The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  Something? Oliver waited a moment, and then asked, “What?”

  Kilburn led Oliver to the wooden cabinet he’d had the sheathes stored in. “Something I’ve never made before. Well, before this once.” Kilburn turned back to Oliver. “Do you know Kreuz?”

  “Of course,” Oliver told him, cocking his head in that superior way that was starting to feel pretty comfortable. “I saw him just this morning.”

  That was true. Oliver had managed to convince Kreuz that the two relics he sold him were from Father Winthrop’s private collection in order to buy certain special things. Kreuz, whose eyes showed every bit of lust he had for the beautiful crosses, still held the pretense that he was only mildly interested. He paid Oliver less than the crosses were worth, but more than Oliver needed for anything he’d be purchasing before he left town. The only question he asked himself was whether he should have sold all three relics. One was so much easier to transport than the bag of coin he could trade it for, but coins were easier to spend.

  It was a decision that nagged in the back of Oliver’s mind as he worked through his transactions with Kilburn. Also nagging him were the lies he was spreading. He had no doubt they’d eventually find their way back to Winthrop. He only had to be sure he was over the circle wall and long gone by the time that happened.

  Kilburn reached into his cabinet, shuffled some things around, and removed one of the strangest things Oliver had ever seen. It looked like cloth woven from metal.

  Oliver reached out to touch it, finding it flexible, just like a piece of cloth. “That’s amazing.”

  Kilburn’s face lit up, and he grinned widely. “I saw it in an ancient book that Kreuz was showing off. In a picture, an ancient fighting man wore a long shirt made just like this.” Kilburn scratched his head. “In the picture, the man also held a sword and wore a helmet. But the shirt he wore seemed to be protecting him. I wasn’t sure if he was using Tech Magic, but I took a chance and made it myself. It seems to work. One of the people looking at the book with us, a man who had his letters, said the shirt was called ‘chainmail.’”

  Nodding and smiling, Oliver said, “What a grand idea. Teeth can’t bite through metal. Blades can’t cut through it.”

  To demonstrate the point, Kilburn picked up one of his knives and pushed it into the chainmail. It didn’t pierce. Kilburn grinned and handed the knife to Oliver. “Try.”

  Oliver took the knife and tried to stick it through the chainmail as Kilburn held it up. At first, Oliver was gentle, but as he realized how tough the chainmail was, he pushed with all his might. The knife wouldn’t go through. He tried slicing, to the same effect.

  “All you’ll get is a bruise,” said Kilburn. “You’ll never bleed wearing this.”

  Oliver reached out and took the chainmail in his hands. It was a large piece, like a big square of cloth, enough to cover a man’s back and chest if wrapped around him. It was heavy, but as Oliver hefted it, he imagined how much he’d need to cover his body. “You can fashion this into a shirt?”

  Nodding, Kilburn said, “For you, I think I’d use less than half.”

  Oliver threw it over his shoulders to get a feel for the weight. “This could work. How soon could you have it ready?”

  “Oh,” said Kilburn, worry on his face. “I don’t know.”

  Oliver reached into his pocket and withdrew a good handful of coins. He dropped them onto one of the shelves in the cabinet. “Will that get it done by tomorrow morning?”

  “If I work all night,” Kilburn weakly protested.

  “Is that enough coin to make you work through the night?”

  Kilburn took a deep breath and looked at the coins. He looked back at Oliver. He looked at the chainmail. “Father Winthrop is a man of,” he paused as he looked for the right word, “proportion. Yes, significant proportion.”

  Oliver bit his lip to repress a smile. He’d have chosen other words to describe Winthrop’s girth.

  Shaking his head, Kilburn said, “I don’t know that I can get enough metal to make one for Father Winthrop before the army marches. I don’t know if I’ll have time to work all the metal.”

  Putting that comforting hand back on Kilburn’s forearm, Oliver said, “Let us take the problem one step at a time. Make the shirt for me. Let me wear it for Father Winthrop. If he likes it, then we’ll find a way to solve those other problems. Can you have mine ready by tomorrow morning?”

  Kilburn nodded.

  Chapter 33: Bray

  Bray squinted at the sunlight as he stepped out of the tavern. The drunks gandered with disoriented interest as he plowed through the alley, daring them with his eyes. None took the challenge. None ventured a move.

  With Samantha out of sight, he no longer needed to contain his anger. He was worn from his travels, fueled by drink, angered by…what? Surely Samantha’s pregnancy had been coming. Wives who failed their childbearing duties were shipped off to The House. Samantha had every reason to be joyful. Carrying a child not only secured her position but also ensured she and her child had happy lives. Especially with Conrad as the father.

  It also meant the last of Bray’s trysts with her was in his past. Samantha hadn’t said it, but he knew it.

  As much as Bray couldn’t commit, he didn’t want Conrad to have her either. For a brief moment, he’d wondered whether the child was his. But he’d seen in her eyes that it wasn’t. The baby was Conrad’s.

  It’d be well taken care of, all right.

  Another trophy for Conrad’s collection of wealth and power.

  Bray dodged the outstretched, lazy legs of sleeping men as he stormed down the alley. He scowled as one of them rolled over, almost tripping him with a boot. When he reached the end of the alley, he paused, determining which direction he’d take. The alcohol and the anger were clouding his thinking process. He’d already completed his business, and he had no other reason to stay in Coventry, except to go to The House, if all those women hadn’t already been commandeered by Blackthorn’s militia and hauled off to Brighton.

  The House.

  He’d forget all about Samantha there.

  Bray smiled as he rounded the next corner. He contemplated the silver in his pocket, no longer concerned with saving it. Not today. Maybe the next batch. He’d spend it and he’d go back and kill more demons, a hundred of them, if he had to, until he had enough money to—

  Bray collided with a large man coming around the corner. His shoulder struck Bray’s jaw, jarring his teeth. Bray reared back in anger, as if the man had hit him on purpose.

  “Watch where you’re going, you filthy pig chaser!” the man raged, his words slurred with venom.

  Bray barely had a chance to size up his attacker before he’d raised his fists. If he had, he might’ve noticed the man was a head taller than him and accompanied by friends. The tall man’s two companions stepped to the side to flank Bray.

  Bray spat curses at them, too riled up to back down.

  The man he’d bumped into had a meaty, square jaw. His eyes were round and wide. A thick gut protruded from his shirt, stained from the previous night’s celebration. His friends were shorter, with small, scrappy arms—one had a scar across his nose, the other had long, shaggy hair.

  “You should’ve held your tongue, Skin-Seller!” the shaggy-haired man cried.

  Too late, Bray recognized them as Conrad’s friends, probably heading for a morning drink. He’d talked to them before, though he couldn’t remember the conversation. Fighting them wasn’t as good as fighting Conrad. But it was close enough.

  The shaggy-haired man threw a blow at Bray’s head. Bray ducked.

  The man’s arm whizzed past Bray, and he backed up, trying to find a better place to take a stand. Excited jeers erupted from behind him. Anyone who’d been asleep in the alley had snapped awake. Within seconds, the hung-over
locals were scrambling to their feet, placing bets.

  Dimwits.

  “Kill the Skin-Seller!” someone yelled.

  “Take down that fat pig!”

  The celebratory mood of the previous evening was gone, replaced by the thrill of a fight. Bray scuffled backward, wishing he hadn’t had requested the strongest ale and drank it so fast. The men converged. He wondered if soldiers were around. Even if any were present, they’d just as likely cheer with the locals before hauling the Warden off to be punished.

  “We’re going to toss you out into the wild when we’re done,” the meaty man said with a ravenous grin. “Demon food.”

  “Fuck you,” Bray spat.

  The meaty man’s friends reached for Bray’s arms, probably hoping to pin him, but Bray shook them off, knocking the scarred man backward and against the nearby wall, pushing the shaggy-haired man to the ground. His body was filled with misguided fury. He’d kill all of them. He’d cleave their limbs from their bodies and leave them to bleed out in the street. Then he’d find Conrad, and he’d kill him, too.

  He grabbed hold of his sword, but before he could pull it, someone stuck a boot out and tripped him. Laughter filled his ears as he hit the ground.

  Someone ferreted his sword from his scabbard. Bray spun, watching over his shoulder as one of the drunks ran down the alley.

  “Get back here!” he screamed as he fought for his footing.

  The man kept running. The noise of the crowd grew louder as more people flowed from open doorways, pulled in by the noise and commotion. Too late, Bray wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  Chapter 34: Oliver

  Oliver stood in his bedroom, looking at his bed, thinking how best to conceal his new knives. Once he was outside the wall, it wouldn’t be a matter of concern. The big one he’d wear in the sheath hanging from the belt around his waist. The small one….well, he’d need to conceal that one.

  He recalled a story he’d heard as a little boy, about a clever Warden’s son who kept a small knife sheathed inside his boot. Bad men came to rob the family while the Warden was out in the wild killing demons. The bad men thought the Warden had a stash of coins, but the family didn’t. While one of the bad men was searching the house and the other was doing unspeakable things to the woman, the boy pulled out the hidden knife and saved himself and his family. Every child heard that story growing up. That made it almost certainly a bad idea to tuck the knife in his boot. If his intention was to keep it hidden, and guards detained him, he wanted to be able to use the knife to gain his freedom. The first place they’d check for hidden weapons would likely be his boot.

  He looked himself up and down. He looked at the new traveling bag he’d purchased. Where to stash the knife? Not in the bag. That would be another obvious place to be searched. Besides, it’d be too hard to pull the knife out when needed.

  An idea came to him.

  He grabbed the belt and sheath that came with the small knife. He unthreaded the belt from the loops on the sheath. He did the same for the big knife, then slid the small sheath back onto the belt, sliding it all the way to the end by the buckle. He took the big knife’s sheath and threaded the belt through its loops.

  Next, Oliver wrapped the belt around his waist, adjusting it so that the big knife was hanging at his hip. He adjusted the second knife until the sheath hung down the front of his pants, beside his private parts.

  That was exactly what he wanted. If he wore the sheaths inside his pants, the small one would stay completely hidden. The big knife’s handle would stick above the waist of his pants, and it would be nearly as easy to pull out as if he wore it on the outside. Only his shirt would be in the way. But that shirt, like the too-big-pants, would keep it all hidden.

  To test it all, Oliver took the belt off and pulled his pants down. He wrapped the belt tightly around his waist again, feeling the leather against his bare skin. With his pants still around his knees, he practiced taking each knife out, trying his best to do it quickly, in a smooth motion, like soldiers deploying their swords during their drills. One moment in the scabbard, an eye-blink later, the pointy end at someone’s throat.

  The door opened behind him, startling Oliver into inaction.

  “What are you doing?” Franklin asked.

  Oliver, standing with the big knife sheathed on his hip and the little knife in hand in front of him, held it there.

  “Oliver,” Franklin asked, “why are your pants down?”

  Oliver didn’t answer. He was making a choice about what to do with the knife.

  The door closed.

  He heard Franklin’s feet on the floor as he walked the length of the small room.

  Oliver’s breath came in short pants. He thought about all the welts and scabs, those under his shirt and those on his buttocks and legs, the ones he knew Franklin was looking at as he came to a stop. Those sores were evidence of Franklin’s guilt.

  “Where did you get the giant knife?” Franklin’s hand landed on Oliver’s shoulder and tugged him to turn around.

  Oliver spun, knocking Franklin’s hand away as he did. He reached up, grabbed Franklin’s collar, and in a lightning-quick move put the blade of the little knife against Franklin’s throat.

  Franklin’s eyes went wide. He gulped. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  Oliver did his best to make his face look hard and mean like those guards that night in the street. He wanted his eyes to say, “I don’t care if you die.”

  Chapter 35: Bray

  Bray whipped around as the meaty man advanced. Before Bray could stand, the man hoisted him by the shirt and flung him backward. Bray’s insides shook as his tailbone cracked the ground. Several spectators scurried back, far enough away to be out of danger, but close enough to leer.

  They screamed curses.

  “Back to the wild, Skin-Seller!”

  “You filthy boozehound!”

  Fighting the alcohol-induced buzz, Bray reached for the knife he had tucked in his boot, but the two other men were already grabbing his arms. Encouraged by the shouting, they pinned Bray against the wall of a building.

  The meaty man stood in front of Bray.

  “What did you say to me before? You called me a name.” The meaty man smiled, revealing blackened, chipped teeth. His open mouth unleashed the foul odor of an unsavory meal. The crowd’s roars settled to a murmur as they awaited Bray’s response.

  “Well?” the man insisted again. “Speak up so I can hear you!”

  “You’re a goddamn…pig chaser…” Bray spat.

  The meaty man leaned closer, folding his ear toward Bray as if he couldn’t hear. “What was that?” He laughed and punched Bray in the stomach. “I couldn’t hear you. Speak up!”

  Sucking in a winded breath, Bray yelled, “Fucking pig chaser!”

  The audience hooted and hollered. Bray heard the cackle of a woman mixed in with the hearty jeers of men. For a split second, he pictured Samantha rooting against him, excitedly waiting for his blood to spill.

  “So you think we chase pigs in town all day, huh?” the meaty man asked.

  “That’s exactly what I think.” Bray exaggerated his nod.

  “Better to chase pigs than demons. At least you can eat pigs. What do you do with the demons? Huh? Fuck ‘em?”

  The audience erupted in laughter. Before Bray could retort, the man socked him in the stomach again, blowing the rest of his wind from his lungs. Bray choked and gagged. The remains of the rabbits he’d eaten crept up his throat. He struggled against the men who had him pinned. The meaty man turned to face the crowd as if he were an orator at some hosted event, a preacher at a sermon.

  “What are we going to do with this one, huh?”

  “You should skin him!”

  “Yeah! Skin the Skin-Seller!” someone screame
d. “Maybe you’ll get five coin for it!”

  “Four, now!”

  The audience laughed again. A few more suggestions flew from the crowd, but Bray wasn’t listening. He let his head sag to his chest and closed his eyes. The men on either side of him leaned in to check on him, concerned their fun might be over. He felt their hot, stale breath in his face. He opened his eyes to slits, watching them.

  Without warning, he rammed his head sideways into the closer of the two. The shaggy-haired man cried out in pain, his nose split open and spilling blood. Bray pulled his right arm free and socked the scarred man in the face, feeling the slice of teeth as he sent several of them into the man’s mouth. He ignored the burning pain in his knuckles.

  And then he was free, scooting sideways, trying to gain distance from the scene.

  Hands tugged his clothes. Blurred faces spit and sneered. He felt the drip of well-placed snot on his forehead. Bray bounced back and forth between pairs of pushing hands. He swung at the people pushing him, but there were too many targets to aim at. Before he could brace himself, the spectators thrust him into the center of the alley, directly in front of the meaty man.

  The man grabbed hold of his collar and threw him backward. Bray skidded backward in the dirt. He kept his balance. His boots kicked up dust, clouding the air. Several people scattered out of his way as he raised his fists. Blood dripped from his right hand.

  “Come on, you dirt-scratcher!” Bray yelled at the man. He took a precautionary glance around him, but the crowd had consumed the other two wounded men. “You don’t chase pigs; you are one!”

  The meaty man roared and charged.

  His tall, massive frame blurred as he closed in. Swallowing his nausea, Bray stepped to the side and avoided him. The man’s momentum carried him into the wall of a building. He grunted from the impact.

  And then Bray was on him.