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

by T. W. Piperbrook

  William nodded.

  Amelia pointed to a drawing that looked like it portrayed a complicated piece of metal. "This is plans for the engine. Barron is considering using steam to power it."

  "Like some of the other devices you told me about," William remembered.

  "Many of our devices in the shops run that way," Amelia agreed. "A few of the earliest inventors built planes that ran on steam, though they weren't as prevalent as those that ran on other methods. Back in the days before The Collapse, people had natural resources that we do not have today, like oil. But we have ways to work around it. In addition to steam power, we have fuel and lubricants made of vegetable oil, mostly from our corn. We have wood. We have options from which to choose and try."

  "It is hard to envision how the device will look, with only lines to look at," William said, frowning as he looked at the peculiar picture.

  "This is what we call a blueprint. It shows a sketch of what the object will look like, so you will have to use your imagination for what it would be in reality." Amelia pointed at various places in the drawing. "To build a plane the way they used to build them would be a challenge. We might build the frame from wood, and use canvas to wrap it, similar to some of the first airplanes, a century before The Collapse." Pointing at a few drawings that looked like wheels, Amelia said, "For the tires, we might use metal wrapped around wooden wheels, or perhaps leather. We might also need pontoons, objects that will help us land and takeoff. We will need to figure out lots of details. But it will be miraculous, once we determine a way." Seeming to grow excited, Amelia said, "Come with me. I'll show you some of the places where we will construct the plane, eventually."

  Amelia headed toward the glass windows to point.

  William stopped. In his preoccupation with the drawing table, he hadn't noticed that they were in the room with the balcony in the back of the building that he'd seen from up high. Looking over his shoulder, he saw another door and another balcony—the one where The Gifted had greeted them that first day.

  Seeing the recognition on his face, Amelia said, "That is the northern balcony where we met. This other one, where I'm taking you, looks out over New City."

  "Do guards keep watch from here?" he asked.

  Amelia shook her head. "We mostly use these balconies to greet people. Our guards keep watch on a higher floor, beneath The Library Room, as you probably heard." Amelia watched him closely. "We also have the guards downstairs and demons outside. The building is protected, so you don't have to worry."

  You mean, I am trapped, William thought.

  William followed her to the window and through the unlocked door as she opened it. Feeling the fresh air on his face, William tasted freedom. The sights and sounds that had been vague through the glass windows upstairs were suddenly clearer. He saw more details of the people who had mostly been blurry, fleshy forms from upstairs. People—mostly women—milled around the small dwellings below, tending the young. A few larger men, the people he'd learned were Head Guards, lingered by the gate, or strode with importance between some of the buildings on the city's eastern side. Only a handful of people crossed the dirt courtyard directly below them. If any had been close enough, William figured he could have yelled down and spoken to them.

  He glanced surreptitiously at the rectangular building where Bray, Kirby, and Cullen were kept. He was close enough to see some of the larger cracks in its walls, and the thick, closed doors. William took another huff of air. The city was a pungent mix of demon stench, manure, and smoke.

  "Do you see those buildings there?" Amelia drew his attention away, pointing at the larger buildings on the city's eastern side. "Those are the shops where we make things, some of which will help make our plane. We keep all the shops in that section, close enough to access, but away from where people live. The two large buildings in the front, with the smoke coming from the chimneys, are our glass houses. Each has three furnaces, which burn at a temperature much hotter than any normal fire. It takes a long time to get the furnaces to the right heat. Behind them are several buildings for sewing, where we make clothes. That is where we will sew the canvas to cover the plane's body. Farther back, we have shops for metal work, and places to can or store food. We have buildings farther back with machines that fashion things out of wood. Only the most skilled people are allowed in any of those buildings." Amelia watched him, pride filling her words.

  William looked from one building to the next, committing as much as he could to memory. The shop buildings were mostly in rows of two, going farther back on the eastern side of the city. A larger path separated them from the houses where people lived, which spanned to the left of them in long rows of about twenty, going most of the way back to the rear section of the wall on the back of the city. A handful of larger, decrepit or broken down buildings hung in the city's rear. In the foreground, all the way to the east of the courtyard, he saw the larger, fenced-in area—a quadrant of dirt that seemed to be protected, sitting before the shops.

  "What is that area?" he asked.

  "That is the Feeding Pen, where we feed The Plagued Ones. You have heard the bells."

  "I haven't seen the demons, though," William said.

  "That is because we eat at the same time. It is a fascinating spectacle, but not always appetizing."

  A few people walking a hundred feet from the base of the building drew William's attention. "So all thousand people work here?" he asked.

  "Yes. Our biggest group are the Field Hands, who harvest crops in the morning, and prepare or sort them in the afternoon. Others perform various other duties related to food such as canning. Some assist with the windmills. There are four hundred of them. The humans who show aptitude—and earn our trust—are taught a skill. Two hundred specialize in glass; another hundred work in our woodworking and metallurgy shops, and a hundred or so make clothes. A hundred more tend the animals toward the back of the city. We also have people who service the factories, or do various other chores, like cleaning the Feeding Pen or gathering firewood. And we have the Head Guards and their families, of course."

  "Are Ollie and Avery Head Guards?" William asked, trying to sound naïve.

  "Yes, but they perform other roles as well. They help with matters here in The Learning Building, and also coordinate people's activities with Rudyard. They mostly stay outside in the city, but occasionally they take shifts and guard the lower floor, or assist in trading with other colonies."

  "So they are leaders?" William asked.

  "They are not Gifted, like us," Amelia clarified, looking sideways at William. "They are human. They were born in New City. But they have earned our trust. They know that living here is better than living in the wild, as most learn."

  William watched one of the Head Guards walk between a few rows of houses, going to a building that had a closed door. Most of the other dwellings had only empty doorways. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the Head Guards had more privacy and protection than the slaves, and probably more amenities, too.

  Amelia looked wistfully out over the railing and up to the sky. "It is a beautiful sight, though, isn't it? Perhaps one day we will get a different view of the city, as we fly above it in our airplane."

  William nodded in agreement. The plane was a nice thought, but it didn't help him now. He needed to figure out a way to leave.

  "Come, we should get back upstairs."

  William followed her back through the balcony door and into the room. As they left through the doorway, he watched her pull out the key ring and lock the door.

  Chapter 37: William

  "William." Tolstoy's smile was wide and happy and seemingly genuine. He seemed pleased by William's recent cooperation.

  The other Gifted sat all around him, hands folded, looking at William and Amelia as they returned to The Library Room. All around the table sat a supper of steaming, redolent dishes of various types and colors. An array of glass cups sat next to empty plates, forks, and containers filled with water. Smellin
g the food made William's stomach snarl with hunger. He hadn't realized his appetite, while looking at the blueprints.

  "Sit down," Tolstoy said pleasantly, motioning toward two empty seats.

  The others waited expectantly, as William and Amelia accepted his invitation. Sitting at the table, William's eyes wandered over the spread of freshly baked bread, corn, squash, carrots, fruits, and meat, all arranged in platters by themselves. Meals such as these belonged to merchants in opulent houses, or soldiers eating in leader's houses, not in his stomach. In his grandest fantasies, he hadn't imagined a meal as diverse or as plentiful.

  Seeing the expression on his face, Tolstoy said, "Eat as much as you'd like. This is our big dinner. We have it once a week. We call it the Blessed meal, based on some past traditions."

  William watched the other Gifted pass the plates around to each other, doling out sizable portions of meats, vegetables, and fruits. Amelia handed him a fresh bowl of bread. Reaching inside, he plucked out a thick, crusted piece and put it on his plate. The pattern continued until he could no longer see the bottom of his plate.

  Guilt followed: his friends were still in that rectangular building, while he prepared to eat a meal fit for a Councilman, or an Elder. Hopefully, they would be out soon. To what? William couldn't imagine, and thinking about it too long made him sick.

  The air filled with the clank of plates and the pouring of beverages as the other Gifted ate. Amelia smiled.

  "What did you think of the blueprints?" Tolstoy asked, around a mouthful of meat.

  William chewed some bread, soaked in the meat's juices. "The drawings are incredible."

  "It is a magnificent project we have undertaken. Probably our grandest," Tolstoy said with an unabashed pride. "Its completion will open new opportunities for us."

  "For you, as well," Amelia reinforced.

  William swallowed and took another bite.

  "Amelia probably told you its purpose." The statement was more of a question as Tolstoy awaited an answer.

  "Yes," William said. "It is a flying machine."

  "An airplane," Tolstoy clarified. "A device that will take us into the air and to places too dangerous to travel by foot. Everyone knows the risks of traveling in the wild." Tolstoy watched him closely. "But there is another purpose behind this device."

  William stopped chewing, as if he was supposed to guess. He had no clue.

  After a pause, Tolstoy said, "Our hope is to find more people like you, like us, once it is finished. It has been many years since we have found one of the smart ones."

  "Your arrival fills us with hope, William," Barron said, nodding his bulbous, wart-covered head. "We have been talking about it since you arrived. That is why we wanted to show you the plane. You give us hope for the future."

  "I do not know what to say," William muttered sheepishly.

  Tolstoy took back the conversation. "Certainly, there must be people like us in other parts of the land, perhaps even with advances we haven't been able to make. Imagine a place where we can feed and protect ourselves, slowly rebuilding the best parts of the past, without worry of needless pain and persecution." Tolstoy's eyes flashed an eagerness that seldom bled through his calm. "Whether it is here, in New City, or elsewhere."

  Those at the table watched William, judging him, confident in the impact of Tolstoy's words.

  "We will set ourselves up for the future, even if humans go extinct." Tolstoy smiled.

  William felt a new pit in his stomach as he digested those words. He'd been certain he'd face his end at the pointed end of a blade, or a pyre pole. To be immortal was a concept he hadn't had time to digest. But the evidence was written in each aged face around the table, and each magnificent, intricate device in New City. Still, he couldn't stop thinking of his friends, rotting away in that long, squalid building.

  "Let us finish our meal," Tolstoy said, returning to the mouthful of food on his fork. "We have plenty of time. Afterward, we will retire to our quarters and sleep."

  Chapter 38: Kirby

  Kirby cracked her eyes as the door swung open, revealing the light of a new day. She shot upright as a large, bulky silhouette filled the threshold. She instinctively shielded her body, protecting herself from a beating. Ollie.

  "Are you ready to come out?" he asked, surprising her with a pleasant tone. He beckoned softly with his hand, as if he hadn't used the same hand to punch and drag her. She saw a smile on his face. A dare to disobey.

  Kirby looked around for a moment. His tone was calm. Too calm. She was certain this was some trap, and that she was being brought to some new place where she would be killed. Or maybe he had other plans.

  "Come out, or don't," he said. "It doesn't matter to me."

  His smile became a smirk. Kirby noticed a few bruises on his cheeks. One of his eyes was still swollen, from where she had landed a punch.

  She knew she'd pay for that.

  She pushed herself to her feet. Her face stung with pain. Dried blood stained her clothing. She didn't need to see her reflection to know how she must look, after days of stewing in her blood and filth.

  "I said, come out." His voice turned harsh. It was an order this time.

  Catching her balance on the wall for a moment, she dragged her weary body toward the door.

  "Maybe she needs a few more days in there." Someone behind Ollie laughed. "Or another week."

  Ollie reached inside, grabbed her shirt, and threw her through the doorway. She landed in the dirt outside, on her knees, as sharp pain split her old wounds open.

  Kirby tasted anger and raised her chin. A few other Head Guards, including Avery, watched her pain with perverse interest. One or two laughed. She wanted to spit in their faces. She wanted to raise her fists again and try and inflict more damage before she died, but Bray's words came back to her.

  Perhaps we will get out of this yet.

  Resting an arm against the open door, Ollie made a show of sniffing the cell.

  "It stinks in there," he muttered to a few other men, who laughed.

  "She is a forest dweller," one of the guards remarked. "What do you expect? I hear they bathe in their own filth."

  "I hear they bathe alongside The Plagued Ones," said someone else. "Some say they even lay with them."

  "Is she the one who gave you those bruises, and the swollen eye?" asked the first guard.

  Ollie scowled.

  "Maybe you have too much winter weight," the man said, as the others snickered.

  "Fuck off," Ollie spat. "Or I'll throw you in the cell. Don't think I couldn't."

  The other guards quieted, but Ollie's newfound rage was written on his face.

  Kirby would pay for their comments, too.

  Using her hands to push herself from the ground, she made it halfway to her feet before Ollie booted her in the shins, sending her backward onto her butt. She raised her hands as she fell, certain another kick was coming. Ollie spat on the ground near her. His eyes blazed.

  Kirby knew what he wanted.

  He wanted to reclaim his wounded pride by pummeling her face.

  The next beating wouldn't lead to the cell, but to the grave. Ollie's face twisted into a sneer she'd seen too many times, on the faces of men who had booted and kicked others until they stopped moving, before they dragged them away for the final time. Kirby wanted nothing more than to fight back, but she forced herself to look away.

  Leaning down beside her, close enough that she could see the spittle on his lips and the venomous look in his eyes, forcing her to look, he said, "Have you had enough?"

  She knew what that question meant. He wanted to see the defeat on her face, to taste it in her blood. He leaned even closer, close enough that she could land a punch that would make her feel good, even if it killed her. His lips quivered as he smiled, and she contemplated it.

  "I asked if—"

  "I'm finished," she muttered.

  "I didn't hear you."

  She looked up, into the eyes of the small circle of g
uards, all smirking. A few raised their fists, ready to continue what he had started.

  "I'm finished!" She shouted, throwing out the last of her pride with those words.

  Ollie eyed her with a look of smug satisfaction, reveling in another victory.

  "Get up."

  She slowly rose to her feet, still not certain that he wouldn't hit her again. Ollie kept his fists at his sides. His smile said more than his words. He might be through beating her, now, but she wasn't through paying.

  She would never be, as long as she was alive.

  The guards lowered their fists in disappointment.

  "Hopefully she can work in the fields, with all those scabs," one of the guards muttered.

  More laughter.

  She kept her bruised knuckles by her sides as she looked away, taking in her surroundings.

  Morning light cast a yellow hue over the city. Men and women emerged from the paths between the homes, filing into a single line in the center of the dirt courtyard a few hundred feet away, where a row of empty wooden wagons waited. Past the growing line of people, diagonally in the distance, she saw the shops in the eastern portion of the city. Directly across the courtyard—straight ahead—was the fenced-in area she'd seen from the highest floors of the building.

  A baby's cry drew her attention to a mother lingering in a doorway perpendicular to the long building, holding a child, her face bleary from a long, sleepless night. That same baby's cry—or another's—had jerked Kirby from sleep several times while she'd been here, along with the snarls of demons.

  The people in line stared at Kirby from a distance. She looked for Drew, but didn't see him.

  The scrape of a door drew her attention sideways. One of the other Head Guards stepped to the door next to hers, opening it. She had the panicked thought that the guard would pull a body from inside. Relief filled her as Bray emerged, dried, crusted blood on his swollen face, limping. She could barely see his features past the bruises. One eye was clenched half-shut. But he was alive—alive and moving. Relief crossed his face as their eyes met. He took a step toward her, but Ollie growled, "Stay put."