The Ruins Book 4

by T. W. Piperbrook

  "We will try," said Kirby.

  Chapter 13: Kirby

  Moonlight spilled over the broken, crumbling buildings, creating deep shadows between every rock and large piece of stone as Kirby and Bray made their way back. The other Shadow People had disappeared, separating down other alleys filled with the same smell of smoke and ash as the place where they met.

  For too long, Kirby's meetings with Bray had consisted of brief, whispered conversations in alleyways, where they met and parted, or cautious looks in the fields. Walking next to him reminded her of riding or hiking through the forest with William, sharing their days and their nights together. Reaching over, she pulled him into an embrace.

  "We will find a way out of this life," Bray promised.

  "I hope so," she whispered, holding him.

  "At least we are no longer alone," Bray said. "With the help of a group, we are in a better position."

  Blotting her eyes before they could release tears, Kirby said, "But that does not mean it will be easy."

  "Do you trust them?" Bray asked.

  "I trust Drew with my life. And he trusts the others," Kirby answered, letting go and looking around. "That is enough, for now."

  Bray nodded.

  "A revolt will need much planning," Kirby said. "We are up against a problem with many layers. Kill the Head Guards, and The Gifted send the mutants in to devour us. Kill the mutants, and we still have to contend with The Gifted. The Gifted surely have more guns in the tower. If they discover us, shivs and hand tools will not go far against them. And who knows what they might do to William?"

  Bray sighed at a detail he had temporarily forgotten.

  "I knew the city was fragmented," Bray said, "even before they said the words. I saw it in the eyes of the slaves that chanted this morning with the guards. It is clear that some of the slaves go along with their fate, because they are told lies. Or because they don't know better. Who knows what they might do, when a revolt happens?"

  "Too many people get used to their mistreatment," Kirby lamented. "They think it is the only way."

  "I have seen people indentured to others in Brighton," Bray said. "They put up with beatings and vile words that would provoke a fight in others. Some they think they deserve it. Others start to believe that way, after too much time in another's service."

  "Enslavement has many evils," Kirby agreed.

  "It is too bad your plan with the guards will not work here," Bray said.

  Kirby recalled her last moments in her homeland. When she closed her eyes, she could see the sweating bodies of four hundred of her people, as they ran to the docks. She saw the expression of joy on their faces as they sailed from the harbor of her homeland for the last time, the wind kissing their skin. But those moments hadn't come without their scars. Some of her people had traded possessions, favors, and even their bodies. Her people had paid a price for their freedom to the guards, some of who had taken their toll in blood and tears. Those scars haunted Kirby, as it had haunted the others for as long as they were alive.

  "What worked for us there, will not work here," Kirby reiterated. "Clara was right. The guards here would rather kill us than allow us a breath beyond New City—especially Ollie and Avery, and some of the guards who beat us. They will not help us."

  "I'd like to pay them back for what they did to Cullen, and to the slave yesterday," Bray muttered.

  "Maybe one day, we can," Kirby said. "But we will need to be careful in how we execute it."

  Bray went quiet a moment, thinking. "It seemed as if they had a few gaps in their plans. They said they were short on weapons. And they mentioned their lack of recent knowledge of what's beyond the walls. Perhaps those are things we can help with."

  Kirby nodded. "Maybe we can work on those problems, while we think of some other ideas. In any case, I do not think we will find any immediate answers in the shadows. If we don't get back, someone will miss us."

  They fell into a silence as they walked a wide alley between rows of tall buildings with less rubble, and plenty of shadow. When they had gone far enough that they could see the first rows of lights, they paused. Bray glanced up at the tall, glass-covered building in the distance, which was mostly dark, except for a few ominous flickers in the windows. Kirby didn't need him to voice his thoughts to know them.

  "We will get out of this life of enslavement," Bray said. "And we will find William."

  With a final embrace, they parted.

  Chapter 14: William

  William looked out the windows of the fifteenth floor, sickness in his heart. The information he'd received this afternoon was as cold and suffocating as the robe he wore. He couldn't get his mind off the strange things The Gifted had done to humans.

  He didn't even know what to call The Gifted anymore. They weren't men, and they certainly weren't demons. Any hope he had at playing along with them felt as if it had been thrust away.

  He couldn't live a life like this much longer.

  He might pretend he could, when he lay awake at night, imagining that Bray and Kirby were safe, even though he knew they weren't. Cullen's death was proof of that.

  Sooner or later, he would be complicit in some atrocity he couldn't fathom. He needed to escape.

  William felt useless. All this time in the building, and all he'd managed to gain was a flimsy, twisted hairpin. His achievement felt inadequate. He could get himself out of a room—nothing more.

  Looking out the window, William envisioned Bray down there in one of the buildings, perhaps preparing to meet some end worse than Cullen's. Bray had made a promise of safety to William, and that promise had carried them through the forests, The Ancient City, and The Arches. That promise had led them into the arms of The Gifted, into a life of enslavement he didn't deserve.

  I will find a way to get out of this place and help my friends, even if it means my end, William resolved.

  Chapter 15: Kirby

  When Kirby returned home, most of the slaves had finished dinner. Only a handful lingered in the alleys, chatting quietly, while others settled down for the night, cleaning their dishes, or doing laundry. A few slaves returned from the bonfires, smelling of courtyard smoke. Moonlight spilled through the open doorway of her squalid house, splashing light over the meager possessions, and Esmeralda, who sat on her bedroll, playing with Fiona. Relief washed over Kirby as she crossed the threshold and found no guards.

  It seemed as if Fiona had gotten over whatever mood had ailed her in the afternoon.

  "How were the bonfires?" Esmeralda asked, rocking her daughter.

  "Fine," Kirby said without elaborating. "Much of the usual talk about the heat of the fields."

  "It seems as if it never ends," Esmeralda said. "I do not envy your job with the harvest."

  "You have a challenging job, as well, taking care of a child." Kirby smiled as Esmeralda bounced Fiona on her lap.

  Esmeralda didn't answer. She looked past Kirby and out the doorway. It looked as if she had something more to say.

  "What is it?" Kirby asked.

  With a slight shake of her head, Esmeralda beckoned her closer. Kirby got near her bedroll.

  "Ollie was here looking for you," Esmeralda whispered, around Fiona's coos.

  Kirby's heart pounded. "Ollie? What did he want?"

  "I do not know. He said he would find you in the morning."

  Kirby looked to the doorway, as if she'd find a lumbering figure standing there.

  Of course, the doorway was empty.

  "I would not go looking for him," Esmeralda warned. "Hopefully in the morning, when he is sober, he will forget about you."

  Chapter 16: Kirby

  Kirby walked the paths with a new trepidation under a morning sky pillowed with clouds. All around her, workers rubbed the sleep from their eyes, or said goodbye to their families and children, before striding hurriedly down the paths toward the courtyard. Ollie's visit was a looming weight, sitting in her stomach. She wanted nothing more than to blend in with the othe
r workers, like she did most days, but somehow, she had gotten his attention and held it.

  She braced for a final struggle. For all she knew, guards hid in the one of the alleys, or doorways, ready to do Ollie's bidding. Or maybe Ollie would pull her off alone.

  Soon she reached the edges of the courtyard, where handfuls of Field Hands already waited in line. A few glanced at her. Was it normal attention, or did they know something? The smell of people's sweat mingled with the odor of cooked meat, roasted vegetables, and cornmeal. The morning was already hot, and would be punishingly so, by mid-day.

  Maybe she wouldn't live that long.

  She slipped near the back of the line. At the front, far from her, she saw Bray, waiting between a few workers. He gave her a nod and looked away. Of course she couldn't speak with him.

  A guard belched as he came down an alleyway between some houses. She turned slowly and risked a glance, watching him mingle with a few other guards. His eyes were red and glazed. Perhaps yesterday's fight had turned into an excuse to get drunk, not that he needed a reason.

  Kirby looked for evidence of yesterday's fight. Most of the dirt had been scuffed over, or walked on, but she saw a few dark stains of blood in the soil. She shuddered.

  The courtyard filled with more and more Field Hands, until the line was filled with people and quiet chatter.

  A loud bang pulled her attention across the courtyard. She turned to find Ollie sauntering from one of the guards' private chamber pot buildings, the door slamming behind him. He joined a cluster of guards about twenty feet from the line. No one looked at her. She waited for the moment when Ollie remembered her. Maybe he meant to surprise her with an attack. The guards laughed, but she couldn't hear what they were saying.

  Perhaps they discussed her.

  A few Field Hands wheeled some creaky wagons to the head of the line, putting them in place and scuttling off.

  Kirby looked at a few of the dirty, scrawny workers. They held the same fearful expressions they always did, while waiting for the count. But she could just as easily see those expressions becoming vicious cries for blood, once the guards dragged her out of the line. The guards walked from the middle of the courtyard toward the gate. A few stationed themselves by it, prepared to usher the slaves to the fields, once Ollie and a few other guards finished the count.

  "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.