The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  They kept going.

  They entered the pen.

  The people in the courtyard screamed in fright.

  The last demon entered.

  And then the guards closed the door.

  Chapter 63: William

  William fought against the arms holding him on the balcony. He screamed and flailed, trying to get free. He couldn’t rip his eyes away from the tumbling, shrieking demons trapped in the Feeding Pen with Cullen. Cullen’s panicked shouts tore at William’s soul. But they were about to get worse. A horde large enough to inspire terror in any man streamed toward him, tripping over one another as they lusted for blood.

  The bells stopped ringing.

  Cullen took a staggering step away from the approaching demons.

  William screamed, “Stop! Stop!”

  His voice echoed from the balcony down to where the snarling demons yowled, lost in the commotion.

  The robed, Gifted men around him watched. A few nodded sagely. No one heeded William’s or Cullen’s cries.

  Cullen held up his hands, but his efforts were useless against more than a hundred yowling, clawing demons. They converged, toppling him like a weed. Cullen landed on his back, kicking and flailing. His screams mingled with the shrieks of twisted men as they found warm flesh, tore, and ate.

  Clawed, twisted demon fingers reached for the sky, dripping innards. Hungry demon’s teeth tore pieces of skin; heads wagged from side to side as they chewed Cullen’s sinewy flesh and his last, frightful cry hung in the air. And then he was lost beneath a swarm of monsters several layers deep, tumbling over one another, fighting for his remains.

  William’s scream became a pitiful, hopeless sound.

  He fought against the arms holding him—Tolstoy’s and Barron’s—but he couldn’t get free.

  On the other side of the pen’s door, away from the carnage, guards held Bray, who now struggled weakly as he watched the closed door, where his friend had died. All around the beginning rows of houses, and in the houses past them, people lurked in the doorways, peeking past the thresholds and toward the closed gate. Their pale faces held a fear William didn’t need to imagine, because it ran through him, a waking nightmare he would never forget.

  Tears streamed down William’s face.

  “The Plagued Ones remind me of animal packs from the wild deserts, across the seas,” Barron said calmly, his hand still locked on William’s arm. “You wouldn’t have seen them, William, but they were a spectacle. We used to watch them on devices from the comforts of our homes, thousands of miles away. Those animals often worked together, though. The Plagued Ones fight for food. They are always hungry.”

  Bodies moved in a frenzied blur from Cullen to the corn, as if they hadn’t just turned a man’s flesh into pulp and picked his bones clean. On the other side of the courtyard, past the wall at the front of the building, Rudyard waved his arms like some unceremonious priest, controlling the first batch of demons that had already fed. When the second batch of demons was done, the bells rang, the guards opened the Feeding Pen door, and the demons streamed out, pieces of Cullen caked to their faces and hands. They crossed the courtyard, passed Bray and the guards, and returned through the open front gate.

  “The taste of flesh inspires a savagery that is as fascinating as it is frightening,” Barron said, scratching his wart-covered chin. “But they are good at taking care of our waste. And they are the reason we are safe.”

  “Thankfully, the humans are down there, and we are up here,” Tolstoy said, his look as much a statement as a warning as he looked at William. “We are the gods, and the humans serve us. If you are smart, you will keep it that way, William, and your other two friends will stay alive.”

  CONCLUDED IN THE RUINS BOOK 4

  THE RUINS 4

  A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

  Book 4 of The Ruins Series

  Preface

  Welcome to the last installment of THE RUINS.

  You’ve reached the end—the culmination of over 300,000 words, and four books (and a novella) that are some of the most enjoyable I’ve written. Thank you so much for sticking with the series.

  Watching Bray, Kirby, and William grow and bond has been just as fun as creating new worlds for them to explore.

  Bray has come a long way from the lone, demon-slaying Warden outside of Brighton. Kirby has pulled us neck-deep into her struggle between past and future, and William has grown from a young, scared boy in Brighton into an endearing, capable individual.

  Sometimes the best meetings come from chance. Although these three characters met by “accident” in THE LAST SURVIVORS, I am happy they did, if only so they could bring us along for the ride.

  As I mention in the Afterword, I have several projects I’m excited to write next. Hopefully, you will consider joining me.

  But first: the final book of THE RUINS.

  Trapped in a tower under the oppressive rule of The Gifted, William fears for his friends’ lives. Bray and Kirby cope with the loss of Cullen, amidst the uncaring fists of the guards.

  What is the price of freedom? And will anyone get out of New City alive?

  We will find out.

  -Tyler Piperbrook

  January 2018

  Chapter 1: Bray

  “What’s going on?”

  Commotion ripped Bray’s attention from the door of his small house and into the courtyard of New City.

  A swell of noise greater than he was used to hearing swept through the air as slaves emerged from houses and alleys, moving quickly toward the wide, dirt area with the bonfires, talking in animated tones, speaking more loudly than they would have dared in the fields, the Shucking Rooms, or in the shops on the city’s eastern side. Bray stared out the threshold, peering out into a morning that was already sweltering from the heat. He couldn’t see past the torrent of moving people. Teddy held a look of nervous confusion on his face as he abandoned his breakfast and went to Bray’s side.

  “I would stay here,” Teddy warned, in the same cautious tone he always held when something bad was about to take place. “We’re probably better off not knowing.”

  Bray watched people pour past, creating a wall of bodies in the middle of the courtyard. Most glanced over their shoulders toward one of the paths, chatting nervously. An irrepressible fear took hold of Bray as he looked for Kirby. She had been safe this morning.

  But that didn’t mean she was safe now.

  Weeks after losing Cullen to the mob of bloodthirsty demons, Bray could still hear his friend’s cries. Cullen’s horrified screams had invaded every squalid home, striking fear in the heart of every slave, even those who hadn’t lived close to the Feeding Pen. Cullen’s corpse had barely resembled a human’s when the guards pulled it through the gate. Bits of flesh clung to his tattered, gnawed bones. Cullen’s face was gone.

  The Head Guards had paraded his corpse through the streets in a wagon, making sure every slave in every open doorway saw him as they wheeled him to one of the Glass Houses, where he was hastily cremated. No one was allowed to say goodbye—certainly not Bray or Kirby.

  That corpse was a warning to any who dared defying the Head Guards, or The Gifted.

  Bray stretched his stiff limbs. The wounds he received that day had mostly healed, but each yellow and purple blemish on his skin reminded him of the death he’d escaped.

  Was Kirby next?

  Unable to suppress a growing fear, Bray told Teddy, “I’ll be back.”

  Teddy shouted out another warning, but Bray had already left the threshold, stepping away from the house and joining the growing crowd in the courtyard. Looking right and left, he noticed guards on the edges of the pathways, prodding some of the slower, gawking people. The slaves were anxious, but the guards were strangely eager. Bray followed the moving crowd until he’d reached the back row of what was quickly becoming a circle. Catching the eye of a dirty, skinny man, he asked, “What’s happening?”

  Wiping the remains of some bre
akfast from his face, the man said, “I’m not sure. They told us to gather around the bonfires. That’s all I know.”

  Some cries drew Bray’s attention to one of the alleys.

  His pulse quickened.

  Two Head Guards appeared down the pathway, tugging a shaggy-haired, kicking man. Behind them, more guards manhandled a taller, male slave. Bray tensed as he recognized two of the men from the fields, near whom he’d worked a few times. A few children raced away from the commotion, heeding their parents’ warnings.

  Reaching the edge of the circle, the guards pulled the men through the parting crowd and into the center of the courtyard.

  Bray pushed into a crowd several layers deep. A few slaves grunted angrily. One or two gave him scared looks, afraid to cause a scene. Breaking through the mob, Bray took up between a freckled woman and a gaunt man, neither of who looked at him. Ollie and Avery stood in the middle of the open area in the courtyard, brandishing long knives as the guards dragged the wriggling men near them.

  Seeing the weapon in Ollie’s hands, the men whimpered.

  Some children who had not run clung to their mother’s skirts, or hid behind the men’s legs as they waited for a pronouncement, or a scene they wouldn’t soon forget. Bray’s pulse pounded.

  Ensuring he had the eye of every man, woman, and child around the courtyard, Ollie jabbed a fat, dirty finger at the captive slaves. “Thieves!” he shouted.

  The captive men quivered.

  “These men were caught stealing a loaf of bread from one of our guards, Roberto,” Avery hollered, turning to the circling crowd. “They were brought here for punishment.”

  The shaggy-haired man wailed, “Let us go! Please!”

  The audience shifted uncomfortably.

  No one helped.

  Of course, they couldn’t.

  Cocking his fat head to the side, Ollie said, “We all know thievery isn’t tolerated in New City.”

  The other guards looked on in stern silence.

  “Please!” the shaggy-haired man cried. “We didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Ollie’s face creased in anger.

  “Roberto saw you thieving,” Avery cut in. “Do not lie.”

  Regret crossed the shaggy-haired man’s face as he silenced. Ollie crept closer, holding his knife up to the scared man’s throat.

  With an obstinate bark, Ollie said, “Lie again, and I will cut your throat.”

  The shaggy-haired man’s eyes grew wide.

  Looking from the slaves to the crowd, Ollie projected his voice. “Roberto, why don’t you tell the crowd what you saw, so everyone can learn the same lesson?”

  Speaking loudly enough that even those in the back rows could hear, one of the bearded guards, evidently Roberto, stepped from the edges of the crowd and held up a loaf of bread. “My family was out back, doing laundry. When I returned from my duties, I found the tall slave guarding our doorway, while the other pulled our bread from inside. They waited until our door was unlocked to rob us.”

  The shaggy-haired man shook his head in denial as he saw and heard the damming evidence.

  “I chased them through the alleys and tackled one of them,” Roberto said. “Freddy and Ryan got the other.” He motioned to a few other guards, who nodded sternly.

  “You would risk your lives over some bread?” Avery asked.

  A silence fell over the courtyard as everyone waited for an answer. Feeling the weight of the accusation, the tall man cleared his throat and spoke up. “We were hungry. We only received half our rations last week.” He looked between Ollie, Avery, and the other Head Guards, avoiding Roberto’s eyes. “When we asked Roberto, he said we wouldn’t get any more until next week.”

  “A shortage,” Roberto grunted, with a firm nod.

  A few guards chuckled. None in the crowd laughed. Sensing no good would come from an argument, the tall man quieted.

  Growing impatient, Roberto pointed at the tall slave and his shaggy-haired friend. “They are obviously thieves. Let’s gut them.”

  “We’re not going to gut them,” Ollie told him.

  “Throw them in the Feeding Pen, then,” Roberto argued. “It will save us a few ears of corn.”

  “Ollie and I have another idea,” Avery said, stepping forward and exchanging a knowing glance with Ollie. “We talked about it on the way. Perhaps a different sort of punishment is in order.”

  “What kind of punishment?” Roberto asked, growing impatient.

  Avery said, “If they are as hungry as they say, we will allow them to prove it.”

  Recapturing the attention of the entire crowd, Ollie said, “They can have their bread. But they will have to fight for it.”

  “Fight?” Terror sparked in the shaggy-haired man’s eyes and the tall man’s mouth fell open.

  A smile crossed Roberto’s face as he caught the gist of the idea. “I like that. It might even be worth my loaf of bread.”

  Avery nodded, proud of his idea. Stepping forward, capturing the attention of the entire audience, he announced, “The only way out of this circle is through each other’s blood. The two thieves will fight each other to the death for the food they stole. If either one tries escaping, they’re feed for The Plagued Ones.”

  Stepping next to Avery, Ollie warned, “Anyone who tries helping them will join the loser in death.”

  Gasps filled the crowd. Children buried themselves further in their mother’s skirts.

  Returning his attention to the two men, Avery said, “When we release you, you will fight. Neither of you will leave until one of you dies.”

  Roberto dangled the bread higher, showing the crowd, and then tossed it onto the ground near the captive slaves’ feet. The bread rolled to a stop, covered in dirt. Horror crossed the slave’s faces as they realized the finality of their sentence.

  Forcing defiance through his fear, the tall man stuck out his chin and said, “I will not fight. You will have to feed me to The Plagued Ones first.”

  Avery’s eyes narrowed in anger as he heard a retort he wasn’t used to. “You will fight him, or we will torture you both. He will die first, so you can watch.”

  The tall man opened and closed his mouth, stuck between horrific choices. “I will allow him to win, then.”

  “If I sense either of you are not fighting, Roberto will gut you both,” Avery said, making a show of turning the long knife in his hand. “And then no man will keep his life.”

  “Neither matters much to us,” Ollie grunted. “In fact, we’d enjoy it if you didn’t cooperate.”

  Tears rolled down the shaggy-haired man’s face as he said, “Give us some other punishment. Anything. I will clean the Feeding Pen. I will forfeit my rations.”

  “Your families will already forfeit your rations for a week,” Avery said, to the moans of a few scared, scraggly women who broke through the crowd, wailing their pleas.

  “Let them go!” one of the women cried, reaching for the captive men in the middle.

  “Shut up!” Ollie barked, forcing her to be silent.

  “Please!” the shaggy-haired man cried. “Punish us, but not our families!”

  “If you are strong enough to beg, you are strong enough to fight,” Avery said matter-of-factly.

  Without another word, Ollie and Avery walked to the edge of the circle, as if they were officials in a sack race, or a hay game. They signaled the guards, who let go of the prisoners. Slowly, the guards backed to where the nervous spectators watched.

  Left alone, the two slaves stared at each other a moment. Neither traded angry words. Why would they? They were clearly friends who had conspired in a transgression. The shaggy-haired man smeared tears from his eyes.

  Trembling, he told the tall man, “I will not fight you.”

  “Nor I you.” The tall man looked from his unwilling opponent to the guards who had released him. Of course, their pleas were pointless.

  Bray clenched his fists hopelessly, as if he might help. But everyone in the crowd heard the guard
s’ warnings. They would die if they assisted. The wailing women pleaded to the guards, but the guards threatened them into silence.

  A few of the slaves on the edge of the circle stepped forward, waiting expectantly, shifting from foot to foot.

  The combatants stared at each other, not moving, not fighting.

  “Give us a show, forest-dwellers!” yelled Roberto. “Spill each other’s blood!”

  “Fight!” yelled another guard.

  A few women held their hands over their mouths. Reluctantly, the two slaves raised their fists.

  “Get on with it!” a third guard yelled, losing his patience.

  Ollie and Avery watched the petrified men in amusement.

  Feeling the pressure of a horrific death, the tall man took a step toward his friend. He raised a fist.

  “I’m sorry, Gabe,” he said.

  “I understand, Jonah,” the other said. “We will do what we have to. The gods will know the truth.”

  The slaves on the edges of the circle looked on with growing anticipation.

  One of them, an elderly man with long hair, was unable to control his nerves any longer. He took a risk and yelled to the tall man, “He is much smaller than you! Kill him and be done with it, so he doesn’t suffer!”

  A wrinkled crone, inspired by the first man’s words, yelled, “Do it quickly!”

  “Fight, fight!” the guards shouted, encouraging the crowd to participate.

  The old man and the crone joined the chant. Bray looked around as a few more chimed in. A stringy-haired woman pumped her fist in the air. A middle-aged man cupped his mouth and shouted. Perhaps they yearned for an escape to the monotony of their lives. Or perhaps they wanted an end to the bloody spectacle that would plague their nightmares.

  Among the chanters, Bray saw a few with twisted, bloodthirsty expressions.