The Last Survivors (Book 3): The Last Humanity Page 3

  He'd catch Ivory, either way.

  Seeing the boy fall on the snowy slope was enough to change his mind about keeping the same course. Jeremiah knew he couldn't keep up with the boy's speed.

  Instead, he'd stuck to higher ground, hoping he'd be able to spy on him from the mountain.

  Grunting from the exertion of travel, wishing he could take a break, Jeremiah plowed on, grabbing the flask of snowberry he had on his belt, uncapping it and taking long swigs while he carefully traversed the mountain. Thankfully he'd stocked up before the trip. Beck's money was serving him well.

  Jeremiah had almost been out of money before he'd received Beck's offer. If he hadn't agreed to tail Ivory to the Ancient City, he might not have afforded his booze.

  Planting his sizeable boots between rocks to avoid falling, he made quicker progress than he'd expected. Despite the cold temperature, the alcohol warmed his stomach, giving him motivation. Soon Jeremiah had trekked down the mountain and into the woods. The level ground was a welcome change.

  The boy's footsteps were easy to follow. The impressions were clear and widely spaced, indicating that he was moving at a good clip. Jeremiah was surprised at the boy's progress; given the fall Ivory had taken, he imagined the boy couldn't be feeling too good.

  Serves him right, for getting noticed. If the boy were smart, he would've done his smuggling more carefully. He wouldn't have gotten himself tailed.

  But that wasn't Jeremiah's concern. In fact, he was grateful for the boy's missteps. They'd provided Jeremiah with a well-paying job. And the promise of wealth and books at the Ancient City had him intrigued.

  He still wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there.

  What was to stop him from skimming a few books from the stash before reporting back to Beck? Hell, maybe he'd kill the boy. Maybe he'd take all of them. He'd sell them in another township, swear the merchant to secrecy, and live off the proceeds for the rest of his days.

  He laughed under his breath.

  The result would be good. Whatever it was.

  His smile was stuck on his face as he trudged through the snow, keeping his eye on the boy's footprints. The tracks might as well be the path to fortune. Jeremiah traveled several more miles, taking celebratory swigs from his flask to keep his blood moving. Life was going well. He'd retire young, surround himself with women, and thumb his nose at the other miserable Wardens.

  Plodding along, Jeremiah noticed animal tracks in the snow.

  "Is that a woodland cat?" he muttered under his breath.

  He studied the large, round pads. He'd seen similar tracks before, but never the beasts that made them. In Jeremiah's experience, creatures in the wild were usually too timid to confront a man. Most were too afraid of the demons to risk getting close. He grunted as he followed Ivory's tracks, which ran alongside the creature's for a while and then veered off.

  He kept his sword handy, just in case he needed it.

  Soon the animal tracks were out of sight. Jeremiah followed Ivory's trail until the ground became hard, and he lost sight of them. Turning in a circle, he searched for the boy, but saw nothing.

  "God Dammit!" he cursed loudly.

  Sticking his sword in the ground, he grabbed his flask and took another swig. He studied the area. The lack of snow would make tracking harder. But he'd figure it out. He always did. He swished his drink in his mouth while he studied Ivory's boot prints.

  A few hundred yards away, sunken into the side of a hill, was a cave.

  The boot prints pointed right toward it.

  A wide smile crossed Jeremiah's face. He stared at the dark entrance, envisioning the boy huddled inside. The kid was probably watching him, hoping Jeremiah would keep going. Fat chance, he thought.

  The boy was as good as caught. He might even be sharing the den with an animal.

  Now that would be a sight to see.

  Wielding his sword, creeping over the forest floor, Jeremiah kept quiet, just in case the kid hadn't seen him. He hadn't intended to overtake the boy so soon. He had intended to simply tail him until the boy arrived at his stash. Oh, well. Jeremiah could change his plans. He'd drag Ivory out of the cave, threaten him, and force the boy to lead him to his stash.

  One plan was as good as the other.

  Jeremiah walked at a crouch until he was ten feet from the cave's entrance. He stared into the dark opening, but shadows obscured a clear view inside. He waited and listened. He held up his sword. At any moment, the boy would start pleading, especially if he was unwittingly keeping the company of an animal.

  Jeremiah was greeted by silence.

  "Hello?" he called.

  At first he heard nothing. Then he heard the scrape of something against the interior wall. The boy was probably trying to hide himself a little deeper in the cave's darkness.

  "I know where you are, boy. You'd better come out," Jeremiah growled.

  The boy didn't answer. Jeremiah hunkered down and peered into the gloom, annoyed. His sizeable belly ached from bending over. The last thing he wanted was to crawl inside the narrow, shit-ridden hole. He waved his sword.

  "If you don't come out, I'm going to start stabbing." His anger rose. "I can't promise what I'll hit. Do you hear me? You can come out whole or in pieces. Up to you."

  The boy still didn't answer. Shaking his head, Jeremiah scooted onto his hands and knees, sticking his sword in the opening, beating a warning strike against the wall. He didn't see the cornered animal until the animal roared and charged at him.

  Jeremiah cried out and toppled backward, fighting the sudden weight of a beast on top of him. His sword clattered to the ground. The beast was almost his size, but it was impossible to gauge for certain because it was moving and tearing and clawing, filling his body with pain. Jeremiah's muscles strained as he tried to push it off. He held his arms in front of his face.

  "Get off!" he screamed.

  The beast tore through his jacket and into his arm, trying to get to Jeremiah's neck. All Jeremiah could do was push and writhe to try and fend it off. Somehow he managed to get a hand free, and he pounded the side of the thing's head, aiming for an eye, a snout, anything to make it relent.

  He felt something soft cave beneath his knuckles. The beast yelped and leapt off him. Jeremiah rolled away from it, barely catching his wind before he was face-to-face with it again.

  The animal snarled from a few feet away, scrunching its nose and revealing four, blade-like fangs. One of its eyes blinked from where Jeremiah had struck it. Jeremiah remained still. He eyed his sword. It was five feet away, far enough that he wouldn't get to it before the thing leapt again. He was determined to defend himself, but he knew better than to move.

  He stared at the creature, feeling outwitted. Outmatched.

  In that instant, he comprehended what it was to be the hunted, to be the prey. Jeremiah prepared for what might be his last battle. He opened his mouth and screamed.

  The thing bounded off, cutting through a thicket with long, graceful strides, vanishing into the forest.

  Jeremiah watched it go with a dumbstruck fear. He glanced around the forest, as if someone might've witnessed what had happened, but there were no spectators, save him and the trees.

  Jeremiah cursed as he inspected his wounded arm. Though his clothes had shielded him from some of the attacks, his arm had four large puncture wounds from where the beast had clamped onto him. Blood gushed from the injuries. His body was cut and bruised in various places. He unslung his pack, taking out some healing herbs. What he needed was a healer, but he wasn't going to go back to Brighton.

  No way in hell. Not after he'd come this far.

  His urge to give up and go home was overshadowed by another emotion.

  What Jeremiah felt, stronger than the sting of his wounds, was a burning, seething hatred for the boy who had escaped.

  He'd find Ivory. He'd find him, and he'd make him pay for the blood that was soaking his clothes.

  Chapter 7: Franklin

  Brighton w
as quieting down for the night. Winthrop was asleep. Franklin finished up all of his and Oliver's chores. He was tired, and he was ashamed. After Oliver's beating, all Franklin could think of through the rest of the day was Oliver's blood, seeping through his pants and shirt. All Franklin could hear were Oliver's cries.

  Please, please, stop!

  I've learned!

  I have!

  Please, stop!

  But Franklin hadn't stopped. He'd whipped that crop across Oliver's backside until his arm cramped. Then he'd switched to his left arm and beaten him some more, all the while trying to deafen himself to Oliver's pleas. All the while, he tried to imagine it was that sadistic lard, Winthrop, he was beating.

  Oliver didn't need to be beaten. Was Oliver precocious? Yes. Too quick to hurt others with his words? Absolutely. Too easily taken by temptation to trouble? Without a doubt.

  But Oliver could be taught. At heart, he was a good kid, a smart kid, a friend. Franklin knew all of that beyond repute. Beating Oliver achieved nothing. For a boy like Oliver, who saw through the simple-minded brutal manipulation of it, beatings could never work. Oliver had to be appealed to; he had to understand. His questions had to be answered. He had to choose to do the right thing.

  Maybe that was Oliver's biggest problem. He thought he had a choice.

  He didn't.

  No one in Brighton had a choice in anything that mattered. That was a lesson maturity taught everyone.

  Maybe Oliver understood that lesson already, but he was too hardheaded to accept it. And for that choice, he'd paid.

  Franklin checked all the doors in the big, empty Sanctuary. He walked through the shadowy darkness and passed into the hall that led to Father Winthrop's quarters. He checked the door at the end of that hall. He passed through the kitchen and checked the door there to be sure it was secure.

  With all that done, he made his way to the room he shared with Oliver, a room he'd been avoiding all day because he knew Oliver was in there. Franklin didn't know how he'd face the boy.

  He hated himself for what he'd done.

  Instead of comforting Oliver, he'd avoided him, choosing to think only of himself, his embarrassment, and the pain in his heart. Franklin had done the worst possible thing.

  Oliver was still just a kid. He was injured in body and soul. He needed attention to his wounds and comfort. The only person Oliver could depend on was Franklin, and Franklin had left him on his own to sulk alone in a room and to try to figure out how to tend wounds he couldn't reach.

  What a monster I am.

  Franklin put a hand on the door, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. Fearing he wouldn't be able to hold his tears in, he turned the handle.

  Chapter 8: Fitzgerald

  Fitzgerald sat beside Oliver on his narrow bed, looking at the welts and the places where the riding crop had broken through the skin on his back. She'd cleaned those wounds while Oliver clenched his teeth and cried out. She'd tried to hug him, to hold him, but Oliver had rebuffed her attempts. He wasn't cruel about it. He'd told her with tears flowing from his eyes that he could not let the soft heart of a woman make him weak.

  Now he was lightly snoring, a final respite from the day's pain.

  Tomorrow will be better. And the next day will be better still.

  At least, that's what she'd told him.

  Oliver argued that she didn't know, that the worst days were yet to come. He said some of the wounds would swell and turn red, then throb and leak pus. They'd scar. He'd been through this too many times not to know the way of it. Never this bad, of course, but certainly many times.

  Seeing the old scars on his skin, Fitzgerald accepted that Oliver knew better than she and did what she could for him. She brought him food at dinnertime, but he didn't eat. She offered to cover him with a blanket to keep him warm, but he refused. The blanket would fuse with the scabs, he'd said, and in the morning it would be impossible to pull down without more pain and more blood.

  Oliver chose to suffer the cold on top of all else.

  At least the poor boy was finally asleep.

  Startled by a noise at the door, Fitz looked up.

  The door swung open, and there stood Franklin. Her anger boiled, and she jumped to her feet, stepping up to him. She wanted to hurt him as he'd hurt Oliver, to mash his fuzzy little man parts with her knee.

  Son of a bitch.

  Earlier, she'd heard Oliver crying out when she was in Winthrop's chamber emptying his pot. Thinking something terrible was happening, she'd raced from the room, dropping the pot in the hallway, stopping only when she reached the doorway into the Sanctuary. The terrible thing she saw was worse than what her imagination had conjured. She'd guessed that Oliver was being beaten at the hands of some ruffians or a pervert with a taste for young boys.

  She might have been able to rescue him from that.

  What she saw instead was fat Father Winthrop at the edge of his puffy chair looking down from the stage with the most perverse satisfaction on his face. Oliver's hands were braced on the wooden back of the front pew, and Franklin was whipping him with that riding crop that Winthrop sometimes used when he felt like playing rough in bed.

  Fitz reached out in a needless gesture, crying at the sight of Oliver's already bloody shirt. Her heart broke at Franklin's solemn face. He looked like he felt none of Oliver's pain. He wasn't wishing he was somewhere else. His face was twisted in the same, sadistic, satisfied expression that Father Winthrop wore when he was beating one of his lessers.

  At that moment, Fitzgerald came to a realization: Franklin wasn't any better than Winthrop himself. He was merely younger.

  She decided that she hated him.

  With all of her hate coming to the surface, as she saw Franklin there, standing in the doorway, Fitz raised her hands and pushed him out into the hall.

  "What?" Franklin asked in surprise.

  Fitzgerald glared and pushed him again.

  Franklin raised his hands to grab her wrists. "Stop!"

  "Let go of me," she hissed.

  Franklin did as he was told, raising his hands to show her he meant no harm.

  Fitzgerald clenched her jaw, wishing she had a weapon with which to beat him.

  He started to say something, but she silenced him with a raised hand and a hateful scowl. She wanted to punish him, to hurt him, to make him cry as many tears as she and Oliver had shed together.

  She came to a decision. As powerless as she felt, Fitz knew she had a power over men they'd not readily admit. She angrily unbuttoned the top of her dress.

  "What are you doing?" Franklin whispered.

  She pulled her dress open, exposing both of her breasts.

  Franklin's eyes went wide as he stared at them.

  She grabbed his hands, shoved them hard against her breasts and spat, "Squeeze them. Feel them. Enjoy them. You better, because this is the last time you'll ever touch them again."

  She threw his hands off her and resisted the urge to slap him across his face. "You are a brutal pig." She stepped into the room and slammed the door shut.

  Chapter 9: Franklin

  Sitting on a pew in the front row of the Sanctuary, Franklin stared at the far end of the bench, the place where Oliver had leaned while being beaten. Franklin turned the memory over and over in his mind, searching for what he could have done differently. There had to be something. He had to have made a mistake somewhere for it all to have turned out so badly.

  Now Oliver hated him. He was sure of that. How could he not?

  And Fitz. Franklin felt a lump in his throat again. Beautiful, kind Fitz, she'd seen enough of what happened that now she hated him, too.

  He wanted to go back to the door of the room he shared with Oliver and beg both Fitz and Oliver to forgive him, but he feared what a second attempt might bring. He feared a commotion in the middle of the night might wake Father Winthrop.

  So he stayed and looked at the pews.

  Eventually, his eyes grew heavy enough to overcome his anxiety
. He fell asleep.

  When Franklin opened his eyes, he fully expected to see more of the night's cold shadows; instead he saw the faintest of morning lights coming in through the windows high up on the Sanctuary walls. He felt a rough, persistent nudge on his arm.

  Franklin jerked himself upright in the seat, looking around at an empty Sanctuary, empty except for Oliver standing in front of him, a market basket in his hand.

  Franklin looked sheepishly down at his lap. "Are you okay?"

  Oliver didn't answer.

  Franklin looked at Oliver again. He asked, "Are you okay?"

  Oliver didn't turn away. He didn't show any anger. He looked at Franklin with no expression, no words on his lips.

  Franklin stared at his lap. "I'm sorry. You know that. I didn't have a choice." He raised his eyes back up to Oliver. "You understand that, don't you?"

  Oliver said nothing.

  Standing up, Franklin reached over and brushed a wrinkle out of Oliver's shirt as it hung off his shoulder. The shirt was damp. "You cleaned it?"

  Oliver raised the basket.

  "I washed it for him," said Fitz.

  Startled, Franklin looked up to see Fitzgerald leaning against the wall, just inside the doorway at the back of the Sanctuary.

  Franklin's mouth fell open as he looked for words that he couldn't find.

  "Oliver took the beating, but he still got out of bed in time to tend to his morning duties," she said. "Now he needs you to accompany him to the market. Father Winthrop has requests." She turned and retreated into the hall.

  Franklin watched the doorway as though he could will her to come back, to look at him with love in her eyes. He feared he might never see that look again.

  Oliver walked away from Franklin, going down the aisle between the pews, headed for the front door. In an emotionless tone, he said, "We have to go."