The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “You do not have to worry about The Plagued Ones,” Tolstoy said, noticing Bray observing. “They will not bother us.”

  “I am not used to having them so close,” Bray admitted.

  “A sentiment most of our visitors share,” Tolstoy said. “They take some getting used to. But they are good protection.” Coming to the first rows of shorter, green, leafy crops that lined either side of the path, Tolstoy pointed and said, “These are our red-skinned potatoes. Past them are our carrots, broccoli, and lettuce.”

  They kept walking. A noise drew Bray’s attention to a demon, which had gotten ahold of a loose carrot and was gnawing on it.

  “We have trained our Plagued Ones to stay away from the crops. They have their indiscretions, of course, but they have a special area in which they eat in back. Rudyard and the guards feed them corn in a penned area, to catch their dung. We use it to power some of the steam-powered machines.”

  “You use dung?” Bray asked.

  “It fuels some of our machines which provide electricity,” Tolstoy said.

  “At night, we allow The Plagued Ones to roam the forests in the perimeter, where they catch animals on which to feed,” Amelia said. “That is why it is important that you only approach us during the daytime.”

  “A point we can’t stress enough,” Herman said. “You are lucky you arrived midday.”

  “Any unlucky enough to encroach on our city without welcome will become a meal,” Tolstoy added.

  Bray swallowed as he realized the fate they’d almost met, and might still, if they didn’t get out of here.

  “Come, we have more to show you,” Tolstoy said.

  They walked past the remainder of the shorter rows of fruits and vegetables until they reached the corn stalks, which rose higher than their heads. More demons lurked in between the rows, seeking shelter from the budding heat.

  Demons weren’t the only things.

  Bray was surprised, but probably shouldn’t have been, to see people in between the rows, twisting off ripe ears. A woman with a dirty, tan face and a basket in her hand stared at them as they passed. Dirt stained her slacks and shirt. She stared only long enough to catch a glimpse of them before looking away. A few wagons full of corn sat in the rows between the crops.

  “Our people are hard at work at this hour,” Tolstoy said as he pointed at a few more people snapping corn from stalks.

  “How many people live in New City?”

  “Almost a thousand,” he said.

  “Everyone tends crops?”

  “Most perform different jobs,” Tolstoy said. “We have those who tend crops, others who make clothes, tend the animals, or make things to trade, like our glass. Some, like Ollie and Avery, perform other duties for us.”

  Bray bristled as he picked out a few of those words.

  For us.

  Tolstoy raised a hand, signaling a conclusion of the tour.

  “Our people will be interested in what you have shown us,” Bray affirmed, as they turned to face the building and the rising sun glinted off the shaded glass.

  “Before the tour ends, we would like to show you the windmills,” Herman said.

  Chapter 25: Cullen

  Cullen hung close to the others as they walked back toward the building. He felt The Plagued Ones’ eyes everywhere. Whenever he passed a few, more appeared, peering through the corn stalks with starved looks. The people tending the crops were just as frightening. They might not have dirty, misshapen heads, but they represented something he didn’t understand.

  Slaves.

  The word was as frightening as the explanation Kirby gave.

  He barely listened to what the others said. All he cared about was getting out of this place.

  “Do you have celery plants in Brighton?” a voice asked from his right.

  Cullen turned to find Herman watching him, awaiting an answer. Cullen opened and closed his mouth as he surveyed the bulbous-headed, strange man, a person from whom he would have run, if he saw him in the wild.

  “Yes,” he said, trying to keep his answers short.

  He increased his gait, keeping on his friends’ heels.

  “I assume you plant them in the cooler temperatures, as we do,” Herman said.

  “Yes.”

  Cullen looked away. A demon rustled from one row of plants to the next. A few of the people called slaves watched him pass. Cullen cautiously eyed his surroundings, keeping his feet to the center of the path, afraid that something might reach out with wart-covered hands and pull him away. A few half-nibbled, broken ears of corn could just as easily be his arms, or his legs. He had seen too many fall prey to The Plagued Ones.

  “Peppers can provide a challenge, as well, with their long growth cycles,” said Herman, next to him.

  Cullen barely heard him. Movement between a few rows of crops snagged his attention. He looked right, certain that one of the infected had broken its command and was coming for him. But it was just a person walking between two tall rows of corn, pulling a wagon full of corn. His heart thundered.

  “In which direction did you say you lived?” Herman asked.

  Cullen looked around for a moment, afraid he might get caught in a lie.

  Kirby called over her shoulder authoritatively, “North.”

  “North,” Cullen repeated, feeling a surge of relief.

  “We trade with a few people from up that way,” Herman said. “Perhaps you know them. Have you heard of the Red Ridge people?”

  “We know a lot of colonies,” Cullen said vaguely.

  After a few more questions, which Cullen answered with only one or two words, Herman lost interest, and took a few faster steps to join the others. Cullen blew a quiet sigh of relief, looking down a crop row to his right, watching a woman with a sweaty face wipe her forehead with her arm. A man watched him with his mouth agape, revealing a few missing teeth.

  Slaves…

  When he looked ahead, at the shimmering building, he saw something else.

  A figure, headed toward them up the path.

  Rudyard.

  The Gifted waved at their approaching companion. A few ceased their conversations.

  “Tolstoy!” Rudyard called.

  Rudyard’s gait was fast.

  Too fast.

  Cullen looked left and right, his heart beating furiously beneath his ribcage. He resisted the urge to run, certain he must be imagining dangers.

  “Is everything all right?” Tolstoy asked Rudyard.

  Cullen’s heart felt as if it might explode from his chest when he heard the answer.

  “Do not let them leave,” Rudyard said, looking as if he was out of breath. “They are no emissaries. They are vagrants of the woods.”

  Chapter 26: Bray

  “Vagrants?” Tolstoy took a step away, as if he had been told he was standing next to a row of thorny bushes.

  The demons hissed. A few in the corn crept closer, sensing the moods of their owners. Kirby inched closer to William, while Cullen seemed as if he might make a run into the crop fields. Bray’s eyes flicked to his empty belt line, where his gun and sword had been.

  “What do you mean?” Tolstoy asked Rudyard.

  “The man they call Cullen is a dweller of the forest,” Rudyard announced, anger furrowing his brow as he processed a deception. “And so are the others. The Semposi told me when they were here this morning, delivering a trade. They followed two men, a woman, and a boy from a city north of here.” Rudyard looked directly at Bray. “They tried capturing you. Perhaps you forgot to mention the horses on which you rode.”

  Tolstoy’s surprise melted to anger. His mouth curled into an angry pucker; his eyes blazed. The warts on his face seemed to quiver.

  “Horses,” he spat, as if the word itself was foul. “You didn’t mention horses.”

  The fields fell silent as every eye turned to Bray, awaiting his response.

  Bray said, “It is true. We had horses.”

  “True?” Tolstoy furrowed his bro
w in disbelief.

  “Men with arrows stole our horses while we were exploring the city you mention. We had never seen them before. It happens too often, unfortunately.” Bray watched them, hoping his story would be believed. “But that must not be a surprise to you. Those are the risks of being emissaries.”

  Not to be swayed, Rudyard said, “The Semposi watched them for a day before getting close. They were alone, at first. And then they met Cullen in the city. Cullen is no ambassador of Brighton.”

  “Where are you from?” Tolstoy asked, turning toward Cullen.

  Bray opened his mouth, pretty certain he could smooth over the lie.

  Cullen blurted, “I am from Brighton.”

  Bray’s stomach clenched as he realized what Cullen had done. He had committed to the lie.

  Sweat trickled down Cullen’s dirty forehead. His eyes flitted from face to face. Looking around, he furthered, “I am an emissary.”

  Tolstoy looked undecided as he processed two sets of information. The demons hissed and snapped, waiting for a signal that would grant them a meal. “Perhaps the Semposi are mistaken. Or perhaps it was an error in communication,” he said, turning to Rudyard.

  “I know their language,” Rudyard insisted, anger taking over his face. “I do not make mistakes. They were chasing Cullen for much longer. He was with some others that they killed. They have been hunting him for a while. I am telling you, they are lying.”

  “We were separated for a while,” Bray added, hoping another lie would explain. “We found Cullen in the city. We are who we say we are.”

  An uneasy silence took over the group, save the scratching and fidgeting of hungry demons. Bray scanned the dirt path, and the rows of crops, as if they might somehow make it past the rows of tearing hands and jagged teeth. Footsteps pounded the soil as more demons emerged from the trees. Some of the workers—slaves—poked their heads around high stalks of corn, their eyes growing wide as they processed what was likely a spectacle they weren’t used to seeing.

  Or maybe it was too common.

  “Let us put this miscommunication behind us and move forward,” Bray said, hoping to conclude the conversation. “Our leaders will ensure you are compensated for your trust.”

  Tolstoy looked between them, still deciding. He blew a breath through his wart-covered lips. He looked from Bray to the surrounding demons.

  Without a word, Amelia stepped forward next to Tolstoy and whispered in his ear. Tolstoy’s face changed.

  “I am ready to put this matter to rest. But first, I have a question for Cullen,” Tolstoy said. The yard fell deathly silent again, save the hiss of the demons. “Only he may answer it. If another speaks, I will order The Plagued Ones to tear you apart. Do you understand?”

  Bray looked between his companions as he realized an end to the accusation was coming. Speaking what he hoped weren’t his last words, he said, “We understand.”

  Turning to Cullen, Tolstoy asked, “Who are your leaders in Brighton?”

  A smile played across Amelia’s lips as her eyes roamed from William to Cullen. William’s mouth fell open as he made some quiet, dreaded realization. More sweat poured down Cullen’s face as he calculated a response.

  “Speak now, or The Plagued Ones feast,” Tolstoy demanded.

  Cullen looked as if he might run through the demons’ claws in a hopeless attempt to reach the other side. Finally, he lowered his eyes and said, “I do not know.”

  “Human vagrants, out for a meal,” Rudyard boomed triumphantly, through gritted teeth.

  The demons hissed louder, sensing the venom in his tone. Sensing a meal.

  “Wait!” Bray yelled, ready to explain.

  “Surround them!” Tolstoy waved a hand at the demons, which broke from the corn stalks, or ran the last few steps from the crops to Bray and the others. The twisted men circled them, filling the air with hungry, guttural shrieks. Bray held up his fists, but they were useless against a wall of dirty, rancid demon flesh. He glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of William’s frightened eyes at the end of the group.

  “Stay back!” William screamed, with as much force as he could muster.

  But the demons weren’t listening. Not to him.

  “Hold them there!” Tolstoy shouted, above the din of hungry hisses as he raised his wart-covered hands.

  Tolstoy’s eyes blazed with a new fierceness. All at once, Bray saw the man capable of commanding an army of demons, of forcing people into whatever nightmare lay behind the wall. He saw the truth in Kirby’s morbid theory, if he hadn’t seen it already, watching that strange man dragged away.

  “Human scum,” Rudyard spat from somewhere outside the circle.

  “You are making a mistake,” Bray yelled over the heads of the circling demons, which were clearly fighting their violent instincts.

  “If it is a mistake, your people will come for you, and we will compensate them, and you,” Tolstoy said. “But I do not think so. I believe you are lying.”

  “Get back!” Kirby shrieked, knocking aside a demon that got too close, inciting the hisses of others that pressed closer.

  “You belong to us now,” Tolstoy said, exchanging a look with Amelia. “You will live and die in New City. All except the boy.”

  Bray’s pulse thundered as he realized a new horror. He caught William’s eyes. Before Bray could think about making a last, fatal attempt to get to William, demons swarmed him, herding him away from the end of the group and Kirby and Cullen.

  “William!” Bray made a lunge, but a snapping demon knocked him backwards.

  Kirby cried out and grabbed for William’s shirt, but the demons were too many, and they pressed too tight. They pawed her back with dirty, wart-covered hands. Others filled in the gaps as Kirby tried to push past Cullen and get to him.

  “No!” Kirby screamed as William was pulled away. His cries of terror cut through the rabid hisses of demons that surrounded him. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shrieked, but none of the demons backed away, or heeded his words.

  Rage overtook Bray.

  Forgetting his own safety, he swung a blow at the closest demon, knocking it aside. He struck another. A twisted man raked at his hand, cutting it open with a dirty fingernail. Beside him, Kirby swung her fists, knocking a few demons back, but more pressed in, enough so that they could hardly move. Teeth and hands pressed tighter on all sides of him as some demons bit the air, tempting the orders of The Gifted. Bray felt as if he might choke on their rancid, sour breath. Cullen shrieked in panic as he tried to push away the swarming bodies.

  “Leave me alone!” Cullen yelled.

  “Keep struggling and you will die!” Tolstoy warned above the commotion.

  The demons became a blur of flesh around Bray as they pinned his arms, operating with coordination he’d rarely seen them display in the wild. Bray found Kirby’s eyes, trading what he feared was a last look as she squirmed and writhed unsuccessfully. From somewhere outside the circle, William’s screams tore at his soul.

  To Rudyard, Tolstoy said, “Take Bray, Kirby, and Cullen to New City. I will bring William back to The Learning Building.”

  The demons cried hungrily, ready to follow orders.

  They were Tolstoy’s army.

  And Bray, Kirby, and Cullen were his slaves.

  Chapter 27: William

  William screamed as the demons pressed in close to him, grabbed his arms, and herded him away. He fought to stay in place, but the cornering demons pushed him, twisting his ankles in his boots. Without wanting to, he swayed and moved away from his friends. He heard Bray and Kirby shouting for him, but they were lost in a vicious scramble, pulled in another direction. William caught a last glimpse of Cullen’s frightened, panicked face, before he was swallowed in the moving herd.

  The demons brought him some unknown distance and stopped.

  Faced with a circle of ten or so demons that had ceased moving, William screamed, “Get back!”

  It wasn’t until Rudyard screamed an order
that they listened.

  The demons kept him at bay, but they no longer pressed as tightly.

  They had him trapped.

  Past them, he saw the staring, emotionless eyes of The Gifted, gathered in a line, watching.

  William reached up and past one of the demons in a fruitless attempt to get free, but the demon snapped at his finger. He would lose an appendage before he would get free, brother or not. He heard the slaps of fists against skin, grunts, and cries as his friends fought in the distance.

  Tears rolled down William’s face as he realized his friends might die. “Don’t fight! Don’t fight!” Turning his cries toward The Gifted, he yelled, “Let them go!”

  None answered. Not even Amelia.

  “Relax, William.” Tolstoy’s face was smug in his command.

  William heaved thick, gasping breaths. A few demons looked over their shoulders, awaiting another order. He wanted to shove past them and race to his friends. He wanted to pour his rage into a command that would strike The Gifted down, by the will of the gods, if his brothers wouldn’t listen.

  “Are you unharmed?” Tolstoy asked, walking until he was standing just outside the circle where William was kept.

  William’s anger seethed as he listened to the man’s calm voice. He wanted to scream every hateful word he could think of. Silence was his last, angry means of defiance.

  “I regret that had to be done.” Tolstoy’s voice was wrapped in a pleasantry that William didn’t believe.

  William poured his hatred into a glare as he stared from Tolstoy to Amelia.

  “You will understand, in time,” Amelia said, walking over to join Tolstoy as the other Gifted hung back.

  “You misrepresented who you were,” Tolstoy said, allowing some anger into his voice. “All of you.”

  “I am from Brighton,” William protested. “That is no lie.”

  “The time has passed for lies.” Tolstoy’s voice was hard. “You are no emissaries.”

  “Let us move forward and forget this, William,” Amelia said sweetly. “We will not harm you unless you force us to. You are our brother.”