The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  If all went well, he’d never run into the soldiers he’d seen.

  He didn’t need the complication.

  As he ran, he counted in his mind the money he’d receive in Davenport: five each for the skins, and five for the knife. That’d be enough to survive for at least a week, if he were frugal. And if he didn’t encounter any other monsters on the way. If so, that would mean even more coin.

  Bray smiled.

  He felt a surge of excitement in his bones—the thrill of a man in the wild, providing for his own needs. It was a sensation he’d grown addicted to over the course of his life; the moment he lived for.

  His father had instilled that feeling in him, back when he’d first taken him into the wild. Bray had been only six years old then. He still remembered the first monster he killed. His father had wounded it, and he’d allowed his son to finish it off. That was how his father had taught him how to skin. It was a memory that Bray had held onto ever since, and one he looked back on when things seemed bleak, or when silver was scarce.

  The memory warmed him now. He darted between the dark outlines of trees, smiling. Out of nowhere, he remembered the figurine in his pocket.

  He’d almost forgotten about it.

  He patted his pants, ensuring it was still there. He wondered what had possessed the boy to bring it. It must’ve had sentimental value.

  Whatever it was, the boy wouldn’t need it much longer, anyway. The boy was infected. His life was a walking death sentence. Soon, his body would fill with sickness and delusion, and eventually, he’d become one of them.

  Another scalp for Bray to skin.

  But Bray would wait until the boy had turned.

  He pictured the boy’s body, littered with knots and warts, and then he pictured the boy holding the figurine. Out of nowhere, he felt a pang of guilt.

  Stop it. Bray tried to dismiss the image, but it persisted.

  He recalled the words the child had spoken before he’d gone to sleep. The fond memories he had of his father, the genuine curiosity he’d had for Bray’s endeavors. Did the boy know the end was near?

  If so, why did he go on?

  Then he thought about what Rodrigo had said about Ella.

  I’m going to gut her myself.

  The soldier would probably do the same to the boy. Bray felt a sick feeling in his stomach. Before he realized his actions, he was turning around and heading back to the cave. He shouldn’t have left them behind. Infected or not, no one deserved to die like that.

  He leapt up the base of the mountain, dashing as fast as his legs would carry him. He needed to make sure Ella and William stayed hidden.

  He just hoped he’d make it in time.

  Chapter 24: Minister Beck

  After the meeting ended, Beck sat in his room staring into the fire, dwelling on his foul mood as the night passed. It had been another in a long series of wasted meetings. The Council of Elders was a misnomer at best, a joke at worst. There was no council of three. There was only Blackthorn and his servile fool, Winthrop. Beck was an intelligent observer whose efforts were continually thwarted on anything but the most trivial of matters.

  Some day in the future—maybe soon, maybe some years from now—the price for Brighton’s dysfunctional government would need to be paid. The empty-bellied people and the dying children would blame the Elders. That was how the peasants always reacted when hunger set in and snow covered the ground.

  They’d beg. They’d point accusing fingers at one another. They’d rob. Eventually, they’d look at one another’s gaunt faces and realize the merchants were not thin. They’d see that the soldiers had been well fed. They’d see no sallow cheeks among the Elders. And they’d point their bony fingers away from one another and at those with full bellies, those in positions of authority.

  Once the fingers started their pointing, there’d be no way to avoid the rioting. The merchants’ houses would be looted first. The soldiers would try to stop it, to preserve order. That would pit the soldiers against the peasants and solidify the two sides in the coming anarchy. On one side would be the starving, powerless nobodies, the ones who did what they were told, who lived in hovels, farmed the fields, and burned on the pyres. The other side would be the well-fed, with horses, swords, and spears, who lived in warm barracks or opulent houses and did the telling at the point of a sword.

  But peasants would lose their fear of swords when their children were starving. Though most farmers couldn’t count the toes on their feet, it wouldn’t take much mathematical aptitude to figure out that their mob would greatly outnumber the men with swords and the fat merchants and town Elders they were protecting.

  It would start in one town and spread to the others. Riot would turn to revolution. The soldiers who didn’t flee in the chaos would die, clubbed to death with farm tools. Beck would burn on the pyre, with Blackthorn and Winthrop at his side, not for having a wart or a smudge, but for the sin of having too much meat on his bones.

  When it was done, the people would eat what the wealthy had hoarded. When that food was gone, the peasants would continue starving. The children would be the first to die. And a starving man would eat anything he could get his hands on, even his neighbor’s children.

  It wouldn’t be the end of humanity, just a reset. There’d be many fewer people in the townships when spring finally arrived. The survivors would forage in the forests and grow food in the gardens and fields. There’d be no livestock by then. The slow process of domestication would have to start over.

  In the last famine revolt—an event only whispered about among the old people—it was estimated that only one in ten people lived. That had been two hundred years ago.

  One in ten. What a disaster that would be.

  The bestial demons were the wild card, though. More than a generation had passed since the last of the great hordes fell on the villages and towns. If they came back again in the numbers and frequencies told in stories, man’s reign on the great flat earth would come to its end.

  And that’s what brought Beck to contemplate the most drastic action of all. Should he take enough of his scholars and women—fifty-seven, ideally—and preemptively flee? Should he go somewhere far away from the ruined, demon-infested cities, and start a new civilization, a civilization where knowledge was placed above superstition and sword?

  Could that be done?

  Or was the solution more obvious? Was the better solution to supplant superstition and the sword right here in Brighton?

  A coup?

  A heavy knock on the door startled Beck out of his thoughts. Dread slithered through his seditious bones. Nobody pounded with such impunity on the door of a minister so late at night. Nobody but Blackthorn or his soldiers. Dread faded into despair as Beck sensed what the knocking represented. Just as he was coming to the conclusion that action needed to be taken, all choice was to be taken away from him. Beck slumped in his chair.

  The pounding came again. Louder this time.

  Weakly, he said, “Enter.”

  The door swung wide and a soldier strode in as if he were coming into his own apartment. “Minister Beck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Minister Blackthorn requires your presence.”

  Requires? “I dined with him earlier this evening. Is it possible that you are late in following your orders? Be gone and let me have my sleep.”

  “I left Minister Blackthorn’s presence and walked directly here. I am not late.” The soldier looked down at Beck and waited.

  Beck glanced at the door, spotting the outlines of several other soldiers there. Perhaps he’d argued vehemently for his view one too many times. He only hoped he’d have the choice to take the sword.

  On joints and bones that suddenly felt old and creaky, Beck stood. He looked around the room for an excuse to take him out of the sold
ier’s hard gaze, to buy him some time to think of a way out. But there was none. There was only the pyre.

  Beck motioned to the door, a silent request for the soldier to lead the way.

  “After you.” The words were those of courtesy, but the tone made it clear that Beck had no choice in the matter. On the way through the door, Beck took his overcoat and wrapped it over his shoulders.

  Three other soldiers were in the hall. They arranged themselves around Beck, two in front, two in back, and clomped their way down the stairs. At the bottom were a half dozen of Beck’s scholars, standing silently in the great room, watching the soldiers take their master into the night. Beck saw the fear on their faces. It was the same fear he had in his own heart.

  He shouldn’t have let his passions run away with him during dinner. He shouldn’t have berated Winthrop for his superstitions with such a vitriolic tongue. More importantly, he shouldn’t have shamed Blackthorn for his inability to grasp the obviousness of the coming crisis. Powerful men don’t accept such slights without plotting revenge.

  As the soldiers led Beck through the town, he remembered his father, his predecessor on the council. He had disappeared in the night when Beck was a young man. The next day, he’d found his father’s bones tied to a burned pole above the ashes of a smoking pyre.

  When Beck went to Blackthorn for answers, Blackthorn explained that Beck’s father had come to him in the night, distressed over a growth of wart he’d found on his head. Blackthorn begged Beck’s father to wait until the next Cleansing to come forward, but Beck’s father had insisted in dealing with the problem straight away, lest he infect some innocent farmer or barren woman.

  And so Beck’s father insisted on mounting the pyre that very evening.

  Beck still remembered Blackthorn’s telling of the story. Blackthorn looked at the ground while he spoke. He seemed genuinely sad to have lost a long-time colleague and friend. And Beck, apprehensive though he was, believed Blackthorn, because believing was so much easier than not. Not believing brought with it all kinds of moral imperatives that Beck was not willing to face. Because facing them meant prevailing or dying.

  Beck was not a fan of dying.

  The five walked across the square. Beck was sure that he’d soon be adding his burning smell to the stench of pyre ash and rotten spiked heads.

  Behind and to the left of the dais stood Blackthorn’s massive home. It was the de facto seat of government in the townships, the place where every decision was made. The guards stopped at the door and knocked. It opened immediately. Of course, they were expected.

  Beck had been sent for.

  The soldiers walked Beck through the wide door, two abreast. Beck appraised the door and decided it would be impossible to defend when the famine came. Blackthorn’s burnt stench would waft over the plaza soon enough.

  Once inside, Beck was guided back to the place at the table where he’d sat arguing through the course of most of the evening. A few minutes later, Blackthorn came in with three of his captains. “Beck,” he said as they all sat down, “explain to my officers what you explained to us earlier this evening.”

  Beck looked at the intricate designs on the table. “I understood from our conversation earlier this evening that a decision had been made.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Beck.” Blackthorn’s voice was harsh. “Winthrop needs to be humored to keep his simple ego intact. No decision was made. Tell us what you and your scholars understand about the coming famine.”

  Beck looked up suddenly. Maybe he’d live.

  Maybe there was hope for the townships, after all.

  Chapter 25: Ella

  When Ella awoke, the world was dark. Her heart was thudding from the remnants of a nightmare, but even the world of her nightmares had light and color. This place was pitch black.

  It took her a few seconds to realize she was still in the cave. She drew a breath and stared around, hoping for a glimmer of light. The details leading up to this minute came spilling back to her. She recalled the escape from Brighton, the altercation at the river, and their journeys with the Warden. Then she remembered William’s fond words about Ethan as he’d drifted to sleep.

  She must’ve joined him in sleep shortly afterward.

  She explored the ground beside her, reaching out to her son. But there was no one there. Frantic, she snapped awake and crept to her haunches, exploring the damp ground. All she found were pebbles and dirt and his blanket and bag. She kept searching, her heart beating at a nervous gallop, until she finally stumbled on a person.

  William was still there. He was asleep. He must’ve rolled out of his blanket. She sat up and expelled the thick, anxious breath she’d been holding. Her muscles ached, as if she’d spent an afternoon pulling grain in a cart race. Her head throbbed. She crouched and reached above her. She still had a foot of clearance from the ceiling. Something stirred in the darkness, and she heard the flap of wings. Ella stifled a scream as something flitted past her and out of the cave’s opening.

  Bats.

  That explained the smell of urine. She waited a moment, then stretched as far as she was able, wiggling her arms and legs to restore the circulation. Although the cave had saved them from danger, it was starting to make her feel claustrophobic, and at the moment, she felt the overwhelming urge to get out. She crept forward, feeling her way with her hands. She saw a pinprick of light at the entrance—a small cluster of stars deep in the night sky. She wanted so badly to go outside and breathe the air, if only for a minute.

  But that’d be unwise. Other Wardens might hear her, and she might give away Bray’s hiding place. Besides, she couldn’t leave William behind.

  Instead, she stopped moving and fell silent, listening to the sound of William breathing. Despite everything they’d been through, he was still alive—alive and with her. The fact that they’d made it this far was encouraging.

  Maybe there’s hope.

  She took in the stars for a few moments, then worked her way backward, retracing her steps to her bag. Her stomach was growling. For the past days, they’d hardly eaten, other than the few berries they’d consumed. She knelt to the floor and located her pack, then untied the knot, searching for food.

  But when she reached inside, past her clothing, she found nothing. What the hell? She kept searching, thinking that any second she’d feel the rough texture of a skin, or the soft leather of her silver pouch. But all she felt was fabric.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The food pouches were gone. And so was her silver.

  She must have missed them; they had to be here. She tore through her bag, removing the items and casting them aside in the dark, her panic mounting. Soon the bag was empty and her belongings were piled up next to her. But there was no sign of any food or silver. Her belongings had been stolen. And the only person who could’ve taken them was…

  “Bray?” she hissed into the dark.

  She waited for a response, already knowing she wouldn’t receive one. She felt dread creeping up her spine like a slithering snake. Receiving no answer, she called out for her son. She heard him beginning to rouse.

  She should’ve trusted her instincts. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Instead, she’d made the mistake of letting this man lead them up here, only to rob and abandon them.

  “Mom?”

  Her son sounded groggy—the same way she’d felt when she’d awoken several minutes earlier.

  “I’m here, honey,” she said.

  She caressed his arm, feeling vulnerable and stupid and angry. This shouldn’t have happened. Not only had Bray stripped them of their food and silver, but he’d also taken the knife. They had no way to eat. No way to protect themselves. No way to buy anything when they got to Davenport.

  She felt the rage building up inside her like water behind a dam, begging for rele
ase. Not only had Bray stolen from, stranded, and condemned her, but he’d done it to William as well. She silently vowed revenge. She gritted her teeth, wanting nothing more than to scream obscenities into the dark, to beat on the walls and hunt him down. The only thing stopping her was the threat of compromising their hideaway.

  They were trapped until morning. And even then, Ella didn’t know how they’d survive the journey to Davenport. As she’d learned at the river, legs alone wouldn’t save them from the monsters. The creatures were quick and vile. Encounters with them were inevitable. And if they weren’t prepared, Ella and William would draw their last breaths in the wild.

  Powerless and ashamed, Ella buried her head in her hands and cried quietly, doing her best to hide the sobs from William. Soon he’d ask questions, and soon she’d have to answer them. He’d want to know why Bray had betrayed them. William would want to know how someone posing as a friend could do such a thing.

  And she’d have no idea what to say.

  “Is it morning?” William asked.

  She heard him shifting on the ground, searching for a hint of light.

  “No, it’s nighttime, honey. I’m sorry I woke you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Go back to sleep.”

  “Is Bray still here?”

  Ella fell silent. She didn’t want to do this. Not now.

  “No, honey.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  Ella swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t think so.”

  The boy fell silent. This time she was unable to hide her tears. Although William was young, he was perceptive, and he’d discover the truth anyway. She heard him sit upright, and a moment later, she heard him digging through his bag.

  “What are you doing?”