The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “Thank you,” Herman said politely, before passing it on to Leonard.

  “I am looking forward to the change of seasons,” Tolstoy said, to the agreeable nods around him. “The cooler temperatures should yield some nice arugula and celery.”

  “Hopefully, we will avoid the sicknesses of those below,” Amelia said.

  Doling out some berries, Tolstoy said, “Rudyard says we have lost a few of our elderly slaves who sorted crops. He will be talking to the Semposi about getting more workers.”

  “We need to make sure production is steady,” Herman agreed.

  Finished passing out the food, The Gifted prepared to eat.

  Tolstoy looked around at his people, his Gifted. Tapping the table, he startled a few of his companions into setting down their forks. Clearing his throat, ensuring that everyone knew he had something to say, he started, “Too often we take these meals for granted, but perhaps it is time I spoke a few words.”

  “Like the old traditions.” Herman nodded knowingly, adjusting his napkin.

  Tolstoy set down his utensil, gazing from the window to the faces of his people. “Long ago, I stopped believing in any of our old faiths. I believe we have forged our own paths, through our intellect and hard work. But perhaps we should take a moment to appreciate what we have, what we have built.”

  The wart-covered people around him murmured their agreement as they raised their full cups.

  “To New City,” he said, catching Amelia’s gaze.

  Smiling, she clinked his glass and repeated, “To New City.”

  The Gifted tilted back their cups, drank several large gulps, and set them down, starting in on their food.

  A knock came at the door.

  Making no effort to hide his annoyance, Tolstoy said to Herman, “Dessert is early.” To the guards on the other side of the door, he said, “Come in.”

  He started back in on his plate, chewing a bite of meat.

  The knock came again. Louder.

  A few of The Gifted looked over, but most kept eating. With an annoyed sigh, Tolstoy rose and crossed the room. Reaching the door, he put his hand on the knob and turned, prepared to scold the ignorant guards on the other side.

  The door caved inward.

  Tolstoy jolted back.

  Shock overtook him as he saw a sight that didn’t make sense, in his surroundings. Plagued Ones poured from the hallway, pushing him back into the room. They wove around him, heading toward the table, hissing and salivating.

  The Plagued Ones screeched as they stomped into the room, surveying the full plates of steaming, odorous food and the people sitting behind them. A few reached for the plates at the table’s edges, unable to control their hunger. The Gifted pushed back their chairs with panic-stricken faces, attempting to stand.

  “Get out!” Tolstoy screamed, causing a few of The Plagued Ones to look sideways at him.

  “No!” yelled an authoritative voice from the doorway, ripping Tolstoy’s attention back to the threshold. His mouth hung agape as he saw a familiar, robed figure in the threshold of the room, fifteen feet away. Determination flickered in William’s eyes as he pointed a gun at Tolstoy’s chest.

  “What are you doing?” Tolstoy managed.

  Before Tolstoy could utter another word, loud cracks filled the air. Pain lanced through his chest as a bullet from William’s gun thudded in his stomach. His shoulder ripped backward as another round found its mark. He struggled to find words, emitting only a gurgle.

  “Kill them!” William shouted to The Plagued Ones. “Kill them all!”

  Giving up on the food on the table, The Plagued Ones leapt onto the surprised, terrified Gifted. Plates fell from the table and shattered. Food smashed underneath crazed demons’ feet. William’s commands—and the gunshots—had whipped them into frenzy.

  None of The Plagued Ones listened to the struggling cries of The Gifted, as they fought for their lives.

  Seeing the blood leaking from Tolstoy’s wounds, one of the infected latched on to his shoulder. Sharp teeth sunk into Tolstoy’s skin as he screamed.

  “Kill them! Kill them all!” William kept shouting, his voice growing louder.

  Leonard cried out as a demon clawed his arm and he fell backward.

  Savagely, The Plagued One pulled off a chunk of Tolstoy’s wart-covered skin, leaning in for another bite. Tolstoy flailed and staggered, beating the creature’s dirty hide as it knocked him backward in a blind stumble. More creatures stampeded into the room, edging past William and leaping onto the table to join their brethren, letting out hungry hisses. A few gorged on the plates of food on the table, knocking over glasses, sending more dishes shattering. Others twisted The Gifteds’ arms and sank teeth into their flesh. In his peripheral vision, Tolstoy saw Alfred and Herman ripped from the table, while The Plagued Ones latched onto whatever warm bits of skin their mouths could find. Amelia screamed as two creatures caught hold of her hair, tugging her from her seat and onto the floor, ripping at her clothes and skin. The world became a messy blur of spilled blood and screaming, terrified Gifted as Tolstoy stumbled.

  Two more Plagued Ones leapt onto him. He screamed as The Plagued Ones—his Plagued Ones—bit off more of his flesh.

  Through his haze of pain, he saw William standing in the doorway, calm amidst the chaos.

  Tolstoy’s screams found no words as he took a few more unbalanced steps backward, groped the air, and found enough clarity to know he was headed toward the window.

  Chapter 62: Kirby

  Kirby clutched a bucket as she stood in line for water. The slaves in front of her talked nonchalantly, speaking of the late summer heat, or their children at home. A few impatiently peered around the others, annoyed by the holdup.

  “Come on,” an elderly man behind her grumbled. “I need my water.”

  Kirby barely heard him. Her thoughts were consumed by the plan. Every bite of food she took, every step, was accompanied by thoughts of impending doom, or success. Many more than two hundred lives would be affected by whispered discussions in the dark. What would happen when order turned to madness?

  All she could do was prepare for Drew’s order.

  Shifting in the line, she felt the pressure of the shank against the inside of her boot as she walked a few feet with the moving line. She couldn’t see past a throng of people, waiting their turns. With nothing to pass the time, she turned and faced the houses on the city’s northern side.

  And stopped.

  A loud crash and a scream echoed through the air.

  The people in line spun.

  All eyes in the line turned toward the shimmering building.

  A robed figure fell from the top floor, shrieking and kicking, the person’s long garment billowing around him. Fragments of glass dropped behind. The screaming stopped as the person thudded somewhere below.

  A few in the line dropped their buckets. Others stared wordlessly.

  “What’s going on?” the elderly man behind Kirby shouted.

  “I don’t know!” someone answered.

  The line broke as people scattered, heading toward the source of the commotion. Slaves streamed from their houses with worried or confused faces, talking in excited shouts, trying to decipher what was happening. Frightened mothers pulled their children indoors. A few guards raced past the well, pulling their long knives.

  Kirby raced after them.

  Her heart slammed in her chest as she stared at the building while she ran. Another robed figure crashed through the windows, kicking and flailing, leaving another shattered hole in the top floor of the building. The person’s scream echoed over the roofs of the houses as whomever it was disappeared from view and landed somewhere below. Screams and screeches rang through the air as a few naked, squirming bodies plummeted after.

  Mutants.

  Kirby kept running as more people flowed past her, bumping shoulders and crowding the alleyways. Mothers held babies tightly as they hovered in doorways, screaming questions without answers. No on
e knew what was happening. Weaving through several alleyways, Kirby reached the edge of the courtyard.

  People clustered near the base of the building. Through gaps in the crowd, Kirby saw a string of guards hovering around two robed bodies. A guess became a certainty as she saw a wart-covered arm sticking from a robe. The Gifteds’ bodies were splayed at ugly angles. Their bulbous heads were turned sideways; their mouths open to display lolling tongues.

  Dead.

  More guards joined a growing circle, shouting frantically and looking upward, where more mutants fell.

  “Get back! Get back!” the guards shouted.

  Looking left and right, Kirby saw more people streaming from the houses to the courtyard, keeping their distance as they saw what was happening. Looking through the blur of faces, she found Drew twenty feet away. Drew’s eyes widened as he looked up at the building. A few of the guards shouted back and forth, already taking steps toward the front gate. Others spun in circles, shocked into inaction.

  Drew and Kirby exchanged frantic glances, as an unexpected opportunity arose.

  Whatever was happening might never be repeated.

  It was time.

  Trading a glance with Drew that she hoped wasn’t the last, Kirby reached down, tugged the hidden shank from her boot, and screamed as loudly as she could, “Revolt!”

  Chapter 63: Kirby

  “Revolt!” Kirby screamed, louder.

  Kirby looked behind her, spotting a few faces she recognized from the moonlit meeting the night before. Defiance flickered through their eyes as they realized the same things she and Drew had.

  “Revolt!”

  Twenty feet away, Drew echoed the shout.

  More Shadow People took up the mantra, pulling shanks or sharp weapons from their pants or boots, screaming loudly enough to be heard over the commotion. Some of the frightened, uninvolved slaves raced away, shouting for their relatives. Others simply fled for their lives.

  Kirby lunged toward the first guard she saw, a red-haired man with a long knife in his hand.

  Pouring the hatred of too many beatings into her hand, she plunged her shank into his gut, doubling him over. The guard sputtered and stumbled, clutching his stomach, groping blindly. Kirby struck him in the face, knocking him to the ground. Straddling him, she ripped out her shiv and stuck it in his neck. The guard went still. Retrieving the long knife from his hand, she spun to find another guard coming toward her, a war cry on his lips.

  The guard lunged, missing her. Catching him off balance, she stabbed below the ribs. Blood exploded from his mouth as she pulled the long knife out and stabbed him again.

  “Revolt! Revolt!”

  The cries got louder as more people took action, and more of the guards fell to the revolting slaves, who were spurred to action. The guards were simple men, inured to the power of their privilege. They knew violence.

  But they didn’t know war.

  Many of The Shadow People had lived in the wild. They knew what it took to fight and defend themselves.

  In the distance, she saw Drew fighting off a portly, dark-haired guard, swiftly getting an advantage. A few other slaves fought guards who looked as if they were caught in a situation from which they wanted to retreat.

  A handful of indecisive, weaponless people stood near Kirby, torn between fleeing and fighting.

  Catching their attention, Kirby put her rage into an argument. “Do you want your freedom? Fight now and take it! Get revenge on the guards who have enslaved you! Fight and be free!”

  She pointed at one of the guards she’d killed, whose knife was still stuck in his scabbard. One of the men she addressed hesitantly crept over and touched the handle. A buried hope became a reality as he slid the knife out.

  “Go and fight!” Kirby said, spurring him on.

  The slave raced in another direction, toward a surprised guard. Some of his comrades followed suit, finding other dead guards and claiming their weapons. Others decided to flee.

  All around her, the courtyard was a frenzy of madness—slaves versus guards. Gurgling screams bit the air as people on both sides fell. Some of the guards were caught in a state of shock, realizing a truth they had denied for too long: fear might have permitted them to rule, but they were outnumbered. Other guards regained their wits and used their knives to their advantage.

  Kirby felt another burst of rage as she saw a guard stab a Shadow Person wielding a sharp hand tool, sending the man to the ground, dead. Kirby ran over and slashed the guard’s throat before he could pick a new target.

  Nearby, a group of slaves surrounded a frantic guard, who swung his blade in all directions. The men and women were weaponless, but they were testing their numbers. No sooner had the guard swung than a slave struck him from behind. The guard grunted and doubled over.

  “Get away, you filthy scum!” he spat.

  Pounding fists hit his back as the slaves found a weakness, beating him until he hit the ground. Groping, repressed fingers freed the knife from his hands, ripping it away. The guard flailed and kicked as he tried to get up, but the slaves’ stomping boots kept him down. A slave stood triumphantly above him, to the attention of all, before burying the blade in the back of the guard’s neck. A triumphant roar emanated from the slaves as the guard went still.

  The mob was growing in number.

  A shout ripped Kirby’s attention thirty feet away.

  “Kirby!” Drew yelled.

  Blood streaked his face and his shirt as he came toward her. Lifting the weapon he had claimed from a guard, he pointed past several fighting groups toward the gate. Kirby followed his gaze. Most of the field was engaged in battle, but through the pandemonium, a cluster of guards ran toward the gate.

  “We can’t let them get out!” Drew yelled. “Who knows who is alive in the tower?”

  Alarm coursed through Kirby. Drew was right. They couldn’t let the guards escape. They might have the upper hand now, but that would quickly change if the mutants got in.

  “Come on!” she shouted, running behind Drew and heading for the guards.

  They skirted around several grunting people engaged in hand-to-hand combat, desperately trying to get the upper hand. In the distance, a few more groups of slaves headed up the pathways, chasing more guards who fled for safety. She scanned quickly for Bray, but couldn’t find him.

  Finishing their skirmishes, a few Shadow People watched Kirby and Drew.

  “Come with us! We have to protect the gate!” Kirby shouted at them, pointing to the northwest side of the courtyard.

  A few hesitated only long enough to glimpse the scenario in the distance. The guards were almost at the entrance. And if they made it, who knew what might happen?

  Chapter 64: Bray

  Unholy shrieks echoed over the din. Bray looked around the narrow, dirty alley, watching clusters of men and women battling the guards for their freedom. He didn’t know where Kirby had gone.

  He didn’t have time to find her.

  The revolt was on.

  Clutching the bloody knife that he had ferreted away from the first guard he killed, he charged another enemy, plunging the weapon into the man’s gut. The guard reacted in surprise, staggering backward and clawing at the embedded blade. Bray kicked the man in the legs, sending him tumbling and retrieving his weapon.

  A shout echoed further up the alley.

  A young male slave fought a Head Guard. The young slave lunged fruitlessly with his small weapon, avoiding a parry from the guard’s sharp blade. Bray ran to help.

  He managed to get a few steps from the scene when the guard stabbed the slave in the gut. Blood soaked the young slave’s belly as he dropped his shiv and stepped back, clutching the open wound.

  Bray’s rage turned into a battle cry as he plowed into the guard, toppling him sideways. Screaming with the anger of all his scars and bruises, and too many days toiling in the fields, Bray reared back and plunged his knife into the side of the man’s head, pulling it out. He returned to the young slave
, who had shrunk down against the wall of the house, obviously in pain, but trying to keep a strong composure.

  “He stabbed me,” the slave whispered, as if Bray might reverse the awful action.

  “Hold on to your stomach,” Bray instructed, grabbing the young man’s bloodied hands and placing them more firmly on the wound.

  The man nodded, as if the simple act might cure him. The injury was clearly fatal. Of course, no healers could help.

  “Bray!” a voice shouted.

  Bray looked from the wounded slave to an intersecting pathway, watching a familiar man run in his direction. Teddy’s face was smeared with blood as he said, “Some of the guards are going to their houses! They are locking themselves inside!”

  Bray nodded as he looked from Teddy’s hardened, determined face to the fallen slave. The young man’s head had already rolled to the side; his eyes looked skyward. New fury drove Bray to his feet as he followed Teddy’s bloody finger.

  “This way!” Teddy instructed.

  Bray ran next to him, heading up the path toward the frenzied mob.

  Two frightened guards veered toward a home with a door, managing to get inside and slam it shut. The slaves pounded with furious fists, bashing the door, or clanging their weapons against it. After a while of pounding, they managed to crash the door inward, rushing inside and finishing off the cowardly guards.

  A loud shout drew Bray’s attention to a nearby house, which a guard had managed to reach, but not in time to unlock the closed door. His keys fell from his hands. Three slaves ripped him away. He spun and lashed out, catching one of the slaves in the leg with his blade. The man cried out and fell back, clutching his bloody wound. The others lunged, grabbing the guard’s hands and confiscating the weapon before he could injure anyone else. They pulled him further from the threshold, throwing him to the ground and pummeling him with angry fists.

  “I hear someone inside!” one of the slaves yelled, retrieving the keys.

  He unlocked the door and pushed.

  He met resistance.

  Grunting, he tried harder. Bray and Teddy joined a few other tenacious slaves, fighting until the door gave way. A surprised, scared woman with two children leapt back, holding up a sword that was much too big for her.