The Last Survivors (Book 3): The Last Humanity

by Bobby Adair

  "Soon."

  Chapter 38: Oliver

  Oliver walked along with Franklin, market basket in hand, knives hanging in their sheaths inside his pants. It was an overcast, cold day. At least the wind had died down from freezing gales to chilly breezes. The streets were mostly mud where they hadn't frozen the night before. In a way, the weather was much like the state of the relationship between him and Franklin. Despite their seeming truce, too much animosity lay under the surface, stoked each time Oliver took a step and the rough cloth of his shirt slid across the sores on his back.

  "With Father Winthrop sick in his room, maybe we can—" Franklin started.

  "He's not sick," Oliver interrupted. "He's hiding out from General Blackthorn."

  "Yeah," Franklin accepted. "You're right. I was going to say, maybe you should eat some extra food and fatten up before you go. Father Winthrop won't notice."

  Shaking his head without looking at Franklin, knowing he had enough coin to keep himself well fed for some time, Oliver said, "Soon, Father Winthrop will realize that everyone thinks he's a coward. He'll come out and try to redeem himself. He's too vain to let others see what he really is."

  "Or he may sit in there and starve," said Franklin. "Or die of fright. I've never seen any man in such a state."

  Oliver smiled at the thought of Winthrop starving himself to death as he quaked in his room, looking over his shoulders at the shadows.

  Once on Market Street, they passed several vendors already packing their things, sold out of what little they had. Others with sparsely covered tables had lines of people queued up to take the last of what was left.

  Franklin said, "We'll have to come earlier tomorrow."

  Oliver lost interest in what Franklin had to say. He had other business to tend to. "I have to go somewhere now."

  "To the latrine?" Franklin asked, his tone suggesting loudly that he knew Oliver wasn't going to the latrine.

  "It doesn't matter." Oliver glanced at Franklin, daring him to say something more on the matter. "I can meet you back here or at the temple. You choose."

  "How long will you be?" Franklin asked.

  "Not long."

  "I'll wait in the market," said Franklin.

  Without another word on the matter, Oliver strode off into the crowd. In case Franklin followed him, he decided to take precautions. Scurrying between enough big bodies of adults until they could no longer see one another, he looked over his shoulder. Franklin wasn't behind him. At the first chance, he turned down an alley and hid behind a pushcart left by one of the vegetable vendors. He looked back toward the market and watched.

  When enough time had passed, Oliver hurried down to the end of the alley and made his way over to the house in the row of ruins where he'd first met Evan in secret.

  He tentatively peeked in through the doorless entryway. He was surprised to see Evan standing there, reading something in his hands.

  "Oliver?"

  Oliver half-smiled and waded in through the knee-deep dry grass that covered much of the ruined house's floor. "I'm sorry I'm late."

  "I've waited here several times when it was reported to me that you left the temple," said Evan, "but you never came. And now Father Winthrop seems to have disappeared. What is happening?"

  "There's much to tell," said Oliver, proceeding to fill Evan in on the details about Father Winthrop.

  Chapter 39: Oliver

  Oliver finished his story by dropping his cloak to the ground, pulling his shirt up over his head, and turning around to show Evan his back. He said, "The marks go down to my knees."

  Evan remained quiet. Oliver pulled his shirt back on and turned to look at Evan, picking his cloak up off the ground.

  "I'm sorry," Evan said.

  Oliver looked Evan up and down, trying to find any indication of sincerity or empathy. "Yeah." Oliver looked back at the open doorway. Maybe it was time to go.

  "I see you have knives hidden in your clothes."

  Oliver shrugged.

  "Are those new, or have you always had them?"

  Oliver pursed his lips emphatically. "It's not the knives that concern you. What is your true question?"

  "Has our relationship changed?"

  "I didn't give away any of our secrets, if that's what you're worried about," said Oliver.

  Shaking his head, Evan said, "I wasn't worried."

  "Because you aren't on a pyre already?" Oliver asked, a little more harshly than he intended.

  Evan got a pained look on his face. "I'm not good at expressing empathy. Please understand that I'm truly sorry that you were whipped."

  Oliver looked away. He'd known that Evan was a little bit odd, but he still didn't believe him.

  "Were you beaten because of what you were doing for me?"

  "In a way," said Oliver. "I was beaten for something that happened on the way to the Dunlow's house with a message, but I was asked no questions. Father Winthrop hates me. He thinks everything I say is a lie. So he had me beaten until I cried. I'm still ashamed of it."

  "There's no shame in it," said Evan. "The idea that men should feel no pain is a ridiculous fantasy that perverts men's minds."

  "I came here today to thank you for asking me to join in your subversions. I don't know what your goal is, and I don't care. I learned enough about myself that now I have the confidence to do what I must do. I will no longer be able to assist you."

  "Why?" Evan asked.

  "It doesn't matter."

  "It matters to me," said Evan. "Do you despise me because of what happened?"

  Oliver laughed, but not because he was happy. Regretting that he might sound insulting, he said, "What happened was not your fault. It was Father Winthrop and Franklin who did this. I don't despise you. I thank you for the hope you gave me that one day I might leave the temple and become a scholar. That was worth something to me. Now, I'm choosing never to get beaten again. I'm leaving Brighton, and I'm never coming back."

  Chapter 40: Bray

  Bray wove through the Coventry alleys, letting his familiarity with the town guide him. He took an indirect path to the town center. He kept an eye out for soldiers. Though it was doubtful any of the townsfolk would give him up—they hated the soldiers more than anyone else—he knew it was wise to vacate the scene of a brawl. Using his clothes to sop up the blood of his wounded hand, he nursed his sick, beaten stomach. The blows he'd received had rattled him, more than anything else. He didn't think anything was broken. His ribs were bruised, maybe. That was all. Any wounds he'd received would be ascribed to injuries from battles in the wild.

  A Warden's appearance was rarely subject to scrutiny.

  Thank the gods for that, at least.

  At the same time, he'd have to watch his back while in town. Cutting over to the main street, he stopped at one of the local merchants' and bought an apple. Townspeople were in the streets, going about their business, but the crowds were thin. Most folks had already followed Blackthorn's orders and gone on to Brighton. Still, children's cries rang in the air. Women laughed and gossiped. He took a bite of the savory fruit, letting the juices flow in his mouth. The food was refreshing. Delicious. He admired several young girls, watching their skirts ruffle as they carried their purchases.

  A few streets later he was looking at the smooth, gray walls of The House. Like most of the Houses in the townships, the building was situated at the edge of town, away from the bustle. A girl with long, dark hair hung at the entrance, waving pleasantries to entice the passersby. Bray recognized the girl from a previous visit. He couldn't recall her name.

  "Was the hunt successful?" she asked, smiling.

  "Always." Bray glanced over his shoulder, ensuring he wasn't being followed. When he was satisfied, he accompanied her inside.

  The sleek, clean walls of The House were filled with drawings and decorations. The air smelled of fragrances and flowers. The garments and bedding in The House were washed daily; better than any other place in town that he'd seen. He'd be given a
clean room and plenty of water.

  A welcome reprieve from the dank alley he'd found himself in.

  Besides, it was much better than sitting in the bar, reflecting on the past with a woman who no longer needed his company.

  The girl offered him a bath, which he gratefully accepted, and then dismissed herself to get ready. He stared at her backside as she walked into the other room. A girl laughed. Another giggled. By the sounds of it, he was The House's only occupant. He didn't mind that.

  Not at all.

  As he soaked in the water, he thought of Samantha—the end of their time together, her pregnancy, and her bastard husband, Conrad. Not only had the man put an end to Bray's fun, but he'd also robbed the Wardens of their bounty. Bray tried to conjure a memory of his and Samantha's last time together, the one he'd have to carry with him for the rest of his days. But for some reason, his thoughts drifted to the companions he'd left in the woods.

  To Ella.

  Instead of Samantha's naked body, he pictured Ella's glistening, pale skin. Her look of determination as they'd trekked to Davenport. Her smile as she'd reunited with her children. She was as brave as she was foolhardy.

  He shook the thoughts away as the dark-haired beauty returned. She was wearing a more revealing dress than the one she'd worn outside, and she let it slip from her shoulders while he watched. Her skin was unmarked, young, flawless. She was gorgeous by anyone's standards.

  "You must be tired from the wild," she guessed.

  "No more than usual." He grinned. "Don't worry, I still have plenty of strength left."

  "I sure hope so."

  As she teased the garment to the ground, Bray tried to envision the night he'd have with her, but his thoughts inexplicably returned to the woman he'd left behind in the woods.

  Chapter 41: Oliver

  "Stay," said Evan to Oliver. Oliver looked out through one of the empty windows, noticing it was getting dark. He had to go soon.

  Oliver looked at Evan, trying not to show how sorry he felt for Evan's inability to see the world through anybody's eyes but his own. Oliver said, "I'm as insignificant to your plans as I'm small in stature. I'm nothing. A little throwaway boy who exists for use in others' schemes and whims. Father Winthrop beats me to feed his perverse need. You send me off on dangerous errands that you're afraid to do yourself. If someone gets put on the pyre, it'll be me, not you. I no longer wish to accept the tiny value that Brighton places on my life. My life is important enough to me that I'll go where I need to in order to keep it safe."

  "You'll die outside the circle wall," said Evan. "You're too small to protect yourself, even with those knives."

  "We'll see."

  Evan sighed and looked at the ground. "I did not put you in danger because I—"

  "Don't lie," Oliver commanded, putting on one of the mannerisms he'd picked up from the powerful men he'd watched while in Father Winthrop's company.

  Evan shrank. "I put you in danger to protect myself. And before you call me a liar, believe me when I say that we are both tiny game pieces in a larger plan. In that plan, I am less expendable. Any strategist playing the game would choose my life over yours. For us, though, the game is important."

  "Not to me," Oliver argued.

  Evan walked over to the doorway and peeked out into the street. He came back to stand by Oliver, and in a hushed tone, said, "We—"

  "Who are we?" Oliver demanded.

  "We shall go unnamed for the moment," said Evan. "We are attempting to make a change in Brighton on such a grand scale that life will change for all of us."

  "How?"

  "The government, the council, is corrupt," said Evan. "It must be removed so that educated men can make decisions about what laws are to be made. People should not be slaughtered on the whims of the powerful."

  "You're saying this plot I've been a part of is to oust The General and Father Winthrop?" asked Oliver. "You want Minister Beck and men like yourself to rule the townships?"

  Nodding, Evan said, "Wouldn't you rather have men in charge who know how to think, men who are educated, and not pointlessly cruel?"

  "All men are pointlessly cruel," argued Oliver.

  "Not all men." Evan shook his head, hurt by Oliver's words.

  "Goodbye, Evan." Oliver turned and started toward the door. "I wish you well, but I doubt I'll ever see you again."

  "If you had a younger brother," tried Evan, "would you abandon him to the kind of cruelty that you suffer?"

  Oliver shook his head and laughed at the feeble attempt. "I have no brother."

  "Of course you don't," said Evan. "But imagine for a moment that you did."

  Oliver heaved a sigh and turned back to the persistent Evan. "Okay, I will."

  "If you had a younger brother, would you abandon him to this?"

  "No."

  "What if he was too small to travel with you? Would you stay?"

  "I suppose," Oliver admitted.

  "I'm not going to tell you that we will fail or succeed. I will only say that for each of us who stay and make the hard choice to fight, our chances of success increase. If those chances increase enough, we might succeed. If we succeed, then all the sons and daughters, all the little brothers and sisters, will have better lives. They might not have to suffer the same cruelties that you suffer. By going, you do your small part to condemn them all to your fate."

  Shaking his head emphatically, Oliver said, "When such things happen, it's not my fault. I'm a victim in this."

  "You are a young man who can choose to do something, or you can choose to run and protect yourself. It is a man's choice you make." Evan crossed his arms and set his face in a stern expression. "Choose what you must."

  "I'll think about it." Oliver walked out of the ruined house and headed back to the market to find Franklin.

  Chapter 42: Evan

  The plan to come to the Dunlows' house through the alley had been a good idea before the population of Brighton doubled, leaving people and soldiers overflowing from every structure with a roof. Now it wasn't. Those who could find no solid roof had built themselves lean-tos, especially in the alley that ran behind the Dunlows' house.

  With small fires burning to keep them warm, refugees huddled, shivered, and grumbled as Evan made his way through the night behind the houses. He pulled his hood over his head so that it hung in such a way as to block the view of his face from the side.

  Evan told himself that farmers who weren't smart enough to get a solid roof to shelter their families were probably not smart enough to be suspicious about a Scholar from the Academy slinking through an alley in the middle of the night. But one could never be too careful.

  Evan knocked lightly on the back door. A loud pound wasn't necessary. He was expected.

  "Who is it?" a voice asked from inside.

  "You know who it is."

  The door slowly opened. Tommy Dunlow peeked out.

  Evan nodded and half smiled a greeting.

  The door swung open and Evan stepped out of the cold.

  "Any trouble?" Tommy Dunlow asked.

  Evan shook his head and followed Tommy deeper into the house. Evan was impressed. He'd seen plenty of merchant's houses; many were opulent, and left him speechless with wonder. So many farmers and poorer merchants lived in hovels of a room or two. Those that did well had a main communal room with a few bedrooms. It was only the wealthy merchants and ministers that had anything more.

  Most houses were utilitarian and plain. Few had anything decorating the walls. The materials to make useless, pretty things were as scarce as the time it took to construct them. Ancient artifacts were the choice of the wealthy. Normally, they were found by a farmer in a field, or a hunter who came across something in the forest. It was the reason so many children spent a good deal of their time staring at the ground, looking for treasures from the past. Lucky finders of such items rarely kept them. The wealthy merchants, and the ones trying to appear wealthier than they were, competed with one another to accumulat
e the grandest collection of ancient oddities. They bought anything people found, making it a profitable proposition for a farmer who might be able to trade an old trinket for enough coin to purchase a blanket, a pig, or even enough meat to keep his family fed through the winter. The prices varied by each item's condition and rarity.

  Tommy Dunlow opened a pair of interior doors. Interior doors on a room not even used for sleeping, Evan thought. The splendor staggers the imagination.

  Evan followed inside to see three walls layered in shelves containing the largest collection of ancient trinkets he'd ever seen. Evan marveled at them, inadvertently ignoring Timmy Dunlow, who had been sitting in a chair inside the room.

  "Everyone does that when they first come here," said Tommy.

  Realizing he was rudely gawking, Evan said, "I apologize."

  "Don't," said Tommy. "You can look all you want."

  Nodding as he turned his attention back to a row of particularly shiny, intricately crafted things, Evan said, "I would like that, but let us take care of necessary matters first."

  Timmy waved Evan toward one of the chairs. "Let's all sit down and talk. We may be seditious rebels, but we can be comfortable, can't we?"

  Tommy laughed and seated himself beside his brother.

  Evan didn't see the humor in Timmy's comment, but he chuckled to be polite. He sat across from the two. "The army will be marching soon."

  "We haven't been told a date yet," said Tommy.

  "No one has," said Evan.

  "Not even Minister Beck?" asked Timmy.

  "Not that he's told me," said Evan.

  "And he would tell you, wouldn't he?" asked Timmy.

  Evan nodded. "Minister Beck tells me everything."

  Tommy leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Do you tell Minister Beck everything?"

  Evan said nothing.

  "That's the thing of it," said Timmy, nodding at his brother. "We've been talking to people. We've encouraged them to join this thing, whatever it is. We've talked men into taking up arms against General Blackthorn, but we don't know the source of all this. The only people we've been approached by are you and that officious pipsqueak, Oliver."