The Last Survivors (Book 4): The Last Command

by Bobby Adair

  And then they were out in the open.

  Melora spun in all directions, inspecting the clear, straight roadway. The debris was spaced out enough that she could see no threats were waiting.

  "We might've gotten lucky," Bray whispered.

  They traveled hurriedly until they'd crossed a dozen overgrown cross streets and the demon cries had faded in the distance. The sky was gray and colorless, a solid blanket lowered by the gods to protect or crush them.

  Soon it'd be dusk.

  "We need to find a building before nightfall," Bray said. "So keep looking."

  William pointed at a cracked monolith. "The roof of that building is gone, and the inside is all black as if there was a fire."

  Desperation crept through Melora's veins as she studied a building with a caved ceiling, rubble, and stones collecting in the center.

  "That one's no good, either," Bray said, pointing to a rectangular building with eight floors that reeked like death. "Who knows what will be scuttling over you at night in there." Bray grinned sideways at Ella. She ignored him.

  They finally spotted a large, circular building tucked between the ruins of two others. Unlike the buildings on each side, which were covered in layers of brown and green weeds, this one had aged better. Through the open doorway, Melora saw support beams in what appeared to be a cavernous, rounded room. Some of the beams were crumbling, but most weren't. The walls and ceiling were relatively intact.

  "How about there?" she asked.

  Bray, William, and Ella studied a set of steps that led up to it, covered by an overhang. They stopped in the street, listening to the squawk of scavenging birds. Bray cocked his head and peered through the entrance. He looked behind them, studying the street.

  "Do you think it's safe?" Melora asked.

  "It might be."

  "It looks much better than most of the buildings we've passed," William said.

  "If it's in good condition, chances are others might've noticed it, too." Bray wrinkled his nose. "We'll have to be careful. That's all."

  They veered toward the building. Melora searched the ground for demon paths. Although a few weeds and stones were disturbed, she didn't see any obvious signs of demons having passed.

  After a minute of scrutiny through the entrance, Bray said, "Let's go."

  Melora shivered as she stepped into the building. The air was cold. It was dry and didn't smell like demons. The enormous room had plenty of lighting. A few windows placed high above the entrance allowed light to filter to the floor. The rounded roof only had a few cracks, enough to add illumination but not enough to leave it exposed to the elements. A few plants crept through cracks beneath their feet. Stairs wound up the left-hand side of the wall.

  William reached down and rubbed some dirt off the floor.

  "It looks like it was polished!" he said. "And the walls are made of smooth granite."

  "What kind of building was this?" Melora wondered.

  Melora looked around the enormous main room. It was filled with waist-high platforms. Most lined the edges of the room, but some were in the middle. She walked to the nearest one and ran her hand over its cracked surface. Her boots crunched on shards of glass. It wasn't often she encountered glass unless she was looking through a rich merchant's windows.

  "It looks like the platforms were holding something," she said aloud. "What do you think it was?"

  "Skulls of the Ancients' enemies encased in glass," Bray said with a confident smile.

  "I'm not sure if it's that," William said, frowning as he looked around. "Maybe they kept old things here. Maybe the glass was a way of protecting those things."

  Bray gave him an irritated look when he noticed Ella was listening to William instead of him.

  "An entire building to house things encased in glass…" Melora whispered. "It's remarkable to think about."

  She imagined finding some of the treasures—or discovering some of the secrets behind the Tech Magic she'd dreamed about since she'd heard her first tales of the ancient city when she was small. They wandered the cavernous room for several minutes, exploring the platforms as if they might unearth a treasure. The only remnants were the immovable stone and fragments of glass. Melora's gaze wandered up the cracked stairs on the left-hand side of the room, where the upper halves of several doorways were visible. A balcony along the top floor blocked most of their view of what was inside those rooms.

  "What's up there?" she wondered.

  "We'll check, but we'll need to be wary," Bray warned. "Look out for holes in the stairs where a foot might get stuck."

  Melora, Ella, and William followed the Warden up the stairs, heeding his warnings. William slid his hand along the wall, his face painted with excitement. Melora looked out over the rows of platforms, fantasizing about the objects they'd once held. How incredible it must've been to be one of the Ancients, surveying the room.

  A gasp ripped her attention away.

  Ella reached protectively for William. They'd traveled halfway up the stairs, enough to see a demon hunched against the inside of the balcony at the top of the landing. The creature's head was bowed into its lap.

  "It's dead," Bray proclaimed.

  Bray mounted the remaining stairs, walked over to the demon, and prodded it with his sword. The reek of decay filled Melora's nose as the creature's head and arms swung to the side. It toppled onto the floor, and its entrails spread around it.

  "It probably came here to die in peace," Bray said. "Demons eat each other when nothing else is around. You're lucky I'm here to protect you." Bray grinned.

  Ella and Melora frowned as the Warden walked past, heading into the hallway.

  **

  The upper floor of the Ancient building was lined with empty doorways. The hallway curved, creating a half circle over the main floor. Melora glanced at each of the thresholds, but didn't see any movement. Convinced they were alone, other than the demon corpse, Melora, William, Ella, and Bray ducked into the first room.

  "If others were here, they would've run out at us by now," Bray said assuredly. "Or we would've smelled them."

  Like the expansive platform at the top of the stairs, the room was barren save rectangular display pedestals that lined the walls. An archway formed a half-circle between the first two rooms, providing a view from one room to the other.

  Getting comfortable with the certainty that the floor was free of demons, William wove from one room to the next. The others smiled.

  "Can we stay here?" William asked, pausing long enough to wait for the answer.

  "It seems safe," Bray said. "The stairs should give us a buffer. We won't have time to find another building. Night will be here soon."

  "We can barricade the doorway downstairs, right?" Melora asked.

  "Yes. That'd be a good idea," Bray said.

  "I saw some broken stones that we should be able to move," Melora suggested. "It won't be perfect, but it might give us some time to react if the demons decide to come in."

  William's nod betrayed his excitement. "I've never stayed in a building with two connected rooms before. Can Melora and I sleep in the second one?"

  Melora smiled, flattered.

  Ella studied him with trepidation. "You'll need to sleep close to the archway. If some demons come in…"

  "I'll be careful, Mom. I promise."

  "I guess it should be okay."

  No sooner had Ella answered than William traipsed off, unslinging his bag. He set it on the floor in the adjacent room. Noticing Melora's gaze, he said, "Come on, Melora! Pick your spot!"

  Chapter 5: Fitzgerald

  Fitzgerald sat in a chair in Father Nelson's guest quarters. She had no desire to leave. Of all the places in the Sanctuary, no one would look for her here.

  She'd already made Father Nelson's bed, tucking in the sheet corners as he liked, dimming the lights down to one candle so he could do his evening readings. Father Winthrop had instructed her to take care of Father Nelson during his stay, and she'd heeded tho
se instructions, even after Nelson's death.

  One of his novices had already come for his belongings. Fitz thought she'd seen a smirk on the man's face as he'd taken the bag filled with clothing and who knew what other valuables.

  She knew the items would never make it back to his family.

  Thinking of Father Nelson's family brought with it the memory of his papery white skin turning to ash. She'd heard his screams as his body mingled with the smoke in the air. Even though she hadn't killed Father Nelson herself, Fitz had played the game that had cost him his life, and that game had overwhelmed her with guilt.

  As much as she wanted to blame Franklin, she understood why Franklin had burned Father Nelson on the pyre, just as she now understood why he'd beaten Oliver.

  A position of power was no guarantee of free will.

  She might not have to clean Winthrop's filthy chamber pot, but she'd have new challenges, all the same. Fitzgerald's tears were already spent. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  She smoothed the red merchant's dress over her knees, covering the remaining scabs and bruises left by Tenbrook. The wounds would heal, but her memories of the brutal attack would remain. She'd given a lot of thought about what to tell Franklin.

  She couldn't say anything.

  If she told Franklin, he'd make some rash move that might get them both killed, ruining everything they'd built. She told herself what she'd done had been worth it, though the crusted scabs and the twisted memories screamed otherwise.

  The idea of Franklin ruling next to Tenbrook made her sick. The memory of what he'd done would live in every movement, every glance he gave her. She envisioned Tenbrook counting his soldiers, eyeing the next woman he'd attack. The thought chilled her blood. But she remembered what Blackthorn had told her. As far as Tenbrook goes, he'll forget you once you're not in his house. She prayed that was the case. She gritted her teeth and choked back thoughts of killing Tenbrook in his sleep. Even if she could get past the guards and the thick doors and manage to kill him, people might suspect her or Franklin. She couldn't risk that.

  It seemed like such a short time ago she'd been Mary's dispirited servant; now she was a woman in a position of relative power.

  Franklin would do a better job than Winthrop.

  "He has to," she whispered, with no choice but to believe it.

  Chapter 6: Winthrop

  Winthrop looked across the throngs of people in the campsite, realizing he'd walked so far that he couldn't see a single cavalryman or militiaman. He couldn't tell which of the distant tents was his. All he saw around him were the staring eyes of pig chasers and dirt scratchers, cobblers and tailors, harlots and whelps, all with questions on their faces, questions that said: give me answers, give me comfort, give me food, give me warmth.

  They were stupid. They were lazy. They stank of dirty clothes and unwashed bodies.

  Winthrop hurried through them, wishing he could run, wishing he could elude the frightful shadow that was nipping at his heels but was always gone when he cast an eye behind. He wished he could eat something and keep it from running through his gut so fast that he was squatting before he finished chewing. He wished he could close his eyes and sleep without quaking at all the ghosts clawing at him out of the darkness.

  His back and his legs hurt from sitting in the saddle on that sadistic beast of a horse. His crotch was chaffed raw. He was wet to the bone, sweating. His life was misery, and that wicked Blackthorn was the cause.

  Blackthorn's name was like that of an ancient, unspeakable devil, sending shivers up Winthrop's spine.

  If only there were a way to exorcise that devil.

  The fear came nipping at Winthrop's heels again, and he hurried through a gang of gawking onlookers, bowling over an apprentice boy and his wretched master.

  Hurry. Hurry. Don't let it catch you.

  He headed for a distant bonfire, hoping to keep the shadow at bay.

  Chapter 7: Oliver

  "It's god-speak."

  Oliver looked and listened.

  A scrawny old militiaman to Oliver's right looked at the big, meaty soldier who'd spoken. "How would you know that?"

  It was a good question, and Oliver wanted to know the answer as well.

  The meaty man looked over at Father Winthrop, who was sitting on a log, much too close to the fire, staring at the flames as they swayed and crawled into the air. He looked back at the skinny man. "You understand what he's saying?"

  "No," the skinny man answered.

  "That's how you know it's god-speak. Gods talk in a golden tongue that mortal men don't understand."

  "How do you know that?"

  The big man turned toward the skinny man, his brow furrowed. "I listened to my elders when I was a boy. They didn't live in a shack with their pigs like your ignorant parents did. They were educated. They knew things." The tall man puffed himself up. "My grandpop could read. He even showed me a word or two."

  The skinny man laughed. "You can't read."

  "Didn't say I could read. I said a word or two. But that's neither here nor there." The meaty militiaman pointed at Winthrop. "I know god-speak when I hear it."

  "What's he saying then?"

  "I didn't say I understood it." The tall man leaned close and in hushed tones said, "If you listen close, some of his words come through to your ear, and the words turn clear in your head."

  Oliver listened intently. The people of the camp, those who weren't exhausted from the day's short trudge on the muddy road, were collecting around the campfires for warmth and the perceived safety of numbers. At first, most were talking, sharing stories, and bragging. As the night settled in and more demon howls echoed in the forest, the mood among the peasants grew more anxious.

  That's when Oliver had found Winthrop at one of the bonfires.

  Winthrop's mutterings had taken center stage. The attention drew others in to see what had everyone's attention.

  Men brought in logs and stacked them over the fire's embers to build the blaze up.

  Oliver appreciated the warmth, but he knew the men were doing it to appease Father Winthrop. No one cared about the lowly onlookers such as him.

  "Hear that?" the tall man just over Oliver's shoulder pointed discreetly at Winthrop.

  "What?" the skinny man asked.

  Oliver listened to see if he could understand any of Winthrop's mutterings. All of it sounded like crazy talk.

  The meaty guy was losing his patience. "He said the demons are coming."

  The skinny man looked at the dark over his shoulder. "I don't need gods talking to me to know that. I can hear 'em out in the woods."

  "He doesn't mean those demons, you frightened woman."

  "Hey, I'm no woman."

  The tall man said, "He's talking about the hordes that we're going to kill."

  "They're coming for us?" The skinny man gulped.

  The tall man nodded. "Earlier, when you was over there pissin' by the trees, he said the wicked are going to die."

  "Are you telling me the demons are coming to kill the wicked?"

  The tall man tucked his thumbs in his belt and looked over the heads of Winthrop's huddled audience. "That's exactly what I think."

  "Who are the wicked?" the skinny man asked. "Us? Because if he's talking about us," the skinny man looked over his shoulder again, "I don't want to stay and find out. I'll go back to Brighton and take my chances behind the circle wall. I'm not going to die of demon bite out here in the cold."

  The tall man hushed his voice again and leaned in close. "I don't think he means us. Besides, you're not wicked, are you? I know I'm not."

  The skinny man shook his head. "I'm a good man. I herd my pigs. I keep my wife and kids fed." He looked around again. "I go to The House of Barren Women from time to time."

  The tall man slapped him on the back and laughed. "Everybody does that. It don't make you wicked."

  "Who is wicked, then? Who is Father Winthrop talking about?"

  In a whisper, the tall man s
aid, "It's that Blackthorn and that bunch of prissy cavalrymen. That's my bet."

  "Don't say that." The skinny man's face turned to fright, and he took a long look around. "Blackthorn hears everything. He'll put us on the pyre for talking like that."

  "Blackthorn's wicked, but he's no god. He's a man like us. He can't hear what we say. If the demons eat anybody, it'll be him."

  The skinny man snorted. "No demon can kill General Blackthorn. Everybody knows that."

  Chapter 8: Beck

  The sound of Blackthorn's baritone made Minister Beck shiver.

  He peeked out of his tent. Across the campsite, on the other side of the pyramid of flaming logs, Blackthorn stood in front of a handful of his cavalry officers and blue shirted ruffians. He was pointing and ordering. Beck wasn't able to make out most of what Blackthorn was saying, but he put enough together to know that a band of demons was coming. A hundred, maybe two hundred strong. They'd been spotted following the road toward the camp.

  One only had to listen to the sounds coming from the forest to know they weren't alone. Demons howled from every direction. Not thousands. Maybe not even hundreds. But they were everywhere. Some near. Some far.

  Nineteen thousand soldiers and camp followers marching up the road had made enough noise to draw in every demon from miles around. The howling would attract even more. It was going to be a long night for the cavalry and the militia.

  Ideas germinated in Beck's imagination. Not only would the night be long if the demons got close, but it would be chaotic. Dangerous. His plans to sneak back to Brighton were a lot easier to fathom when he wasn't in the wild, listening to the shrieking of twisted men whose only ache was to feed.

  His hope was that the four soldiers assigned to him might not stay to do so. Duty might call them elsewhere. Even if they did stay, it was a near certainty that their attention wouldn't be focused on a tent holding one sleeping minister. They'd be watching the shadows beyond the light of the bonfire. They'd be watching for a horde of demons to burst through the trees.