The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  A moment later, Father Winthrop arrived with his novice, Franklin, in tow. “Good evening, Minister Beck.”

  “Hello.” Beck smirked. It was an immature game that angered Winthrop and amused Beck. Every man needed his simple indulgences.

  Franklin scooted the chair out for Winthrop, waited until Winthrop got comfortable at the table, and took his place against the wall behind him.

  Winthrop treated his novices like women, in Beck’s opinion. That was a shame.

  Another girl came out of the kitchen with a plate of berries and sliced apples. She sat the plate on the table between Winthrop and Beck. “General Blackthorn will be here in a moment.”

  “Thank you, girl,” said Winthrop.

  Beck smiled and imagined what she might look like under that dress.

  Once the girl had gone back into the kitchen, Winthrop said, “If you’d marry, you wouldn’t have to ogle every pleasant-faced woman you see, and spend your evenings touching yourself.”

  Well, it was certainly starting early this evening. “If only I had the practiced hands of a novice to touch it for me,” Beck answered with a wry smile.

  Winthrop turned red and Franklin stifled a giggle.

  Blackthorn entered the room, with two armed men following close behind. Franklin’s giggle stopped. The men took up positions against the wall behind the head of the table. Blackthorn crossed the room in silence, gave Beck and Winthrop a curt nod, and sat at the head of the table. He reached over and selected a slice of apple. “Eat, gentlemen.”

  Beck and Winthrop each took a piece of fruit.

  “Beck, you said you had urgent matters to talk about at this meeting. Why don’t you start?” Blackthorn crunched the green apple slice.

  Beck swallowed a strawberry and said, “All of you are aware of the work that Scholar Evan has been doing with the census.”

  “A waste of time,” Winthrop muttered.

  “So you say.” Beck reached out and scooted the plate of fruit closer to Winthrop. “Please, Father, have more berries.”

  Winthrop glared at Beck, but didn’t take any.

  Beck turned to Blackthorn. “What we hoped to learn from the counting, as you might recall, is how to manage our food supply. Since the times of the Fifty-Seven, ration management has been critical to the survival of The People.”

  “The farmers have always provided,” Winthrop said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “In our lifetimes, yes,” Beck said, “but not always. We’ve heard stories about the famines of old.”

  The table remained silent.

  Having captured their attention, Beck continued. “Through a variety of analytical processes—”

  “Spare us your meaningless words.” Winthrop smiled wickedly. “We all know you’re smart, Beck. That’s why you’re the minister of learning.”

  Beck was unfazed. “Our population is growing faster than at any time in the past.”

  “How can you know?” Winthrop asked.

  Beck looked at Winthrop innocently, thanking the stars Evan had provided him with the fodder he could use to humiliate Winthrop. “Analytical processes.”

  Behind Winthrop, Franklin failed to completely suppress a smile. Beck would have to talk with Evan about that boy. The boy didn’t appear to be completely enthralled by Winthrop, despite the years he’d spent as the man’s novice. Maybe he could be of use to Beck.

  “Continue, please.” Blackthorn was irritated early. Usually it wasn’t until the main course arrived that he lost his patience.

  “As you all know, the winters have been longer these past few years,” said Beck.

  Winthrop huffed and leaned back in his chair with a handful of berries. “I thought we were talking about how many people your odd Scholar Evan had counted.”

  “Enough.” Blackthorn pounded the table. That was exceptionally early. Beck wondered what else might be going on that he wasn’t aware of. Perhaps Beck would have to snoop around and find out.

  Beck looked at Winthrop. “Father, seven of the last ten winters have been longer than usual. The day of the first freeze arrives sooner each year. The date of the last snow comes later. What’s more, the springs and summers have been drier in six of those years. This has been particularly pronounced in the past five years.”

  Blackthorn crunched another apple slice.

  “The People do gorge themselves when the weather is good,” Beck conceded. “But The People also preserve food. They dry fruits, vegetables, and meats. They store grains and nuts. When times are good, their stores grow. When times are bad, their stores shrink, as do the stocks in the townships’ storehouses. When winters are long, the farmers cannot feed their pigs, goats, and sheep because they don’t have enough grain. They don’t have enough to feed themselves. So they kill some of the animals to feed their families and stretch their hay, so that the remaining animals will live through the winter. But when they kill too many animals, they have fewer baby animals in the spring. Fewer baby animals means less meat and less goat’s milk during the summer and the next winter.”

  Trying his best to seem bored, Winthrop said, “When the weather is better, the farm animals do well and have more offspring. Natural cycles. That is what we’re talking about here, right?”

  “No, it is more than that,” Beck said. “Weather variations are natural, of course. The history that my weathermen keep shows that we have cycles of five to ten years in which the winters are colder and the summers are dryer. Those harsh cycles are offset by periods of five or ten years when the winters and summers are mild.”

  “Then these cold winters are past us.” Winthrop dusted his hands together to dramatize his point. “Good riddance.”

  “It may not matter,” said Beck.

  “How so?” asked Blackthorn.

  “Our people live on a diet of grains, vegetables, meats, and dairy. They need to eat all four to get enough food to stay alive. If there are no meats and no dairy, the grains and vegetables alone will not be enough to keep them fed through the summer, let alone the winter.”

  “Not a problem. We have plenty of goats, pigs, and sheep. I stepped in at least two piles of sheep dung on the way here.” Winthrop looked around, as if hoping to solicit a laugh.

  Beck shook his head at Winthrop. The loquacious dullard. “By consuming so many of the animals over the past few winters, we don’t have enough left to produce offspring.”

  “Then we grow more grains and vegetables,” Blackthorn concluded.

  “It would seem that easy,” Beck answered, “But it takes work to prepare a field, whether it be for grain or for vegetables. The farmers can only prepare after they have tended their regular crops. Under the best of conditions, it is unlikely we could prepare enough land for planting in time to avert a famine.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Blackthorn asked.

  “If we have unfavorable weather conditions, the famine will come this winter or next.”

  The door to the kitchen opened, revealing a woman with a tray of meat large enough to feed a dozen men. She was followed by two more carrying roasted potatoes and vegetables.

  Chapter 23: Bray

  Bray waited until Ella and William were asleep, then crept to his feet. He’d kept his bag packed and his sword within reach, and he collected both of them, placing them on the ground near the back entrance.

  He paused, taking in the silence.

  Outside, he heard the chirps and chatter of night animals. For years they’d been his only companions. Bray wasn’t used to sleeping with others nearby. He much preferred the company of his sword and his knife. At the same time, he knew a good opportunity when he saw one, and Ella and her boy were easy targets. He could’ve robbed them last night in the ancient room, but the firelight had swayed him. At least here it was dark.
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br />   He crept over to Ella first. Of the two bags, he was pretty sure hers contained silver. He’d seen her hiding something when they’d stopped to rest the day before. The clink of metal might as well have been the cry of a wounded animal, and it drew him like a hungered beast. He hovered above the woman for several seconds, listening to the soft sounds of her inhaling and exhaling, then hunkered down next to her head. He grazed the side of the bag until his fingers located the drawstring. It’d be difficult getting into it—especially with Ella using it as a headrest—but he’d give it a shot.

  He loosened the knots with nimble fingers, encountering no snags, and then parted the folds. He waited. Ella was still entrenched in sleep. He doubted he’d wake her. The panic and unease of the day were better than a stomach full of snowberry. Given what the woman had been through, she’d probably sleep until morning.

  By that time, Bray would be gone.

  He snuck a breath and dug into her bag. His fingers snagged on a piece of clothing, and Ella groaned, shifting her head. To his delight, Ella’s movement had exposed more of the bag. He crept past several layers of clothing, feeling around the bottom, and found the small pouch he’d seen her hide earlier. He pulled it out and pocketed the silver.

  He searched for anything else of value. Other than garments and berries, there wasn’t much. He pulled out the food and laid it on the ground next to him. He’d take the berries. There was a chance he could sell the clothes and blankets, but he wouldn’t bother with them.

  Her knife, on the other hand—now that would sell for a few bits to a Davenport merchant.

  He reached over her sleeping body. She’d tucked the blade beneath her, and he snaked it out from under her arm. Once he’d secured his take, he retied the bag.

  That would confuse her—just for fun.

  He brought the stolen goods over to his bag and slipped them inside. Once he’d packed, he returned to the boy. William was out cold—his breath was slow and even. Bray had low expectations for the contents of the boy’s bag. Chances were he’d find only clothing. But he’d check all the same.

  He hated to leave easy pickings.

  He crouched next to the boy, tracing the ground until he’d discovered the edge of the bag. Even in the darkness, Bray knew his way around. He practically lived in this cave in the winter. He regretted showing it to the pair, but he wasn’t worried. Without him guiding them the rest of the way to Davenport, they’d probably die in the forest.

  Bray untied the boy’s bag and wormed his hand inside. The boy took a deep breath, and he waited for him to exhale.

  Clothes. Clothes. More clothes.

  Finally he hit on a few pouches of berries, and he carefully slid them out. He was about to conclude when he felt something metal. He removed the object and rolled it in his hands, furrowing his brow. It was some sort of figurine. Whatever it was, he could probably sell it to the merchants. Even if it weren’t valuable, they’d melt it down. He tucked it in his pocket.

  He was just retying the bag when a whimper escaped into the darkness. William’s head rolled to the side, knocking into Bray’s hand. He felt a hard knot against his fingertips, and he darted backward.

  Was that—?

  Bray froze. He stared into the darkness, wondering if he’d been imagining things, but the sleeping boy provided no answers. He considered creeping back over, double-checking the boy’s neck, but he knew what he’d felt.

  The mark of the monster. Evidence of the unclean.

  In an instant, everything became clear. He’d known Ella and William were fleeing from something, but he’d been certain they were debt-runners. He hadn’t suspected this. Did the woman have a lump of her own? He scampered away from the sleeping duo, bringing the boy’s belongings with him. He could turn the pair in, but there wouldn’t be any money in that. He’d be thanked for his service and sent on his way.

  He crept to his bag, packed it up with his newfound goods, and slung it on his shoulder. He snuck out into the night.

  **

  Bray was halfway down the mountain when he saw torches in the distance. He ducked down and surveyed the bobbing lights. Despite the apparent activity, the forest was quiet. It’d been a while since he’d seen a hunting party in these woods, and rarely did he see one at night.

  Had Brighton sent a search party for Ella and the boy?

  Although it was clear that the pair were on the run, he didn’t think the town would send out several of its troops at night—especially not for an infected mother and her son. The wild was hardly a place for humans in the darkness. Besides, torches were a bad idea; the light would just as easily draw the demons as it would flush out the people they were trying to catch. Idiots. Bray shrugged, resolved to continue. A minute later he stopped.

  There was a chance he could score something from the troops. At the very least, he could eavesdrop on their conversation.

  He scooted down the mountain. The light of the moon was hardly enough to illuminate the landscape, trees or not, but it was better than nothing.

  Going downhill was much easier than going up, and before long, he was creeping through the trees, his knife drawn. As he scouted forward, he strained his ears for sounds of the men. He heard voices, subtle murmurs in the distance. He kept moving toward them, doing his best to avoid detection. The relationship between soldiers and Wardens was tenuous. Neither liked each other, but each was protected by the same law. Although they often argued, they rarely got violent. Any bloodshed would come before Blackthorn.

  That was a consequence no one wanted to face.

  Bray cast aside bushes and bramble, closing the gap. In the event the soldiers heard him, he’d announce his presence to avoid being attacked, but he’d rather it not come to that. It looked like the lights in the distance had stopped.

  He drew within a hundred yards and paused next to the trunk of a large tree. He peered around, catching sight of the group. As he’d suspected, the lights belonged to soldiers. There were four of them. They loitered in a circle, conversing. They looked young and inexperienced—they’d probably volunteered for the night hunt to curry favor with Blackthorn. One of them, a man with a chiseled face, had captured the attention of the others. He was on a rant, his eyes darting from forest to fire as he spoke.

  “I swear I’m going to gut her myself,” the soldier spat.

  “Easy, Rodrigo,” said one of his companions.

  “If we weren’t bound by the laws, I’d cut off her arms and feed them to the demons while she watched.”

  “You know you can’t do that.”

  “She killed my cousins!” Rodrigo began pacing back and forth. Rather than being calmed by his comrade, he grew more irate. “When I find her and that boy, I’m going to—”

  Was he talking about Ella?

  Another soldier grabbed Rodrigo’s arm. “You’ll do nothing!” His face was bearded, and he looked slightly older than the rest. “Do you want to answer to Blackthorn? Because I don’t. If you touch her, Goddammit, I’ll have your head on a spike myself. She’s to be brought back as an example. You know that. We all know that.”

  “Did you see the goddamn bodies? Did you see what she did to them?” Rodrigo asked.

  “She’ll answer for that, rest assured.”

  Rodrigo’s eyes blazed, but he fell silent.

  “Two days and no luck,” said the third soldier. “Where do you think they went? Do you think the demons got them?”

  “I don’t know,” the bearded man said. “Even if she knew where she was going, we’d probably have run into her by now.”

  “I bet she’s holed up in one of the caves on the peak. Maybe she found her way into some Skin-Seller’s filthy den,” the fourth soldier chimed in.

  Everyone laughed, except Rodrigo.

  “Did the other group already go out?”
r />   “They probably passed us. They were crossing the river.”

  The soldiers fell silent. Bray waited patiently. They were eating and drinking, taking a break from the chase. After the last man had finished, they wiped their faces and picked up their torches.

  “Let’s split up,” the bearded man said. “Two of us will tackle the base of the mountain, the other two will climb the peak.”

  “I’ll take the peak,” Rodrigo growled. “Maybe I can get something out of one of those filthy Skin-Sellers.”

  Brandishing torches and swords, the soldiers forged back into the woods.

  **

  Bray skirted back into the underbrush, trying to stay ahead of the group. Branches whipped against his face and trees seemed to appear in front of him, but he held up his knife to try and ward off nature’s attack. He thought about what he’d heard.

  Although the soldiers hadn’t used Ella’s or William’s names, it was obvious who they were looking for. The possibility that there were more than one woman and child on the run was remote. By the sounds of it, Ella had killed several Brighton soldiers.

  They’d probably forced themselves on her.

  The story was a familiar one. Although the soldiers had rules to follow, they often used their power to their own ends. Rodrigo was one of the worst ones. Bray could see it in the man’s body language.

  The man would torture Ella, if he found her.

  Not my problem, Bray thought. He had wares to sell.

  His bag bounced on his shoulders as he ran, and he envisioned the items inside. He’d had a productive day. An extra skin, some silver, and some belongings he could sell. It wasn’t enough to retire into one of the finer houses in Davenport or Coventry, but it was more than what he’d woken up with.

  He skirted around the base of the mountain, intending to avoid the woman and child he’d left behind. Bray was ready to head toward Davenport. He wasn’t keen on traveling at night, but he was anxious to get his silver.