The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  The smell of dirty clothing and sweat hung in the air as they entered the bridge where a thousand people had stood packed against each other moments earlier. Fog swirled up from the river, revealing bits and pieces of Bray's surroundings. A few people stood by the bridge's southern edge, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of the tossed woman, who had likely drowned, if she hadn't died on impact. There was no sign of Deacon or his closest soldiers, no sign of Kirby, William, Bartholomew, or Jonathan. Bray didn't even see Flora.

  A few guards stationed on either side of the bridge appeared in the mist, scrutinizing Bray as they watched the hunters and helpers pass.

  Levi wheeled his cart close. "Your friends are back at the house," he whispered. "I'm sure of it."

  "Why couldn't the guards assure me of that?"

  "You made them nervous." Hildebrand took the other side of Bray.

  "They didn't look nervous to me," Bray muttered.

  "They're used to keeping order. Occasionally, some of the family members don't obey the ceremony's rules."

  "Family members?" Bray asked.

  "The relatives of the people who are sent to the river gods," Hildebrand said. "Those who are lifted by the fog and brought to the heavens. Almost all of the islanders gather to watch."

  "The fog ceremony is supposed to be a joyous occasion," Levi said quietly, looking at a few more soldiers, who were walking ahead and spurring along some loiterers. "Not all take it that way."

  "Like I said before, sometimes the chosen aren't as willing as they are supposed to be, even though Deacon is sent an omen from the gods, telling him it was their time," Hildebrand clarified. "Occasionally the family members need to be calmed down. Deacon's Trusted and the bridge guards ensure everything runs smoothly. The will of the river gods must be heeded."

  "So who was on the bridge?"

  "We'll find out," Levi answered.

  Bray didn't wait for Levi or Hildebrand to get an answer. As soon as the fog swallowed up the closest soldiers, he wheeled his cart toward a man and a woman that were chatting by the bridge's edge. The couple fell silent as they saw him coming. The woman looked as if she might start in another direction, but Bray pinned her with a hard stare.

  "Who was thrown from the bridge?" he demanded, in a low, insistent tone.

  The woman, who had ratty hair and a face covered with freckles, watched Bray. She looked at the man beside her nervously, as if she hadn't expected the question. Or maybe Bray had scared her. "Ava, I think," she said.

  "That wasn't it," the man cut in. "It was Evelyn."

  The man and woman looked as if they were concocting a story. Or maybe they were afraid of coming face-to-face with one of the strangers they'd been hearing about. Movement out of the corner of Bray's eye distracted him. He looked behind him to see one of the bridge guards walking through the fog, waving an impatient hand.

  "The ceremony's over. Everyone needs to get back to work."

  Taking the opportunity to get out from underneath Bray's gaze, the man and woman scooted away. Bray watched them disappear with a feeling of dread in his stomach.

  They neared several more groups as they reached the middle of the bridge, taking a turn and starting on the sloping road toward the island, but the people hurried away before Bray could ask them any questions. Several soldiers walked ahead, perhaps clearing the way for the hunters, or making sure Bray didn't ask any questions. A sick feeling stuck in Bray's gut as he considered what he'd walked into.

  Deacon and his Trusted must be waiting.

  And where were Bartholomew and Jonathan? They were always stationed at the bridge—at least that's what they'd told him.

  Bray pulled his cart behind him, wishing he had his horse, so that he could ride away from these men and determine that his friends were all right.

  The rush of the waterfall faded in the background and a thick, dense fog swept across the sloping road, obscuring the shepherding guards. Most of the scurrying people seemed to have vanished. The hunters and helpers continued pulling their carts until the descending road grew level with the ground and they reached the first island. The guards hung back. Bray glanced over his shoulder until the fog covered up the soldiers.

  Then he and the hunters were alone, walking down the road.

  Chapter 3: Bray

  "Where are we going?" Bray asked Levi as they pulled their carts.

  "To see Jax," Levi said, falling into a routine that seemed as natural as the ceremony. "Then we can find your friends."

  "Who's Jax?" Bray asked.

  "He's one of Deacon's Trusted who works at the butcher's shop. He'll count our game and take what he needs for The Important Ones, and leave us the rest."

  "For the tax." Bray remembered their discussion in the woods.

  "Yes."

  One or two of the hunters muttered something under their breath, probably upset about the involuntary donation, but Bray was busy scouring the mist-covered streets, thinking he might find traces of his companions. Every now and again, he heard distant voices through the fog. It seemed as if the crowd had dispersed down the dirt paths on either side of the road and were heading wherever they went after such a gruesome ceremony.

  Perhaps they were going to celebrate the death of one of the strangers that had caused the whispers and the fear. Or perhaps it was Ava, or Evelyn, and Kirby and William were fine.

  Bray recalled the drooped shoulders, the forlorn faces, and the scared children hurrying away after The Cleansings. These people were much different than the people in Brighton. The islanders' cheer gave him a paranoid suspicion he couldn't shake.

  Several soldiers' houses appeared in the mist alongside the road. Every so often, Bray saw glowing fires through a few open windows. In several houses, he heard muffled voices, and occasional laughter. Farther down and out of sight were the tradesmen's houses. Bray pictured the distance they'd have to travel to the butcher's shops, and then the time they'd spend dividing up their game.

  He couldn't wait any longer.

  "I'm going to find my friends," he said, dropping the wooden handle of the cart he was pulling.

  Confusion crossed Levi's face as the handle hit the ground.

  "But we need to divide our game," Levi protested.

  Hildebrand added, "Jax will need to—"

  "Take my cart," Bray said. "Between the game on here and the pieces of my boar that the others are carrying, you have more than enough for my share of tax."

  A few of the hunters exchanged sly smiles, probably grateful for what would be a boon for them. No one protested. Bray broke from the pack of hunters and headed down the road, leaving them behind, carrying only the meat he had in his bag. He looked over his shoulder several times, as if one of the hunters might chase him, but they had no interest in giving away their newfound spoils. Of course they didn't. Gradually, the grinding of wooden wheels faded in the distance and he was alone.

  Without the burden of others, Bray moved faster down the road, scanning the trees. Wings rustled overhead, startling him. A noisy bird took flight, giving a caw that might've been an omen, if he believed in such things. But the only thing Bray believed in was death. He'd seen enough of it over his years to know the lingering aura it left behind, and this place was ripe with it. The fog was thick enough that he could only see the outlines of the buildings on either side of the road.

  He couldn't forget the image of the woman being thrown from the bridge, or the very real fear of Kirby's body grinding against the rocks, carried away by the current.

  He veered from the road onto the dirt path, intent on getting to the hunter's house.

  The ground was hard from the chill, but every so often, he spotted horse tracks. The prints looked like they were headed in both directions. There weren't enough tracks to determine whether they were from the ride they'd taken to the island, or another trip. Perhaps scavenging islanders had ridden off with the horses, dragging William and Kirby behind. Or perhaps he was being paranoid and they'd taken a ride.

/>   He searched for evidence of a morbid theory and couldn't find it. Keeping down the vacant, dirt path, he couldn't stop envisioning a ring of soldiers waiting for him to return, swords drawn.

  As he reached a familiar bend in the trail, Bray sprinted. He was getting close. The air felt quiet and dead as he inhaled the remnants of burnt fires, mixed with the odor of early breakfasts. The people had been preparing for the ceremony. They had prepared for someone to die.

  The horses were gone.

  Of course they were.

  Bray looked around, as if he might've mistaken where he was, but strands of hay and several piles of dung confirmed the horses had been here. The chimney was smokeless. The windows were shuttered.

  The paranoid voice inside him screamed, "Too late, too late…"

  Bray drew his sword, listening for sounds of men from inside—shifting feet, clanging weapons, rustling clothing. Nothing. Sword high in one hand, he reached for the handle, pulled open the door, and stepped back.

  No one.

  No soldiers, no Kirby, no William.

  The house was empty.

  Chapter 4: Flora

  Flora's bag felt heavy on her back as she trekked through the forest toward the island's eastern coast. The fog, usually thickest in the mornings, lingered between the trees, making each trunk look like a looming guard that might reach down and grab her. She couldn't believe she was alive. She'd seen the look Deacon and his guards had given her as they passed by her in the crowd at the ceremony, pulling the wriggling woman down the road. That look was a warning.

  She might be next.

  Each patch of swirling fog reminded her of what she'd witnessed. She shuddered as she recalled the screams, the chants and smiles of the crowd, and the words she'd heard and recited too many times before. Most people thought the ceremony was a joyous occasion, but she knew better.

  Each scream brought back memories of her father.

  Flora would never forget when her father had been thrown off the bridge, when she was six years old.

  Flora had been allowed a spot near the edge of the bridge during that ceremony, but not too close to Deacon. Guards had formed a line in front of her, their thick shoulders preventing all but a narrow view of the proceedings. The crowd had stood on their toes, as they always did, trying to get a better look, chanting their recitations back to Deacon, smiling as they spoke of the grace of the gods and the blessings they had given her people.

  Her father hadn't looked quite so blessed.

  For several months before the ceremony, he'd lain in bed, talking through the pain in his face as he battled an illness that wasn't getting better. The neighbors had taken care of him, and of her. She recalled a few times when he'd ventured outside, making vain attempts to work, but most of those had ended with him returning to the house, looking thinner and paler than before. He'd lost his use.

  Eventually, Deacon's Trusted had taken him.

  He'd cried out as he was dragged to the edge of the bridge, screaming and flailing. She'd never seen his decrepit arms or legs moving so fast. It was as if he'd beaten his illness at the penultimate moment, but more than likely he was using the last of his strength to stave off death.

  Her six-year-old self hadn't understood that.

  For a moment, watching her father fighting the guards, young Flora had convinced herself that they'd made a horrible mistake, and that maybe he could still work, and provide for himself, and for her.

  It didn't have to be the end.

  Flora had tried shouting those things to Deacon through the row of guards—she'd even tried breaking through their muscled arms—but they'd stopped her and warned her to stay back. Tears made dirty tracks down her face as she located her father's face among the strong hands of the soldiers. As he was raised over the edge of the bridge, their eyes met, and he had opened his mouth and projected his fear into a final, frightened scream.

  "Flora!"

  Flora saw enough fear in his face to know she never wanted to be on the other side of the ceremony.

  Her father reached out for her, as if she might somehow save him, and then he disappeared over the edge. Flora's screams were buried underneath her father's as he yelled all the way to the water and hit hard. She tried running to the edge of the bridge, as if she might somehow save him, but more hands held her back—Anya's parents, the people who would soon become her own.

  The will of the gods—the will of Deacon—was always heeded.

  Flora buried those memories as she reached the edge of the island, took off her bag, and sat on the riverbank. The cold clung to her as she sat in silence, listening to the rush of the water and the wind in the trees. The mist hovered over the water like some ancient, translucent monster.

  One day that fog might grab her, too, but not today.

  Today it had taken someone else.

  Flora swallowed. Every time she fished, she wondered if she might find something from her father in the water—a scrap of his clothing, one of his tattered shoes.

  A rotted, eroded skeleton staring back at her.

  Flora scanned the misted water for several moments. When she was certain no ghosts were looking back at her, she pulled out her fishing supplies, tied on her favorite piece of metal, and cast her line into the water.

  Chapter 5: Bray

  Bray stared around the empty hunter's house where Kirby and William had been. Several blackened, half-burnt logs sat in the fireplace. The pokers lay on the floor. Kirby and William's bags were gone, as were the blankets that had been covering up William in his bed when Bray left. The other beds were vacant. Had it not been for the still-warm fire, casting heat from its embers, Bray might've thought the house unoccupied for some time.

  He knew they'd been here.

  Kirby and William must've left this morning. He searched for signs of a struggle, but saw nothing obviously broken, or anything pointing to violence. He turned slowly and stared through the open doorway, watching the mist float around the trees outside, a spectral warning sent by the gods. He couldn't see the other houses, but he envisioned the islanders holed up inside their homes, watching. Most would be home by now. Every one of them had played a role in throwing that woman over the bridge.

  Every one had—

  Jaydra.

  Bray exited the house, stepping over strands of hay and several piles of horse dung and following the path to Jaydra's house. He could already see the outline of her square building through patches of fog. Smoke petered from the chimney. The windows were shuttered. He kept his sword in a tight fist and raised his hand to knock. He'd barge inside if he had to. He recalled his conversations with Jaydra. How much of what she'd told him were lies?

  Filthy pig scratcher.

  He pulled back an angry fist to pound on the door when it opened in front of him and Jaydra stood at the threshold, her face pale.

  "You're back," she said nervously.

  Bray demanded, "Where are Kirby and William?"

  Jaydra stuck an arm out to protect her two sons, who were peering around her. "The second island," she said, obviously shaken and surprised to see him angry. "I took them there."

  "I saw what happened at the bridge. I saw the ceremony."

  Confusion took over some of the nervousness on Jaydra's face. "You did?"

  "Yes. I had just gotten back from the hunt. I saw what you did to Kirby."

  "To…Kirby?" Jaydra seemed genuinely bewildered. "You think that…" She opened and closed her mouth as she put together the reason for his rage. Turning to her sons, she said, "Landon, Riley, stay inside. I need to talk to Bray alone." Jaydra stepped out, closed the door, and raised her hands to explain. "That wasn't Kirby. It was Evelyn, one of our Important Ones."

  Bray started to argue before he recalled the familiar name matched the one the islander had given him on the bridge.

  Jaydra went on. "She was given to the gods. Deacon chose her."

  Bray's anger found a new source as he thought about the crowd's cheerful reaction, and t
he woman's terrified screams. "She didn't go willingly. I saw her fighting the soldiers."

  "An insult to the river gods." Jaydra lowered her eyes. "But I am sure they will forgive her, once she is lifted to the heavens. The gods sent Deacon a sign several days ago. He told Evelyn and she accepted it. She was no longer able to fulfill her duties to The Arches. Her hands had stopped working from age. She had come down with an old person's disease. She knew we couldn't afford the extra food and bed. She was prepared, or should've been."

  The sight of what Bray had seen still disturbed him, but the story carried a truth in it that he wanted to believe. "Where are Kirby and William?"

  "At the second island, as I said. After you left, William's fever got worse," Jaydra explained. "He was having delusions. Flora and I rode to speak with the bridge guards. Deacon made an exception for him to stay on the second island. We have better healers there. He should be better taken care of. I was supposed to relay the message when you got back."

  "How long ago did this happen?"

  "Early this morning. Flora and I rode part of the way, and some guards met us at the road. They escorted Kirby and William to Bartholomew and Jonathan."

  That might've explained why he hadn't seen Bartholomew and Jonathan at the ceremony. But Bray wouldn't believe anything he didn't see with his eyes. "I need to get to my friends. I need to make sure they're all right."

  Jaydra seemed sincere as she said, "William should be in good hands there. The remedies are plentiful."

  Still not convinced, Bray turned and walked from the doorway, leaving her behind as he headed down the dirt path.

  Chapter 6: Bray

  A few people trickled from the adjoining trails, carrying tools and baskets, keeping a wide berth when they saw Bray.

  He wanted to believe Jaydra's story, but the suspicious side of him—the side that kept him safe, in most of his travels—wasn't lowering his guard.

  The fog seemed like it was thinning as he rounded several familiar curves in the path. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent. Jaydra had said Kirby and William had left in the morning. Even if they'd gone willingly, anything might've happened since. They could've been killed. Tortured. Robbed of the guns. Guilt gnawed at Bray for leaving. He should've trusted his instincts and stayed with Kirby and William.