The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Not until she was past the guards did she risk a glance behind her, finding Bray. He was farther back in the line, veering off with his wagon.

  Kirby chose a row, pulling her wagon over the bumpy soil. A few mutants skittered away, weaving through the stalks after a small animal. Quelling the nervousness she always felt around the ugly beasts, she picked a spot free of other workers or mutants.

  Kirby set down her wagon handle, reaching for an ear of corn.

  She pulled it from the stalk and tossed it in her receptacle.

  In the distance, the guards boisterously relived the fight.

  After a while, she noticed a figure in the next row of stalks, watching her. Kirby tensed as the person shifted, trying to get a better view of her. It seemed as if they were getting closer. Every so often, the person adjusted their wagon, coming down the row of corn, until they were level with her on the other side.

  Kirby leaned forward, catching a glimpse of a gaunt, dirty man to whom she hadn’t been close in a while.

  Drew.

  Drew’s face looked even more sunken, after only a few more weeks. His eyes flashed to hers as he gave her a barely perceptible nod.

  “You’re still alive,” he said, as if the words were a miracle to both of them.

  If they were anywhere other than a dirty prison, Kirby might’ve smiled. Instead, she gave a knowing nod.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, lowering his eyes.

  “Thanks,” Kirby said. She wondered how many times they’d traded the same words, and how many times they might trade them later.

  “I would’ve given my condolences sooner, if I thought it was safe to do so,” Drew said regretfully.

  Kirby nodded. “There is no need to apologize.”

  Looking up and down the row, ensuring no one was near, Drew said, “I wanted to make sure nothing has changed from when we spoke last. I wanted to make sure we still share the same goals.”

  She stared at him intently. They’d both suffered equal atrocities in their homeland, and in the arena, when equally cruel masters owned them. Sharing his gaze, she could see the same obstinate spark of fire they’d had when they sailed those ships across the ocean, all those years ago.

  Resolutely, Kirby said, “Nothing has changed.”

  “Good,” Drew said. “We will meet tonight.”

  Chapter 5: William

  William tensed as someone knocked at his door. No matter how much time passed, he couldn’t get past his fear.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Amelia.” Her voice was gentle.

  But then, it always was.

  With nothing else to do, William had played along as she instructed him. He couldn’t read fluently, but each day, he picked up more words, and every so often, he fumbled his way through a simpler sentence. If he wasn’t captive in a cruel place, he might’ve been proud of his knowledge. Now he felt as if he was learning skills that he wouldn’t be able to use, once The Gifted decided it was his turn to die.

  He crossed the room. Every interaction felt like a test.

  Sucking in a nervous breath, William reached the door and waited for her to open it.

  Amelia stood at the threshold.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” William said, hoping he hadn’t spoken too quickly.

  “Tolstoy would like to see you,” she said.

  William smiled to disguise his pounding heart. “What does he want?” he asked.

  “He didn’t tell me,” Amelia said, with the same smile she’d used when she watched Cullen die.

  He joined her on the other side of the doorway, and she shut the door behind them. She started down the stairs.

  Knowing he couldn’t disobey, William followed.

  His dread deepened with each step as he realized they weren’t going up to The Library Room.

  He looked out the windows as they descended, watching the slaves work in the fields. A few demons skittered through the corn stalks.

  Stopping at the twelfth floor, Amelia knocked four times. The raps hung in the air as she waited. William studied Tolstoy’s door, which looked even more solid and imposing than the others. He had never been inside Tolstoy’s room, though he had learned where a few of The Gifted lived.

  Footsteps echoed from inside the room.

  William braced himself for whatever new spectacle of horror he faced. Maybe his friends were on the other side, bound, tortured, or dead. Or maybe he’d made another tragic mistake he didn’t realize.

  The door opened, revealing Tolstoy, alone.

  “William,” Tolstoy said, a smile creasing his wart-covered face.

  Hiding his fearful swallow, William managed, “Hello.”

  He looked past Tolstoy, expecting to see his friends in peril; instead, he was faced with a magnificent room, much more extraordinary than his own. A bed the size and height of two of those in William’s quarters sat against a wall. White, pristine blankets adorned its surface. Farther back, strange pictures and drawings lined the walls, preceding a grand desk, with a shelf full of books affixed to its back. The electric lights were dim, as they always were in the daylight hours.

  “Come in,” Tolstoy invited.

  William looked for a threat he couldn’t see, but he saw nothing other than furniture and adornments.

  He entered the room with Amelia.

  “I won’t keep you long,” Tolstoy said. “I know you are hungry. We will have breakfast after we talk.”

  “It’s okay,” William said. He made a show of looking over at the books. “You have even more books here.”

  “I do,” Tolstoy said, looking pleased that he’d noticed.

  “William has taken books in the evenings, after our daily studying,” Amelia interrupted. “He has made great strides with his letters.”

  “So I hear,” Tolstoy said. “Your hard work is showing rewards, William. Perhaps when you have progressed further, I will let you borrow some of my collection.”

  Tolstoy beckoned for William and Amelia to follow. They walked past the bed on the left and some strange pictures on the walls on the right. Glancing at them, William saw diagrams that reminded him of the blueprints he’d seen all those weeks ago, but these were different. Most showed human bodies, their arms held level at their sides, their legs in strange poses. Others showed infected people like The Gifted, with rounded or ridged warts on their heads, knees, or elbows. He couldn’t decipher their purpose.

  Noticing William’s attention, Tolstoy explained, “Some of the things I have studied. Perhaps later, I will explain.”

  Tolstoy stopped at his desk, which was littered with books and supplies, and reached for a drawer. For a moment, William was certain he would reveal some cruel, Tech Magic device to incinerate him. But it wasn’t Tech Magic.

  Pulling out a piece of dark fabric, Tolstoy said, “This is for you, William.”

  “For…me?” William asked, confused.

  Taking the cloth, William discovered a long, flowing robe. William stared up and down the clothing’s smooth contour, as if the garment might sprout teeth and bite him. But the robe was soft and clean, absent of the holes or dirt stains that marred the clothing he’d worn for too long. It was about his size.

  It looked just like Tolstoy’s, like Amelia’s.

  Like The Gifteds’.

  “I don’t know what to say,” William mumbled as he turned the object over in his hands.

  “A thank you is all that is required,” Amelia said with a smile.

  “Thank you,” William parroted.

  “Why don’t you try it on?” Tolstoy suggested. “It might be a little tight over your clothing, but we can get an idea of how it fits. Barron can size it, if you need.”

  “Okay.” William nodded.

  Tolstoy and Amelia waited expectantly as he held it in his shaky hands.

  Swallowing, William unfolded the robe, shoved his arms through the holes, and slipped it over his head.

  Chapter 6:
Bray

  Bray sat on his bedroll, looking out through the doorway and into the courtyard, which was mostly empty. From the houses around him, he heard the clink of dishes and the hushed whispers of children. Far in the distance, the wails of the dead slave’s family bled through the streets. Wiping the remnants of some leftover soup from his mouth, he looked at Teddy, who sat across from him on his bedroll.

  “The man’s relatives will cry for a while, but eventually, the guards will silence them, too,” Teddy said.

  “Unfortunately true,” Bray said, grunting, “They won’t even be given enough time to grieve.”

  “The guards always find new ways to abuse their powers.” Teddy sighed. “Perhaps it is a product of too much free time.”

  Bray nodded. He had seen too many similar men, abusing their powers in the towns and villages from where he came.

  “In some ways, it is easier to have no family to worry about,” Teddy said, looking down at his boots. “I miss mine, though.”

  “Your mother,” Bray said, recalling one of Teddy’s earlier stories. “She was your only relative. You said she died of sickness.”

  Teddy shifted on his bedroll, clearly reliving some distant pain. “I had a family, too. I didn’t tell you about them.”

  “A family?”

  Teddy sighed. “I had a wife and a child, when I was younger in New City. I didn’t speak of them, because it is too painful. I met my wife here, and my child was born within the walls.”

  Sensing the man’s somber mood, Bray didn’t push him.

  After a long moment, Teddy continued. “I wish I could’ve saved them, but of course I couldn’t.” Teddy wrung his hands, recalling a painful memory. Sorrow filling his eyes, he said, “My wife and I both worked in the fields then, as you do now. Most of the time, we worked separately.”

  “You were Field Hands?” Bray asked, recalling that the man worked in the sewing rooms now.

  “Yes. For many years. More than I can count. One hot summer day, I heard screams. I couldn’t see what was happening, but when I saw a guard coming for me, I had a guess. I knew Rosalyn was involved.”

  “What happened?”

  “She collapsed in the heat. I don’t know if the work was too hard, or the sun was too much, but she fell and never got up. I remember the Head Guard’s face as he told me about her death. It was as if a piece of corn had fallen from a wagon. He told me I had to finish my shift before I could see her body. I will never forget his thoughtless expression. I begged, but he wouldn’t relent. And so I abided his rule, picking my corn as the sun rose higher in the sky, thinking about the guard’s uncaring face.”

  “I don’t even remember when, but something snapped. One moment I was doing my duties, the next, I had my hands wrapped around the guard’s throat. I remember his choked screams as he tried breaking free. He beat his fists against my head, trying to get away, but I wouldn’t relent. It was as if the guard had killed Rosalyn by his own hands. Or at least, it felt that way.”

  “Other guards pulled me off him before I killed him. I barely understood what I’d done. All I could think about was Rosalyn. They burned her body the next afternoon, while I was in a cell. I never said goodbye.” Teddy wiped a tear from his eye.

  “I am sorry,” Bray said, but the words felt as hollow and empty as they always did.

  “My daughter Tabatha was only four years old when this happened. I was confined to a cell. During the day, they allowed her to stay with the woman who normally watched her, but at night, they made her stay alone in our house while I was imprisoned. Perhaps that is why they kept me alive, knowing they could inflict more pain on me through my daughter.”

  Bray felt an empathetic outrage.

  “Tabatha slept for almost a week with no parents, in a house by herself, crying herself to sleep.” Teddy coughed through a lump in his throat. “She was hardly old enough to feed herself, and certainly not old enough to be left alone. One night, she wandered off. I think she was searching for me. No one knows for sure, because we never got to ask her. She got too close to the wall. A handful of Plagued Ones on the other side heard a rattle, and they came running. A few got over. They ate her, like they ate your friend.” Teddy’s eyes grew distant, as he stared at the house’s small hearth. “When I was released, I found out she was dead. Perhaps that is why they kept me alive. They knew my memories would haunt me forever.”

  “Too many deaths,” Bray said grimly.

  “If I seem cold, that is the reason. Do not take it as an insult.”

  Bray nodded. In a way, Teddy resembled Bray, during his days as a Warden outside of Brighton, with only his sword, his bag, and his scalps to keep his company.

  But things were different now, with Kirby and William to worry about.

  Reading the expression on his face, Teddy said, “Having those you care about can be a risk, in a place such as this. Seeing your friend killed a few weeks ago reminded me of that. That is why I caution you often about being careful. Living in this city only causes pain.”

  Bray nodded. He thought of Kirby, eating lunch in that distant, dirty house, and to William, stowed away in that shimmering tower. He would do anything to keep both of them safe. “I understand,” he said.

  Chapter 7: William

  William adjusted his robe as he sat at the small desk in the corner of The Library Room. The robe was itchy. In several places, it was too loose, and it scratched his skin. He wanted to pull the garment over his head and fling it off. He wanted to burn it, but he knew better. Instead, he stared at the words in the book in front of him, pretending to silently study. His eyes drifted off the page and to his left, where Herman and some other Gifted sat at their small desks. Herman let out a thin groan and shifted, reaching down to rub his lumpy knee. The Gifted were always readjusting, stretching their stiff limbs where the warts and lumps afflicted them. Their pain was a reminder of the pain that awaited William, if he lived as long as them.

  He suspected their pain was the reason they retired to their quarters every afternoon, where they could spend time studying, or resting. Occasionally, he heard them moving up and down the stairs, heading to different floors. Amelia told him they exercised that way.

  William’s gaze drifted to the windows on the south side of the building.

  Noticing his eyes off the page, Amelia walked over. William turned his attention back to the book he was reading.

  “Is the robe too big for you?” Amelia asked.

  “It is fine,” William answered, adjusting some bunches in the fabric that hung over the sides of the chair.

  “Barron can alter it.”

  Hearing his name, Barron looked across the room at William, smiling. He gave a cordial wave. Each time William looked at Barron, he recalled the man’s wart-covered arm locked on him, forcing him to watch the death of his friend.

  “Perhaps later,” William said, returning the man’s polite wave. “I will let you know.”

  Barron nodded and refocused on his studies.

  “I am going to take a break to stretch my legs,” Amelia said. “Would you like to join me?”

  “Sure.” William set down his book, grateful for the distraction. Around him, a few of The Gifted made noises in their throats as they turned pages, or swiveled in their chairs. One or two chatted quietly. He followed Amelia through the doorway next to the bookcases, to the room where the glass cases were kept.

  “Tolstoy must be proud of you,” Amelia said, as William adjusted his long sleeves. “You are the first outside of our group to receive a robe in a hundred and fifty years.”

  “It is a nice gift,” William said, thinking how much he hated it. Hoping to hide his disgust, he said, “Tolstoy’s room is magnificent. He has a desk larger than any I’ve seen.”

  “He spends much time there, as you’ve noticed,” Amelia explained. “In fact, he rarely leaves.”

  William nodded. He barely saw the man, other than meals, and the occasional visit to The Library Room. “What does he stud
y?”

  “He is trying to decipher the reason for our existence, and the reasons for the spore’s mutation,” Amelia said.

  William recalled something. “Is that why he has those drawings in his room?”

  She nodded. “Tolstoy is always looking for patterns in the physical mutations of the spores. He wants to discover what separates us from The Plagued Ones, or from the humans. He wants to find a pattern, so he can understand why we turned more intelligent. Perhaps one day, we will understand our existence better.”

  “Does he have any guesses as to why we are different?”

  “Most of the tests he’s performed have yielded inconclusive results,” Amelia said, with a shrug.

  “What tests?”

  Amelia glanced at the windows on one side of the room, and back at William. “Remember when I told you about the glass windows?”

  “Yes.” William swallowed as he recalled that conversation. He remembered the fright he’d felt when he heard the humans that died were part of them. Parroting what Amelia would want him to remember, he said, “You told me the windows were special, because the humans’ ashes live on as part of them, after they are cremated in the Glass Houses.”

  “That is true,” Amelia said. “But the humans live on in other ways, as well, through the knowledge they give us. Many years ago, we tried to find more intelligent ones, like us.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “We thought if we could watch some of the infected people turn, we might see patterns in how they developed. So we separated the infected humans, observing them in special conditions where we could record their progress.” Amelia’s tone grew reflective. “Unfortunately, none of the people turned into anything other than The Plagued Ones.”

  William nodded. He knew that was true, most of the time.

  Amelia said, “So we tried other things.”

  “Like what?”

  Amelia chewed her lip. “We tried to recreate the spore’s mutation.”

  The idea didn’t make sense to William. “Recreate it?”

  “Many out in the wild think that the spore is the will of the gods, but we knew better. So, we collected the spore when it went on the wind, and put it into the rooms with some uninfected humans.”