The Last Survivors (Book 2): The Last Escape Read online

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  CREDITS

  THE LAST SURVIVORS - BOOK 1 RECAP

  PREFACE

  Chapter 1 - Ella

  Chapter 2 - Ivory

  Chapter 3 - Blackthorn

  Chapter 4 - Ivory

  Chapter 5 - Ella

  Chapter 6 - Ivory

  Chapter 7 - Blackthorn

  Chapter 8 - Ella

  Chapter 9 - Blackthorn

  Chapter 10 - Ella

  Chapter 11 - Ella

  Chapter 12 - Ella

  Chapter 13 - Blackthorn

  Chapter 14 - Ella

  Chapter 15 - Blackthorn

  Chapter 16 - Beck

  Chapter 17 - Ella

  Chapter 18 - Blackthorn

  Chapter 19 - Ella

  Chapter 20 - Beck

  Chapter 21 - Ella

  Chapter 22 - Beck

  Chapter 23 - Bray

  Chapter 24 - Beck

  Chapter 25 - Ivory

  Chapter 26 - Bray

  Chapter 27 - Ivory

  Chapter 28 - Bray

  Chapter 29 - Beck

  Chapter 30 - Ella

  Chapter 31 - Fitzgerald

  Chapter 32 - Beck

  Chapter 33 - Fitzgerald

  Chapter 34 - Fitzgerald

  Chapter 35 - Beck

  Chapter 36 - Fitzgerald

  Chapter 37 - Fitzgerald

  Chapter 38 - Beck

  Chapter 39 - Fitzgerald

  Chapter 40 - Jeremiah

  Chapter 41 - Bray

  Chapter 42 - Oliver

  Chapter 43 - Oliver

  Chapter 44 - Melora

  Chapter 45 - Oliver

  Chapter 46 - Melora

  Chapter 47 - Oliver

  Chapter 48 - Melora

  Chapter 49 - Melora

  Chapter 50 - Oliver

  Chapter 51 - Melora

  Chapter 52 - Oliver

  Chapter 53 - William

  Chapter 54 - Oliver

  Chapter 55 - Jeremiah

  Chapter 56 - Bray

  Chapter 57 - Oliver

  Chapter 58 - Ivory

  Chapter 59 - Bray

  Chapter 60 - Ivory

  Chapter 61 - Bray

  Chapter 62 - Oliver

  Reviews

  Map of The Last Survivors World

  About the Authors

  Copyright Info

  The Last Escape

  A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

  Book 2 of The Last Survivors Series

  By

  Bobby Adair & T.W. Piperbrook

  Find us at

  T.W. Piperbrook

  www.twpiperbrook.com

  www.facebook.com/twpiperbrook

  Bobby Adair

  http://www.bobbyadair.com

  http://www.facebook.com/BobbyAdairAuthor

  ©2015 Ancient City Publishing

  Cover Design and Layout

  Alex Saskalidis, a.k.a. 187designz

  Editing & Proofreading

  Cathy Moeschet

  eBook and Print Formatting

  Kat Kramer

  Technical Consultant

  John Cummings

  The Last Survivors – Book 1 Recap

  Three hundred years after the fall of society, the last fragments of civilization are clinging to life, living in the ruins of the ancient cities in nearly-medieval conditions. Technology has been reduced to legend, monsters roam the forests, and fear reigns supreme. But that is just the beginning.

  The wind-borne spores are spreading, disfiguring men and twisting their minds, turning them into creatures that threaten to destroy the townships. Among the townsfolk—the political and the religious—dissension is spreading.

  Ella Barrow has discovered that her son is infected with the spore and has spirited him out of Brighton before he can be burned on the pyre. General Blackthorn's soldiers are in pursuit. She has fallen into the company of an unscrupulous Warden named Bray, who for the moment is helping her and her son on the journey.

  Minister Beck and his scholars have discovered that through poor management of town resources a famine is inevitable, but Beck is frustrated by his inability to convince the other ministers to do something about it.

  Father Winthrop comes to the realization that a council of three ministers led by a brutal General Blackthorn is a form of government that has outlived its ability to rule. His desire to lead a rebellion is growing. He doesn't understand that his pompous, selfish ways have lost the loyalty of his novices Franklin and Oliver, who are unlikely to follow his lead.

  Ivory—the son of a man named Muldoon who was taken to the pyre at the last Cleansing—has traveled to the Ancient City where he has met his teacher, an enigmatic man infected by the spore.

  Preface

  If you're here, then hopefully you've already read through The Last Survivors Book 1, and there's no need in setting this book up for you. You have a pretty good idea of what's going on. At least that's my hope.

  However, you might have noticed a recurring theme throughout Book 1—a theme that has not gone unnoticed by our readers—we seem to be pretty cruel to the female characters in general throughout the book. There really is a reason for that.

  Rest assured, we're not closet misogynists. As writers, we are keen observers of the world around us. With that in mind, we used our collective knowledge of current events and the history of mankind to craft a more engaging story.

  We created a world where humanity's accumulated knowledge has been lost and people have slowly reverted to a far less technologically advanced state. This seemed like a plausible eventuality given the set-up—only fifty-seven uninfected humans survived the apocalypse.

  In such a situation, it seemed to us that the survivors would focus on the absolute necessities: defending themselves, feeding themselves, and teaching their children to do the same. We imagined that the math and grammar books would become deprioritized and set aside so frequently that after a few generations, such knowledge would be lost. With that would also go literature and all forms of higher mathematics, leaving humanity in a ubiquitous state of ignorance not seen since the Dark Ages.

  It is an unfortunate historical recurrence that uneducated societies tend to devalue women. That was the logical basis from where we started imagining the role of women in our new society. And that is the reason they are treated so poorly in the story.

  However, one of the questions we asked ourselves when we started was how can a woman in such a repressive culture rise above the constraints that hold her down? What has to happen? What would that transformation look like? Hopefully we'll find out.

  Bobby Adair

  Chapter 1: Ella

  They were dead. All of them.

  Ella didn't need to count the bodies to know that all three hundred residents of Davenport—her home village—had been slaughtered. She reached out for William, but her son had already broken away, and he stepped among the gutted and the strangled, his mouth stuck open in disbelief.

  "We need to get out of here," Bray urged.

  But Ella's feet were frozen in place. She scanned the faces of the dead townsfolk, thinking she might recognize someone. A few were familiar, but it was impossible to tell for sure—their expressions were twisted in the throes of death, their features marred with blood and gore.

  "Ella!" Bray hissed, louder. His sword was out, and he spun in a slow circle, as though the perpetrators might reappear. But nothing moved. The village was empty. The smell of blood was thick and fresh enough that even scavenging birds and rodents hadn't dared venture out yet.
br />   Ella imagined the cries that had filled the air, the panic that must've ensued before the massacre. How could this have happened?

  "We can't leave," Ella whispered, still in shock.

  "But we have to—"

  "I need to find my aunt and uncle. I need to find…"

  She broke from her trance and darted down the street, collecting William. She leapt over toppled pushcarts and spilled vegetables, holding onto his hand, pushing the images of gore from her mind almost as soon as she saw them. Her feet had taken over for her mind, leading her from one turn to the next, operating on muscle memory and adrenaline. William heaved thick breaths beside her. He didn't speak, not even to question her.

  Anywhere they ran was better than here.

  She heard Bray's footsteps behind them as he chased, but he'd ceased calling for them. The village was silent save the clap of their boots, the world as small as the butchered streets before them.

  Ella flew by building after building, barely taking in the sights. Doors hung open with no one behind them. Houses stood vacant. She'd never seen the village this quiet. Except for The Cleansing, of course. Had The Cleansing already happened? It must have. It was an unbreakable tradition.

  This must've happened after.

  But none of that mattered. All that mattered to Ella was following her feet and her memory, making her way to the place she'd once called home. With each street they passed, the carnage thickened. Bodies were sprawled in every direction. Not just the remains of the townsfolk, but the remains of animals, as well, butchered and half-eaten. They'd have to run through the square to get to her aunt and uncle's.

  Things would get worse before they got better.

  Her stomach heaved and churned. But she wouldn't stop until she'd reached her aunt and uncle's. In the distance, about a hundred feet away, she saw the steeple of the worship building, the place where she'd spent many days in her childhood. The peak rose a hundred feet in the air, the walls built from the smooth gray material of the Ancients. The structure was as majestic as she remembered it.

  Davenport had been built around its remains.

  We're almost there, she thought, as though reaching the village center would somehow erase the chaos. But her body gave away her fear. Her heart slammed against her ribs; heavy gasps burned her throat. She dodged the body of a slain merchant, catching a glimpse of his gouged eyes and the hilt of a knife protruding from his forehead. So it hadn't been demons. Not all of it.

  Men had done this.

  She barely had time to register the thought when she'd rounded the next corner. She flew past the worship building, giving way to an open, dirt square about several hundred feet across. Bodies lined the edges, many with spears in their backs. Women and children and the elderly had been killed with equal abandon.

  Two heads were in the center on spikes.

  The ministers, she thought. As she ran, her mind conjured the images of Father Towson and Father Decker, who'd come to Brighton for visits and guest sermons. She hadn't particularly liked them, but they didn't deserve to die. Not like this. None of this made any sense.

  Tears spilled down her face.

  With William running behind her, she dashed across the square, approaching the slain ministers. The sticks were propped several feet above the ground, displaying the severed, ruined faces for all to see. The alley to her aunt and uncle's was in view, just past the village center; she'd have to pass the spiked heads to get to it. As she approached, she felt William's hand go slack in hers, and saw that he was staring at the ministers. Unwittingly, she followed his gaze.

  Only the heads didn't belong to the ministers.

  Ella stopped running, an icy numbness working its way through her body. She hadn't recognized any of the bodies so far. Not through the blood and gore. But she recognized these.

  She clasped her hand over her mouth, unable to contain her sickness. Staring at her from the tops of the spikes, their eyes sightless, their faces splashed with blood, were the severed heads of Aunt Jean and Uncle Frederick.

  "No!" Ella wailed, collapsing to her knees. She turned her head and heaved into the street. William fell to the ground next to her, grasping her arm. He was crying, too. He would've remembered them. They hadn't visited in five years, but there was no mistaking their relatives.

  She closed her eyes and reopened them, hoping to find proof that this was all a dream, but it was real. The death and the destruction of Davenport was total and irrevocable.

  Bray drew near, his face sympathetic. His eyes wandered from the spikes and then back to Ella. "Blackthorn," he said.

  "What?" Ella dried her face and looked up at him. She furrowed her brow, as much in disbelief as in mourning.

  "Blackthorn did this to get to you. To send a message."

  The words hit her like a punch to the stomach, and the tears were flowing again, and she was powerless to stop them. This was all her fault. She'd avoided The Cleansing; she'd skirted the will of The Word. And now others had paid.

  "No," she managed.

  "This wasn't because of you," William said next to her. "It was because of me." He dried his face and got to his feet. She watched him through a veil of tears. His face was contorted in both anguish and anger. How could she comfort him? There was no way to mend what had happened.

  To her surprise, he raised his fist in the air and began to shout. "I'll kill you! Do you hear me?"

  "Quiet!" Bray said, grabbing the boy's arm.

  William ignored him. "I'll kill you, Blackthorn!"

  The boy had lost control, and he writhed in Bray's arms. Ella leapt to her feet. She grabbed hold of William's other arm, doing her best to hush him. His face was flush and streaked with tears. After a few seconds they were able to settle him down. She looked across the bloodied square, certain she'd find a band of soldiers, but the square was empty. Even still, they needed to get out of here. But not yet.

  "I need to check on something else," Ella said.

  "This isn't wise. We have to—" Bray began.

  "Please." She gave him an insistent stare and then started for the other side of the plaza. Bray and William followed. She scoured the ground as she ran, tracing the faces of the fallen townsfolk again. Soon she'd reached the alley past the square. The buildings were small and close together, and her mind jumped to memories of her youth. She'd played chickenball and rattles in the streets, just like William. She'd had friends. She'd had dreams. The scenery was so familiar, and yet so wrong.

  She stepped around the bodies of several women lying facedown in the dirt, their dresses hitched above their waists, made to look indecent even in death. She glanced inside several open doorways, hoping she'd see someone inside, a survivor of the massacre, someone who could explain what had happened. She needed hope now more than ever. But the small houses were dark and empty.

  Four doorways further was the entrance to her aunt and uncle's. She recognized the door even before she was upon it, and she picked up her pace until she'd reached it. Stomach hitching, she crossed the threshold.

  The house had been ransacked. Her aunt and uncle's bedrolls were slashed, their storeroom raided. A sack of grain lay empty in the corner, the contents dumped across the room. The floor was wet and it reeked of urine. If there was any resemblance to the place where Ella had grown up, it was lost in the disorder.

  Her eyes flitted across the ruined room. She walked inside and picked up the blankets and bedrolls. Then she went to the storeroom and peered inside. The shelves were barren, the contents either stolen or destroyed.

  "What are you looking for?" Bray asked from the doorway, his sword at the ready.

  Ella didn't answer. Her heart was pumping furiously.

  "Take some supplies, if you must," Bray added. "But be quick about it. They'll be back looking for you. We can't stay."

  Ella ignored him, growing nauseous again. She walked to the entrance, pushing by Bray, and scanned up and down the alley. But there was no sign of what she was looking for. She turned
around to find both Bray and William watching her.

  "What are you doing?" Bray asked.

  "I was hoping she was still here," Ella said, tears in her eyes.

  "Who?"

  "I was hoping I'd find my daughter."

  Chapter 2: Ivory

  Ivory sat beside Jingo, looking out across the peculiar beauty of the decaying city from the top of the old tower. Ivory leaned forward and peeked over the edge at the forest that had taken over the Ancient City's streets a few hundred feet below. Demons wandered in those woods, hidden from sight by the canopy of green above them and the deep shadows below.

  "The snows will come early this year," said Jingo, pointing at the northern sky. "When I was a boy I used to visit my grandparents on a farm far away from the city. They used to call that a blue northern."

  Ivory peered at the sky, seeing the darker-than-normal blue color. Noncommittally, he said, "Okay." He fidgeted though. He had things to say.

  Jingo almost smiled, but didn't turn away from the horizon. "You're not staying long this time."

  "How did you know?" Ivory asked.

  "There is much to see in a man that is not said. One only needs to pay attention."

  Ivory shook his head and huffed. "I have to leave in the morning."

  "Because of your bag full of metals?"

  "Yes," said Ivory. "Muldoon's gambling again. He has debts that must be settled soon."

  "Your father, of course," said Jingo. He paused a moment. "Please don't misinterpret what I am about to say. I mean no offense by it."

  "Yes?"

  "That is usually the way with my students. Always so quick to leave."

  Ivory felt guilty. "I'm not… Wait. What do you mean?"

  "I have never told you this before, but I have been a teacher to many from Brighton."

  "You have?" Ivory had thought his relationship with Jingo was unique, something special passed from his uncle down to him. He felt a pang of jealousy such that, if he were older than his seventeen years, he might not have felt at all. But when Ivory was able to think past his petty desire to have Jingo all to himself, he thought of a curious question. "How is that so? I don't doubt you. What I mean is that you've taught me so much about reading and mathematics, about the ancient world. All that I've learned in the four years I've been coming here is not known in Brighton."