The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  Franklin, Fitzgerald, and Evan stared at each other, panic burning in their eyes. No one had to speak to know what this might mean.

  “We need to get out of here,” Franklin said desperately.

  Evan looked like he might wet his frock. “We’ll never make it. They’re waiting for us. We have no choice but to go.”

  Franklin swallowed, knowing Evan was right.

  Chapter 79: Winthrop

  Winthrop stood over General Blackthorn’s bed, listening to Blackthorn breathe. Blackthorn didn’t look like a piece of iron in the form of a man. He was on his back with his mouth open, his face slack. His fierce eyes were wrinkled shut in dark sockets. His breath rattled through his rickety chest. His big hands were bony, with bulbous knuckles that looked like they might shatter as soon as bend.

  Blackthorn was just an old man with discolored skin and brittle gray hair.

  He’d made a life of looking handsome, with a straight back and wiry muscles sitting atop a horse, gazing down on peasants. He had a baritone voice that always seemed to threaten, a chiseled face that was the kind of ugly that women wanted to love.

  He was a weakling pretending divinity, whose mortality had finally come to the surface.

  “What are you doing in my tent?” Blackthorn uttered.

  Winthrop jumped back. The Blackthorn thing was awake.

  “What do you want?” it asked.

  Winthrop slinked forward, his conditioned dread getting the best of him. He blessed Blackthorn’s ears with god-speak.

  “Stop jabbering, man,” said Blackthorn in a thin voice Winthrop could barely hear. “What news do you have?”

  Winthrop gathered his courage and extended a slow, trembling hand. He laid it on Blackthorn’s bony chest.

  “What foolishness is this?” Blackthorn’s anger sounded impotent.

  Winthrop mumbled a singsong prayer in the god-tongue. Blackthorn had been a formidable enemy. He deserved a blessing.

  Blackthorn snorted. “You’ve lost your senses. Get out of here.”

  Winthrop disobeyed. He reached over and put his other hand on Blackthorn’s forehead, kneeling beside the bed. Winthrop bowed his head and let the words roll into a new tune as he followed the muse of his divinity.

  Blackthorn stopped protesting. “You’re praying for me? Don’t waste your time. I assure you, I’ll live longer than you.”

  Winthrop finished his prayer and stood up. He looked down at the weak Blackthorn thing with bewildered eyes. It was time to ascend.

  Winthrop deliberately turned around.

  Blackthorn moved on the bed behind Winthrop, probably trying to get up.

  Winthrop looked around the dim tent for what he required.

  “When you leave,” said Blackthorn, “tell the guard to send my cleaning girl in.” Blackthorn coughed up a gob of phlegm. He kept coughing.

  Winthrop walked to Blackthorn’s scabbard where it hung on a tent pole. He laid his hand on the sword’s Spartan hilt, feeling the leather wrapped steel in his grip. He slid the sword out.

  Behind him, Blackthorn was still coughing his way through a fit that had a way to go.

  Winthrop turned around. He raised the long curved sabre.

  Blackthorn was sitting on the edge of his bed, bent over and coughing into his hands.

  Ascend to heaven on the corpses of the dead.

  I am a war god.

  Winthrop hacked through the back of Blackthorn’s skull and the coughing stopped. Blackthorn fell face first onto the ground, blood pumping out of a gaping wound. Winthrop held the dripping sabre in his hands.

  He sang on without changing his rhythm, without changing his words.

  The devil was dead. Just as it had to be. The devil had died the moment that Winthrop found the courage to kill him. It was no surprise. There was no resistance. How could there have been?

  Winthrop was a god.

  Chapter 80: Oliver

  Oliver looked north where the cliffs fell away to the river, gazing upon miles of grasslands and forest; no man from the militia tainted his view. Except for the incessant, sad song in which every man in the army seemed to have joined, Oliver was able to imagine himself far from the carnage. Free. Happy.

  It was late, and Oliver was just realizing that he’d slept through most of the day, though he’d awoken before Minister Beck. Oliver turned back as he thought about whether to go to the tent and wait for the tray to mysteriously show up laden with bread and meat or to eat something from the limited supply in his bag.

  He stretched his arm out and swung it around to loosen his shoulder. He was still sore from the demon bite the night before. The previous night’s battle seemed to have made its way from between the defensive rings downhill all the way up to the formation of blue shirts that had been arrayed around the peak. Many of the blue shirts were on the ground, dead. More were putting their hands in the blood of their comrades and marking one another with bloody prints on their chests and faces. They all sang Winthrop’s senseless song, and hundreds of militiamen from downhill, men who’d fought through the night, sang with them.

  Uh, oh.

  Oliver walked past Beck’s tent to a point where he was able to see down the front slopes and the prairie beyond. The cavalry formations were riding back toward the defenses. Men all over the hills were watching the cavalry come. Most were close by, watching General Blackthorn’s tent, silently waiting. Oliver looked too, feeling as though he’d missed something important, or was about to.

  The flaps on Blackthorn’s tent bulged out and then peeled away.

  Father Winthrop, his face shimmering with blood, emerged from the tent with a naked, bloody old man with a split skull in his arms.

  Oliver had seen Winthrop and his disciples move around so many bodies, reveling in their blood, that the body in Winthrop’s arms didn’t alarm him.

  Winthrop walked toward his singing men, to a place on the top of the hill where he could see the slopes below and the men down there could see him.

  The incoming cavalry passed the first line of the defenses at the bottom of the slope as they trotted into camp.

  “The devil is dead,” shouted Father Winthrop in a voice big enough to find the ears of thousands. “The devil is dead.”

  Oliver looked at the naked man in Winthrop’s arms. It was General Blackthorn.

  “Oh, no!” Oliver turned and ran to Minister Beck’s tent.

  Chapter 81: Tenbrook

  Tenbrook sat at a small table in the corner of his new war room, staring at the wall. He’d enjoyed playing around with Evan and the Dunlows over the past few days. But that time had ended. It was time to act.

  He was pretty confident the lower members of the Clergy weren’t involved. Neither were the lackeys at the Academy.

  But he’d gotten several reports about Evan conversing with Franklin. In fact, Evan was at the Sanctuary now. He knew Franklin was involved. Tenbrook had to put a stop to things before they got too far.

  Timmy and Tommy had named several of the revolt leaders, men who had coordinated the movement between houses. He’d already had them brought in.

  The question now was whether he’d burn Franklin, or Evan, or both.

  Rising from his chair, Tenbrook called for Captain Sinko. Entering with a nod, Sinko smoothed his crisp blue shirt and waited for his instructions.

  “Are The People headed to the square?”

  “Yes. The Clergy and the Academy are on the way.”

  “Thank you, Captain Sinko.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to meet with the other Elders first?”

  “No,” Tenbrook said. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Chapter 82: Beck

  Beck peered from the tent, following Oliver’s shaky finger. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t.


  Blackthorn was dead, and Winthrop was parading the body in front of his troops. The remaining blue shirts had joined Winthrop’s faithful. The only thing that sounded like sanity at the moment was the sound of hooves. The cavalry was coming back.

  Beck looked back at Oliver.

  “What are you doing?” asked Oliver.

  “I’m going out.”

  “What? You can’t go out there now. Stay in the tent until dark. Then escape.”

  Beck crossed over to the tent’s entrance.

  “If you go out there,” hissed Oliver, “they’ll kill you.”

  Beck paused. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to see for himself.

  Oliver leaped in front of Beck, and he drew his dagger. He took Beck’s wrist.

  “Hey!” Beck protested. “What are you doing?”

  Oliver held firmly to Beck’s wrist. “Open your palm.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’m going to cut you.”

  Beck didn’t open his hand.

  “If you don’t wear the mark, you’ll end up dead like the rest of them.”

  Beck frowned and thought about it. “Don’t cut my hand.” With a finger, he traced a line on the meaty muscle just below his elbow. “Here. But don’t cut deeply. You don’t want me to bleed to death.”

  Oliver dragged the tip of the blade across Beck’s skin. Beck jerked his arm away, sending a splatter of blood across the tent. “Ouch.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Rub it on your hands. Get them nice and bloody. Make two handprints on your chest. Put it on your face.”

  Beck reluctantly followed Oliver’s instructions, taking a moment to compose himself before stepping toward the tent entrance again.

  “If things go badly for you, I’m running,” Oliver admitted. He pointed at the back of the tent, shrugging as if to apologize.

  Beck did his best to smile. “If things go badly, that might be your best option. There’ll be nothing you can do to help.”

  Oliver stepped away from Beck. He bit his lip as if his guilt was making him speak again. “If you sing that stupid song and stand with the idiots, it might prevent them from recognizing you.”

  Beck smiled and pushed through the tent.

  Outside, the sun blazed orange and red behind the mountain peaks. Without the cavalry to keep them at bay, wailing demons ran by the thousands across the grass toward the fortifications. The cavalry was strung out up and down the hill, trying to get to their camp at the top. They were slowed by the crush of militiamen crowding around them, men who should have been manning their defenses, but had given up.

  Things were going badly. Beck was no general, but he saw that.

  He walked across the clearing at the top of the hill to where Winthrop stood, still holding Blackthorn’s body in his arms. Winthrop was chanting on in that pointless jabber that he’d been speaking for days. A dozen cavalrymen were on their horses in front of Winthrop.

  Three of the captains were among them.

  Getting closer, Beck saw Captain Swan with a hand on his sword, yelling at Winthrop. “You’ll tell me what happened, you mumbling fool, and you’ll do it now!”

  Winthrop threw Blackthorn’s body on the ground. He put a foot on Blackthorn’s chest. Captain Swan’s eyes burned with fire as he drew his sword.

  “Wait!” Beck shouted as he came close.

  Captain Swan looked at Beck with disgust on his face. “You, too, wear the mark?”

  Beck said, “Father Winthrop, was it demons? Did they attack? Did they kill the General?”

  “There was no attack,” said Swan, inching his horse toward Winthrop, ready to swing his sword.

  Winthrop sang and stared at the sky.

  Beck raised a hand to halt Captain Swan. “Wait.” He walked up to Father Winthrop and put a hand on his shoulder. “Father Winthrop, what happened?”

  Winthrop’s eyes snapped open. He looked at Beck as though he’d never seen another human, then something clicked in his mind. He said, “My son. You wear the mark.”

  “Yes.” Beck’s eyes flicked to his chest. Then he pointed at Blackthorn’s body. “What happened? Tell me, man, what happened?”

  Winthrop looked at the body. For a moment, he seemed sad. Tears filled his eyes as he said, “The devil is dead.”

  “Yes, the devil is dead,” reiterated Beck. “What happened to him?”

  “The sword.”

  “What sword?”

  Winthrop spun in a circle and looked up at the sky. He howled some musical nonsense and then he set his eyes on Captain Swan. He spat an insult in his god-tongue, then looked at his men, who were already surrounding the cavalrymen. “My sons, listen to me. The devil’s children on horseback are here to take your god’s life.” Winthrop’s voice found all of its practiced power. “Slay them!”

  Without a moment’s thought, without any hesitation, the militiamen attacked the horsemen.

  Beck recoiled. He retreated a few steps. “What are you doing, Winthrop?”

  “I killed the devil! I killed him with his sword!” Winthrop fell to his knees by Blackthorn’s body and pushed a hand into the wound on Blackthorn’s skull, causing more blood to seep out.

  Beck walked backward. He looked up and down the hill. The militiamen were attacking the rest of the cavalry. The first of the demons reached the line of fortifications at the bottom of the slope.

  There was nowhere left to go.

  He looked back at his tent.

  Beck ran.

  Chapter 83: Oliver

  Oliver watched Beck burst into the tent, panic all over his face.

  Oliver already had his backpack on. “I’m ready.”

  Beck looked himself up and down. He put a hand on the hilt of his knife. “This is all I have.”

  “If you see a dead blue shirt, take his sword.” Oliver peeked outside. He closed the flaps. “I saw everything.”

  “Not everything.” Beck pointed. “The militia attacked the cavalry as they were coming up the hill. The demons are climbing over the fortifications. We need to head toward the river.”

  “Can you swim?”

  Beck nodded. “How about you?”

  “Of course.”

  Beck looked at Oliver, not entirely believing him. “The water will be near freezing. If we go that way and don’t find a place to warm up tonight, the cold may kill us.”

  “If we stay, we’ll die!” Oliver pulled the tent flap wide. “Come on.” He ran toward the cliffs. The sound of demons howling and men fighting filled the air.

  “Kill the minister!” Winthrop shouted, catching sight of them.

  Oliver looked back. Winthrop, from fifty or sixty yards away, was pointing up at him and Beck. Some of Winthrop’s disciples had stopped mutilating the bodies of the fallen cavalrymen and were now following Winthrop’s crazed hollering.

  Beck ran ahead, urging Oliver to hurry.

  Oliver ran as fast as his feet would carry him.

  The men shouted. A dozen or more gave chase. But they were too far behind. Minister Beck’s tent stood a few hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs. He and Oliver had already crossed half that distance by the time the first of Winthrop’s men got up to speed.

  “Do you know a way down to the water?” Beck panted.

  “I saw a path down. It’s steep and looks dangerous,” said Oliver, knowing as he said the words that the trail wasn’t a good option. They could start down the path, but they wouldn’t get far. The men would catch up by then.

  “Lead!” Beck panted.

  “Don’t wait for me!” yelled Oliver.

  Beck pushed out a laugh. “You think I’d abandon a child to save myself?”

  Oliver didn’t answer. They both ran as
fast as Oliver was able. Nearing the edge of the cliff, Oliver’s boots skidded on loose dirt at the top of the path that led down, cutting across the face of the cliff. Oliver looked back at the men. A few dozen were skidding down the hillside, gaining ground. He and Beck didn’t have much time. “Follow me!”

  Beck stayed on Oliver’s heels. They worked their way down the trail, going as fast as the steep slope would allow.

  “We’re going to have to jump,” said Oliver, swallowing as he realized the option he’d known, but had been too afraid to admit.

  “We’re too high,” said Beck.

  “What if they start throwing rocks? If they hit us and we lose our balance—”

  “We’ll crack our skulls on the cliff face when we fall,” Beck finished.

  Shouts from behind made it clear that men had reached the trail.

  Oliver looked at the water. It looked black, cold, and pretty far down. Being so close to the Ancient City, he hoped that none of the monsters from the fairy tales lived in the water below. He prayed that they didn’t.

  Voices shouted from the top of the cliff. Oliver didn’t need to pinpoint how many were there. Even a handful was too many.

  Oliver cursed, looked at Beck, and said. “Now!” He closed his eyes and jumped as far out from the cliff as he was able. He caught a big breath as he fell.

  He kept falling.

  He heard the shouts of the men over the edge of the cliff.

  He heard the scuff of men’s boots on the path.

  Where is the water?

  Oliver opened his eyes and looked down. The water slapped him in the face so hard he saw stars. The splash collapsed around him, popping his ears.

  Something big splashed beside Oliver. Was it Beck? He couldn’t see.

  Oliver started clawing his way out of the water, the pressure in his ears increasing. He was sinking. He swam harder, fearing it had been too long since he’d last been in the river. Had he forgotten how to paddle? That couldn’t be it.