She gasped.
A man slouched against the wall inside, his feet in a puddle of blood, a broken spear skewered between his ribs, trying to catch a full breath over the gurgling pain in his lung. He looked up at them, red terror in his eyes. "Please don't…"
Ella pressed a finger to her lips. She waved Bray and William inside and closed the storage room door. Bray stationed himself next to the entrance while Ella and William hunkered next to the wounded, bleeding man. They huddled among the smashed belongings.
Footsteps tore through the adjacent alley. Men's voices sliced through the air, loud and bold, still in the throes of slaughter. If they found Ella and William, the bloodbath would continue.
If not here, then back at Brighton.
Doors slammed. Objects crashed on the floor. Ella stared at the storage room door, wondering if she'd made a mistake. Had she led Bray and William in here to die? Would it have been better to cut down the street? Skirt down another alley? Either way, it was too late.
All they could do was stay silent.
William trembled. His face looked confused, but his breathing was rapid and angry. He clutched his knife. She feared he might push past her and Bray and exact his revenge on the soldiers. She couldn't let him.
The noise outside grew as the soldiers moved down the alley, searching the small houses a door at a time. Ella stared at Bray's hard face and narrow eyes. He'd worn the same expression when he battled Rodrigo and the soldiers on the mountain. The same expression when he'd battled the monsters at the river. He'd die before he was captured. I shouldn't have brought him here. She'd implicated her relatives, and now she'd implicate him, too.
"I'll take this door!" a soldier yelled.
"I'll get the next!" said another.
Doors slammed. Footsteps were inside the house. Ella's stomach hitched as a man breathed on the other side of the storage room door. Bray inched backward and raised his sword. Ella pulled William close, her hands shaking as she stared at the storage room exit, waiting for it to fling open, waiting for discovery.
Waiting for death.
She pictured the room through the soldier's eyes—the bodies, the bedrolls, the scattered grain on the floor. None of that would hold his attention. He'd head to the storage room. There weren't many places to search in the shanty.
Even if Bray could take care of him, the fight would likely cause a commotion that would draw the others. Soldiers would swarm the house. Ella and William would die before they could—
Cries filled the outside alley.
"Demons!"
"Treadwell, get out here!"
The soldier's footsteps announced his retreat. Men grunted and heaved as swords clashed in the street. Ella stared at the door, afraid to believe that the soldier was gone. Still, it remained closed, leaving their hiding place safe.
For now.
She exhaled deeply and glanced at the speared man. He groaned, releasing the pain he'd been biting the entire time the soldier was in the house. "It hurts," he whispered, his eyes fluttering.
"It's okay," Ella said. "We'll help you."
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew they were lies. The man was beyond help; the blood on his clothing was proof of that. Even if there weren't a spear protruding from his chest, he'd been mortally wounded; even the best healers would wring their hands and surrender at the sight of him.
Ella listened to the shriek of monsters and the clatter of swords. For as long as she remembered, Davenport had been a safe haven. Now it'd become a stomping ground for both beasts and men.
After a few more minutes, the sounds of battle moved farther away.
"What's your name?" she whispered to the wounded man.
"Samuel."
"What happened here, Samuel?" she whispered.
"Blackthorn's blue shirts…they stormed the gates…" the man spit red blood. "They butchered the Davenport guard and the townsfolk. They killed my wife…they killed Winnie and Patricia…"
The man crinkled his eyes. He let go of the spear and wiped his face, trying to prevent tears, but only succeeded in smearing his face red. He continued.
"I tried to stop them, but…" Samuel looked down at the spear in his chest. "The cursed blue shirt who did this left me for dead. I crawled in here when they moved to another block." Samuel almost laughed, but a spasm of pain cut it short. "I thought I might live through another day." He looked back down at the protruding spear.
"It's going to be all right."
Samuel shook his head sadly. He knew his time was over. Bray signaled Ella, trying to pull her attention away, attention she wasn't willing to give. She needed information.
"Frederick and Jean Abbot," she whispered. "Did you know them?"
"I saw them fleeing. I'm not sure what happened to them, though. There were so many screaming, so many cut down…"
Ella lowered her head as she recalled her aunt and uncle's dead, bloodstained faces. "Was Melora with them?"
"I'm sorry, there were so many people… Everyone was panicking. All I was looking for were blue shirts." Samuel winced.
"Please, I need to know," Ella said, desperate. She realized she was clutching the man's sleeve, and she let go. Her hands were stained with blood.
The man's eyes fell. He was losing strength. And then his face lit with recognition. "Wait a moment, are you Frederick and Jean's niece? Are you Ella?"
Confused, Ella nodded. She studied the man but didn't recognize him. He raised his eyes again, temporarily distracted from his pain.
"Yes. Yes, that's me," Ella said. She grabbed hold of his clothing again, encouraged by his moment of recognition.
"I remember when you were a little girl. I patched your boots. You were a lot smaller, then."
Ella studied the man's face. Time had worn down his features, but the more intensely she looked, the more she recognized the man beneath. She remembered him now. "Samuel Merrifield? The cobbler?"
"Yes, that's me."
"You helped me when I was lost at the market once. You took me back home."
Samuel smiled at the memory. "That was me." He coughed, blood dribbling down his chin. "Your aunt and uncle always said you'd come back to Davenport."
"They did?"
"After your husband died. Ethan, right?"
Ella felt a swell of emotion, and she wiped her face with her sleeve. She glanced at Bray, who was nudging the door open, peering into the house. The soldiers were moving farther away. It was time to go.
"They talked about you often," Samuel said. "Your aunt and uncle."
Ella looked back at Samuel. "We're not leaving, Samuel. We're going to bring back—"
The man slouched over. His mouth hung open, the last words of life stuck on his tongue.
Chapter 6: Ivory
After listening to Jingo's explanations, Ivory sat quietly next to his teacher. They remained in silence for several moments until Jingo spoke again.
"What did you feel when they took your mother to the pyre?" Jingo asked.
Ivory clenched his jaw and looked away. Pain stabbed through his heart at getting ambushed by the memory of his mother, crying silently as the fire burned her skin away. She was a strong woman. He didn't answer Jingo.
"It hurts to see our loved ones suffer." Jingo leaned over and rubbed a hand on Ivory's shoulder. "There is no shame in it."
Ivory bit his lips.
"If the choice had been yours," Jingo asked. "Would you have saved her from the pyre that day?"
Ivory snapped around with an urgency that bordered on anger. He said, "Of course."
"Yes," Jingo said calmly. "Who wouldn't?"
Who wouldn't? Ivory thought about that for a second, and though he was sure Jingo's response was a simple platitude, he responded, "No one would let their loved ones burn."
Nodding, Jingo said, "As draconian as Brighton's system is, had we instituted such a system when we first became aware of the spore, we might have saved some of the world. I shouldn't say 'we'. I should s
ay 'they,' as I would have been one of those to burn." Jingo looked sad.
"What did the people do with the infected?"
"You have to understand," Jingo said, "When the spore began to infect people, it was slow and insidious. You know it often takes a long time for people to change into what they will become. Even then, not all turned into monsters. We all grew a different appearance, but many of us were unaffected in our minds. Some of us became smarter, for some odd reason."
"There were others like you?" Ivory asked.
"Some," said Jingo. "The problem, I think, was that over the year or two it took for the spore to infect a substantial portion of the population, the Ancients didn't want to accept the inevitability of what was happening. They thought with all of their technological prowess, they could fix it, heal those infected. Another factor in their choice to effectively do nothing was the question people had to face when their loved ones turned into monsters. It's hard to kill your wife or child until they are a real danger to you. Hope finally fades when teeth are trying to tear at your throat."
Ivory nodded, wondering how long he would have tried to keep his mother safe after her mind started to go.
"Because of the interpersonal nature of the problem, all of those bombs and guns you talked about were of little use. By the time the shooting started in earnest, so many people were infected that they easily overwhelmed those who had the guns. All of our destructive technology was aimed at enemies outside of our borders. It was never meant to kill the enemies in our own families."
Ivory heard it all, but was stuck on one point in particular. Shaking his head as he thought of what he'd come to see as the symbol of all the evils that live in men's hearts, he said, "The pyre is good, then?"
Jingo shook his head. "A time existed when it was the only solution. Now, I think not."
"Why?" Ivory asked.
"People who tend to be resistant or immune to the spore tend to live long enough to have more children."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Ivory asked.
"In the same way that a man and a woman with red hair tend to have red-haired children and dark-haired people tend to have dark haired children, people with resistance tend to have resistant children."
"Is it really that simple?" Ivory asked.
Nodding, Jingo said, "I suspect most people in your three townships and villages have immune systems that defend them from the spore. A day may come in man's future where the spore no longer affects them at all. After more than three hundred years, it is already obvious people have changed. There was a time at the beginning when three out of four children born never saw their seventeenth year. They were all burned. Now, only a small portion burn."
Ivory said, "There is hope, then."
"The last survivors of mankind will not be killed by the spore in the wind," said Ivory. "The dangers to man's survival lurk in the hearts of other men and in the teeth of all the beasts here in the Ancient City."
Chapter 7: Blackthorn
In the middle of the afternoon, a most unusual time to be there, Captain Tenbrook drummed his fingers on the table and looked around at General Blackthorn's dining room, one of the most immense private rooms in all of Brighton.
"I'll stay here and stare at these boxes all day, if that's what you want," he said. "Is it safe to assume you have something in mind?"
Blackthorn looked at Tenbrook and tried to forget his hate. No, hate was too strong of a word. Dislike, perhaps. Tenbrook's manner was irritating. When Blackthorn was feeling magnanimous, he accepted the possibility that he and Tenbrook were simply too different in personality to find one another tolerable. Blackthorn was fairly certain the other captains were in agreement with him on his irritation for the man. Tenbrook's men, however, were addicted to his smiling charisma and decisiveness, to the point that they'd slaughter the clergy if Tenbrook asked.
Tenbrook was smart, he was completely without remorse, and he was loyal. But that damn smug smile he always wore. That prissy, superior air.
If Blackthorn had liked him, this would be easier.
Tenbrook glanced down at the intricately crafted wooden antiques on the table. "If you're going to put my tongue in one of your boxes, would you do me the courtesy of explaining the sin I've committed?"
"You know about the contents of these boxes?" Blackthorn asked, concealing his surprise. Blackthorn prided himself on being aware of all the goings-on in his army.
"Whispers." Tenbrook nodded and half-smiled. "Tongues of traitors. Those whose sins are too egregious for the pyre alone to cleanse."
Blackthorn asked, "Do you believe the rumors?"
"To believe, or not to believe." Tenbrook shrugged. "Makes no difference to me. The rumor carries power, perhaps more power than a truth. Fear and respect can put a leader in an unassailable position."
"Unassailable. Interesting choice of words. Do you think these boxes are a device to evoke fear?" Blackthorn asked. "Do you fear them?"
Tenbrook flashed his contagious grin. "If you tell me you'll be adding my tongue to the collection, I'll fear. Otherwise…" Tenbrook shrugged again. "You don't need my fear. You know that. I've ridden a horse in your cavalry for sixteen years. I've followed every order without question and exceeded your expectations when I've been able."
Blackthorn nodded at one of the boxes. "Open it."
With no measure of hesitation, Tenbrook flipped a lid open on its ancient brass hinge.
Blackthorn watched Tenbrook's eyes as they fell on the desiccated tongues lying within. He saw nothing at all in those eyes—no surprise, no fear, no shock, and no abhorrence. Tenbrook didn't have a weak stomach, not for the ghastly items inside the box and not for the odious methods that filled it, both indispensable qualities for a man who'd sit at the head of the council. As glorious as the seat looked from down there, among the dirty peasants, the townships could only be stably governed by a ruthless man, willing to do anything to succeed. Unfortunately, "anything" tended to be vile, indefensible acts that wore away the humanity.
"True, then," said Tenbrook.
"Take one."
Tenbrook reached in and pulled a wilted tongue out of the box, measuring its weight on his hand, letting his fingers linger curiously on its texture, looking closely to read a leather tag attached by a thong through a hole in the tongue. "Beck?"
Blackthorn nodded.
With a chuckle, Tenbrook said, "I can't imagine how the minister speaks without it."
"That tongue belonged to Minister Beck's father."
"I see." Tenbrook looked up from the tongue in his hand. "Is it safe to assume Minister Beck knows nothing of his father's tongue's whereabouts?"
"That would be a safe assumption." Blackthorn glanced over at the fire. "Toss it in."
Tenbrook's face showed his surprise. "In the fire?"
"Yes."
Tenbrook tossed it into the flames. "Would you like me to toss in another?"
"No." Blackthorn settled into his chair and sipped from his wine. "Each tongue in these boxes represents a lesson."
"A lesson?" Tenbrook's face showed more curiosity. "How so?"
"First off, Tenbrook, tell me what you think my assessment of your leadership abilities would be."
Tenbrook took a moment to try to read Blackthorn's intent. He grinned again. "I've never known you to abide fluff in the answers you request, so I'll tell you honestly what I think of my skills. Since I'm being honest, and have the utmost respect for your ability to understand the men in your command, I have no doubt we'll agree. I am a superb cavalryman. My men love me as much as their own peckers. When you give me a task, I complete it without fail."
Blackthorn nodded. "So far, we are in perfect agreement."
"Men die under my command, sometimes more than I'd hope, sometimes more than the other captains expect. Sometimes the other captains scoff behind my back. Out of jealousy, they spread rumors whenever my imperfections come to the surface. I accept that I am not perfect. My men, though, believe
that I am. My men accept that some of us will die in following our orders while stealing victories from the maw of the beast. The price of victory is not something we merely accept, it is a price we willingly pay."
"Why?" Blackthorn asked.
"Why for me? Or why for my men?"
"Both."
"My men pay the price because I ask it of them." Tenbrook's face showed no false confidence. "For me, I pay the price because on the day I first chose to put my foot in the stirrup, I chose to give my life to the townships. We are humanity's last survivors. It is only through the devotion of men on the horse, men who carry the sword, that humanity lives through each year. I don't wish for my species to be annihilated by putrid brutes. Nothing exists in this world which I will not attempt to conquer to achieve that goal."
Blackthorn nodded slowly. "We are of the same mind in that."
"Though you've never said those words to me, I've always known, and never doubted the truth of it."
Blackthorn nodded. "What else of your skill as a leader?"
Tenbrook leaned back in his chair and took an unusually long moment of silence. "I dare say, I've read every book in Brighton that could be borrowed from a merchant or from Minister Beck's scholars. The fact that I can read puts me in rare company. I may be the most well-read man in the three townships, outside of the academy. I understand mathematics better than all but a few of Beck's learned men. Among peasants who can barely count the fingers on their hands, I might be one of the most educated men in the three townships. I know I'm the most academically advanced man among your officers."
"I don't doubt that, and yet you have a weak spot."
Tenbrook nodded. "I do, but not one that is likely to cause me problems, unless I've miscalculated and you intend to slice off my tongue and throw me on the pyre."
Shaking his head, Blackthorn asked, "What is your weak spot?"
Tenbrook paused again, having trouble admitting his shortcoming. He looked away from Blackthorn when he answered. "The complexities of navigating relationships with my peers leaves me often perplexed and angry. When I was a young officer, I chalked up my unproductive, adversarial relationships with them to their jealousy. Some of that may be true. Through the years, I have come to accept that I lack aptitude in this area." Tenbrook captured Blackthorn's eye and said, "Whatever in my nature is at the base of the chasm between me and the other officers, I suspect is also the basis of your dislike of me. My weak spot is a blind spot to certain subtleties of human behavior. It is not a problem that arises among my subordinates. I suspect that is because I define that relationship on my terms, as their unquestioned leader. When I am not the leader, problems arise."
The Last Escape Page 3