The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “I’m here,” he said, his voice cracking with emotional and physical pain.

  Kirby shifted, sounding as if she was trying to get closer to the wall, to him. Bray put his hand on the wall, as if he might feel her fingers on the other side.

  “There is a small hole in the wall, about halfway up, in the middle,” he told her.

  He looked over from the dirty wall to the door, both invisible in the growing blackness, certain that someone would break in and halt a conversation before it started. All he heard were the chirps of night animals. If guards were outside, they were quiet. He felt as if more time had slipped by than he realized.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, wishing he could see through to the other side of the wall, to her.

  “I will live,” Kirby said, a hint of regret in her voice.

  “I heard nothing for so long, I thought you died.” Bray almost couldn’t speak the words.

  “My face feels as if it has been pushed through stone.” Kirby cleared her throat. “My body is bruised. But I will survive.”

  “Is anything broken?”

  “A rib, I think,” she said.

  Bray’s hand shook with anger as he held the wall. He wished the men responsible were in front of him, so he could grind their eyes into their sockets. He wanted to smash their skulls against the wall. His frustration toward Ollie, Avery, and the others was heightened by his separation from Kirby. He wanted to hold her, to make sure she was all right.

  “A few times, I heard you calling my name,” Kirby remembered. “I tried to respond, but I didn’t have the strength.”

  “You do not have to apologize.”

  “I heard them beating you for calling me. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’m fine,” Bray said resolutely. His face was as swollen as a demon’s misshapen skull, but Kirby didn’t need any more worries. “Have you heard anything from Cullen?”

  “I heard him moving around earlier, through the wall on my opposite side. I think he is still alive,” she said. “Though I have not heard him in a while. I can try and talk with him.”

  “Don’t,” Bray warned. “We do not need to make a louder noise that will get us beaten.”

  “I do not care,” Kirby said. “Let them beat me. I will not be what they want me to be.”

  Bray swallowed as he heard the resolve in her voice. It was the same resolve that had brought her close to death, and would certainly finish the job, if he didn’t stop her. “Listen,” he told her, putting persuasion in his voice. “You need to stop fighting.”

  “I am not giving up,” Kirby said with anger.

  “I am not saying to give up,” Bray said. “But you do not need to die, either.”

  Kirby fell silent. For a moment, he feared she’d fallen unconscious again, or worse. “I was a slave for three years, Bray,” she said finally, her voice trembling with past and present pain. “I know what that life is like, and how hard it is to escape. I do not think I can take another moment of it.”

  “We can play along until we can find a way out.”

  “I am not foolish enough to think I will escape that life twice,” Kirby lamented. She made a noise that Bray might’ve thought was a sob, if he hadn’t known how tough she was. “People who own others lose their morality. They might say they don’t, but they do. Eventually, they think they can do what they want to those underneath them. These people are already past that stage.”

  Kirby’s voice was laced with an anger Bray knew he’d never understand. She had spoken of some of the attacks she’d survived in her homeland, when she was a slave, and when she battled, killing other infected in the arena. She had been beaten, and much worse. He suspected she would never tell him some of the stories. He was a man, blessed with advantages even he realized.

  “To these Gifted, we are a lower class. They might act differently, with their words of enlightenment and their inventions, but they are as cruel as the masters in my homeland. I saw it in their faces, when they took us away. I saw it in Rudyard. And I saw it in the uninfected humans they have somehow convinced to do their bidding—in Ollie, and Avery, and the others they call Head Guards. This beating will not be the last, no matter how much you swear it will. We will likely receive treatment we cannot fathom. We will wish we were dead.”

  Bray opened and closed his mouth as he realized she was right.

  “I will not live another day as another’s subject. I swore that when I left my homeland in those ships, and I swear to it now.”

  Bray knew she was speaking the truth, but that didn’t mean he was ready to accept it. “What about William? We cannot leave him in the hands of these men.”

  Kirby fell silent as she thought about that. “I fear for him. But he is smart. They think of him as a brother. If he makes the right choices, he will survive. He is tough, as we have seen all these months.”

  “He is smart,” Bray agreed. “But that is not enough. We need to get free to make sure he lives. I won’t accept that this is the last of my days. I made a vow to him.”

  “I respect your vow,” Kirby said. “It is the reason I followed you.”

  Bray felt a surge of warmth for her stronger than he’d felt before, stronger than he’d felt for almost anyone. “Then listen to what I am saying. William needs us.”

  “I would give my life for William’s. But the only way out I see is through a mutant’s belly.”

  “That might be true, but we can only lose our lives once,” Bray said. “Let it be in a more noble way. Let it be helping William, not paying back some of the louts who attacked us. Give it—give me—some time. Let us see what happens. Perhaps we will get out of this yet.”

  Another moment of silence bled through the wall. Kirby adjusted, sounding as if she was containing an emotion. Bray wished he were in the same room, so that he could hold her, the way he did that first time, when it surprised both of them. He still recalled their first moments in the wild when the fire burned late at night. He wasn’t surprised when he heard Kirby clear her throat, speaking in the strong, resilient voice he knew she still had.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Chapter 32: William

  William woke with a start, wiping away the sweat of a plaguing nightmare. He brushed his fingers against the lumps on his head. Those calcified warts reminded him that he was in a waking nightmare, not an unconscious one. Looking around the empty room, he saw the empty beds where his friends had slept. The lingering scent of the wild reminded him that he was still here while they were not. He pulled a deep breath, trying to calm his speeding pulse as he pushed away his night terror.

  Swinging his legs off the bed, he looked over at the closed door. The Gifted had locked it, as they had for the past few nights he’d stayed here. They’d told him it was a precaution. One day, they told him, they’d unlock it, but for now, he was a prisoner in a beautiful, glass tower, filled with devices and books, and people who swore they meant no harm, even though they had enslaved his friends.

  During the first few days, he’d resisted their offers to eat, only drinking when he had to, but eventually, he had succumbed to the hollow ache in his stomach and forced down a meal. He’d kept quiet, though. During the days, they’d tried talking with him more, and he’d looked at some of their books, and he’d nodded at some of the pictures inside them. He couldn’t deny they were fascinating. Amelia had asked him questions, which he mostly ignored.

  The only words he spoke were to ask about his friends.

  Each time he asked, The Gifted assured him they were all right. But each time he looked out the southern windows, hoping to see them, he saw only the long, thick-walled, rectangular building in which he’d finally gotten Amelia to admit they were kept.

  He wanted to believe they were alive. The thought of their deaths gave him a dark pit in his stomach he couldn’t fathom.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to think it for too long.

  His bag sat on the bed next to him. Opening it, he sifted through his
stash of blankets and clothing, as if someone might’ve stolen them. All were there, untouched.

  All except his weapons.

  A warm ray of sunlight bled through the windows, leaving striated bands of light across the floor. Standing on cracked, worn boots, William made his way first to the door, doing his usual check of the lock. The door was secured, as always. He knew guards waited downstairs in the lowest floor. And he knew guards watched out the windows on the floor below The Library Room. He was trapped on either end. And that didn’t count the demons outside.

  He went to the southern windows. Far down, past most of the fifteen or so floors of the tower in the room in which he was kept, he saw the balcony in the back; further, he saw the rectangular building on the western end of the courtyard, and beyond it, the rows of single-story houses starting past the courtyard, where he always looked for Bray, Kirby, or Cullen. People milled between the structures, tending to chores. Most were women, tending babies or small children. The rest, he knew, were out in the fields in front, tending the crops, or working in some of the buildings with large chimneys on the city’s eastern side. He was already learning the routines. He knew the field workers went to work in the morning, and performed other duties in the afternoons. He knew Rudyard fed the demons once a night, in the evening, though he hadn’t seen the spectacle, because The Gifted usually ate at the same time.

  Rudyard seemed to spend more time behind the wall than up in the shimmering tower, engaged in whatever cruel duties kept him occupied, during most of his daylight hours. Tolstoy, too, seemed to disappear often.

  William scrutinized the people below.

  Every so often, a few glanced in the direction of the rectangular building, as if the people inside were some dirty secret. William saw a few men walking among the settlement, checking on things. Those people were somehow important, like the men who had dragged him up the stairs that second day. A few were the men who helped with affairs in the building—Ollie and Avery, who seemed to have duties inside, and duties outside. None of them were Gifted, but they were somehow above the regular slaves. He wasn’t sure why.

  Perhaps he would ask Amelia who they were, when she came to get him.

  He doubted she’d answer.

  That thought made him rethink his silence.

  William was scared, and he was angry. But each defiant stare gave The Gifted more reason to treat his friends poorly, to deny him answers. Perhaps he was playing the wrong angle. Maybe information was better than his silent crusade, which didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere.

  Perhaps he would play their role, to get information.

  Right now, information was the only weapon he had.

  Chapter 33: William

  Tolstoy sat in the chair across from William, watching him with an expression that William might have mistaken for concern, if he didn’t know the ugly truth behind it.

  “Have some water,” Tolstoy said, sliding over a cup.

  Unlike the previous days, in which he’d resisted, William took it and sipped. A thin smile crossed Tolstoy’s face. The lukewarm liquid felt like a betrayal to his friends as it slid down his throat.

  “You are not the first to care about people, William,” Tolstoy said. “I had a family, too.”

  William nodded.

  “Before The Collapse, I had a wife named Anna, and two children named Charlie and Penelope.”

  William let the silence hang for a minute before he finished his sip. He hated his placating tone as he played into the story Tolstoy wanted to tell. “What happened to them?”

  A nostalgic smile turned sad. Tolstoy folded his hands, watching William as if he might know the tale, even though William hadn’t heard it. With a sigh, he started speaking. “My children were only a few years older than you are now before The Collapse. They attended a place where young people learned things from books, in a time when everyone could read, and knowledge was as accessible as the trees. They had a future some might call bright.” Tolstoy ran his fingers over his wart-covered head. “We lived in a city much larger than this one, in a place near the water, in a very tall building where they had a view of the ocean. Every night at dinner, we sat at a dining room table similar to this one, discussing our futures. None of that mattered when the infection came.”

  Tolstoy motioned out the window, and William followed his gaze, as if he might see the man’s family outside in the clouds, or in the tops of the crumbled buildings.

  “The infection spared none of us. Charlie and Penelope turned from intelligent, hopeful people into snarling monsters. My wife, Anna, succumbed to savagery I never would’ve imagined. But I didn’t turn—not like them. I spent a long while in our home with them, hiding them away in bedrooms, feeding them through the doors, while they descended into madness and I didn’t. Eventually, some humans intending to rob us came and broke inside our home. They shot all of us. They shot me, too, but I didn’t die.”

  Tolstoy’s sadness turned to anger. “The bullet wound struck me in the shoulder. It bled a lot, but the bullet passed through. It wasn’t fatal. I pretended I was dead while the men raided the last of our meager stores. I listened as they called my family awful names they had termed the infected. When they left, I crawled to my dead wife and children. Some days back then, I wished I had died with them.” The faraway look remained in Tolstoy’s eyes.

  “Funerals were a fool’s dream, in that time. People were afraid to leave the house, let alone dig graves. The rioting had started by then. People were scared. I couldn’t leave until I healed. And so I waited through my pain with my dead family, watching them stiffen and decompose. I smelled their bodies, in the bedroom that became their grave. I saw the end of life, even though I lived. Eventually, I gathered the strength to leave.”

  “I survived a while, hiding my lumps, but eventually, my appearance evolved and I couldn’t hide it. Strangely, I didn’t lose my mind—in fact, I became smarter, as you know—but that didn’t matter to the uninfected humans. Wherever I went, I was a target, even though I was more intelligent than The Plagued Ones. I was persecuted, chased, and nearly killed. One time, some uninfected humans beat me so badly I thought I might die, for the simple crime of begging for food. I lay in the gutter for almost a day, unable to move from so many broken bones. It was then that the awful sickness that afflicts many of us infected overtook me. I managed to crawl into a building, eating a dead raccoon and some puddled water while people scuttled through alleys all around me, trying to protect themselves or what was left of their families. I, however, was considered the lowest form of life, even lower than the corpse I subsided on. If they found me, they would kill me. I was no longer human. At least, that is how the humans felt. I meant them no harm, but they didn’t understand that, or care.”

  “Somehow, I survived my sickness and came back from the brink of death. I found refuge in the top floor of a building, much like this one. I crawled over the bodies of the dead to get up there. Perhaps that is what kept others away. Once I got up there, I ate from stockpiled rations stored by people who had been killed. Or perhaps they left. I found weapons they stashed. I started going out only at night, collecting as many books as I could find, secluding myself from people, as the world got worse. I had nothing to focus on but learning. My hunger for knowledge was insatiable. Despite how much I learned, my brain yearned for more. I lived there for several years, as the population decreased and my mind evolved. And through that time, I realized something. As I watched others out the window, robbing, abusing, and murdering, I grew smarter. But they never did. I had long ago ceased believing in God or gods, but I realized something.”

  In the time Tolstoy had spoken, The Gifted had formed a circle around the table, watching William. Amelia had taken up a position next to Tolstoy’s chair. They cocked their misshapen heads.

  “I think we are chosen, William.” Tolstoy paused, looking out the window. “Whatever being or science created us, I believe it was on purpose. We are no longer human. We are better than
humans. We are a new species, better than the old, one that exists to take the best parts of our knowledge and create a New City, a new world. For hundreds of years, we have watched humans live and die while we continue to exist. There is a reason we are here, William. And I believe there is a reason you are with us now. Humans exist to serve us while we usher in a new world. In time, I believe you will feel the same way.”

  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.