The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “Quiet!” Ollie shouted, silencing the few remaining conversations as he veered to the back of the line.

  He and a few other guards moved in her direction. Kirby stiffened, following the posture of a few other slaves, who lowered their heads, or looked away. Ollie’s voice boomed louder as his boots beat the earth, getting closer. She watched him in her peripheral vision as he got within a few rows of her. When he reached her aisle, Kirby stared straight ahead, keeping her fists clenched, and prepared for what might be the last moments of her life. She felt his eyes boring into the side of her head as he walked close enough that she could smell the cooked meat on his breath.

  He kept walking.

  Kirby exhaled. Reaching the head of the line a few moments later, Ollie stopped and faced the waiting slaves.

  “Time to move,” he said.

  The guards opened the front gate.

  Without another order, the workers shuffled ahead, grabbing their wagons. Kirby couldn’t believe her luck. She moved with the line, anticipating a duty she never thought she’d appreciate. The gate swung open, and some of the first slaves disappeared into the cornfields. She kept walking, passing a few other guards. Ollie stood near the front gate, watching the slaves with a bored expression, picking at some gristle between his teeth.

  She was starting to think Esmeralda had made a mistake when Ollie furrowed his brow, turned, and fixed his gaze on her. Raising a fat finger, he jabbed it at her.

  “Not you. You’re coming with me.”

  Chapter 17: Bray

  Hot sun bore down through a break in the scattered clouds, as Bray pulled his wagon through the gate and into the fields.

  The Shadow People were alive in his thoughts.

  He felt their presence, deep inside the walls of New City, in the torturous grunts of the workers as they pulled their wagons, or in the half-empty stomachs of the people all around him. They wanted escape as badly as he and Kirby did. They were bearings in a machine, waiting for a flaw. He could hear it in their wavering, angry voices as they described The Gifted’s gruesome experiments, or the atrocities they had suffered. They were as beaten and abused as anyone. They had every reason to fight.

  But they had every reason to fear, too.

  He thought of the words The Shadow People had told him, about those who had tried escaping.

  That tale was a gruesome example of failure.

  Listening to the people grunting in line around him as they started passing the gates, he wondered which ones might be Shadow People. Did the people toiling next to him in the fields, or sleeping in the houses next door, harbor the same secrets? People all around him might be preparing to fight with shanks and tools for their freedom.

  Two hundred people were much more than he’d hoped.

  Still, he had concerns.

  He couldn’t conceive of a situation where they fought the guards, the demons, and The Gifted, and won, or convinced hundreds of frightened slaves to join them. Neither could he envision freeing William.

  Their predicament seemed unsolvable.

  Frustrations.

  Bray considered the things they’d discussed the night before. One of the problems The Shadow People raised was lack of fresh information about the surrounding area. There had to be demons in other places they couldn’t see—perhaps hordes that did not belong to The Gifted.

  Bray wished he had more recent information about what lay in the other directions. He knew how important that knowledge could be.

  He thought about his previous battles. More times than he wanted to remember, demons had cornered him in some unforgiving terrain in the wild, and he’d been forced to abandon a battle.

  But he never bedded down without knowing his surroundings. Every time he could, he thought ahead. Bray knew how quickly a plan could become a frantic melee.

  An alternate route to freedom had kept him alive many times.

  He needed to find out what was beyond the city walls.

  Staring at the gate as he passed it, Bray left the courtyard.

  Knowledge…

  Maybe that was a first step.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he kept going, attempting to find Kirby, as he did too often in this vile place. And paused. All he saw were skinny workers and chatting guards. She wasn’t in the same place in line. Far in the distance, past the gate and into the courtyard, two figures walked away.

  Ollie and Kirby.

  The line kept moving, pushing Bray along, even though Kirby wasn’t in it. Bray panicked, ready to run through the gate to get her, but guards were already closing it.

  Dammit!

  Chapter 18: Kirby

  Kirby’s fear heightened as Ollie led her farther up one of the pathways. A few guards, late to the morning line, wiped the remnants of sleep from their eyes as they walked in the opposite direction toward the courtyard, and the fields.

  “I’ll be back in a while,” Ollie told them.

  The guards traded a look. One of them smirked.

  Ollie looked over at Kirby, ensuring that she stayed close. They passed a few doorways where mothers tended babies, or old people tended to their hearths. Ollie swore as he sidestepped a pile of retch.

  “Filthy heathens,” he cursed, moving to the side of the path to avoid it.

  The smell of a full chamber pot filled the air as they walked by a few more dirty houses, whose inhabitants—like all the slaves—didn’t have private outhouses. A baby screamed from inside a doorway. Seeing Ollie, a mother quickly averted her eyes. No one would help Kirby, even if they wanted to.

  Cutting down an eastern path, Ollie headed to a house with a closed door, digging in his pocket for a key. A foreboding she knew too well swept over her.

  She knew what this was.

  Kirby frantically looked around, finding several paths down which she could run. Should she fight for her last few moments of life, or would that make her fate worse? The creak of a door drew her attention back to Ollie, who motioned for her to step inside.

  “Don’t worry, we’re only talking,” he said, with a lascivious grin she didn’t believe.

  Kirby looked from his sweaty face to the inside of the room. Once she stepped inside, she might never come out.

  Seeing the look on her face, Ollie pulled his knife from his belt and stuck it near her stomach.

  “Get inside.”

  Kirby’s heart hammered as he forced her inside the small house, which contained two beds—one large and one small. His family’s house.

  But his family wasn’t here, now.

  Several piles of folded clothes sat on a few shelves. The smell of meat hung in the air—probably whatever stank on Ollie’s breath. Looking over to the small hearth, she saw a picked-over meal of animal bones and skin. On the other side of the room were a small desk, and a chair. The room was much nicer than any of the hovels she’d seen.

  Leading her further, Ollie closed the door.

  Kirby braced herself for a final battle.

  To her surprise, Ollie left her side, crossed the room, and took the chair behind the small desk. He slid the knife back into his belt. Settling back with a sickening grin, Ollie laced his fingers behind his head, watching her uncomfortable pose by the door.

  “I’ve seen you in the fields,” Ollie said, a salacious smile crossing his face.

  Kirby bristled. Of course he had.

  “You aren’t as stupid as some of the forest-dwellers we get in here. Or at least, Rudyard tells me you aren’t.” Ollie picked his teeth again.

  Kirby didn’t nod or make any response. She wasn’t sure what the right answer was.

  “Did you see the fight yesterday?”

  Kirby nodded. Everyone had.

  “The slave who died was one of our metal workers,” Ollie said, watching her. “He was here for ten years, longer than most of the others.” She recalled the slave named Jonah lying in the dirt in the courtyard, his face smashed in and blood running from his head. “Of course, that didn’t spare him a punis
hment.”

  Kirby’s face betrayed no emotion.

  “He stole from a guard,” Ollie reinforced. “He deserved what he got.”

  Breaking the silence that she’d kept since entering the room, Kirby said, “It is a shame.”

  Ollie watched her a moment, judging her sincerity. Or perhaps he was looking for an excuse to say—or do—whatever he planned. Sliding back his chair, Ollie stood. His breathing grew heavier as he took a step toward her.

  Kirby tensed.

  He had promised only to talk, but of course she knew promises from cruel, ignorant men meant nothing.

  “Most of our slaves would love a chance to get out of the fields,” Ollie said, hiding none of his lustful thoughts as he got close enough that she could see the glint in his eye. “But that slave threw it away. He could have had a good life here. Maybe another ten years.”

  Kirby felt anger as she processed the rationale behind his conversation. It was the same, sick rationale she had heard too many times in her homeland. Out of the corner of her eye, Kirby saw the closed door, wondered how fast she could make it there. Would she reach the handle before his greasy paws were on her?

  “You’re more resilient than some of the others.” Ollie eyed her. “A few of the guards thought you’d be back in the cell by now.” He laughed, but she saw a hint of reservation behind it. He probably thought about the fight she’d put up outside the long building, and the bruises she’d given him.

  Kirby said nothing. A single word might speed up what he had planned.

  She clenched her fists.

  “I told them you knew better than to fight with me again.” Ollie smiled, cocking his thick, ugly skull sideways. “You know better, don’t you?”

  His words felt like slick, sweaty caresses. He leaned close enough that she could smell his dirty skin, and see a few red sores around his mouth.

  “Those who make my time pleasant, live pleasant lives,” he said, through dry, cracked lips.

  Kirby would bite those lips off before they touched her.

  She tried backing up a step, hoping to get enough leverage that she could throw a punch, or a knee, but she was up against the wall. With nowhere else to go, she stared at him.

  Ollie’s hands were at his side, clenching and unclenching, prepared to grab.

  The doorknob made a noise and turned.

  The door?

  Kirby and Ollie’s heads jerked.

  A young, mop-haired boy peered into the room.

  “Daddy?” he asked, stopping when she saw Ollie leaning against Kirby. “What’s going on?”

  “None of your business,” Ollie snapped. “Get out of here.”

  A frizzy-haired woman stepped in behind the child, grabbing his shoulders. “I told you to stay out, Junior,” she whispered. “When the door is closed, we can’t come in. You know that.”

  “But I wanted to show Daddy the water we got,” the child protested.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman told Ollie. “I told him we were going to Annie’s.”

  Some of the lust fled Ollie’s eyes as he appraised the two newcomers, and Kirby’s eyes traced a path over their shoulders to escape.

  “We’re all set for our laundry, Daddy,” the mop-haired kid said, holding a bucket in front of him. “We’re going to do it while you’re at work.”

  Ollie’s face was torn as he looked from the frizzy-haired woman to the kid. “Give me a moment. I’m almost done.” He cranked a thumb toward the door. “Shut the door behind you.”

  The frizzy-haired woman watched Ollie for a moment, before putting her arms around the child and ushering him out of the house. She gave Kirby a hard stare before she left. Ollie returned his attention to Kirby. Frustration crossed his face as he tried to recapture his lustful thoughts, but failed.

  Angered, he took a step back.

  “What do you know about metal work?”

  Kirby was surprised. “Metal work?”

  Ollie seemed annoyed to repeat himself. “Do you know it or not?”

  Kirby nodded. “I have worked with metal where I used to live.” The words weren’t entirely true, but she sensed an opportunity.

  “Rudyard wanted me to fill the position we lost,” Ollie said. “Keep me happy, and you’ll keep your job. Fuck up, and you’re back in the fields.” His eyes roamed from Kirby’s face to her shirt. “Or maybe I’ll find another use for you. I’m not through with you.”

  Chapter 19: William

  Mid-day sunlight broke through the clouds, beaming through the glass windows of The Library Room, reflecting off the strange metal devices situated around the room, and illuminating the bookshelves by the walls.

  William sat at the large, opulent table, filled with appetizing lunch dishes that Tolstoy had ordered. All around, The Gifted sat, murmuring their pleasantries and smiling through their warts. They passed dishes of sliced peaches, meat, strawberries, and apples. A few smiled as their eyes passed over William, sitting in his usual spot in his new attire.

  “The robe fits you well,” Herman said, with a shake of his head.

  William looked down at the robe, which still felt as if it belonged to one of the snobbish scholars in Brighton, rather than draped over a captive boy’s arms. He forced a smile.

  “You look esteemed,” Tolstoy agreed, with a sage nod.

  William returned his eyes to his plate, wishing he could melt into his food.

  “A man who dresses well succeeds,” Barron said with a laugh. “An old adage you might not have heard.”

  William politely nodded.

  Directing his attention to the others, Tolstoy said, “I met with Rudyard earlier this morning. He says we had a problem with the slaves yesterday.”

  “A problem?” Amelia asked, frowning as she chewed.

  William looked toward the empty seat at the end of the table. Of course, Rudyard wasn’t there. He was normally too busy taking care of whatever he did in the city.

  “The guards solved the issue, whatever it was,” Tolstoy said.

  “What happened to the offenders?”

  “One was killed, one was beaten,” Tolstoy said, as if he discussed a bothersome pest. “The guards acted in our interests. The city is running smoothly again.”

  “Good,” Herman said. “We need to keep production up.”

  “Rudyard says we have lost a few to sickness,” Tolstoy said. “With the change of the season, I expect we will lose a few more. Rudyard will have the Semposi bring in more workers.”

  You mean slaves, William thought angrily.

  William’s stomach twisted in knots as he recalled the encounter with the savage, uncaring men in the forests. Thinking of them led him to thoughts of Cullen’s twisted, mangled body, and the story of how Cullen’s brothers had died.

  The Gifted weren’t just the cause of the pain in New City.

  They caused pain in the forest, too.

  They might not drag people from the woods, or beat them, but they were the people that gave the orders to rip them from their homes. They were the demons that sat on well-constructed chairs, ensuring everyone outside the tower lived lives of pain, suffering, and misery.

  A knock at the door interrupted his angry thoughts.

  “Ah, that must be dessert,” Tolstoy said, turning to face the door. “Come in.”

  The door opened, revealing two muscled guards carrying trays of colorful bread, filled with fruit. William recognized two of the men that usually kept watch on the bottom floor, as he had learned. Bringing the desserts to the table, they set them down at various points in front of The Gifted.

  “Are we too early?” one of the guards asked.

  “No, the timing is perfect,” Tolstoy responded.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “That will be all,” Tolstoy said with a dismissive wave.

  The men left.

  Tolstoy ignored their departure as he reached for a dessert and passed a dish along to Herman.

  After chewing a mouthful of b
read, Tolstoy said, “Rudyard mentioned we need to keep an eye on our rations, as the seasons change.”

  Barron tapped his fork on the table, reemphasizing the point. “The slave’s stomachs should be full enough that they can do their work. Not an ounce more. Gluttony leads to laziness. And laziness slows progress.”

  “It is unfortunate that we need to worry about such things,” Tolstoy said. “Perhaps one day, the slaves will understand the importance of our work.”

  William pictured the scrawny, dirt-covered slaves he’d seen picking corn on that first day. Not one had contained an ounce of fat on their sinewy bones. His anger grew as he looked around at the bulbous-headed men and woman, whose full plates and full stomachs gave them the energy to push words past their arrogant lips.

  He wanted to take back his Tech Magic guns, pull the metal buttons, and send them all to whatever came after. The Gifted weren’t human, but they weren’t immortal—not really. They could die. They knew their faults, just like the humans who lived in the woods. They knew better than to wander into danger. That was why they stayed in this opulent tower, giving pompous orders and reading their books.

  They were above danger, because they lived a protected life.

  Or were they?

  William looked down at his ugly robe.

  Maybe through all their intellect, they’d already made a mistake. William pondered that thought.

  Not one of the slaves in those squalid buildings had a chance at reclaiming their freedom. They were trapped in a system that wouldn’t release them. But he wasn’t. The Gifted had let William inside their twisted den—a simple infected boy.

  What if he could find a way to rid New City of their leaders? What if he could erase the power that kept the slaves contained?

  The idea felt far-reaching and impossible. But it was an idea, and the longer he thought about it, the more he realized that an idea born of anger might be a clear-headed solution.

  Maybe there was another way to help his friends.

  Sitting at the table, staring at all the smug, arrogant faces, William couldn’t dismiss a nagging thought.

  The Gifted had to die.