The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  Whoever the fuck it was, he’d take care of the man, too.

  His left arm burned with pain. Though Jeremiah had treated the wildcat bite, he still felt blood leaking from the wound, gumming up the bandage. Thank God it hadn’t been his right arm. He could still wield his sword without issue.

  Which he’d need to, now that he was in the Ancient City.

  It’d been several years since Jeremiah had walked the cracked streets. The last time he’d trekked to the Ancient City, he’d hoisted some metal from underneath a pile of rubble on the city’s outskirts, lugging it back to Brighton for some coin. When the trip was over, he’d sworn he wouldn’t do it again. It wasn’t worth the exertion. Demons scalps were much lighter, and required much less travel.

  But books? Those were worth it.

  Spurred on by the thought of his prize, Jeremiah continued after Ivory and the strange man. Maybe when he caught up to the boy, he’d use one of the boy’s arrows to carve out his eyes.

  **

  Jeremiah kept to the shadows as he followed the two figures. Several times, he heard the distant screech of a demon, probably foraging an animal’s dead guts or playing with its own defecation on the street. It seemed like the creatures behaved even worse in the Ancient City, if that were possible.

  The streets and buildings were a foul-smelling nest for the beasts. Judging by the stench, the demons were even more prevalent now than when he’d last been here. Without Wardens like himself to kill them, the things ran rampant. Maybe after he dealt with the boy, Jeremiah would whack a few on the way back to Brighton, just for kicks.

  He wouldn’t need skins, once he had books.

  The boy and his hooded companion led him down several debris-ridden streets. Jeremiah stepped over the ruins of ancient buildings with no great concern. Jeremiah couldn’t understand how people were so enamored with the Ancient City. To him it was a shithole, a place he’d avoid if he had his preference. If it weren’t for the treasures hidden inside it, the place wouldn’t be worth squat. All Jeremiah cared about was his coin and his drink, with a few loose women thrown in the mix. He let those things drive him as he kept up with the people he was following.

  Soon he’d have plenty of all of them.

  Ivory and the hooded man took another turn, leading him down a steep slope. Fearing they might get away, Jeremiah picked up his pace. He recalled how quickly Ivory had been traveling earlier, even after the spill he’d taken. Jeremiah knew his bulk prevented him from traveling fast.

  He had to decrease the gap.

  As he jogged farther, the smell of demons dissipated, replaced by a damp, salty odor. Jeremiah crinkled his nose as he tried to place it. It wasn’t until he saw the enormous body of water at the end of the street that he realized where he was. Rusty blue waves lapped at a sandy shore, leading up to the building at the end of the road.

  He hadn’t seen the ocean in a while. Like the Ancient City itself, he had no love for it. Jeremiah never understood how people could float in the calmer parts of the Davenport River, enjoying the lull of the current. He was too worried about demons to risk that.

  Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t swim.

  Ivory and the hooded man were heading down the street and toward the ocean. Maybe he’d catch up to them, find out what he needed to know, and chuck them in. He laughed as he barreled down the cracked street.

  He closed the gap, swinging his sword at his side.

  He was only a few hundred yards away when he saw Ivory look over his shoulder. His mouth fell open as he saw Jeremiah. Dammit.

  The pain in Jeremiah’s arm blazed. It was as if his body were demanding retribution for what he’d endured. Only a little farther, and he’d have his revenge. He’d make up for that goddamned encounter in the woods. He’d make sure the boy paid.

  Finished with caution, Jeremiah snarled and ran. He plowed down the alley, his thunderous frame grinding pebbles into dust. He pushed past wilting, browning bushes and thistle that grew through the cracks in the street. One of them smacked him in the face, and he cried out and batted it away.

  When he cleared his vision, Ivory and the hooded man were gone.

  Where were they?

  The area was a maze of empty doorways. Jeremiah kept running until he reached the place where he’d lost them. He glanced into several empty doorways, discerning only shadows and plants and stone. In the last one, he heard the lap of the water, as if the ocean had made its way inside. It was impossible to see through the gloom. Jeremiah pounded on the wall with his good hand.

  He considered roaring a warning. Instead he listened for scared, weak voices. Nothing stood out above the sound of the water. Frustrated, he stepped back into the road and spun in all directions, certain he’d missed something, certain that some trick was being played. The ocean at the end of the street lapped lazy waves against the shore, taunting him.

  And then he saw it.

  Jeremiah held a hand above his eyes. Certainly, he’d had too much snowberry.

  Something was moving out of the building next to which he was standing.

  A thirty-foot, crescent moon-shaped piece of metal floated out into the water. Sheets of fabric flapped off a metal bar in the center, ruffling with the wind. Sitting aboard it were Ivory and the hooded man.

  “Tech Magic,” Jeremiah murmured.

  Jeremiah watched as the strange object glided away, over the ocean and away from the Ancient City. His jaw fell open in disbelief. He’d tell Beck about this. He had to.

  Chapter 66: Franklin

  Blackthorn marched out of the temple with some of his cavalrymen marching in formation behind him.

  Franklin stood on the stage watching him go. He glanced over at Father Winthrop who seemed to have lost himself in staring at nothing. Looking at the pews, Franklin noticed all eyes, the clergy’s, the Novices, and the remaining cavalrymen’s, were on him. He’d just been appointed acting Bishop in a fulfillment of his dreams that was too rapid to assimilate.

  Winthrop said something, a string of unintelligible syllables that rose and fell on the tune of a crazy man’s music.

  One of the cavalrymen, an officer, walked to the front of the stage and stood in front of Franklin. “Minister Franklin,” he said as though he were talking to Father Winthrop, “General Blackthorn expects us to follow him to the pyres.”

  Nodding at the man, as he’d watched General Blackthorn do a thousand times, Franklin opened his mouth, not knowing what might come out. “Let us go together.” He pointed at the large doors through which Blackthorn had disappeared moments before. He looked over at Father Winthrop with his attendants. Franklin addressed the one nearest. “Help him, as necessary.”

  Avoiding eye contact with anyone else, Franklin settled his gaze on the open doors. He crossed the stage, descended the stairs, and stepped authoritatively through the jealous stares of the older clergymen on the front row of pews. Measuring his pace to keep it steady, he strode purposefully toward the doors hoping the others would follow. He dared not look back to make sure that they were.

  He’d told them once. Franklin knew enough about leadership from watching General Blackthorn that you only told them once.

  But General Blackthorn had earned that degree of authority through the respect of men who’d fought with him, through the gratitude of the townsfolk he’d saved from the bottomless appetites of the demons, and from the deep fear they all had of the pyre, the spike, and the sword.

  What would Franklin do if none of the clergy followed? Would the cavalrymen draw their blades and herd them all out into the square? Would they wait for Franklin to order it?

  Was General Blackthorn’s advice truly the only choice he had? Burn one today or twelve tomorrow? If the clergy didn’t follow, would Blackthorn burn all the dissenters one at a time?

  Franklin felt sick t
o his stomach. Through all the years he sat on the periphery, dreaming of the day he’d be called Bishop, yearning for the day when he would sit in the Minister’s chair and dictate the law, he believed that he’d be just and merciful. He dreamed he’d rule a happy people who sang and danced amidst the flowers on never-ending spring days.

  Such is the nature of fantasies.

  Instead, he walked out of the temple under a gray sky, with a cold wind blowing, all the while praying a disgruntled band of clergymen would follow him to watch a priest burn, or not, solely on his order.

  Franklin realized at that moment that dreams don’t come true. They only lose their pretty facades and expose themselves as the nightmares beneath.

  Franklin descended the steps outside the temple door. He heard feet shuffling on the stone behind him.

  The clergymen were following.

  Franklin looked up at the sky and thanked the clouds, the sun, and The Word.

  Now he only had one mortal decision to make. Whether or not to burn Father Nelson, a man who’d told him old stories and shared his meals.

  As Franklin crossed the square toward the line of poles, it occurred to him that each pole always had a fresh pile of wood. The next Cleansing was months away, but each pyre stood ready to burn. It had always been that way. But it was something that never seemed worthy of a question before. Sure, Franklin knew people were burned for their transgressions, but as Blackthorn’s words sank in—burn one today or twelve tomorrow—he wondered what purpose the pyres served aside from burning. Were they a deterrent to bad behavior? Were they the threat of authority that would punish so swiftly that there wasn’t even time to stack wood?

  Was the swiftness of brutality such an important component?

  With the wind gusting in his face, Franklin made a show of pretending to turn away for a second to rub something out of his eyes. In truth, he wanted to make sure the clergy were still coming. Indeed, they were all filing out in a single line, following Franklin, sheep-like, with heads bowed.

  At the edge of the square, Franklin spotted Fitz in the open door of General Blackthorn’s house, standing like a statue of ancient marble, defying the wind as her black hair flowed out around her.

  Word had come to the temple from General Blackthorn that Fitz had taken ill and was under his care. Franklin, after worrying over the worst possibilities since her disappearance, was initially relieved, and then afraid. He feared for what condition Fitz might be in and fretted that the message might be a lie. To what end, he couldn’t even guess. But there she was, alive.

  Franklin’s emotion spun in a cyclone of contradictions. How was he to feel happy seeing Fitz’s face, while he was being forced to burn a man? And why burn Father Nelson? Just so he’d have the respect of others in the clergy, so he might not one day have to burn more of them?

  What did Fitz think of the goings-on in the square? He wished he could talk to her and ask her advice.

  Franklin turned back in the direction his feet were moving, feeling guilt over what had happened to Oliver, equating in his mind that punishment with the one that he was being forced to decide on now.

  Forced?

  If he was the acting Bishop, the sitting Minister for Father Winthrop, could he be forced to do anything?

  No.

  But he wasn’t made to do anything. General Blackthorn had simply dropped a situation at his feet, a situation Franklin never would have created on his own.

  Franklin stopped in front of the first pyre in the row, instinctively knowing how far back to stand. Every child in Brighton learned how the heat of a fire reached out to singe any fool who stood too close.

  General Blackthorn stood in front of Franklin as the clergy spread out in a line, facing the pile of wood atop of which Father Nelson was already being tied.

  “My father was a hard man,” Blackthorn said. “He taught me lessons only once. I had to learn at those moments when the knowledge was free. The times I squandered those lessons, I paid dearly. Learning things the hard way often comes at the expense of a man’s life.” Blackthorn looked over at Winthrop, who was just arriving to take up a spot in front of the row of clergymen. “Your teacher is a doddering coward.” Blackthorn put a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “It’s too bad. You’re a bright boy. Many of your lessons will cost more than you’ll think you can bear. This one, I’ll tell you a second time, as a favor, because of the fool you’ve been Novice to.” Blackthorn caught Franklin in his stare and told him, “Burn this man, today. It is cruel, overly so, as I see from your eyes. You don’t accept that a dozen deaths of your clergy will be the cost of the mistake to let him live. You don’t see that, because you are young and idealistic. Those two qualities in a man only lead to bad choices and tears.”

  Franklin looked over General Blackthorn’s shoulder. Up on top of the pyre Father Nelson was crying, straining at the ropes that held his hands behind the pole at his back. He was begging and apologizing for his impudence.

  “That’s all I’ll say,” said Blackthorn. “Choose to learn from the wisdom and missteps of others, or pay the higher cost of making your own mistakes.” Blackthorn stepped to the side and tilted his head toward one of the cavalrymen.

  The man with a burning torch in his hand acknowledged the General and walked solemnly up to Franklin, extending the torch.

  Feeling the heat of the torch’s small fire on his face, Franklin reached out and took it. He watched the flame dance in the stiff wind as it clung desperately to the layers of oil-soaked cloth wrapped around the wood. He half hoped the flame would die and buy him some time for his decision, but the longer he stared at the flickering red and yellow, the more certain he became that it wouldn’t.

  Franklin thought of Fitz’s alabaster face staring at him from Blackthorn’s doors. What was in those eyes? Was it judgment? Was it hate? Was it possible she had an understanding of what his choice here really was?

  No.

  She was just a woman. What could she know?

  Franklin felt a lump in his throat, tears in his eyes, and a pit in his stomach. He bit his lip until he tasted a gush of warm blood in his mouth.

  He stepped forward and cast the torch onto the pile of wood at Father Nelson’s feet.

  Chapter 67: Ella

  Ella stared through the forest, watching leaves spiral down. The ground held a thin layer of green and brown foliage that mixed with the snow, as if autumn had resumed its proceedings after winter’s initial, early touch. The travelers crunched debris into the ground as they walked.

  “It feels like it’s getting colder,” she said, clutching her arms to her chest.

  “It’ll get even worse in the Ancient City,” Bray said. “It’s by the water.”

  “The never-ending river, right?”

  “Yes. Or the Ocean. That’s what others call it. No one knows how far it goes. Some say it goes forever.”

  “I can’t imagine that. Have you seen it?”

  “Of course. One can’t set foot in the Ancient City without seeing it. You’ll see soon enough.”

  “Does it go forever?”

  “I’ve never seen anything past it.” Bray shrugged. “And I tried. It’s a beautiful sight, for certain.”

  “I can’t wait.” She shivered, still clutching her chest.

  “How about some alcohol to warm you up?” Bray suggested. “I have some extra snowberry, if you’d like.” He tapped the flask on his waist, but Ella wasn’t listening. She’d switched focus to Melora and William, who were scouting the forest a short distance in front of them. They chatted in eager voices.

  Bray and Ella continued walking toward them.

  “They seem to be getting along,” Bray said.

  “I didn’t know what to expect,” Ella admitted. “If it had been planned, I’m not sure it would’ve gone as well.”

>   “Sometimes the best things happen like that,” Bray said. “Not all bad comes from unfortunate circumstances.”

  Ella readjusted the bag on her shoulder. “Getting to know Melora has been like a gift. Hearing about her childhood in Davenport… It’s brought back memories.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  “In spite of what happened, it seemed like she was happy there.” Ella paused. “At least nobody can take away her memories.”

  “You’re right about that.” Bray unscrewed his flask and took a sip. He sighed as he returned it to his belt.

  Ella’s attention turned to William, who was telling a story about the biggest pig he’d ever seen. His eyes were wide, and he was using his hands to describe it while Melora laughed.

  “This is the happiest I’ve seen William in a while,” Ella said.

  “He seems to be enjoying the companionship of his sister.”

  “He is,” Ella agreed. “But there was an incident…while you were gone.”

  “Another one?” Bray’s tone mirrored her concern.

  “When we were attacked, he was speaking with the demons again. I think he believes he can communicate with them.” Ella lowered her eyes. “Have you ever seen that happen?”

  “A few times.” Bray watched her gravely but didn’t elaborate. Ella couldn’t bring herself to ask any further questions. She noticed the Warden was staring ahead of them, where Melora and William had stopped. Their heads tilted as they looked at the tops of the trees.

  “What is it?” she called out to them.

  But she’d already seen it. Poking out from the tips of the trees, barely visible, were several soaring towers, the crumbled tops covered in foliage. Birds circled the ruins as if they’d been tasked to keep guard. Deep in the distance, an inhuman wail sounded, giving either a greeting or an ominous warning.