The Ruins Book 3: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

by T. W. Piperbrook

  William hid his fearful swallow as he nodded. "I understand."

  Chapter 34: Drew

  Drew looked out the door of his small house, watching the line of the other slaves that hadn't returned from the fields. The Head Guards herded them back with stern expressions. Drew was convinced that those severe looks would eventually etch permanent grooves into their faces. Most of the slaves knew better than to provoke the Head Guards. A misspoken word, or avoiding a task, led to a beating that could be felt on a body for days, even weeks. And that wouldn't excuse a person from his chores. In the rare cases where someone missed work, the slaves were expected to toil twice as hard the following day.

  Obedience didn't stop the abuse.

  The Head Guards found plenty of reasons to mistreat slaves. Something as simple as a dropped ear of corn, or a misconstrued glance, could lead to more than a few punches. They weren't supposed to mistreat the slaves, but they did. They didn't need a reason to justify their actions. The humans were worthless, in the eyes of The Gifted. Even if they knew about the abuse, Drew knew they wouldn't do anything. He seldom saw the wart-covered men and the woman who lived in the tall, glass-covered building.

  He mostly only saw Rudyard.

  In his way, Rudyard was worse than the Head Guards. He didn't beat the slaves directly, but he delighted in their pain. Every look, every glance, was a reminder of their insignificant existence.

  The Field Hands—the lowest class of slaves—were treated slightly worse than those who ran the machines, sewed clothes, or made glass, because they performed unskilled labor by tending the crops. They were considered disposable. Drew was one of those.

  But none of that interested Drew at the moment.

  Picking up a flask of water, he pretended to drink while he peeked around the corner of his house's open doorway, watching a few Field Hands still in the process of returning, stretching their sore muscles from a long morning's work, or cracking their necks. They wheeled their full crop wagons to the Head Guards stationed near the gate, close to the magnificent building in which no one was allowed. Drew saw a few looks of hunger on the people's faces, but no one dared touch any of the morning's take. Their pockets were as empty as their stomachs. Most didn't have more than the clothing on their backs. Almost all had lost any sentimental possessions when they'd been dragged to New City. A few—the unluckiest—had been born into this life.

  Or maybe they weren't unlucky.

  Those who were born in New City often became the Head Guards, who received preferential treatment.

  Drew hadn't been born into this life. He knew a life outside slavery.

  One day, he would get it back.

  Waiting until most of the slaves were in their houses, Drew acted casual as he watched the Head Guards round up the crops, take count, and break for lunch. A few wandered toward the eastern side of the courtyard, near the Feeding Pen. Even with the gate closed, Drew smelled the pungent stench that wafted over from the fenced-in area. On the other side of the closed gate, piles of mutant feces and chewed ears of corn waited for the least fortunate slaves. Those in disfavor with the Head Guards, or those needing a punishment outside of a beating, were tasked with cleaning out that filthy pen, dumping the remains in bins where they could be used to run the machines. The task seemed arduous, but Drew knew the dried dung was important to The Gifted. The dung helped them run the equipment that helped them produce things they could use to survive, or to trade.

  The smelly, disgusting pen was purposely kept in New City.

  Rudyard had a reason.

  It kept the slaves humble.

  Once a day, at dinner, Rudyard paraded the mutants through the middle of the settlement to their Feeding Pen, as if to demonstrate that even the filthy, wart-covered infected were worthier than the humans. The humans ate dinner last. It was Rudyard's rule, and everyone followed it.

  Swallowing his disgust, Drew watched a few more Field Hands—supervised by the Head Guards—wheel their full wagons of corn through the front gate. Rudyard wasn't in sight. Most of the other slaves were taking a well-deserved, short rest for lunch as they transitioned to afternoon tasks.

  Using the cover of distraction, Drew slipped from his house and hurried past the row of houses in the front, keeping his head low, avoiding suspicious eye contact with other slaves, which might get him beaten. Drew had learned many hard lessons. Passing most of the houses, he risked a glance over his shoulder, ensuring none of the Head Guards, or Rudyard, were watching. He slipped behind the small buildings that housed chamber pots, perpendicular to the last row of houses in the front of the courtyard. Only the Head Guards did their business there. The slaves were expected to use chamber pots.

  He kept going, skirting past the small, smelly buildings until he was along the backside of the long, rectangular building—the only building in the city with doors, besides the Head Guards', and the shops. His heart hammered in his chest as he crept farther. Walking the distance he'd measured in his head, as he'd walked it the last few days, he stopped in the center of the building, finding the small, barely perceptible crack he'd whittled away.

  Leaning down close to the wall, he took a risk he hoped he wouldn't regret.

  "Kirby?"

  Chapter 35: Kirby

  Kirby opened her eyes through the pain. Someone hissed her name. She glanced over at the wall where she'd communicated several times with Bray, but it wasn't his voice. It was coming from somewhere else. Forcing herself up, she listened for another hiss that would give away a location. Perhaps she was hearing things, or maybe she was dead, or dreaming.

  "Kirby?"

  She scooted toward the back wall of the squalid room and toward the voice, opening her mouth to answer, before considering that this might be a trap. Maybe this was a test, or an excuse for a beating. She'd seen scant daylight in the past few days, other than the few times the door had opened and an uncaring hand had thrown in a raw ear of corn, or traded her filthy flask for a new one.

  "Kirby," a voice hissed, louder.

  Something fluttered in her stomach. She couldn't believe what she heard.

  "Drew?"

  "It's me."

  Pushing past the pain of wounds that were healing, but not fast enough, she stood and touched the back wall. It must be a dream. She didn't feel a hole, but perhaps some other portion of the wall had worn away. Or maybe someone had worn it away.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Trying not to be killed," Drew whispered, in the usual, straightforward tone she remembered, since the last time she'd seen him at New Hope.

  "I thought you died."

  "Some days I wish I had," Drew said, the despair evident in his voice.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "They captured me months ago," he whispered. "Long after I left New Hope. I thought everyone was dead. How did you make it through the fire and the mutants?"

  "I hunkered down in one of the ships. I stayed there awhile, waiting for other people, but no one came."

  "I'm sorry I left."

  "Don't be." Kirby didn't need a reason to explain what she might've done herself. She shook her head as two pieces of her life came together that shouldn't—couldn't—coexist. And yet Drew was here. But the time for questions was later. "Can you help us out of here?" she asked.

  "I wish I could," Drew said solemnly. "They would kill me if I tried. Only the Head Guards have the keys."

  "The men who beat us," she spat with the same disgust she'd had the first day.

  "You and one of your friends wounded a few of them badly enough that they are keeping you there longer than others. But they will let you out soon. They will test all of you. That's why I've come."

  "How did you know I was here? I didn't see you."

  "I heard rumors that new people were here. I saw you from the cornfields, but I kept my distance," Drew said. "I didn't want to risk contacting you. Until now."

  "We need to escape this place."

  "I do not know how," Drew
said. "Perhaps we can figure it out together—you, me, and some others."

  "Others? Do you mean other people from New Hope?" Something stirred in Kirby's stomach.

  "I do not think any of them survived." Drew seemed sad. "I mean, others from here."

  Kirby's hope dwindled as quickly as it rose.

  Before she could ask another question, Drew interrupted, "Be careful when you speak to your friends, or anyone else. They will watch you closely for a while. They will test you."

  "I understand."

  Drew paused. "Please do not give them a reason to kill you, Kirby, because they will. I have seen too many die here. Ollie, Avery, and the other guards will be looking for payback for what you and your friend did. I have to go, before I am caught. But I needed to warn you. When they let you out, pretend you do not know me. If they find out we have a past, they will keep us apart."

  "We have never met," Kirby swore.

  Chapter 36: William

  William startled at the knock on the door, even though he had been expecting it. After lunch, a few of The Gifted had retired to their quarters around midday as they always did, to read, study, or do whatever they did in those quiet rooms for parts of the afternoon. He'd agreed to do the same, hoping to follow their schedule and act like one of them. William didn't plan on resting or reading, though. He had other ideas. While in his room, he studied the city and the fields out the windows without being noticed. He learned more about the habits of the people outside, and looked for his friends.

  As usual, the people who worked in the fields went out for most of the morning, before heading back behind the wall to eat lunch. Afterward, they dispersed among some of the other buildings on the city's eastern side to fulfill other duties.

  After watching for a part of the afternoon, he still hadn't seen Kirby, Bray, or Cullen. He was frustrated by how little detail he could see from so high up.

  Hearing Amelia knock, he crossed the room with the same trepidation he'd had since his first day trapped in the building. He didn't trust that The Gifted wouldn't change their minds and cast him behind the wall, or toss him into the arms of hungry demons.

  He opened the door cautiously.

  Amelia stood at the threshold, smiling as she handed him one of the round, orange and purple fruits that seemed much more prevalent in this region than back in Brighton. She adjusted some of her hair into a clip.

  "Thanks," he said, accepting the peach from her.

  Her smile grew. "I know you've been enjoying them. I have something to show you downstairs."

  "Where are we going?" he asked, confused. He had thought they would return to the higher floor, where they would resume looking at books.

  "Tolstoy has given me the approval to take you down to the third floor," she said. "I think you'll be impressed at what we have there." Seeing the worry on his face, she added, "Don't worry, William. I'm not going to harm you. I've told you that."

  Putting a small hope into a request, he asked, "Can we go see Bray, Kirby, and Cullen?"

  Amelia's face fell slightly. "No."

  Carefully, William said, "I want to know they are all right."

  "My promise is the only thing I can give you. They will be let out from the long building soon." Changing the subject, she said, "Hopefully you will like what I have to show you, though."

  William exited the door and closed it, following Amelia down the stairs. Seeing the empty stairwell, William got ideas. He wanted to flee, find his way outside, and find his friends. But he knew guards waited at the bottom. And he knew guards kept watch on the seventeenth floor, underneath The Library Room. Besides, the entrances on the ground floor were certainly locked. If he got outside by the cornfields, demons would devour him. He didn't know if there was a direct route into the city, but if he got there, the guards would catch him, or he would be as trapped as the other slaves. He saw no way out.

  William asked, "How far down?"

  "Can you count?" Amelia asked.

  William said, "Yes. I learned my numbers in Brighton. My mother taught me what she knew, and I picked up some more things from the merchants."

  "I knew you were smart, William," Amelia said, impressed. "We are going down twelve floors."

  William nodded as he counted, but the task did little to keep his looming fear at bay. While he walked, he kept his eye on Amelia, occasionally glancing out the windows. The crops swayed in a gentle breeze as the sun beat down on them. Demons scuttled between the tall corn stalks. He wished he had a view of the small buildings out back, the people, and the building that housed his friends. He hated whenever the rectangular building was out of his view.

  "If I've counted right, this is the correct floor."

  "You're right." Amelia smiled. "Your room is on the fifteenth floor. This is the third. I'll open the door."

  She pulled out the key ring from her pocket. William eyed the tangle of keys, all in various shapes and sizes, labeled with strange markings. If only he had a key ring such as hers, he could get wherever he wanted. But that was as likely to happen as running past a horde of demons.

  Amelia found the right key—a piece of metal with a large, round top—and unlocked the door.

  "Go ahead in," she said, stepping back so he could push it open.

  William hesitated. He had entered more than a few rooms that he regretted, since leaving Brighton. He pushed the door open gently, still not certain that demons wouldn't jump out at him and chew his flesh, brother or not. Or maybe the other Gifted were waiting to subject him to some vicious torture. If anyone was on the other side of the door, he heard nothing.

  The door gave way to a mostly-empty room.

  Mostly.

  Confusion crossed William's face as he saw an enormous, wooden table sitting in the center. The table was tipped upwards on an angle that wasn't good for reading, or eating. A large piece of paper sat in the center. He saw nothing else—no devices, no books.

  "What is that table for?" he asked.

  "It is called a drafting table," Amelia told him. "A table used to make drawings."

  "What types of drawings?"

  "It is easier to show you."

  William paused as she locked the door. She might be showing him wonderful things, but she still didn't trust him. And he didn't trust her.

  "It's okay, William. It is just a drawing." Amelia laughed softly at his nervousness.

  He followed her to the strange table, which was about the size of a piece of furniture that a family might use. The large paper lay flat against it. As he got closer, he saw that almost the entire piece of paper was marked with more drawings than he could process at once. His mouth hung open as he saw small, precise lines and words marked everywhere. Even the best artists in Brighton hadn't conceived of something so detailed. His eyes roamed first to the bottom of the paper, to some round objects that looked like wheels.

  Taking a guess before he had seen everything, he asked, "Is this a moving machine?"

  Amelia stared at him, taken aback. "A car."

  "Yes, a car." William replicated the way she spoke the wondrous word. "I have heard about them, in stories, and I have seen some decrepit pieces of metal in the woods. I know that people used them to travel over the ground, faster than a human could walk."

  Amelia seemed thoughtful. "It is funny you ask that. A long time ago, we worked on a few devices like that—primitive machines that we built with what we had—but we abandoned that idea before we progressed too far. It is dangerous traveling the wild with wheels. Things are not the way they were before The Collapse. Most of the roads that existed are covered over, buried in weeds. The roads are so sharp with rubble that the vehicles wouldn't last long, with the materials we have. We would risk our safety leaving. And any humans we sent out would abscond with the vehicles, or be killed."

  "So you do not have cars?"

  Amelia shook her head. "Unfortunately not. We also tried making an object called a balloon, but we quickly realized that relying on the wind was an
easy way to get killed."

  "So what is the object on this paper?" William asked, taking a closer look.

  Pointing to the middle of the paper, Amelia focused on a larger object that looked like a tube, with many smaller pieces connected to it. "As of now, it is little more than a dream. But eventually, we will make it a reality." She watched William closely as she said, "It is an airplane, William, a small, flying device that will carry us through the air."

  "By the gods," William said incredulously.

  "Have you heard of those, too?"

  William nodded. Kirby had told him fantastic things about them. Bray had even mentioned he saw the bones of one in the forests, outside of The Arches, rotted and sunken into the earth. "I know something about them."

  "Our design is in the early stages," Amelia said. "It will take years to accomplish it. But with the knowledge of all that came before us, and an endless amount of time, I have no doubt we will succeed, eventually." Pointing to a recessed spot on the top of the tube, she said, "This plane will only carry a few of us, so it won't be like those that used to carry hundreds of people. As of now, Barron has only made the plans. But we have studied the knowledge of the first human inventors. The advances in flying moved quickly. It was only a handful of years between when the first plane was developed, in a time called the twentieth century, and planes flew in wars. The designs of our predecessors were refined and improved at a rapid rate, once they started. Perhaps once we get the first constructed, we will have greater and greater success. As I said, flying is a faraway dream, but hopefully not forever."