The Last Humanity (The Last Survivors Book 3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  And then Ivory came to a rest.

  The breath burst from his lungs.

  The world went silent.

  He remained motionless, certain he'd sustained some mortal injury, certain he'd find the bear-man hovering over him, a sword in his meaty paws. Or worse yet, a demon.

  A few minutes passed in silence.

  Have I already died?

  Ivory's frantic breathing was a clue that he was still living. He stared up into the sky, watching the sun dip behind the clouds, its malevolent purpose served. The birds down in the forest—loquacious a few moments earlier—ceased their chatter.

  Ivory blinked once. Then twice.

  He'd been wounded before. He knew there could be a delay as the body caught up to what had happened. He just wasn't sure how long that delay would be. The pain hit him at once, and Ivory felt the sting of skinned elbows and knees and a dull ache in his lower back from where he'd struck rocks. He didn't think anything was broken.

  But what had that crack been?

  He tried sitting upright again, certain some sharp pain would alert him to a debilitating injury. But his joints and bones worked. They ached. But they worked.

  He flexed his muscles, assessing the damage. It took him a second to place the noise he'd heard. His bow, which he'd strapped to the outside of his pack, had snapped and broken in pieces all over the slope behind him. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not my bow.

  The bear-man would be coming. Without the weapon, Ivory was nearly defenseless. Shielding his eyes, he glanced back over the snow-canvassed path he'd traveled, following his footprints.

  The man stood at the crest of the slope, staring down at him.

  Fighting the pain, Ivory ran.

  Chapter 3: Franklin

  "No," Franklin told Winthrop, feeling a fire in his voice and immediately regretting the commanding tone that slipped off his tongue.

  For a moment, Winthrop said nothing. He looked at Franklin, flabbergasted.

  "My apologies, Father," pleaded Franklin. "Please understand, I have grown an attachment to Oliver. He has become like a little brother to me."

  "Regrettable." Winthrop put his big fleshy face in his hands and groaned. "Are you going to ply me now with girlish protestations? I should beat you both."

  "I beg you." Franklin softened his voice and took another step forward. "You've troubled yourself with Oliver's insolence and seeming inability to learn from his mistakes for too long. Allow me to try."

  "Have you not been trying?" Winthrop's anger sprang back to full red-faced rage. "Is that not part of your duties, to train the younger Novice behind you?" Winthrop looked up at the ceiling, as though watching a bird of inspiration fly under the Sanctuary's tall roof. "Perhaps that is the essence of this problem." His eyes settled back on Franklin. "Of all my Novices through the years, it is you I saw as most like myself, you I saw as a son. Perhaps by turning a soft heart to you, I've allowed you to take that as a lesson and you do the same with this ignorant runt." He waved his hand at Oliver again.

  Franklin was taken aback.

  Son?

  Did Winthrop really feel that way?

  "If I have failed you, Father," said Franklin, "please allow me to make up for it. Please, allow me to correct it. Allow me another chance with Oliver."

  "Softness," Winthrop muttered as he let his eyes wander over the ceiling again. Back and forth he watched.

  Franklin waited for Winthrop to look back down at him. Soon, his curiosity won out, and he looked to see what Winthrop was staring at in the shadows. Nothing.

  Oliver stood petrified with fear.

  After some time, Winthrop's gaze settled back on the boys. "Softness. That is the problem. I regret that I am an old man. I no longer have the strength that some tasks require." He drilled Franklin with his eyes.

  The silence grew ominous, and it took all Franklin's courage to match Winthrop's stare with one of his own.

  Finally, Winthrop raised an arm and pointed. "Franklin, go to my quarters. Leaning by the bed, you'll find a fine leather crop. Fetch it for me."

  Franklin hesitated.

  "Go!" Winthrop commanded. "Unless you'd prefer to see the runt turned to ash."

  Franklin gulped and started walking to Winthrop's chamber.

  "Run, boy!"

  Franklin did.

  He didn't slow until he entered Winthrop's dark bedchamber.

  Embers glowed in the hearth; Winthrop's favorite chair sat in front of the fireplace, awaiting his return. The bedspread had been pulled up and stretched flat by the morning girl, probably Fitz now. The chamber pot stank of feces and urine, probably used just prior to the arrival of the guards. Franklin hoped Fitz would come and clean it, or Oliver might not be the only one taking a beating today.

  Franklin spotted the riding crop in the corner by the bed, just where Winthrop said it was. He hurried over and picked it up. It was three feet long, with a stiff wooden handle at one end, and some kind of flexible shaft with a weighted leather tassel at the other, all covered in or constructed of black leather.

  Franklin imagined the crop hitting skin. Even with Winthrop's flabby old-man arms swinging it, Franklin knew Oliver was in for a painful lesson, one he'd not soon forget. With the crop in hand, Franklin quickly exited Winthrop's chamber, closing the door behind. He spotted Fitzgerald at the far end of the hall. Franklin sprinted toward her.

  Seeing Franklin running and the urgency on his face, she froze.

  Franklin ran right up to her and said, "Winthrop is in a terrible mood. He's in the Sanctuary getting ready to punish Oliver. You should know, he filled his chamber pot before he came out this morning. It stinks up the whole room. It'd be best for you to see that it is emptied before he returns."

  Franklin tore back up the hall, barely hearing Fitz's answer, "I was on my way there."

  Franklin took a turn down another hall that led to the front of the Sanctuary. He ran out in front of the stage and came to a stop beside Oliver, panting from the exertion.

  Father Winthrop sat silently, staring at Oliver. Franklin guessed that not a word had been spoken between them while the riding crop was being retrieved.

  It was time to start. To Oliver, Winthrop said, "You know better than anyone what comes next, runt."

  Oliver looked at the riding crop, tears in his eyes. He turned around, placed two hands on the top edge of the pew's wooden back, and leaned over. He recited the words he'd memorized. "I thank you, Father, for the punishment I have earned. Let it help me find forgiveness and wisdom."

  It was the first thing Winthrop taught his Novices when they arrived. Punishment was not cruel, according to Winthrop, it was a gift that made Novices strong.

  A gift? A boot full of sheep shit was what that was.

  Franklin gulped. He'd said those words more times than he'd preferred to remember. Still, the words threatened to turn his bowels to water.

  "Don't thank me, young, stupid runt." Winthrop sat back in his chair, half-smirking. "Thank Novice Franklin, for it is he who will bear the whip that teaches you henceforth."

  "Me?" Franklin asked, unable to contain his surprise.

  The harshness in Winthrop's stare withered Franklin's desire to protest.

  Franklin looked down at the crop in his hands. He shuddered to think of the bruises it would leave on Oliver's skin. He cringed at the thought of inflicting that pain himself. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't.

  "Speak, boy!" Winthrop shouted. "Thank Novice Franklin."

  Oliver glanced at Franklin and said, "I thank you, Novice Franklin, for the punishment I have earned. Let it help me find forgiveness and wisdom."

  Franklin didn't move. He was frozen. He thought about offering himself up for the beating. He wondered if throwing himself out as the bearer of all fault for Oliver's sins would save the boy.

  "Is your heart too soft?" asked Winthrop. "Is it the case that the stupid runt was not my only mistake?"

  Franklin shook his head.

  "Your heart is not soft?"


  Franklin shook his head again.

  "If you wish ever to be anything but a Novice, you will do what is necessary, even when the necessity carries with it a deserved pain."

  Franklin didn't move.

  "I'll not wait!" Winthrop bellowed. "Begin or leave. I have no use of a Novice with a soft woman's heart."

  Franklin stepped up beside Oliver and raised the crop.

  Oliver looked over his shoulder, fear on his face.

  "Now!" Winthrop commanded.

  Franklin slapped the crop across Oliver's back. He raised it for another swing, pausing before he did so.

  "I'll accept that as your attempt to get a feel for the device," said Winthrop. "But you'll beat that runt until his backside is nothing but bruises and blood. You'll give him a punishment he'll think about every day for the rest of his useless little life. You'll beat him until I tell you to stop. And if once, only once, the smack of the whip on his back is not louder than the scream that follows, it'll be the orphanage for the runt and the field for you, where you can spend the rest of your days hauling wheat, plowing mud, and mucking through pigsties." Winthrop looked down his nose. "The choice is yours, Franklin."

  Franklin gulped and looked down at the riding crop in his hand.

  He raised it and swung with all his might.

  Chapter 4: Ivory

  Ivory finished trekking the snowy slope and slipped into the welcome shadow of the woods. His body burned from both his wounds and the exertion. The bear-man was no longer in view. Whether the man had taken another path or given up, Ivory couldn't know, but he wasn't going to wait for the answer.

  With flatter, less dangerous ground in front of him, Ivory took the opportunity to set a quick pace and pushed on.

  He felt like he had to be putting good distance between him and his pursuer. The farther he went, the greater his relief.

  But he was still weaponless. All he had were a few knives in his bag—hardly enough to make him feel safe on a journey to the Ancient City.

  The bow had been like a third arm to him. He couldn't imagine himself without it. Tears stung his eyes.

  He recalled the day his uncle had given him his first bow when he was eight, patiently teaching him to string and care for it. He'd honed his hunting skills for the next few years, practicing in the outskirts of town, shooting small game under his uncle's tutelage. Later, Ivory's uncle had upgraded him to a larger bow. That was the bow he'd carried to this day. The bow was better than the rusted sword Muldoon had given him. Any moments Muldoon hadn't spent hunting were spent gambling in the pubs, pissing away the money he'd earned. He'd never taught his son his trade. If it weren't for Ivory's uncle teaching Ivory to hunt and scavenge metals, they might've been living with the street dwellers on Skinner Row.

  Come to think of it, Ivory would miss the bow more than he'd miss Muldoon.

  The thought immediately led Ivory to a pang of guilt.

  But it almost made sense, in a strange sort of way. He and his uncle had been closer than he and Muldoon ever had been. It hardly seemed fitting that Ivory's uncle had died of a slow disease, one that wore down his body until he was lying in bed, whispering Ivory's name.

  Perhaps Ivory didn't miss Muldoon because he hadn't had the proper chance to grieve. He convinced himself of that as he considered going back for the bow's pieces. Maybe he could salvage it.

  No.

  That hopeful idea might as well have been a child's. The bow was irreparable, covered in snow. All it was now was bait to put a fool into a bear-man's grasp.

  Ivory dug out one of his knives. Hopefully, it'd keep him safe until he got to Jingo's.

  Chapter 5: Ivory

  As he continued through the woods, alert for the bear-man, Ivory thanked the gods for his luck in avoiding demons. Thanks to the teachings of his uncle, he'd learned to travel a path that was less frequented by the beasts. His mind began to wander.

  How should he spend the rest of his life?

  Should he become one of Beck's scholars? Or should he leave Brighton behind and stay with Jingo, coming back just enough to avoid suspicion and settle the rest of Muldoon's debts?

  He contemplated the words Jingo had spoken before he'd left. Almost as tempting as Beck's offer was Jingo's implied challenge that not one of his students had lived up to his intellectual potential. But Ivory believed he could. To be Jingo's best pupil, he'd need to spend a lot more time with the man.

  Ivory didn't have many friends in town. Not many would miss him. Of course, now that Beck knew he could read, could Beck be trusted? Would he keep Ivory's secret, or would he betray him?

  Ivory bit his lips.

  Maybe he'd live in both worlds. He'd learn with both Jingo and Beck, molding that knowledge into something he could use, something that might help others.

  The idea intrigued him.

  As wise as Jingo was, he might help Ivory with an answer. Ivory's wandering thoughts almost made him miss the tracks in the snow.

  Ivory slowed to a stop, ripped from his mission at the sight of an odd footprint, a large pad with four smaller pads above it. It was bigger than his hand, which meant that whatever made it was large. More tracks led the way ahead. The beast, whatever it was, walked on four legs.

  What the hell was it?

  His blood froze. He stared at the ground in disbelief, wondering whether his fall down the slope was making him hallucinate. But the tracks were still there. He followed them with his gaze, tracing the impressions with icy dread. The prints cut through the thin snow and into the mud beneath.

  It wasn't the tracks that scared him.

  It was the beast they belonged to.

  Stories from his childhood flooded back to him: tales of large, cat-like creatures with sharp teeth and claws. It was said that these animals were better hunters than man or demon, that they could stalk and kill prey several times their size. They'd even been rumored to kill humans. Their primary method of killing was silently stalking their prey, then pouncing, tearing their victims' necks, and suffocating them.

  Ivory wasn't sure they attacked humans. That part seemed exaggerated. So many stories were tales woven to keep kids inside after dark, to keep them quiet, to make them behave—lies told by lazy parents.

  Of course, it was easy to dismiss those stories when he was within the protection of the circle wall, never far from the soldiers who guarded the gates. Ivory had never felt as weak-kneed as he did now.

  Holding his small, inadequate knife, he followed the tracks as they continued into the forest. He doubted the beast was stalking him. By the looks of it, he'd come up behind it. But what if it sensed him? What if it veered off and crept through the trees to get behind him or somewhere alongside the trail from where it could pounce?

  Ivory spun to look over his shoulder, but the forest was empty. All he saw were the tracks he'd made, now intersecting with the creature's paw prints.

  His logical brain told him to head in the opposite direction. But the fear that the thing had circled around him made him keep walking. He had to know where it was. He had to ensure that it wasn't sneaking up on him.

  Keeping a ten-foot berth from the tracks, he followed them. The prints went in a straight line, some more prominent than others. In some spots the snow was deep, clearly displaying the cat-thing's path. He thanked the gods for the early winter weather that had tipped him off. On a dry forest floor, he wouldn't be aware that he was in the hunting ground of a strange giant cat-thing.

  Ivory continued creeping through the forest. He saw feces. Steam emanated from a large, circular pile of dung near the tracks. The creature wasn't far away. The paw prints veered around a nearby tree and into a hilly, rocky section of forest. Then the ground hardened where the trees had blocked the snow. The tracks disappeared.

  Beyond them—two hundred yards away—was a rocky outcrop jutting out of a small hill. It looked like a cave. The opening was thin and shadowed, concealing whatever monster might lurk within.

  Was the beast
inside?

  According to the tales he'd heard from drunken soldiers in the pubs, the cat-creatures often napped in the cover of caves, thick brush, or fallen trees. Ivory had always dismissed the tales of the attention-seeking men.

  But standing here, looking at the tracks and the den, Ivory believed them.

  He glanced over his shoulder, so preoccupied with the beast that he'd forgotten to tread lightly. His tracks were clear and unmistakable. The forest was empty. If the bear-man was still following, he'd be approaching soon.

  Ivory had an idea.

  With his heart knocking against his ribcage, Ivory walked the remaining few steps in the snow toward drier ground, pushing hard, so his tracks led right toward the cave. He stopped. He felt a mixture of hope and panic: panic that the animal might emerge and grab him, and a hope his hastily conceived plan would work. A rustle from the cave made his blood freeze.

  Something was in there.

  Ivory remained still, catching sight of a pair of eyes in the cave. The eyes moved as something shifted. Ivory held his breath, certain he was about to be embroiled in a different type of battle, one that was beyond his experience.

  The eyes watched him. Readjusted.

  And then disappeared.

  Ivory waited a full minute, certain the beast would come charging out at him. But it didn't. Sticking to the dry ground, Ivory risked movement, cutting a path around the cave and veering up the hill, treading as quietly as he was able, so as not to disturb whatever was in the cave. Soon he was out of immediate danger. Ivory let out a relieved breath.

  With any luck, the man pursuing him would think he'd found the cave and crawled inside to seek refuge.

  But the bear-man wouldn't find Ivory.

  He'd find something else instead.

  Feeling ashamed at the glee he was feeling, Ivory smiled.

  Chapter 6: Jeremiah

  Jeremiah's legs were sore and his back hurt. He hacked up a stubborn piece of snot from his throat, spit it in the snow, and cursed Ivory. His initial plan had been to sneak up on the boy, following him without being seen, but the open, snow-covered valley on the other side of the mountain had betrayed his cover. Or at least he was pretty sure it had. If it hadn't, he'd been spotted when he was up on the crest after the boy tumbled down the rocks. It didn't matter, though.