The door closed.
He heard Franklin's feet on the floor as he walked the length of the small room.
Oliver's breath came in short pants. He thought about all the welts and scabs, those under his shirt and those on his buttocks and legs, the ones he knew Franklin was looking at as he came to a stop. Those sores were evidence of Franklin's guilt.
"Where did you get the giant knife?" Franklin's hand landed on Oliver's shoulder and tugged him to turn around.
Oliver spun, knocking Franklin's hand away as he did. He reached up, grabbed Franklin's collar, and in a lightning-quick move put the blade of the little knife against Franklin's throat.
Franklin's eyes went wide. He gulped. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Oliver did his best to make his face look hard and mean like those guards that night in the street. He wanted his eyes to say, "I don't care if you die."
Chapter 35: Bray
Bray whipped around as the meaty man advanced. Before Bray could stand, the man hoisted him by the shirt and flung him backward. Bray's insides shook as his tailbone cracked the ground. Several spectators scurried back, far enough away to be out of danger, but close enough to leer.
They screamed curses.
"Back to the wild, Skin-Seller!"
"You filthy boozehound!"
Fighting the alcohol-induced buzz, Bray reached for the knife he had tucked in his boot, but the two other men were already grabbing his arms. Encouraged by the shouting, they pinned Bray against the wall of a building.
The meaty man stood in front of Bray.
"What did you say to me before? You called me a name." The meaty man smiled, revealing blackened, chipped teeth. His open mouth unleashed the foul odor of an unsavory meal. The crowd's roars settled to a murmur as they awaited Bray's response.
"Well?" the man insisted again. "Speak up so I can hear you!"
"You're a goddamn…pig chaser…" Bray spat.
The meaty man leaned closer, folding his ear toward Bray as if he couldn't hear. "What was that?" He laughed and punched Bray in the stomach. "I couldn't hear you. Speak up!"
Sucking in a winded breath, Bray yelled, "Fucking pig chaser!"
The audience hooted and hollered. Bray heard the cackle of a woman mixed in with the hearty jeers of men. For a split second, he pictured Samantha rooting against him, excitedly waiting for his blood to spill.
"So you think we chase pigs in town all day, huh?" the meaty man asked.
"That's exactly what I think." Bray exaggerated his nod.
"Better to chase pigs than demons. At least you can eat pigs. What do you do with the demons? Huh? Fuck 'em?"
The audience erupted in laughter. Before Bray could retort, the man socked him in the stomach again, blowing the rest of his wind from his lungs. Bray choked and gagged. The remains of the rabbits he'd eaten crept up his throat. He struggled against the men who had him pinned. The meaty man turned to face the crowd as if he were an orator at some hosted event, a preacher at a sermon.
"What are we going to do with this one, huh?"
"You should skin him!"
"Yeah! Skin the Skin-Seller!" someone screamed. "Maybe you'll get five coin for it!"
"Four, now!"
The audience laughed again. A few more suggestions flew from the crowd, but Bray wasn't listening. He let his head sag to his chest and closed his eyes. The men on either side of him leaned in to check on him, concerned their fun might be over. He felt their hot, stale breath in his face. He opened his eyes to slits, watching them.
Without warning, he rammed his head sideways into the closer of the two. The shaggy-haired man cried out in pain, his nose split open and spilling blood. Bray pulled his right arm free and socked the scarred man in the face, feeling the slice of teeth as he sent several of them into the man's mouth. He ignored the burning pain in his knuckles.
And then he was free, scooting sideways, trying to gain distance from the scene.
Hands tugged his clothes. Blurred faces spit and sneered. He felt the drip of well-placed snot on his forehead. Bray bounced back and forth between pairs of pushing hands. He swung at the people pushing him, but there were too many targets to aim at. Before he could brace himself, the spectators thrust him into the center of the alley, directly in front of the meaty man.
The man grabbed hold of his collar and threw him backward. Bray skidded backward in the dirt. He kept his balance. His boots kicked up dust, clouding the air. Several people scattered out of his way as he raised his fists. Blood dripped from his right hand.
"Come on, you dirt-scratcher!" Bray yelled at the man. He took a precautionary glance around him, but the crowd had consumed the other two wounded men. "You don't chase pigs; you are one!"
The meaty man roared and charged.
His tall, massive frame blurred as he closed in. Swallowing his nausea, Bray stepped to the side and avoided him. The man's momentum carried him into the wall of a building. He grunted from the impact.
And then Bray was on him.
Bray's mind veered from reality. Instead of seeing the man in front of him, he saw Samantha's smiling face, Conrad sneering, and the shrugging shoulders of Ezekiel as he told him about the reduced rate of skins. He pictured the meager earnings sitting in his bag. Anger flooded Bray's body.
Ignoring the sharp pain of split knuckles, Bray pummeled the man in the back of the head repeatedly, slamming the meaty man's face into the wall. Teeth cracked. Bones caved. The man flailed and reached behind him, searching frantically for Bray, but Bray kept him pressed against the building, switching his jabs to the meaty man's side, listening to the man expel his breath from his ribcage. The crowd continued screaming, but their tune had changed.
"Get that fat fuck!"
"String him up for a roasting!"
"Take his scalp, Skin-Seller!"
They'd swayed to the winning side, as they always did, wanting only to see somebody bleed. Bray punched over and over, consumed by drunken anger. The meaty man choked on his blood. It wasn't until Bray realized the man had ceased resisting that he stopped. The man slid down the wall and into the dirt, eyes fluttering.
He groaned, but didn't get up.
Bray spun to face the crowd. They immediately backed away, holding up dirt-stained hands to placate him. A few cheered.
"Who else has something to say to me?" Bray shouted, his voice strained and ragged. He scanned the faces of the spectators, but none of them stepped forward. Somewhere over the din, he heard the wounded wails of the meaty man's accomplices fleeing the scene. The soldiers would be here soon.
He stared at the fallen man, then patted his empty scabbard. He felt a tinge of panic.
"Where the fuck's my sword?" he demanded of the audience.
He took a step toward several of the closest spectators, whose eyes had switched from mirth to fear. They shook their heads as they backed away. A few others scattered, disappearing into empty doorways.
"I'm going to search every building until I find the man who took it! Do you hear me? I'll kill any motherfucker who knows where it is!"
His threats were idle, but he didn't care. The truth was, he'd probably never find it. Bray continued ranting and raving, promising death to anyone who'd seen the thief. He was surprised when a man sheepishly emerged from a doorway, carrying the blade. He walked slowly up to Bray, begging for mercy. His small, sinewy arms trembled as he handed it over.
"Good fight, Warden," the man said. "One of my friends took your sword. I convinced him to give it up."
Without a word, Bray yanked it from the man's hands, watching the man scoot away into the distance. A new set of noises arose from a nearby alley. Bray recognized the authoritative commands of soldiers. Even in his drunken, angered haze, he knew he had to leave. Wiping the snot from his forehead, he bent down and smeared it on the meaty man's shirt.
Then he kicked the man in the ribs.
"Tell Conrad he can go fuck himself," Bray announced. "That one was for the Wardens."
&n
bsp; He turned and snuck off down the alley.
Chapter 36: Oliver
It was Franklin who found his voice first. "Why?"
"Why?" Oliver laughed, in the meanest series of ugly sounds he could string together. He kept the knife firm against Franklin's neck. "You would ask me that?"
Franklin bit his lip. He looked down at Oliver's arm, sucking in a breath. "I'm sorry."
Oliver shrugged.
"I'm not going to try to defend myself." Franklin's eyes welled with tears. "If you need to make this right, I accept that. If you need to make me suffer, I accept that too. I only ask that when you're done and I'm bleeding to death on the floor, you forgive me. I don't deserve it, but please, do it before I die." Franklin closed his eyes.
Through all the hate that had been roiling in Oliver's heart, through all the open wounds and bruises that tormented him, he hadn't expected to feel anything for Franklin ever again, except hate. But now, looking at his only friend, who was willing to trade his life for forgiveness, Oliver's own heart softened, and his tears came again. He pulled the knife away from Franklin's throat, turned toward the wall and said, "I hate you, Franklin."
Franklin exhaled a breath he'd been holding. "You may never believe it, but I hate myself for what I did. I was saving your life when I was whipping you."
"I don't care," Oliver said, as he cried.
"Winthrop said he was going to put you on the pyre."
"He wouldn't have," said Oliver. "You did it so you wouldn't lose your place in line. You want to be the Bishop one day so you can beat little boys whenever you're angry because your pecker doesn't work anymore."
"I think of you like a brother," said Franklin.
"I know how some fathers treat their sons," said Oliver. "I know how some brothers treat their little brothers. You think I'm a stupid little kid, but I see things. I understand things." Oliver sheathed his knife, spun around, and shook his fist in Franklin's face. "I know the fist is the only way stupid people think they can communicate. I don't need the fist. I don't need the belt. I don't need the switch. I don't need the whip. I understand all that I do, and I have my reasons. I'm not a stupid animal that needs to be beaten into obedience. So love me like a brother if you want. I wanted a friend. I thought you were that." Oliver turned back toward the wall.
"I am your friend," said Franklin. "Tell me what I can do to make this right."
"It doesn't matter anymore." Oliver reached down and pulled his pants up. "I have to leave."
"Where are you going?" Franklin stepped over to Oliver's bed and picked up the new backpack. "Where did you get this?"
"I've lied. I've stolen," Oliver told him. "And now you know. You've seen my knives, both of them. You've seen that I have things packed in my bag. You're smart enough to guess what people put in there. I was going to wait until tomorrow evening after I'd made all my arrangements. Now that you know, I have to leave. You'll squeal to Winthrop, and then I'll suffer." Oliver nodded his head deliberately. "I won't do that again."
"You can't," Franklin said, weakly. "You can't leave."
"I can," Oliver told him, turning and putting a hand on the hilt of the big knife, "and I will. I don't trust you anymore. I don't know what you'll do."
"I don't want you to go," said Franklin.
"Want?" Oliver laughed again. "You don't get beaten like I do."
"Every novice gets beaten at first."
"Really?" Oliver asked. "I know that's a lie. You've told me before that Winthrop was never this mean to you. I've seen you naked when Father Winthrop Cleanses us. You don't have scars. I do."
Franklin looked at the floor. "I don't understand why he hates you so much."
"Yes, you do," argued Oliver. "Father Winthrop is a stupid, pompous man. I hate him. I tease him, and I make him feel stupid. That's why he hates me. It's no secret. Because of that, he beats me. He always will. One day, he'll beat me to death. Or he'll make you do it. Or he'll give up and put me on the pyre."
"It doesn't have to be that way," said Franklin. "Can't you just keep your thoughts to yourself and stop saying things that embarrass and anger him? It won't go on forever. You can do it for a while, can't you?"
Shaking his head, Oliver said, "You're a fool, Franklin. You say you're my friend, but every time you advise me or help me, you treat me like a little version of you. You think if you explain to me how to behave as you behave, I'll understand, and I'll do it. That's the problem. I'm not you. I can't be you. Something in me says I can't accept Winthrop's derision and stupidity. I have to fight back with the only weapon I have, my words. That is who I am. That is part of me as surely as my skin and my mouth and my hands and arms. I can't live without those parts just like I can't live without telling the pompous maggot what I think of him. That is why I can't wait for a while, a short time, or a long time. I will always act like me. Winthrop will act like himself, and he'll kill me. That is the only outcome."
Franklin sat down on the bed he hadn't slept in since the night before he'd beaten Oliver. "You might be the smartest boy I've ever met. If you believe all of that to be true, I can't argue. You're probably right." Franklin leaned over on his knees and stared at the floor. For a while, he didn't say anything.
Oliver opened his backpack and looked over the things inside, taking note of what he had, making a mental list of the things he needed to get before he went over the wall.
Franklin said, "If you want to leave right now, I'll help you. I'll walk you to one of the gates in the circle wall, and I'll make sure they let you go through. I'll make up some lie."
Oliver stopped what he was doing. That would take some risk out of his escape. "You'd do that? Really?"
"Yes," said Franklin. "If for whatever reason, you think that you'd be safer leaving tomorrow night or the day after, I'll help you at that time. Make whatever arrangements you need to make. You'll have to trust me when I tell you I won't give you up. All I can do is assure you of that. I know you hate me for beating you, but you know I've never lied to you."
Oliver knew that was true, though he didn't admit it.
"I want you to be safe, Oliver. It's dangerous outside the circle wall. I'd prefer you stay. But I'll do whatever you want me to do."
Oliver sat down on his bed and looked at Franklin. He didn't know what to do, either. He had to get away. He knew that. He wanted the chainmail he was going to pick up in the morning. That might make the difference between life and death outside the circle wall, especially for a boy Oliver's size. "You're my friend, Franklin. Until you raised Father Winthrop's whip, I never doubted that."
"Don't doubt it now," said Franklin.
"I'll trust you." Oliver heaved a deep breath. He put a hand on his knife and thought about threatening Franklin again, but he knew he couldn't back up the threat. He'd never be able to stick his blade into Franklin's flesh.
But Oliver knew one thing. He wouldn't take another beating, and he wouldn't take the pyre.
If it came to it, he'd use the small knife on his own throat. "Please don't betray me," Oliver whispered.
"When do you want to leave?" Franklin asked.
Oliver looked around at the walls he'd seen a million times as he ratcheted up his courage to make the choice he wasn't sure he should make. "As early as tomorrow or the next day."
Chapter 37: Beck
"Grain," said Beck as he and Evan turned onto to Market Street. "That's what we need more of."
"The crowds here have become unbearable, with the residents of villages and other towns coming into Brighton to join Blackthorn's army."
"Yes," Beck agreed, jostled by a pair of women hurrying out of the market carrying a full basket between them.
Up ahead, several dozen soldiers took sides, facing each other and yelling over some dispute.
"If stored properly and kept free of vermin, grain will keep forever in practical terms," Beck mused. "It'll last longer than you or me." Beck looked over his shoulder to see that his escorts were still behind. The four sol
diers were falling back in the mass of people crowded into the street, but they were coming.
"The question I ask myself," said Evan, "is whether these people left behind significant food stores in their towns and villages before coming here. Surely they couldn't have carried everything. They just harvested. Some were still harvesting when General Blackthorn called them in. I understand why they brought their animals; those couldn't be left untended. But the grains? The vegetables? What of those?"
Beck stopped and turned to Evan. "This was all part of my plan. I suspected the peasants would have no way to transport so much to Brighton. What's more, they all believe they'll be returning to their homes soon, so why bring it? No reason. I did want to wait for the confirmation of seeing what they brought before I chose which path in my plan to take next."
"Which is?" asked Evan.
Beck leaned in close so that only Evan would be able to hear him amidst the cacophony of bickering, bargaining, and yelling. "If we concentrate our coin on things besides food, we may very well be able to get what we need on the way west, if we leave at the right time. We'd simply need to stop by the empty towns on the way, and pick up what we want from unguarded stores."
"I agree," said Evan. "If we choose to stay here and fight, that changes, though."
"If we stay and fight," said Beck, "the food stores will not be the decisive factor. In terms of resources, it will be men and weapons that make the difference."
The argument ahead escalated into a rush of fists and shoves. Other men were pulled into the fight when they were pushed or punched by mistake. The fight spread though the street.
Beck stopped and turned around. "We'll not be getting through that way."
"We should get out of here," said Evan.
"Conditions in the city worsen by the day," said Beck as he hurried his pace. "Brighton simply cannot hold so many."
"When does General Blackthorn intend to march the army out?" asked Evan.
"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.
The Last Humanity (The Last Survivors Book 3) Page 12