The Ruins Book 3

by T. W. Piperbrook

  "I am not overwhelmed. I would like to see more symbols—letters, I mean." William pointed to a thicker book, with a fancy, faded design that was farther down on the table. "What is that one about?"

  "That is Tolstoy's favorite. It is a book about the designs for different buildings, called architecture. There are lots of words inside, and lots of blueprints like the ones you saw downstairs." Amelia retrieved the book from the table, thumbing through a few pages. "Perhaps when you learn to read, you might help us in studying the things inside. Maybe one day you will even create your own blueprints."

  "I would like that." William feigned enthusiasm, even though he planned to be out of this horrid place long before that happened.

  "In any case, it is not a good book to teach you how to read." Seeing the apparent disappointment on William's face, she added, "Perhaps we can break and take a look at it."

  Flipping through the book, William saw a slew of glorious buildings, houses, and structures he couldn't identify. He stopped at a page with an airplane that looked much wider and longer than the plans downstairs, with as many windows as a building, seemingly made of metal. Thinking about something, he asked Amelia, "You said you have lived more than three hundred years. That means you were around when these things filled the sky. Have you ever sat in one?"

  "A lot of time has passed, William, but yes I have." Amelia cocked her head as she recalled, "I was a little older than you when The Collapse happened. Before that, I took a few trips with my family. We flew in planes large enough to carry many of the people we have outside."

  William opened and closed his mouth, choosing one of many questions. "What was it like to fly?"

  "It was commonplace, back then," Amelia said, "but it was still wondrous. I have memories of looking down on the clouds, instead of looking up at them. I remember soaring above some of our biggest cities. More lights glowed in those places than I'd ever seen. Many more than we have in this building."

  "Did you see the gods?" William asked.

  Amelia let loose a laugh. "No, I didn't."

  "You don't believe in them?" William asked.

  Amelia gestured to the stacks of books on the table, and the full shelves that lined the walls behind them. "When you have had so much time to live, think, and read, your perspective changes, William, as I've told you. I have had more than three hundred years to watch how people behave. I have seen cities fall and new colonies replace them. I have seen countless people die in wars. And too many of us Gifted killed."

  "What do you believe?"

  "I believe that we are the gods, William." Amelia stared at him with an intense expression, the remnants of her smile gone.

  **

  William looked around the room at a few of the other Gifted as he finished his lesson. One or two watched him with passive amusement, still getting used to being around a person so young. They nodded their misshapen heads when he caught their eyes, but most turned their heads and studied the books or objects in front of them. He hadn't seen Tolstoy or Rudyard for most of the day, as usual. He was trapped in a magnificent tower with more food than he could eat, and more knowledge than he could learn in a lifetime, but his thoughts continually roamed to the places he could not see.

  He wanted escape. He wanted his friends.

  But right now, he wanted to finish this day, so he could get to his room.

  William snuck a glance at the locked door across The Library Room, and the windows, nervously watching the daylight wane. He forced a yawn.

  "Are you tired?" Amelia asked.

  "Yes."

  "I can take you to your room, if you are ready for sleep," she offered.

  "That would be great."

  Chapter 55: Amelia

  Amelia opened the door to Tolstoy's quarters, locating Tolstoy halfway across his room, one wart-covered hand in his pocket, the other scratching his chin. He stared at the diagrams on the wall with an expression that showed he was deep in thought.

  "Thank you for checking back in with me," he told Amelia.

  "It is no problem," she said as she shut the door.

  "Is William in his quarters?"

  "Yes, I just left him."

  "How did your talk go?" Tolstoy asked.

  "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I took him to the roof, so he could see his friends, but not interact, as we discussed. I tried my best at explaining things. He shed some tears. It seemed like he understood, but I fear he is acting more than believing. I suspect he might be playing a role."

  "How do you know?" Tolstoy asked.

  "He is doing well with his letters, but he seemed distracted. I do not believe he will forget his friends easily. I believe they still weigh on his mind."

  "Perhaps you need another way to get through to him."

  "I will keep trying. I have another idea."

  "Report back to me tomorrow. I would like to be updated."

  Amelia nodded. "I will keep you informed."

  Chapter 56: William

  William waited until the last clap of footsteps had subsided before he swung his feet off the bed.

  He was pretty sure he was safe.

  For a while after Amelia left, he had hunkered under his sheets, certain that she would come back to his room and accuse him. Or that the ascending or descending footsteps might stop. He feared that the door to his room would crash open and The Gifted would appear, bobbing their misshapen heads and dragging him to some fate he couldn't imagine.

  No one came.

  Getting up, he crossed the room. A half-moon splashed enough light through the windows that he could see the silhouettes of the objects around him. He turned the pin over and over in his hand.

  The building was silent. He looked around the room, as if the shadows might harbor some intruder. Even the bonfires outside had long been put out. The slaves were in bed, assumedly resting and preparing for another day of misery. Only the demons and the guards were awake now.

  And William.

  William crept across the remainder of the room until he'd reached the door. His heart thudded in his chest. He recalled what he'd heard about those thieves who opened doors. They'd used two pieces of metal, if the stories in Brighton were to be believed. He bent the pin, but he didn't break it. He didn't want to ruin what might be his one chance at escape. Feeling around, he used the moonlight to guide him as he found the keyhole, stuck the pieces of metal inside, and gently probed. He felt resistance in each direction, but two impasses stuck out more, one on each side. He pushed gently, increasing in pressure, but nothing budged.

  He cursed inside.

  William paused, listening through the door. Nothing. Trying again, he bent the pin to match the obstructions. He kept one hand on the doorknob, turning as he applied pressure. The obstructions in the keyhole budged.

  The pin slipped from his hand, clattering on the floor.

  William froze.

  Fear sent chills through his stomach as he realized he might've given himself away. The Gifted were surely rising, checking on the noise. Or maybe some guards on the lower level, or upstairs, had heard it.

  The windmills creaked outside.

  An owl hooted.

  No one came.

  William released his tight, nervous grip on the door handle and fell to his hands and knees, searching for the pin. More fear hit him as he patted the ground, uncertain where it had bounced. Maybe it had gone underneath the crack under the door. Maybe it was waiting on the other side, where Amelia would find it in the morning. Where was the pin? Even if Amelia didn't blame him, she would certainly pocket it, ruining the feeble chance he had at escape. He exhaled with relief as his hands touched metal and he recovered the pin. It was still intact, bent in the same position.

  William repeated the same maneuver that had given him luck before. It took him several more frustrating attempts, and a good portion of the night, before he heard a click. When he did, William couldn't believe what he'd done. He pushed the door gently at first, as if he might strike som
e more resistance.

  But there was none.

  The door was open.

  A wave of exhilaration coursed through him as William stuck the pin back in his pocket and ventured through the threshold. He paused on the landing, certain that someone would stop his plan before it begun. But no hands grabbed from the shadows. No voices hissed warnings.

  William was free.

  **

  William paused on the landing. Moments passed. His pulse pounded so loudly that he thought his heart might leap from his chest. He fought to control his breath. William had succeeded in leaving his room, but that didn't mean he could be careless. William knew he wouldn't get another chance at failure.

  He needed to be careful.

  A test run—that's what he needed.

  He needed to get better acquainted with his surroundings.

  Making his way to the nearest wall, William found his footing, carefully making his way down the stairs. Moonlight penetrated the hallway from a lower window, but not enough to fully illuminate a path. A fall would certainly wake The Gifted, and it might break his bones—or kill him. He counted the steps until he reached the next landing. Each step felt as if it might send him tumbling. A few times, his boots scuffed the stairs, sending frigid chills through his body. He only had a general idea where The Gifted slept. He knew a few were in the floors above him, while most kept quarters below. He had the sudden fear that he might bump into someone in the dark—Amelia, a guard, Tolstoy. He pictured Tolstoy's facetious smile, turning into a command for death.

  Or Rudyard's.

  What if the lights popped on above him, and he was caught mid-flight? Staving off his fear, he kept going, counting the flights of stairs, the way he'd done with Amelia. A few times, he paused next to a door, listening. Once he thought he heard someone snoring. William kept going, creeping down flight after flight. Soon he'd passed fifteen floors and reached the bottom. Below him, a dark, rectangular shadow in the darkness seemed like a door to freedom. He crept close enough to hear through it.

  Voices reached his ears.

  A cough. Then a laugh.

  Guards.

  He froze.

  He heard conversation through the door, but not enough to make out words. He pressed his fingers gently against the door, testing its weight. The door was thick. Of course it was.

  More than one guard waited on the other side. Even if he could pick the lock, they would catch him and bring him to The Gifted, ruining his plan. Even if he slipped past them, demons would consume him, or he'd be trapped in the city, if he could even get there.

  Neither of those choices would help he or his friends.

  He listened as long as he could, until the aching panic in his stomach screamed at him to retreat. He needed weapons, or some other means to guarantee survival. He would find neither of those huddled in the dark on the stairs, waiting for someone to discover him.

  William snuck back upstairs, reaching the third floor where he'd been earlier with Amelia. Good sense screamed at him to keep going, to get back to his room while he was alive, but he stopped and waited.

  He had a thought.

  Opening any other door might run him into The Gifted. But he knew what was behind this one. Maybe the room harbored something he hadn't noticed earlier. Perhaps a weapon, or something else he could use.

  One more test run.

  He bent down, fished the pin from his pocket—his homemade key—and inserted it into the lock. With a little more knowledge of what he was doing, he found the obstructions, but it still took him time to get through the door.

  Soon he was in the room with the strange table and the sketch of the airplane.

  Carefully, he closed the door behind him and crept across the room, performing a fruitless search in the dark. He found nothing that could help him.

  He tiptoed to the southern balcony.

  He opened the door.

  Cautiously, he stepped out into the night air, looking above him at the smooth side of the glass building. All he saw were windows, gleaming in the moonlight. He saw no sign of the guards on the seventeenth floor. Keeping close to the doorway to avoid notice, he peered down at the city. The night air was ripe with the odor of demons. A few dying embers glowed in the bonfires below. Only a few dots of light here and there moved between some of the far structures—perhaps people like him, awake and roaming.

  More than likely, the lights belonged to patrolling guards.

  He felt a pang of loneliness as he overlooked the city, a place that had given him such high hopes, but had ripped them away just as quickly. A tear dripped from his eye as he thought of Bray, battling demons and men to get to him outside of Brighton. Bray had promised to protect him, and here was William, powerless to return the favor. He owed Kirby and Cullen his life, too.

  I'll help them, William thought. I swear I will. I will find a way. If not tonight, then soon.

  William wasn't foolish.

  He needed a plan better than pushing past the guards and the demons to get to freedom. He might as well hurl himself over this balcony, if he was to do that. William watched the city for a while, until fear drove him to turn around. Shutting the balcony door, he crossed the room, stopping at the northern balcony. He opened the door and took a last peek.

  The crop fields looked eerily different in the night—filled with shapes and shifting shadows. The windmills creaked. He jumped as something skittered from one place to the next, even though he was high up enough that nothing could reach him.

  Demons hissed as they ran through a few corn stalks or crops, snapping them underfoot. A smaller noise came from somewhere close by. A moment later, a small animal gave a death cry.

  The demons were hungry.

  Of course they were.

  William needed to get back.

  He still needed to figure out how to relock the doors.

  Chapter 57: Bray

  The workers around Bray moved slower, weighed down by the exhausting heat of a new day. All around him, the Head Guards barked orders, as if yelling louder might erase the uncomfortable weather. The Field Hands dragged. The guards gave them water, but only enough to keep them from falling over against the crops they picked.

  Finally, after an exhausting shift in which he'd avoided a beating, Bray pulled his wagon to the line among the others. Kirby was far ahead of him. Cullen was closer. Unlike the day before, he wasn't going to risk speaking with either of them.

  As the last of the Field Hands came to the line, he waited for the signal that would allow them to escape the sweltering fields.

  Fifteen feet ahead of him, Cullen was mumbling again.

  Bray watched him for a moment before some Field Hands swiveled their heads, the way they had the day before. A few guards walked the length of the line. Rudyard followed.

  "Another trade," one of the skinny Field Hands in front of Bray mumbled.

  "Is it the Yatari?" he asked.

  "I can't see from here."

  Rudyard sauntered past a few Field Hands who quickly drew their wagons close. Bray looked past them, expecting to see the same, well-dressed men he had seen the day before, or others like them.

  He saw something else.

  His pulse pounded.

  At the back of the path, a hundred feet away, Rudyard and a few other Head Guards spoke with some familiar people with dark complexions, rabid eyes, and sharp teeth. They held a writhing, squirming man.

  The Clickers.

  Commotion drew Bray's attention behind him. A Field Hand cried out in surprise.

  Cullen ran.

  One moment he was a handful of people in front of Bray, the next he was skirting around the other workers, heading for the nearest row of crops to escape. He frantically looked over his shoulder, his eyes wild and panicked. He made it a few feet before his boot caught the end of a wagon, he tumbled, and he fell. Air spit from his lungs as he hit the ground hard and cried out. A few of the demons raced for the dirt path.

  "Cullen!" Bray called,
letting go of his wagon.

  In Cullen's cracked mind, he probably thought The Clickers had come for him. Bray needed to get him back in line before someone noticed, or he was eaten by the hungry infected. Reaching Cullen, Bray grabbed hold of his arm.

  "Come on, Cullen!"

  "They're coming for me!" he cried.

  "They're not. You are safe!" Bray tried.

  A nearby shout rang out. "Hey! What are you doing?"

  Bray looked up to find Avery running toward them, his face red with anger.

  Bray pulled Cullen to his feet, but not before guards swarmed them. They congregated behind Avery, awaiting an order.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Avery barked, sweat rolling down his cheeks and over his freckled face.

  "He fell," Bray said. "I was helping him."

  Avery didn't buy the weak explanation. "Escape," he spat, as if the word were akin to murder.

  "It was a fall," Bray said, "nothing more."

  Avery looked from Cullen's still-terrified face, to the people in line around them, who stared. He directed his next question at everyone. "What was he doing?" No one met his eyes. No one wanted to risk defending a stranger. Avery's eyes focused on the skinny man Bray had talked to earlier. "You. Tell me what you saw."

  The man was quiet for a moment, until Avery drilled him with a stare.

  "He ran," the skinny man said finally, looking away before Bray or Cullen could meet his eyes. "I'm not sure why."

  Avery's anger seethed.

  Before he could say anything, Bray interrupted. "He was afraid." Bray pointed down the path, where Rudyard and The Clickers stared, disrupted from their trade. The man between them writhed. "He saw some of the people who took him away from the forests. He wanted to get away from them. That was all."

  Avery looked from Bray to the people in the distance. Rudyard waved an angry arm, making it clear he wasn't to be interrupted any longer. Perhaps fearing Rudyard's wrath more than anything else, Avery stabbed the air with a finger and said, "Dung duty this afternoon! Both of you!"

  Chapter 58: Kirby