The Last Survivors: A Dystopian Society in a Post Apocalyptic World

by Bobby Adair

  THE LAST SURVIVORS

  Book 1 of The Last Survivors Series

  By

  Bobby Adair & T.W. Piperbrook

  Find us at

  T.W. Piperbrook

  www.twpiperbrook.com

  www.facebook.com/twpiperbrook

  Bobby Adair

  http://www.bobbyadair.com

  http://www.facebook.com/BobbyAdairAuthor

  ©2014 Beezle Publishing

  Cover Design and Layout

  Alex Saskalidis, a.k.a. 187designz

  Editing & Proofreading

  Cathy Moeschet

  eBook and Print Formatting

  Kat Kramer

  Technical Consultant

  John Cummings

  Preface

  Things would have been a lot simpler if I hadn’t listened to Bobby Adair.

  When I first approached him mid-Summer 2014, I told him I had an idea: we’d get together a few authors, and each of us would contribute a short story. When we were finished, we’d compile them in a small anthology and publish it around September or October, in between working on our other projects.

  Before I knew it, Bobby had signed the two of us up for a full-scale novel. Which grew to a series. Which ended up being published sooner than either of us planned.

  But hey, that’s the fun of this whole writing thing, right?

  Going into a collaboration is a scary endeavor. Unlike writing solo, where you have yourself to rely on (and blame), you’re suddenly faced with the writing habits, imagination, and whims of your co-conspirator. For some, this might be a difficult task; for others, it might not work at all.

  That wasn’t the case at all with THE LAST SURVIVORS. From beginning to end, the ideas flowed, and they never stopped. And that is the reason you’re holding this book several months earlier than we’d expected.

  THE LAST SURVIVORS is different than anything I (or we) have ever written. It takes place in a post-apocalyptic setting where almost all of the technology of the modern world has been lost. The three townships, or last fragments of society, are plagued not only by internal dissent but also by monsters that roam the ruins and the forest. The science of the monsters is loosely based on the Cordyceps fungus, which exists today in tropical environments, primarily affecting insects such as ants. For those unfamiliar with the fungus, it simultaneously takes over and deforms the bodies of its hosts, taking control of their minds and afflicting them until death.

  Because of the threat of wind-borne fungal spores and the loss of technology, the survivors in our story have devolved to a medieval, agrarian, almost-Puritanical culture. While they live in the ruins of modern cities, much of the past has been reduced to legend, and you are more likely to encounter a horse or a sword than any piece of modern “Tech Magic”.

  As you can tell, we took lots of liberties in our story. The world of THE LAST SURVIVORS is as much full of Fantasy as it is of science. We hope you have as much fun reading the book as we did writing it. Enjoy!

  -Tyler Piperbrook

  September 2014

  Prologue

  They were ugly.

  They stank.

  The disorganized horde of them was almost a mile down the slope, reeking a putrescence the boy could smell despite the direction of the breeze. Rot got into the misshapen, boney masses on their skulls and spines, making the creatures smell like decaying animals. They weren’t dead, though. They were more than alive enough to chase a man down, eviscerate him, and feast on his entrails.

  From atop his horse, the boy looked at the cloudless blue sky, then down the slope, and across the grassy, rolling hills, beautiful except for the thousands of dirty bare feet stomping them to dirt. “I’m frightened,” he said.

  General Blackthorn looked at his son and frowned. “Any boy of your age—most men in fact—would fear the sight of so many monsters afoot. But to admit that fear is a shameful thing.” Blackthorn looked around, scanning the horizon. “Hearts harden under the hammer of fear, and yours will be no exception.”

  The boy scooted around in his saddle and looked behind the hilltop, where a dark forest brooded in shadows. “Are there more beasts hiding in the trees?”

  Blackthorn pointed out across the thousands of running men, twisted by spore into rabid things, demonic things, hungry for the flesh of clean men. “No man has seen this many swarm out of the ancient city since the days when my grandfather was a boy. Do you truly imagine there could be more?”

  The boy shook his head. It was a hope as much as a response.

  Tales recounted by his father’s soldiers around the hearths at night, stories he thought had been exaggerated to frighten a small boy, had proven true. Men were no longer men, but beasts. Beasts whose shoulders, spines and elbows grew bony, fungal warts, and whose skulls grew disfigured crests. Twice a year the crests plumed red, shedding spores into the wind, infecting humans, worming their way into the bones, sinking fungal roots and slowly deforming anyone unfortunate enough to be tainted.

  Even a single wind-borne speck could fall on a tongue and mutate a person into a hideous monster. But the worst was that the spore twisted men’s minds, transforming them into creatures who wallowed in their own feces, ate the flesh of other men, and stole away women to who knew what end.

  Before the boy had seen the monsters, it’d been easy for him to show a brave face and beg his father to allow him to ride out with the cavalry. The boy was only fourteen, a year into his training. Normally riding in the cavalry was a privilege reserved for those of sixteen years of age at least.

  But the boy was the son of General Blackthorn.

  Now he’d give anything to be back behind the false safety of Brighton’s walls.

  Demon stench—a scent the boy had learned these past few days to fear—was growing around them, putrefying the wind, dripping over the scent of the wild summer flowers. Down the long grassy slope in front of the remains of the cavalry, the mass of the demon horde moved like some giant gelatinous slug, devouring the earth, fetid, with bulbous skulls and ten thousand hungry maws. Rotted teeth snapped on their wails while hands grasped air, reaching for the riders.

  Blood was their lust.

  General Blackthorn sat tall in his saddle, sneering as he looked down at the oncoming swarm, making the boy wonder if his father might have in him the strength to kill every last one of the monsters himself. The other riders waited stolidly for orders, men whose hard faces showed no fear. The boy ached to be as brave as his father—to be as brave as any of the cavalrymen—but it took all of his strength to hold himself steady on his horse. It took all of his courage to keep from wetting his pants.

  He waited, anticipating what was to come. But that was no mental feat. The cavalry did only one thing—it charged as though the men knew no fear, as though their comrades hadn’t been mauled and killed by the dozen, by the tens of dozens. Of the six hundred cavalrymen that rode out of Brighton three days prior and had valiantly fought mobs and bands of spore-infected men across the countryside, only seventy-five were left.

  The boy knew, just as the surviving men knew, that they wouldn’t live to see their homes again. It was a realization that had come to each of them as each bloody day passed. But not one of the soldiers had complained, nor had they admitted their fear.

  As the boy looked back and forth across the cavalry aligned beside him, he saw their hard hands gripping their reins and hefting their swords. Individually and together, they projected indomitable strength.

  And through his growing panic, the boy understood something n
ew that he’d been clueless about through all the previous days’ slaughter. Fear itself was not a shameful thing. Admitting one’s fear for the ears of other men dampened their courage. That was the shame. Understanding that, the boy gritted his teeth, sat up straight in his saddle and looked down at the stinking swarm. In his strongest voice, he said, “Father, I’m ready to fight.”

  Blackthorn looked at the boy, and for the first time since they’d ridden out of Brighton, his face softened. “I’m proud of you, my son.”

  “I’m proud of you, too, father.” The boy’s voice cracked, and he dared say no more.

  Blackthorn waved his arm and gave the order. The horsemen formed up in a chevron of fifty riders with Blackthorn at the point. The other twenty-five riders fell in behind.

  The cavalry charged.

  Every bulbous-headed monster in the swarm screamed defiance at the horses thundering down on them.

  Bone broke under hoof.

  Blood gushed under blade.

  Demons shrieked, and men fell.

  The horses lost momentum, stuck in the solid mob of beasts. Without the charging mass of twelve hundred-pound horses trampling twisted men, the cavalrymen were left with only the strength of their swords. The attack fell apart.

  Men and horses succumbed to clawing hands and jagged teeth. General Blackthorn tried in vain to rally the soldiers, but fear had a grip on too many hearts. Amidst the reeking bodies, desperation came easily.

  The boy swung at a nearby monster, catching it across the neck. Blood gushed. The beast fell. Off to his left, the General was swinging his sword. Demons were yanking at his tunic, tugging on his arms, grasping at his horse’s bridle.

  Then something occurred that the boy had never thought possible. General Blackthorn fell. He was instantly buried in a scrum of a dozen beasts.

  The brave, iron hearts of the cavalrymen crumbled.

  The boy’s own fear won out, and he kicked his horse in the haunches, spurring it into a panicked gallop back toward the hill. Monsters fell to the side as the horse picked up speed through the melee. The boy swung his sword—not to kill, but simply to fend off the monsters and escape.

  While the boy was still swinging wildly, the horse broke out of the horde, and flew through the knee-high grass toward the hill they’d charged down earlier. He wiped at his tear-streaked face, feeling shame for leaving his comrades behind. When he looked back though, he saw several dozen bloodied horsemen racing after him. And his father’s great black horse among them, riderless.

  At the top of the hill the boy slowed, stopped, and turned his horse around to look back on some wispy false hope that he might see his father on his feet, slaying the beasts. Of course he wasn’t. General Blackthorn was dead.

  The other fleeing horsemen came to a stop and wheeled their horses up alongside the boy. With his cheeks still wet with blood and tears he looked over the men. His father’s second in command was gone. No officer was among them. Even the sergeants had all fallen. The horsemen were leaderless and they were all staring at him. The boy had seen those looks before, while he’d been mounted at his father’s side. Now the cavalrymen were looking for his direction, for his leadership. The mantle of the general had passed a weight onto his shoulders that threatened to splinter his fearful bones.

  The man on the horse next to the boy stood up in his saddle and looked back and forth across the thin, ragged formation. “The men are prepared to charge, sir.”

  They were ready to fight, ready to resume a battle they’d already lost, ready to die.

  But the cavalrymen couldn’t fail. If they did, there’d be no one to stop the horde from reaching Brighton, no one to stop the beasts from pouring over the walls and slaughtering everyone the boy ever knew.

  Rather than despair, though that choice begged him to spur his horse into a gallop far away from here, the boy asked himself what his father would do? Form a chevron and bravely charge into the teeth of the deformed brutes.

  The words ran through the boy’s head as if they were his own. General Blackthorn had always sworn by one tactic, and according to General Blackthorn, that tactic was all they needed. A wall of charging horses invariably put fear in the hearts of demons, and fear made the beasts turn and run. That made them easy to slay.

  But the horde down in the prairie was large enough to absorb any quantity of fear the boy’s few charging horses could engender.

  “Sir?” the man next to the boy asked, waiting for an answer.

  The boy’s mind raced. He formed an idea. He stood in his saddle and trotted a few steps ahead of the cavalry lined along the crest. Swallowing his fear, he looked at the men. “The chevron will be useless with so few riders against so many monsters.”

  The man who’d been next to him was unable to hide his unease. “But we know only one way to fight the beasts.”

  “Quiet. Hear what he has to say,” said another man.

  “I have an idea. But you’ll need to follow me with faith and courage.” The men quietly listened. “My father is dead. Our brothers are dead. We are exhausted, and our horses are tired. But if we give up now, all of your wives and children will die. Is that what we want?”

  The men stared at him in silence.

  The boy yelled, “Is that what we want?”

  In unison, the men cried, “No!”

  The boy continued, his confidence rising. “We will not win this battle. We all know that. But we will fight until the last of us falls. And in dying, we will kill so many demons that by the time they reach the walls of Brighton, there will be so few that the women and children will finish them with their kitchen tools. Will you follow me? Will you ride behind me?”

  The men cheered.

  “Form a single line! Do as I do!”

  The boy wheeled his horse around. He looked down the hill at an advancing mass of grunting beasts. His heart thudded in his chest, but he fought to harden it, doing as his father would’ve done. He gritted his teeth, he held up his sword. Then he gave the command. His horse whinnied as he raced down the slope. The wind caressed his face, drying the blood that stained his cheeks. He kept his stare straight ahead. He didn’t look to see if the men had followed. They were good cavalrymen, his father’s men.

  The horde drew closer.

  When the boy reached the bottom of the hill, he didn’t charge the center like his father would have. Instead, he led the line of horsemen along the flank, slicing his sword at every outstretched monster hand, every shoulder, every neck. When the monsters moved into his path, he skirted around them. He didn’t engage them in combat. He didn’t even slow his horse. The horsemen followed his lead, slashing at demon limbs as they rode.

  When he’d ridden well past the swarm, the boy brought his horse to a stop. He looked left and right, assessing the scene. He asked the man next to him, “How many did we lose?”

  “Not a one, sir.”

  He felt a surge of hope. The horde was shrieking and changing direction to give chase.

  “Which way to Brighton?” the boy asked.

  The soldier pointed to the left, back in the direction of the hillock.

  The boy stood in his saddle, addressing his troops. “We’ll attack them on the opposite flank and draw them away from our homes. These stinking things are slower than our horses and dumber than our pigs. We don’t need to battle them for our honor. We need to slaughter them like hogs.”

  The men hollered, and without hesitation, the boy led another harassing charge.

  The men whooped into the air, battling behind him until their swords were stained and their muscles weak. For two days, they fought, repeating the maneuver until the horde had thinned.

  At the end of the second day, half the demons in the great horde were dead on the prairie.

  By that time, the remaining men in the boy’s command were weary and out of strength. Their heads hung; their swords were heavy in their hands. But something was approaching on the horizon. A troop of a hundred farmers had arrived on horseback, off
ering reinforcement. Without question, the men fell in line with the soldiers, rallying behind the boy.

  Rallying behind the new leader. The new General Blackthorn.

  Chapter 1: Ella

  “William, where are you?”

  Ella scanned the trees in a panic. A few minutes earlier, she’d been talking with her eleven-year-old son about the town gathering, discussing the things they’d do after The Cleansing. William had been watching her, wide-eyed and intent, barely interested in the mint leaves and roots they’d been collecting.

  And now he was gone.

  She’d preached the necessity of staying close, had warned him of the dangers. The forest wasn’t safe. How many times could she have said it?

  You’d think he would’ve learned, after what happened to his father…

  But there was no time to think about that now. She dropped her bag, grabbed the folds of her skirt, and lifted them so she could run. Then she drew her knife.

  As she ran, her boots grappled with rocks and fallen branches, the trees seemed to surround her. A few moments ago, the forest had seemed tranquil and inviting, but not anymore.

  The panic was taking over.

  “William!” she shouted again, louder this time.

  They’d been out since early in the morning and already the sun was spreading its heat through the foliage, the light dappling with shadows.

  Was William hiding, playing one of his silly games?

  If so, he’d be in deep trouble. He knew better. She’d taught him better.

  She flew past several mulberry trees, her breath coming in short bursts. Tree limbs scratched painfully at her arms. Brambles tore at her skirt. Where was William?

  It was her fault. They shouldn’t have gone so far into the forest. Even though they were inside the circle wall, that didn’t mean they were safe. The wall, ancient and long, was crumbling in places and was only guarded at the gates.

  A shape appeared in the distance. Even through the glare and shadow, she recognized her son’s form. His long arms whisked back and forth; his pants billowed behind him.