The Last Survivors (Book 3): The Last Humanity

by Bobby Adair

  Getting down to his knees, Oliver looked beneath the bed where the box usually sat.

  But the box was gone.

  Oh, no.

  It didn't take a brilliant man to deduce that after Fitz had attempted to steal one of his priceless trinkets, Winthrop had moved the box.

  Oliver jumped to his feet and looked around, knowing that a moment of thought would save him long minutes of searching.

  Oliver was smarter than Winthrop. In all the ways that counted, anyway. Sure, Father Winthrop knew plenty of trivial facts about The Word, about life, and about the history of the people. But that was only because he was an old man who'd been around long enough to see lots of things happen. In time, Oliver would learn all that Father Winthrop knew. In Oliver's mind, that was a given.

  Anything Winthrop could do, Oliver could do more easily.

  The cabinet of old trinkets. That was the obvious place to hide the special box.

  The cabinet stood half again taller than Oliver, fashioned by the hands of the Ancients in those peculiarly straight smooth boards. This particular cabinet was plain, except for the places where time had cracked and discolored the wood. It had two shelves open for viewing and another two on the bottom hidden behind two small doors. Given the old trinkets of inexplicable utility on the shelves, the most logically obvious place for Father Winthrop's box of cross relics was on one of the shelves behind the doors.

  Oliver rushed over to the cabinet and yanked the door handles. The cabinet wobbled on uneven feet. Some of the trinkets swayed. Some fell over. Others jingled.

  Oliver hissed a few swear words as he threw his hand to the edges to hold the old thing steady. He wasn't afraid it would fall, but he did fear that something might tumble off a shelf and break. That'd make enough noise to bring Father Winthrop harrumphing down the hall to protect his useless baubles.

  With the cabinet stabilized, Oliver stepped back to look at the old things on the shelves. With some, he couldn't tell whether they'd fallen over or were standing upright. Most were already broken—at least, that was Oliver's guess. One was obviously some kind of cup, made from some odd, lightweight material, but a good portion of it was gone. That one was easy enough. About others, he could only make a wild guess.

  Oliver straightened the objects on the shelves, hoping he'd arranged them correctly. He took a moment to listen between nervous breaths for the muffled echo of General Blackthorn's voice out in the Sanctuary.

  Satisfied that he was still safe, Oliver gently tugged on both of the cabinet doors. They moved, but didn't open. He immediately realized why. Oliver stood up and slowly shook his head as he appraised the lock. Sure, he'd seen locks on doors before, but just like this cabinet, they were rare. Rarer still were locks that functioned.

  He wondered if maybe the lock was just stuck. After all, it was hundreds of years old. Oliver knelt down and tugged at the doors, peeking at the mechanism holding the doors together to see if he could tell how it worked.

  Unfortunately, it appeared to be actually locked. That meant there was a key, somewhere.

  Would Father Winthrop keep the key on his person?

  No, Oliver didn't think so. To do that would be to risk losing it. Even the key had value just for the fact that it was made of metal, the sort of metal that hadn't rusted away to nothingness after all these years.

  Oliver looked around the room again.

  He hurried over to the bed and looked under the pillows, thinking that he sometimes hid stolen crusts of bread under his own pillow for eating late in the night after Franklin was asleep.

  Sadly, no key lay under either pillow.

  Oliver looked quickly around as his heart started to race. He'd been in the room too long. He'd planned to be in and out in a flash. Now he was lingering and searching.

  He thought about abandoning the plan and coming back later. But when? He was seldom alone. Father Winthrop spent most of his time in his room these days.

  Opportunities like this were few.

  Oliver took a slow breath to calm himself. He looked around.

  The fireplace? Maybe up on the mantle.

  Oliver hurried over. The shelf was above the level of his eyes so he dragged his hand along the top edge, feeling for anything that might be a key.

  He started on the left end and almost made it to the other, losing hope with each passing stone, when his fingers bumped something small and cold that jingled quietly over the stone. Oliver spread his fingers to capture it and pull it down.

  The key.

  Oliver's heart raced with excitement instead of panic. He hurried back across the room to the cabinet, kneeling down by the lock.

  He slipped the key in, not sure how exactly it operated. He jiggled. Nothing. He pushed, he pulled. Nothing seemed to work. He tried to turn it left, and then right.

  The ancient pieces of metal slid across each other, conveying the feel of corroded surfaces rubbing out of the lock and up the length of the small key. The lock clicked.

  Oliver swung the doors open. There, sitting by other old pieces of refuse, was the box. Oliver stifled a giggle as he reached in, lifted the lid, and peered inside.

  The sparkly little cross relics were more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen, prettier than any description Franklin had provided.

  Suddenly aware that he'd stopped breathing, Oliver gulped a big breath.

  Oliver reached into the box, wanting to fondle each piece, but knowing time was short. He didn't need to pick a favorite. To him, these were things to be traded for freedom. Any would do. Three would be perfect, or so he guessed as he looked at them. That number wouldn't be missed. One would get him enough coin for things he might need for traveling and surviving, including a weapon. One for bribing any guards he encountered that might stop him. One for bribing his way into his new home, wherever that turned out to be.

  He grabbed some crosses, jiggled the others around in the box to make them appear to be evenly spread, closed the lid, and shut the cabinet doors. He jammed the key into the lock, trying to reverse what he'd done to get the thing unlocked, but it seemed to fight him in the attempt. Losing his patience, he yanked and turned, and suddenly the lock seemed to catch.

  He jumped back to his feet, hustled across the room, put the key back where he'd found it, and heard Winthrop's heavy wheeze out in the hall. Oliver's brain went white with panic.

  The handle on the door to Winthrop's chamber creaked.

  Chapter 27: Bray

  The bitter air seemed several degrees warmer as Bray journeyed away from the campsite. Or maybe it was just the freedom of being away from the others. Bray adjusted his pack on his shoulders and increased his pace. The feeling of being unburdened—of not having to slow down—was a feeling he could get reacquainted with. He contended with rocks, roots, and stones with ease. He wove around trees and through snow while keeping alert for danger.

  The time passed quickly. He barely had time to think about the woman he was going to see before he was within sight of the township.

  It had been almost a month since he'd visited Samantha. The image of her red hair and fervent green eyes had kept him company through several cold, rainy nights in the wild. Along with her husband, Conrad, Samantha ran one of the more widely-known pubs in Coventry. But Bray hadn't found that out right away. She'd only recently gotten married, and he'd never laid eyes on her before meeting her in the bar.

  After a particularly gruesome encounter with a pack of demons a year ago, Bray had stopped at the pub, intending on having a celebratory drink. While ordering a flagon of snowberry, he'd found himself increasingly enamored by the woman serving him. Her smooth, pale skin and auburn hair had distracted him from his aches and pains.

  He'd ended up in the back room with her. It was only later that he'd found out her name was Samantha, and that her husband was one of the wealthiest merchants in town. She'd sworn him to silence, fearing she'd be killed or put to the pyre. Bray had kept his word, on the condition she lay with him whenever he
came through.

  She reluctantly—or happily, as he boasted to himself later—agreed.

  He smiled as he charged through the forest, allowing the memory to inspire him. The forest flattened and thinned. The frequent paths of travelers had worn the ground to dirt. He joined a well-trodden path, grateful that he didn't have to think for once.

  The outskirts of town looked the same as always. Crumbling, half-demolished buildings lined the township's edges, creating natural reinforcement for the circle wall. Because it was a secondary township, Coventry wasn't as well-maintained as Brighton. The town leaders often hired workers off the street to reinforce the wall, street dwellers that might otherwise turn to thievery.

  And there were plenty of those.

  Due to its distance from Brighton, Coventry was less strict than the mother township, and had become a den for those who might otherwise be in the wild, bandits who followed the rules just enough to avoid punishment.

  Fear of The Word and The Cleansing held it together.

  Outside the town's front gate, several soldiers stood guard, watching Bray approach. One soldier shielded his eyes from the sun. The other tilted his head back, sipping from a flask. Bray eyed them with disdain. When he was younger, he'd given a passing thought to joining them, enjoying the benefits of a stable home and a family. But his disdain for boredom swayed him. Although they were well provided for by General Blackthorn, he couldn't imagine a stationary life, passing time between demon attacks.

  The soldiers might as well be chained to the gate.

  To the right of the soldiers, several street dwellers lugged rocks from a nearby pile, filling in crevices in the wall. Their faces were sunburnt from constant exposure, their clothes ripped and hanging off them. They watched Bray with interest, hoping he might provide a cure for their boredom.

  Bray walked with his hands at his sides, his sword scabbarded. The soldier with the flask greeted him by spitting a wad of phlegm. The snot landed near Bray's boots. He bristled.

  "Back already, Warden?"

  Biting his tongue, Bray said, "Yep. Here to trade in my take."

  "You hear that?" the soldier said to the other, grinning. "He's here on business."

  The second soldier laughed. "I doubt that. I think he's here for the woodland squirrel. It must get lonely out in the forest, with no one but your hands to keep you company."

  "Better than standing out in the sun, touching each other." Bray grinned back.

  The soldiers stopped snickering and glared at him. Bray flexed his fingers, prepared to unsheath his blade. At the same time, he knew better than to start a battle outside the town gates. After a tense moment, the soldier with the flask took a long drink, then walked lazily to the gate. Bray stared at the second soldier until the man looked away, then followed the other.

  When the soldier had opened the gate, Bray strolled past him.

  "At least you got your day's exercise," he muttered to the scowling soldier.

  The soldier stared at him with angry eyes. Bray kept walking.

  The street dwellers watched in amusement, holding their stones, and then looked away nervously, propping them in place. Bray kept an eye on the soldiers until he was safely through the gates, walking into the dusty, rubble-strewn road that ran into town.

  "Have a great day, gentleman," he called over his shoulder. "Don't strain yourselves keeping watch."

  He ignored the string of curses that followed his remark.

  Chapter 28: Oliver

  Handling three priceless relics that would surely put him on the pyre, Oliver panicked as he thought of what he could do. He went with his first thought—there was time for nothing else—and all but flew across the room to the brimming chamber pot. As the door swung open on its old hinges, Oliver dropped the relics into the urine and runny feces. He grabbed the pot and lifted it all in one motion.

  As he turned, he took no care to keep it steady. With the relics lying at the bottom of the pot and a hope floating up out of the stink, a new inspiration sparkled in Oliver's imagination. One foul act might save him. He purposely swung the pot around too quickly, sloshing it out onto his hand and clothes, doing his best to exaggerate his surprise as he looked at Winthrop towering in the door.

  Winthrop saw his waste slosh out onto Oliver, and he grimaced.

  "Emptying your chamber pot," Oliver said, in too much of a rush.

  "Why?" Winthrop barked.

  "I'm trying to learn, Father. It is part of my usual punishment. You didn't tell me to do it this time, but I anticipated that you would."

  Winthrop nodded, his face painted in a thick layer of skepticism. "Perhaps you are not lost."

  A creaking sound off to Oliver's left turned Father Winthrop's head in that direction.

  Oliver ignored the sound as his panic started to rise all over again.

  Please don't let it be the cabinet door.

  Winthrop's face turned to storm clouds. He snorted in rage and ground his teeth.

  Still afraid to look, Oliver knew.

  It was that damn cabinet door.

  Oliver fixed his eyes on Winthrop's bedchamber door, still open.

  Think!

  Throw the chamber pot on Winthrop and run for your life.

  That's the only choice.

  Winthrop's giant hand locked on Oliver's arm. "You little thief."

  Oliver nearly wet himself with fright.

  He looked up, putting his best innocent expression on his face. The pain on his back, butt, and legs was still fresh, still stinging. Tears slid down his cheeks. Stuttering between stifled sobs, Oliver said, "I only have the chamber pot."

  "You insolent runt." Winthrop all but flung Oliver farther into the room.

  Doing his best to keep the pot in his hands, Oliver fell against the wall. The pot sloshed down his front.

  Seemingly oblivious to the stench, Winthrop leaned over, put his big nose just inches from Oliver's and said, "You'll suffer. The fire will be made of smoldering green wood. It'll take you hours to Cleanse. You'll cry and you'll wail."

  Oliver shook his head as he tried to mouth some words in his defense.

  Winthrop stabbed a finger into Oliver's chest and commanded, "Stay."

  Oliver did.

  He was too frightened to do anything else at the moment.

  Winthrop turned, walked back to the bedchamber door, and slammed it shut. He turned and glared at Oliver for a moment while he thought. He walked over to the fireplace, reached up to the spot where the key lay, and picked it up. He looked at it, perplexed.

  Staring at Oliver again, his rage started to build to a new level. His snorting grew loud. "I've dealt with thievery once already. You and that Fitzgerald are the same, too young and stupid, with soft hearts that you'll lose soon enough." Winthrop pointed to a spot in the center of the floor. "Go there."

  Shaking with fright, Oliver walked to the spot indicated.

  Pointing to a spot beside Oliver, Winthrop said, "Put that there."

  Oliver put the chamber pot on the floor, careful that his shaking hands didn't spill any more of it.

  "Off with your clothes boy."

  "Um…"

  "Off!" Winthrop yelled.

  Oliver pulled off his sweater. He tossed it on the floor. Next he took off his shirt, peeling away the scabs that had stuck to it while he wore it. He flinched at the pain.

  "The pants," Winthrop told him.

  Oliver slipped the baggy pants over his boots and put them in the pile of his other garments.

  Winthrop, glaring at Oliver, scooped up the pieces of clothing one at a time. Not seeming to care about the damp filth soaking into them, Winthrop ran his fingers over every single stitch, tossing each aside as he satisfied himself that the garment held nothing but the cloth from which it was made.

  "Thieves think they can fool me." Winthrop laughed with no mirth. "Off with your boots."

  Oliver sat on the rough floor and removed his boots and thick, holey socks, setting each on the floor at Wi
nthrop's feet.

  Winthrop scrutinized each piece, picking the stiff parts of the boots with his yellowing fingernails.

  When he'd gone through all of the clothing, Winthrop was frustrated. He was angry. His nostrils were flaring again, and he stared at Oliver. "Stay," he ordered, and then walked over to examine the cabinet with the doors swung open.

  Winthrop examined the pieces on the upper shelves. He knelt down and looked at the things stored underneath. Finally, he lifted the ornate wooden box and carried it over to his chair in front of the fire. He sat down and flipped the lid open. He started going through the items, clinking the metal together as he lifted and scrutinized each one before placing it back inside the box.

  Three different times, he started to count the relics, "One. Two. Three. Four. Six."

  Oliver knew he was going to die. He needed to accept that. It would be the end to the pain, cold, hunger, and humiliation. He just hoped the pyre didn't burn too slowly.

  Father Winthrop stopped counting. His face showed his frustration as he looked down at his priceless trinkets. He looked at Oliver, seemingly ready to jump out of the chair and punch. But he didn't. He started counting again, stopping once more at six.

  Winthrop sighed angrily.

  Recalling Franklin's story about Fitz's theft, Oliver knew the number of crosses that should be in the box. He thought of a miraculous way out of his predicament. Meekly, he said, "I can count them for you. Franklin taught me how."

  "Franklin taught you," Winthrop laughed, shaking his head. "I should call Franklin in here. I know he can count his numbers. I have no patience to watch you lie."

  Nodding his head and smiling under his damp cheeks, Oliver said, "I truly can, Father. I can count."

  Thinking for a moment, Winthrop said, "We'll see about that. What is the highest number?"