the padded cushions and then the backs, spitting smoke into the air. Fitz stepped back and watched the fiery procession. Then she strode purposefully to the edge of the dais, watching the crowd.

  In the loudest voice she could project, she said, "Dead or not, the Elders are never coming back!"

  The crowd roared in her support, their tear-streaked faces looking from the flames, to her, to the other women on the stage. They continued the chant as they watched the chairs of the Elders burn.

  "LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ!"

  Chapter 39: Jingo

  "The cart itself is worth a fortune," said Beck, looking at the narrow wagon made of pure, strong, light aluminum that they'd loaded up in the tower, after using it to wheel back supplies from the ship.

  "I hope it's narrow enough to roll on the game trails when we cross the mountains," said Jingo, as he knelt beside the big-wheeled cart to check the tautness of the ropes over the load.

  "Three thousand rounds, four extra rifles, extra pistols, and dozens of hand grenades," said Beck. "It's got to weigh two hundred pounds. I hope it's not too heavy to pull when the trail gets steep."

  "One person can push," said Jingo, "and one can act like the horse that pulls." He laughed as he yanked on the rope harness they'd fashioned for whoever would take a turn pulling. "We've got enough rope for three more harnesses. We'll do it together."

  "And if the trail gets too rough?" asked Beck.

  Jingo stood up and said, "Don't turn into a pessimist. You know the journey to Brighton will be hard. Are you voicing some hidden fears? Are you afraid that even with these weapons, your insurgency will fail?"

  Beck sighed and admitted, "Perhaps."

  "We'll each be carrying a rifle," said Jingo. "We all have pistols, and we'll each be carrying enough loaded magazines to kill a whole squadron of Blac
kthorn's cavalry, if they weren't already dead. We've been practicing loading and shooting all morning. None of us is an expert with these weapons, but we've killed every demon that's come within sight of our tower."

  "So far," said Beck.

  "Yes," said Kirby, coming silently down the stairs. "So far."

  Jingo looked up, startled, as he hadn't heard Kirby coming. "How are they doing?"

  Melora, Ivory, and Oliver were all up on the second floor, practicing with their rifles. The noise of each shot drew in demons, which they took care of when they got close.

  "Prodigies, all," said Kirby.

  "Truthfully?" requested Jingo.

  "You two are the worst shots," she admitted with a shrug, gesturing at Jingo and Beck. "But Melora and Ivory shoot like they were born to it. Oliver does fine, but the rifle wasn't made for a boy his size. And he has a difficult time with a pistol. It's too heavy for him."

  "Perhaps he shouldn't carry one," said Beck.

  "He'll get used to it," said Kirby. "Besides, he won't be target shooting. He'll only use the pistol if the mutants are close. At that range, he won't miss, and it might save his life."

  "He should carry one, then," said Jingo.

  Gunfire started to pop off rapidly from up on the second floor of the tower.

  "More demons outside?" Beck deduced.

  "More practice. They need to get used to shooting at the live ones, if all of this ammunition is going to do you any good," said Kirby.

  "Have you reconsidered your choice to come with us?" asked Jingo.

  Kirby shook her head. "You have everything you need from me. We've been shooting all morning, and that means this place isn't safe anymore. The mutants in the forest will come again. Soon we'll be overrun, and your chance to leave will disappear."

  "We're leaving when you do," Jingo told her.

  "I'm going to gather my things and go now," said Kirby. "I've said my goodbyes upstairs. I'll say the same thing to you that I said to Oliver, Ivory, and Melora. Here is some last advice: when you're out there in the forest, you can get away with a few shots now and again. The mutated men will think it's thunder, and they probably won't come. But if you fire too many times, something primal in their twisted minds remembers the sound of guns, and they'll come with a vengeance. You won't be able to kill them all. Think before you use your guns."

  Looking at Jingo, Beck asked, "Are there truly that many in the forest?"

  "In some places," answered Jingo.

  "If the clouds don't obscure the moon tonight, I recommend that you don't stop until morning," Kirby told them. "Get as far from here as you can. We've already made enough noise. Rest for a short while at sunrise, and then push on through the day. I'll do the same. Wherever you are tomorrow night, you'll sleep safer."

  "Where will you be?" asked Jingo.

  "I haven't chosen a direction yet," answered Kirby. "Good luck to all of you. Perhaps we'll meet again one day."

  Chapter 40: William

  Violent cries jolted William awake. A pair of legs stamped the grass as someone ran by and kept going. William wiped his bleary eyes and forced himself upright, certain that the demons had come and he that was about to die. All around him, people ran and staggered, vomited, and clutched their stomachs as if they'd been impaled. Horses whinnied and shifted nervously as they stamped the grass on the valley. Men tried unsuccessfully to calm them. Others fled down the hill and out of sight, disappearing into the glare of the emerging sunlight.

  William got to his feet. Jasmine was already awake, on her feet and watching the chaos.

  "What's happening?" William cried. "Are the demons here?"

  Jasmine shouted, "No. People are getting sick!"

  "It's the plague," said one of the priests, who had sat up near William and was looking around frantically.

  A man nearby got up, barely making it past William before emptying his stomach. William wrinkled his nose and skirted away. The odor of demons filled the air, but this time it wasn't from any of them attacking.

  "It's not the plague!" William yelled over the noise. "It's the demon meat!"

  The priest looked at him with a furrowed brow. Jasmine instinctively clutched her stomach. William recalled what he'd eaten—nothing more than berries from Jasmine, and some dried squirrel that another of the priestesses had been nice enough to share with him.

  "I don't feel so good," Jasmine confessed, her face turning pale.

  Despite her admission, she managed to avoid vomiting. Groups of people that weren't ill sat up and looked around, worried and checking on the others. The people who had gotten sick remained on their knees as they recovered from their illness. A few wiped their faces as they came back up the hill, returning to their blankets.

  "Where's Winthrop?" William asked, noticing the empty spot across the camp where he'd lain the night before.

  "He left this morning for a ceremony," Jasmine explained.

  As if on cue, Winthrop crested the hill, his robes billowing behind him as he led two shirtless women with fresh bloodstains on their chests. Phillip and a few other priests trailed behind him, holding their stomachs, their faces pale.

  "Winthrop doesn't look sick," William said, furrowing his brow.

  "I don't think Winthrop had as much demon meat as the others," Jasmine said. "He's mostly been eating the rations we brought from Brighton."

  William frowned as he watched Winthrop raising his hands in the air, proclaiming his chants as Phillip and the other priests vomited all around him.

  Chapter 41: Demon

  The demon wove through the horde. All around, his brothers trampled the grass, cocking their heads, and scoured the canyon for food.

  The demon and its brothers had been following the army for days, keeping out of sight, scavenging for food as their numbers grew. Ever since they'd been chased from their home amidst the crumbling towers of the Ancient City, they'd been coming together, gathering to take their revenge.

  When they did, the demon would have plenty to eat. It wouldn't have to scavenge for carcasses or small animals in the ruins. It would have plenty of people to pull into the fields and do with what it wanted, once its hunger was sated. The demon felt a surge of something that could be happiness as it pictured the things it could do to the soft creatures that were so hard to keep alive.

  The demon scanned the trampled, bent grass for food, searching for something to quell the pain in its stomach. It was almost always hungry. Finding food was one of the only things it thought about, other than staying close to the group and following the others.

  A few other demons screeched nearby. They'd discovered the half-eaten carcass of a squirrel. The demon watched as they knocked into each other, fighting over the sparse remains. It stepped toward them, but the other beasts gnashed their teeth in a territorial warning. With an irritated hiss, the demon continued through the army's abandoned campsite, wanting nothing more than to end its hunger.

  The demon saw something.

  It twisted its bulbous head upward.

  Perched on a precipice, high over the valley and out of reach, two women on horseback surveyed the hungry horde. The demon took several steps forward, judging the best way to get to them. The cliff was steep and jagged, but an incline ran up the side of the mountain. The demon started toward the women. It increased its speed as several others spotted the same meal, snarling and screeching, running toward the side of the cliff. The weight of several bulbous growths on the demon's skull sagged its head, but it ignored the pain.

  All it cared about was food.

  The demon envisioned tearing the women down from their perch, spilling their insides, and pulling them into some crevice where it could consume them away from the others. If it could get to them first, it would have a full stomach. Maybe it would even leave one of them alive for its own lascivious purposes.

  That last thought made the demon run faster.

  The demon pushed one of its brethren out of the way, knocking it down the hill, causing
it to snap a leg. The demon barely noticed. It was focused on the women. The demon was partway up the hill when the riders turned their horses away and started moving. The demon cried out. Several of its brothers yowled in frustration. It kept running, even as the riders disappeared into a crag and rode out of sight.

  Chapter 42: Bray

  Bray rode through the forest on his horse, leading his team of two others single file, taking care to hold on to the rope that he'd attached to each of their bridles. They traveled through game trails, or thin paths made by metal scavengers or settlers. Sometimes they passed through clearings with tall grass. Every so often, he had to slow down to guide them over downed trees, or choose paths that weren't cluttered with bramble. The droning chants of the army had long since faded, segueing into the chirps of birds and the occasional crash of underbrush as small animals scurried away from him and his horses.

  Bray was glad for the reprieve from the army's repetitive song, but he was worried about William. The horde of demons was like a looming nightmare that wouldn't fade. Bray hadn't feared the wild since he was a boy, leaving the circle wall for the first handful of times. He lived each day knowing he might die, or that a crippling injury might force him back to the nearest township. But this group of demons was large enough to inspire fear in the most hardened men.

  God, there were so many.

  Winthrop's army would be swarmed before they knew what happened. Their spears and their songs and their bravado wouldn't be enough to save their flesh from the maws of that many demons, or that many pairs of tearing, vicious hands.

  That would've sat fine with him, if William weren't riding among them.

  Bray spurred his horse, pushing it and the others faster, envisioning the distance to the other end of the canyon. It would take the army a full day and a little more to get through the canyon, the most direct route from Brighton to the Ancient City. Taking the long way over the mountains, Bray would need to push his newfound horses to get him there when Winthrop's mob of miscreants arrived.