They seemed intimidating, but not threatening.
Bray halted as he caught sight of several small, strange glass devices on the ceiling. The devices were rounded and attached in various places.
“What are those?” Bray asked, pointing above them.
William and Cullen peered at them. Kirby held a look of disbelief over his shoulder.
“Lights,” Rudyard said, with obvious pride.
“Tech Magic,” William whispered.
“I don’t understand,” Bray said, looking as if Rudyard was playing a joke.
Judging by the look on Rudyard’s face, he was used to explaining. “We Gifted created them, among other things, some of which you will lay eyes on, but not all of them.” Pointing at the lights, none of which were lit at the moment, and some windows higher up in the room, he explained, “We only use the lights when we need to. Things in other parts of the building run them. But we will need to agree on the terms of our tentative arrangement before you can go further.”
Bray looked around the rest of the room, spotting a large box built into the far wall, situated between two doors. The lock on the box resembled some of the strongest he’d seen in Brighton. The light-haired man unlocked it, opening the thick top and revealing an empty space.
“This is where you will leave your weapons,” Rudyard said. “We cannot pass from this room until you secure them.”
Bray hesitated. He looked at the others.
“Those are the rules of our arrangement.” Seeing the uneasiness on their faces, Rudyard said, “If you need a moment to discuss it, I can grant you one. We will wait in the room while you speak privately outside.”
He motioned behind them at the open door. Bray glanced across the threshold and into the part of the crop fields he could see. In between some of the rows of shorter vegetables, demons lurked. Some stared unabashedly, and others wandered, but none left.
“Give us a moment,” Bray said.
He led the others outside, where they walked partway down the path until they were out of earshot. They formed a cautious circle. Before he could say anything, William cut in.
“The lights are magic,” he said, wonder in his face.
“Not magic.” Kirby shook her head. “Though it might seem like that.”
Cullen’s face mirrored amazement.
“You have told us men built devices such as the ones behind us.” William pointed at the enormous windmills, directing his comment at Kirby. “And you have told us plenty of other stories about incredible things, like cars and planes. But in all these months traveling, all we have seen are crumbled buildings, and men with sharp swords, or sharper arrows. Even the guns we hold weren’t built in this land. You might not think of these things as magic, but to us, they are.” William looked as if he was releasing an emotion he’d held back as he wiped his eyes. “The people inside look like me. They called me brother. I do not know if I believe that, but I want to go inside. Even if I am alone, I am willing to talk with them.”
Watching William, Bray fought a pit in his stomach that he hadn’t expected. In William’s short life, he had seen only death, war, and suffering. He had spent too much time running from those who wished him harm. And through all that time, I’ve done him the worst harm. I killed his mother.
If hope lay inside that building, he owed it to William to find it.
“I will go with William,” Bray said, a solemn expression on his face. “If you choose to remain out here, Kirby and Cullen, I will not fault you for it.”
Kirby looked as if she was working through a doubt. “You are not the only one who needs hope. If we will go, we will go together.”
They started walking until William stopped them.
“They do not know you are infected,” William whispered to Kirby.
“We do not need to add another complication,” Kirby said. “I will not tell them. Let us talk with them and see what they have to say.”
Bray agreed, and they walked back toward the door.
Chapter 14: The Clicker
Movement through the trees grabbed The Clicker’s attention. He stopped, signaling some of the others as they crept through the forest. Reaching a tangle of thick brush, they stopped and raised their bows. A lone, bedraggled man huddled next to a stream bank a dozen steps away. The Clicker hoped it was the people who killed his brothers, but this was someone different.
No matter.
The man’s torn pack lay behind him, along with his rusted knife. Smoke lingered in the air from his doused fire. He seemed alone. Another traveler, perhaps.
The Clicker looked behind him through the trees. His brothers with the horses waited farther, out of sight. He adjusted on his haunches. They had been traveling with their newfound steeds, in search of the people with the metal weapons, when they’d seen spirals of smoke above the tree line.
The sky gods had been fortunate.
First the thunder beasts, and now this.
The Clicker wanted retribution for the men those others had killed in the city, but that would come later.
The Clicker traded a look with his closest brother, who gave him a subtle, soft click through his sharp teeth. Taking the man’s cue, The Clicker drew an arrow. They watched as the traveler dipped his face in the water, clearing some of the day’s heat from his brow.
The Clicker sent a signal in his native tongue.
They slid from the bushes, walking on quiet, bare feet.
They got within a few steps of the traveler before he spun. His eyes lit with terror. He reached for his knife. They didn’t let him get farther. One of The Clicker’s companions swung a dirty fist, striking the traveler in the temple, knocking him over. On his knees, he lunged for his long knife, but The Clicker stomped on his fingers, eliciting a cry of pain. One of his brothers kicked his ribs, collapsing the man to the ground. Blood ran down the man’s face. The Clicker reached down, retrieved the long knife, and kicked the torn bag out of the man’s reach.
The man’s eyes lit with fear as The Clicker exposed his pointed, sharp teeth, and made his eyes wide.
The Clicker was not stupid. He knew his appearance was frightening to The Hunted.
The other Clickers grabbed the traveler’s arms, keeping him restrained while they frisked him, looking for any other weapons that might prick or harm them. The man screamed out in terror, writhing, but he was weak from hunger, and the other Clickers had a firm grasp.
The Clicker bent down, still without words, and held up the man’s long knife. Sticking out his own tongue, he made a dragging movement in the air above it. The traveler bit down on another scream as he realized he would lose the soft, pink piece of flesh if he made another noise.
Pain was a great motivator for silence.
Looking back over his shoulder, The Clicker made a few, sharp clicks with his tongue. The clopping of horses’ feet echoed through the distant trees as the rest of his brothers joined them. In his language, The Clicker informed them the traveler was alone.
Retrieving the dirty bag from the ground, he sifted through the belongings, stuffed a dried piece of meat into his mouth, and chewed. Inside were a few, dirty garments, and a small knife. He pocketed the beaten tool, but kept the other belongings in the bag. He tossed the bag over his shoulder while the traveler watched.
When he was finished, they dragged the man away through the forest.
Chapter 15: Bray
After leaving their belongings in the secured box, and reluctantly agreeing to a frisking, Bray, Kirby, William, and Cullen followed Rudyard through one of the two doors, which he unlocked. On the other side was a stairway, surrounded by walls. Bray listened as the door clicked closed behind them.
“I hope you brought your strength,” Rudyard said as he led them up a steep flight of stairs. “There are eighteen floors in the building. We are working on a better way to get up through it. But for now, this is what we have.”
Bray wasn’t certain what he was talking about, but he didn’t voice the q
uestion.
“How long have you lived here?” Kirby asked.
“Several hundred years,” Rudyard said, looking over his shoulder as he led them.
“Like Jingo,” William whispered in Bray’s direction.
“Are there more of you?” Kirby asked.
“There are ten of us Gifted,” Rudyard said. “The ones you saw on the balcony, myself, and three others you haven’t seen. As I said, your appearance is a great surprise to us. We have many questions for you, as I am sure you have for us.”
William stepped up the stairs with a hope Bray hadn’t seen him wear in many months. Bray, Kirby, and Cullen walked more reservedly, eyeing the thick walls on either side of them. Every so often, they passed a landing with a closed door on one side, or a window overlooking the corn and crop fields on the other. Outside, the demons scrounged between the tall stalks, chasing small animals, or eating the remnants of a few corncobs. A strange, humming noise started from somewhere outside.
“What is that sound?” Bray asked, thinking he heard voices, as well.
“One of our machines,” Rudyard said simply. “They must have turned it on.”
“Machines?”
“The way we produce things, or make things work.” Rudyard looked back at them. “Like our lights downstairs. Perhaps we can talk more about it when we get upstairs. I’m sure you have as many questions as we have.”
They passed another door, and Bray glanced at it, wondering what other miraculous devices might lie behind. A guarded look crossed Rudyard’s face.
“The doors you see are secured. Only we Gifted know the locations of the keys. Rest assured, you would not get out alive if you tried to take them. I say this only so that you know we are serious about protecting what we have.”
“As any man would be,” Bray agreed, though it didn’t stop his imagination from wandering.
Perspiration dripped from their brows as they climbed a few more flights. Bray stared out the next window, watching the corn stalks and the demons grow smaller. The humming noise got slightly quieter. He studied the forest from which they’d emerged, realizing how far away they were from it.
“How high up are we going?” Kirby asked.
“To the highest floor,” Rudyard said. “Our Library Room. We are almost there.”
Reaching a door near the top of the building, he stopped and rapped four times. Bray waited. He dragged a hand across his sweaty forehead as he traded a look with Kirby, William, and Cullen, their faces a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.
The door opened.
**
The authoritative man who had spoken to them from the balcony stood in front of them, his robe billowing behind. He no longer wore a hood. Thick, calcified bumps ran the length of either side of his face. Warts protruded from several points around his mouth and nose, but his blue eyes were strangely bright, as if they alone had been spared the weight of the infection. He raised a hand in greeting.
“I am Tolstoy,” he said.
Despite being prepared for the man’s appearance, Bray was taken aback. Had he a sword, he might’ve been tempted to pull it. Or maybe it was the sight of so many of them. Behind Tolstoy, the eight others stood in the center of the room, all waiting, all wearing an expression that was difficult to read under the mask of the infection. One woman stood among them, her smooth, feminine features mostly covered by her long, dark hair, which she’d tied back. Warts covered all of the people’s faces. A few men’s heads were larger than a normal person’s, swollen with the weight of infection and cocked sideways as they studied the newcomers.
Tolstoy stepped back to allow them in.
Bray’s wonder grew as he saw the remainder of the room, which comprised most of the building’s floor. Windows ran the length of three sides of the room, save a lone, solid wall on the right-hand side, lined with bookshelves. In the middle of that wall was a single, open doorway leading to another room he couldn’t see. Each of the bookshelves contained thick, bound books that filled almost every space.
That wasn’t the most amazing thing.
A large, opulent table sat in the room’s center, with smooth, contoured edges. Intricately carved chairs surrounded it.
More of the strange, unlit lights hung from the ceiling, and other gadgets sat on smaller tables in various places in the room. Small desks lined the windows, filled with piles of books and other devices. Bray stepped in with awe, unable to pry his eyes from the people, the metal objects, or the books, any of which would have commanded a fortune in any township or village.
A few taller, freestanding pieces of metal similar to the ones called windmills—only much smaller—stood near the windows, turning, providing a coolness that Bray had never felt inside, in Brighton, the wild, or anywhere else.
“Fans,” Tolstoy explained as they stepped farther in. “I told our people to turn them on so we could use them, and you would be more comfortable.”
Bray opened and closed his mouth on too many questions.
Beckoning to the large table in the room’s center, Tolstoy said, “Have a seat.”
Taking his cue, The Gifted ones walked on feet Bray couldn’t see beneath their robes, taking seats. Had he been in a snowberry-induced stupor, Bray might’ve convinced himself they floated. A part of him wondered if he was dreaming, destined to wake up on a bed of rocks and dirt in the wild. Cullen looked as if he had been caught mid-bite in a stolen meal. He walked with his mouth open, his eyes wide, following Kirby, William, and Bray.
Before sitting, Bray glimpsed more of the ruined buildings out the back windows, which extended as far as the eye could see. Farther back, he thought he saw the end of the protective wall. Tolstoy and the rest sat, while Rudyard stood in a position by the door, seemingly relaxed, but probably guarding.
“Welcome to New City,” Tolstoy said, smiling through his warts.
Another man, with a bulbous head and thin, wart-covered lips spoke up. “To clarify, the name probably held more meaning when we first decided to call it that, many, many years ago. Now it is more of a misnomer. We have been a city for many years.”
“It is beautiful, no matter what you call it,” Kirby said politely.
“We are impressed,” Bray said.
Tolstoy gestured to the people sitting around the back half of the table, his brethren. “These are the rest of The Gifted. Some you saw on the balcony. Others you have not met.” Motioning to each in turn, he said, “Their names are Herman, Simon, Walter, Alfred, Henry, Leonard, Barron, and Amelia.”
A few of them nodded at their names, or moved their misshapen heads to acknowledge the introduction.
“I am Bray, and this is Kirby, Cullen, and William,” Bray said.
“William,” Tolstoy regarded, latching on to the name. “We are very interested to speak with you.”
The others switched focus, watching him. William shrank down in his chair, uncomfortable, or nervous. Despite that, he kept his hood off his head.
“In the Beginning Time, before The Collapse, we saw more like you, like us,” Tolstoy said, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Most were destroyed by people who didn’t understand what we were. If they had been given time, perhaps we could have built a city filled with our people.”
William nodded slowly.
“I’ll admit, it has been almost a hundred and fifty years since I have laid eyes on someone of our type,” he continued with reverie. “Someone with your appearance, but with an intact mind. Someone who can speak with The Plagued Ones, or apparently so.”
Sitting forward, possibly containing a thought, the woman named Amelia said, “In all my years, I have never seen one as young as you.”
William stayed silent.
“Have you been infected long?”
“My mother found my lumps when I was eleven.”
“Many, many years ago,” she assumed.
“Not that long ago,” William said, confusion crossing his face. “It was only in the past year.”
“
The past year?” Tolstoy asked, incredulous.
Looking at Tolstoy, Amelia said, “The spore might have changed, so many years after The Collapse. Or perhaps he is an anomaly.”
“I don’t understand,” William said.
“Usually our appearance takes more time to develop,” Amelia continued. “Our thought was that you’d come from before The Collapse.”
Tolstoy cut in. “The spore causes all our telomeres to mutate and form the telomerase enzyme, which stops us from aging, but for a very few, it makes us more intelligent. Usually that process takes years.” Tolstoy paused as he saw William’s confused face. “My apologies. We are speaking in terms that are probably bewildering. It is just that we have not seen another of our kind in so long. Sometimes the sickness we get in the beginning kills many of the youngest of us. Obviously that did not happen with you.”
After a silence, William said, “I was sick for a while, but I got through it.”
“The sickness affects the intelligent ones the worst,” Tolstoy said, adding, “You are a strong boy to survive it.”
Bray felt as if he was listening to a conversation in another language. But some part of what he heard, he understood. He knew William was special. He’d seen that from those first days, when William had shown his aptitude for tracking and hunting. William had picked up on things that most kids his age ignored, or had no time for. Kirby was infected, too, but she didn’t have the appearance of William, or his degree of intelligence. And she certainly couldn’t speak to demons.
William was like Jingo, like these people.
These Gifted.
“I saw some of our power in you, when you were outside,” Tolstoy said. “And I see in your eyes that you are smart. I assumed that was why your people had chosen you for an emissary. I am surprised they allowed someone so young far from home. They must have confidence in you.”
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