The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  “Looking for something,” he said simply.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Zander.”

  She frowned in the dark, unsure of what he was talking about. “Who’s Zander?”

  The boy stopped digging. She could sense that he was embarrassed, though she couldn’t see his face.

  “My figurine,” he replied, after a hesitation.

  “The one from Dad?”

  “Yes. I brought him with me. He’s not here. Did Bray take him?”

  She heard him digging again, growing more frantic by the second, each nervous breath like a needle to her heart.

  “Yes. He took some of our things, honey. He took our things and then he left.” The tears were flowing now, and Ella could barely get the words out. “He’s not an honest man, William.”

  “But I thought he had a good man’s heart of stone. I thought he was like Dad.”

  William cried out and flung the bag to a distant corner of the cave. His voice cracked and quivered. She grabbed onto him and held him tight.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

  Chapter 26: Bray

  Bray raced back up the steep slope. Torches moved along a trail in the darkness below. He’d put some distance between himself and the men—they weren’t as familiar with the area, so they’d be moving more cautiously.

  That would give him time to get to the cave.

  He scrambled among the rocks and stone, setting a few of them rolling, and winced at the noise. The last thing he needed was to draw the men’s attention. It’d be enough trouble hiding the woman and the boy as it was.

  Before long he’d approached the jagged outcropping that marked the entrance. He saw the outline by the dim light of the sky. He ducked behind the rock, wedging himself through the entrance. All at once, he was inside, breathing hard and heavy. He heard noises from deeper in the cave, and he crawled toward them. Were Ella and William awake? Had he disturbed them?

  “It’s me,” he whispered. “It’s Bray.”

  The sounds ceased.

  All at once his cheek erupted in pain. Bray threw up his hands to defend himself, readying his knife. Ella’s voice raged through the darkness.

  “You son of a bitch!” she yelled.

  He scooted backward, trying to avoid the woman’s blows. He had to restrain himself from lunging with the knife.

  “Quiet!” he hissed.

  “You took everything we had. Why are you back? Did you forget to take our blankets?” she cried. “My food and my silver weren’t enough for you?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Another blow stung his face, and this time he whipped his hand forward and caught Ella by the wrist. He pulled her close, until her hot breath was against his skin. She writhed against his grasp.

  “There’re soldiers out there! They’re coming for you!”

  “You son of a bitch! I hate you!”

  “Ella! Stop!”

  This time he raised his volume, imparting his concern. Ella stopped struggling, suddenly grasping the meaning of his words, and they both went silent and still. In the distance, he heard the commotion of men. It sounded like the soldiers had run into another of the Wardens, and were interrogating him somewhere down the mountainside.

  “Listen,” Bray whispered. “Do you hear those voices? Those are soldiers from Brighton. They’ve come to take you back for your crimes.”

  “My crimes?” Ella spat. “My crimes? What about yours? What about robbing us and leaving us to die?”

  The woman was nearly hysterical, and it took all Bray’s efforts to calm her down.

  “Let’s discuss this later, Ella. Right now, we need to stay quiet. I know you hate me, but if you both want to live, you need to listen.”

  He let go of the woman, hoping the gesture itself would win back her trust. There was no time to argue. He spun back to the entrance, focused on the men outside. He heard the sound of raised voices, then the clank of swords. It sounded like the other Warden had been drinking, and in his inebriated state, the man had started an argument with them. That might work to their benefit.

  Perhaps the other Warden would distract the soldiers. Maybe he’d even kill them.

  If Bray were alone, he would’ve used the cover of the commotion to leave, but with Ella and the boy at his side, he didn’t think it’d be wise. Not in the dark.

  Ella crept up next to him. Her arm brushed his, and he could feel her still shaking.

  “You have no conscience,” she hissed in his ear. “I should’ve killed you in your sleep. I should’ve done it when you came through that entrance.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” he whispered back.

  “You’re no kind of man.”

  Bray shook off the insult. He’d heard worse.

  “I could’ve turned you in,” he said. “Do you know that? I still might. Maybe I’ll get a reward.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong,” she whispered.

  “Do you think that matters?”

  “The soldiers in Brighton tried to rape me. They were going to hurt William—”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’m not like you, Bray. I haven’t killed for pleasure; I’ve killed because I had to.”

  “I know.” He grabbed her and put his mouth to her ear. “I know why you did what you did. I know about William.”

  That was enough to stifle Ella. They hung in silence for several minutes, listening to the clash of men down the mountainside. Finally, Ella spoke.

  “What do we do?” she whispered.

  “We stay put.”

  “What if they find us?”

  “They won’t.”

  “But—”

  “If they do, we’ll use the other entrance. We’ll figure it out.”

  Ella sat back on her haunches, and William crawled over to join her. The fear in the cave was thick and tangible, and all of a sudden, Bray felt the weight of three lives on his shoulders. For years, he’d wandered the wild alone, beholden to no one. And now, things felt different.

  He hadn’t created the situation, but for some reason, he felt responsible for fixing it.

  “Why don’t you two wait further back?” he whispered.

  “But—”

  “I mean it. Stay behind me.”

  “Am I going to get Zander back?” William asked.

  Bray felt a pang of remorse, and he reached into his pocket and passed back the figurine. He heard the soft scuttle of boots and dirt, and all at once he was alone, staring through the cave’s opening.

  He kept his knife in front of him, ready to make a move. The fighting from down the mountain had stopped. He heard the tramp of boots on gravel, then silence. Had the other Warden been killed?

  He listened intently, hoping for a clue as to what had happened, but heard only the background noise of animals in the forest. It was as if the night had swallowed up the men, relegating them to his memory.

  He released the breath he’d been holding.

  Ella and William remained silent. Even if the soldiers were gone, the forest wasn’t safe. They’d wait until morning, and then all three of them would head to Davenport. Bray would just need to avoid the common road.

  His eyes flitted across the stars, as if he were plotting a trip of the heavens rather than planning a trip to Davenport. If all went well, they’d reach town by midday. He’d give Ella and William their belongings back, and then they’d part ways.

  More minutes passed.

  He’d wait a little longer. If he heard nothing in that time, he’d get some sleep.

  The opening of the cave went dark.

  Bray’s pulse spiked.

  He tightened
his grip on the knife. Someone was breathing heavily outside of the cave’s entrance, but he could make out nothing of the person’s appearance. A voice echoed across the walls of the cave.

  “Throw your weapons and come out of there. Don’t make us come in after you.”

  He recognized the speaker.

  It was Rodrigo.

  Chapter 27: Father Winthrop

  Father Winthrop sat in his favorite evening chair, watching the light from the fire reach across the large room and play along the wrinkles in his bed sheets.

  He was angry and he was sad.

  The image of young Jenny’s head on the spike would not leave him alone. Between the Cleansing yesterday, and Blackthorn’s putting all of Ella Barrow’s friends’ heads on spikes today, it was hard to bear so much death. The Cleansing was necessary, of course. But the spiking?

  Jenny, eyes glued to Winthrop, had begged him to spare her life in front of half the town, right in the middle of the square. She’d looked at him with those engaging brown eyes, as wisps of her wild, sandy hair blew across her face and clung to the tears on her cheeks. Her wrenching pleas seemed to have been birthed rather than cried, thrust into a ghost realm where they could haunt him over and over. And the ghost of her familiar voice keened above the crackle of the fire in his bedchamber. Imagination? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell.

  What he did know, what he felt, as solidly real as he felt the hard wood of the chair beneath him, was hate. Not hate for simple-minded Jenny, but for Blackthorn. It was on Blackthorn’s whim that the sword came down on the back of her neck, crunching bone and tearing ligaments, squeezing one last attenuated scream from the condemned woman. Those sounds haunted Winthrop, too. They turned his grief into nausea that rose in his chest and burned his throat when he swallowed it back down. Together, it mixed with the guilt in his gut and turned his bowels to water.

  Father Winthrop grunted audibly at the cramps in his belly.

  If he’d known that cowardly Ella’s Barrow’s best friend had been a sandy-haired girl from The House of Barren Women, he would’ve prearranged for Jenny to be elsewhere before Blackthorn’s men pulled her to the platform. But Winthrop didn’t have that foresight, and for that reason he felt guilt.

  Unfortunately, once Jenny had been rounded up and corralled in the square with the rest of Ella’s friends and acquaintances, Winthrop had no choice but to ignore her. To brush away the brutal hand of Blackthorn’s justice in front of all the town’s men and women would be to sow the seeds of anarchy in the minds of the simple peasants. It would give them the false hope that they too could sidestep deserved justice. Anarchy would grow and that would be the death of them all.

  Or would it?

  That made Father Winthrop wonder. Was it the thick sword arm of a brutal dunce terrorizing the townsfolk that coerced them into obedience, or was it something else? Certainly Blackthorn was the leader of the Council of Elders—though no such position formally existed—so his brand of rigid rules and harsh justice was most visible. But no, Father Winthrop suspected that the foundation of society was not fear, but love of The Word and devotion to it.

  Our beliefs. Our god. Those are the threads that hold the fabric of our society together.

  Winthrop sat up straight and repeated that epiphany in his head.

  Surely that had to be true. Winthrop nodded, letting this conviction sink down to his core.

  That epiphany almost made Jenny’s death meaningful.

  The Council of Elders should not be a military dictator with two impotent figureheads alongside. In fact, it shouldn’t be a council at all. As the Bishop of Brighton and head of the church, Father Winthrop was the natural choice for leading the government. Who else would know what was best for the people? Who else knew the divine Word as intimately as he?

  Something needed to change. The government needed to change. And as a pillar of the government, Father Winthrop needed to change it. He let those thoughts germinate for a bit while he tried to repress the fear he felt for Blackthorn. In the meantime, he went back to staring at the bed sheets, watching Jenny’s head topple from her neck and reliving her haunting scream.

  The knock on his door came later than expected, but it was a welcome one, chasing away the memories of the day’s brutality. “Enter, boy.”

  The door latch scraped and Franklin pushed the door open. He squeezed through the small gap he’d made for himself and closed it behind him.

  “Tell me about her,” Father Winthrop asked.

  “She is from The House of Barren Women.”

  “I should hope so.” Father’s Winthrop’s emotional distress turned to vitriol. “That is where I sent you, is it not?”

  Franklin flinched back a step. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Winthrop turned to look at the fire. In a tone that belied his words, he said, “You are forgiven. What is her age?”

  “Twenty-six at most.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Yes Father, but most of those women either don’t know or they lie.”

  Father Winthrop nodded slowly. That was true enough.

  “But she looks to be of that age,” Franklin added.

  “Good.” Winthrop turned on the boy. “Two years ago, when Jenny was down with the fever, you brought me a wrinkled crone to take her place. I wonder sometimes if you can tell a young woman from an old one.”

  Franklin looked at the floor, futilely hiding a smile. “I may not recall correctly, Father, but I understood that you enjoyed your morning with Beverly very much.”

  “Beverly. Was that her name?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I did enjoy my time with her.” Winthrop smiled weakly. “That is true.”

  “If you enjoyed her, why did you not ask me to bring her again?”

  “She was not pleasing to my eye. Still, one wonders, with her skill and imagination at bringing a man to pleasure, how she could have remained barren for all the years of her long life.”

  Franklin meekly said, “Some say the fault may lie with the man.”

  “I assure you, young Franklin, that no fault lies with me. I spent my seed just as any true man should. I do my duty every time you fetch a barren woman for me.”

  “My apologies, Father. I didn’t mean that.”

  “Of course.” Winthrop’s voice softened. “Speak no more of such heresies. Tell me about the girl you brought. If she is a girl of sandy hair and brown eyes, I’ll flog you. I have no desire to be reminded of yesterday’s atrocity. I wish to forget all my times with Jenny by drowning those memories in the arms of another.”

  “Her hair is raven black. Her eyes are blue ice. Her skin is milk white.”

  “And her breasts?”

  “Large.”

  Winthrop nodded approval as he mumbled. “Jenny had small breasts.” This woman didn’t sound like she looked anything like her. “How long has she been in The House of Barren Women?”

  “Two years.”

  “Good. I have no desire to work through a woman’s fear of men. And the woman who runs the place, Mary, what did she say of this girl?”

  “Mary assured me that Fitzgerald—”

  “Fitzgerald?” Father Winthrop didn’t like that name at all. “An odd name for a girl, don’t you think?”

  “It is the name of one of the first fifty-seven.”

  “Do you think I do not know that, Franklin?”

  “My apologies, Father. I…I don’t know why I said that. Would you like me to bring her in?”

  “In a moment.” Father Winthrop’s face turned thoughtful. He appraised Franklin as he recalled his vindictive hate for Blackthorn. A dim hope was brimming in his head, a hope that he might have the strength and cunning in him to make the change in the government that he yearned for. Winthrop aske
d, “You are good with numbers, is that true?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “What is the highest number you can count?”

  Franklin giggled. “There is no theoretical limit to the numbers that can be counted. Thank you for testing my knowledge with that question, Father.”

  Father Winthrop snorted. He’d have to ask someone else to find out whether that was true. It couldn’t be true though, could it? No limit? That made no sense at all. “You spend too much time in the company of that strange bird, Scholar Evan.”

  “He has taught me much, Father.”

  “Good.” Winthrop scratched his head and thought about his nascent plans. “I have questions that I want you to find answers for.”

  “Questions with numbers?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What answers would you like me to find, Father?”

  “How many men take their devotion to The Word to heart?”

  “All men do, of course,” Franklin answered.

  “I don’t ask how many men sleep through the recital of The Word, young Franklin. Nearly all of the men attend our devotional service. I ask how many men sit in the pew and passionately assimilate every word, longing for the next word in the way a soft-hearted man longs to touch a woman under her skirts.”

  Franklin said, “Pardon my ignorance in these matters, Father, but may I ask why this number is important?”

  “I need to know how many men’s devotion to The Word is absolute,” said Winthrop.

  “This may not be an easy answer to find,” said Franklin. “It may not be a matter of simply counting. How soon will you need this number?”

  “I know that it may be hard to find this answer. Consult with Scholar Evan. Perhaps he has knowledge of these things through the census that he runs each year. We’ll talk more about this in a fortnight. Tell me at that time what you know.”

  “I will.” Franklin gestured to the closed door behind him. “Would you like me to let her in now?”

  “Yes. I’m tired of talking and thinking.”