The Ruins Book 4 Page 14

  Footsteps pounded up and down the stairs as they continued inspecting the stairwell, and William stayed put in his room. People answered over one another, trying to explain, or make sense of what they were seeing. Eventually, one of the voices won out.

  "What happened?" Tolstoy demanded.

  "I'm not sure," said a nervous guard. "We were at the windows when we heard the noise. It took us a moment to retrieve our weapons and came out. We thought it was The Plagued Ones. When we arrived, we found him like that."

  "The Library Room door is open," the first guard said, stating the obvious. "I didn't see anyone else upstairs."

  "Check the bottom floor," Tolstoy ordered another guard.

  Footsteps clapped down the stairs, passing William's floor, continuing to the building's bowels. After a few moments, more guards returned. It sounded as if the guards downstairs had joined the others. "We didn't see anything from the bottom level," said one of them, presumably stationed below. "The Plagued Ones outside are quiet."

  "I told Barron to stop going to the Library at night," Amelia said, with a crack of pain in her voice. "I told him he might get hurt."

  "It must've been an accident," Leonard proclaimed, repeating her assessment.

  An accident.

  William's heart hammered in his chest.

  He hoped everyone would believe it.

  Tolstoy cleared his throat, clearly unnerved. "See if you can move him," he ordered the guards.

  Grunts and grumbles echoed through the stairwell as the guards tried moving Barron. Footsteps beat the stairs as someone came up or down. It was only a matter of moments until someone remembered William and thought to question him, coming to his door. His panic heightened as he looked across the room toward the crack of light, making another realization.

  He'd left his door unlocked.

  In his haste, he'd left a clue that might connect him. Stuffing the gun and the ammunition back in the drawer, William padded across the room, reaching the door handle. He dug for the pin, stuck it in the door, and worked on the lock as The Gifted's chatter grew louder, and they fought with the body, getting it down what sounded like a flight of stairs.

  "Where are we going?" asked one of them.

  "To Barron's room," said Leonard, in a grave tone. "We'll put him in bed until we can figure out what to do with him."

  "Be careful," Tolstoy ordered. "We don't need someone else falling."

  Heaves and groans got closer as people carried the body. William knelt on the ground, fiddling with the lock. He had just managed to re-lock it when the people outside reached his landing. Raising a fist, he banged hard on the door. The voices on the other side stopped as they heard a new source of commotion.

  Someone unlocked and opened his door.

  Rubbing fake sleep from his eyes and putting on the most confused face he could muster, William peered out into the hallway and into the staring faces of The Gifted.

  "What's going on?" he asked.

  Chapter 42: William

  A circle of grave, stony faces stood in a circle around Barron's bed, staring at the lifeless, prone man. Barron's eyes were wide. His mouth was gaped open in an expression of pain and surprise. Several of his warts had broken open, leaving bloody, puss-covered holes in their wake.

  Death wasn't pretty.

  But then, it never was.

  Standing in the far corner of the room, kept away due to his supposed sickness, William watched The Gifted hover around the dead man. They had propped Barron's head up on his pillow, but even then, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, weighed down by his bulbous head. Despite the size of his skull, he seemed to sink into his robe, as if the gods had already claimed him. Amelia, in particular, stared at the body, as if Barron might sit up and speak, even though he would never talk again. A lump in William's throat reminded him that he was the last person to see Barron alive.

  William wiped away his fake tears. He was a sickly boy, woken from sleep by a tragedy. Or, that was how he'd played it.

  "Three hundred years of life," Tolstoy said with reverie, as he shook his head. "Over in an eye's blink."

  "It is a reminder of our fragility," Amelia said in a somber tone.

  The other Gifted folded their arms, staring at the scene, as if they hadn't yet processed it.

  "We are the most intelligent beings on the planet, but we have our perils." Herman sighed. "If only our bodies were as strong as our minds."

  William surveyed Barron's body on the bed. His victim. Any remorse he might've felt was buried by the memory of his friends, rotting away in the city below. Looking around at all the wart-covered figures in the room, he couldn't help but picture them alongside Barron.

  "Shall we have a service for him?" asked Leonard, cocking his wart-covered head.

  "Perhaps those in the city will mourn," Amelia suggested.

  "Mourn?" Tolstoy scoffed, as if he had stepped in a putrid puddle. "They will not mourn. They will blow their pale noses and smear their watery eyes, but they will welcome our end, because they think it means something better. They would rejoice in Barron's loss."

  "It is true," Rudyard said, shaking his head. "They are misinformed. We should not speak of Barron's death to the humans."

  "They do not deserve it," Tolstoy spat emphatically. "We will honor him in a private service." Turning to the handful of guards hovering by the door, who awaited his orders, he said, "Sneak his body to the Glass Houses and cremate him privately. When you are finished, bring his ashes to me."

  Chapter 43: Kirby

  Shrill screaming ripped Kirby awake.

  She sat up quickly, looking around her small hovel in the morning light. Blinking through the pain of her swollen eye, she saw several guards in the room, arguing with Esmeralda.

  Fiona screamed from Esmeralda's arms.

  "Please!" Esmeralda cried, to the uncaring faces of the guards.

  Kirby tossed aside her bedroll. A guard stopped her before she stood.

  "Stay down," he ordered, standing near her to make sure she complied. "You don't want to get involved."

  "Tomorrow, you'll bring her to Isabella's," another guard told Esmeralda. "Those were the orders."

  "I just need a little more time," Esmeralda pleaded.

  "If you're not at the shop for count, you'll be punished," the guard threatened. "You know how it goes."

  Esmeralda pleaded with a few guards, but they barely listened. They waved their hands, as if she were a circling gnat. One or two smiled in a way that showed they were used to the commotion and the tears.

  "Not all of the new mothers want to go back to work," the guard next to Kirby explained. "Sometimes they need a little coaxing."

  Kirby watched the guard, keeping expressionless.

  "This time, it is a friendly visit," the guard said. "Next time…" His warning hung in the air.

  Esmeralda's pleas turned to tears as the guards left. She hugged Fiona tightly, sniffling. Kirby watched the guards disappear down the alley, swallowed by a few slaves who had emerged from their homes to watch. After a few moments, the slaves lost interest and left.

  "I prepared for this moment," Esmeralda explained, wiping away her tears. "But when the guards came to remind me, I lost control of my emotions. I am sorry."

  Kirby nodded. Even without children, she knew the strength of a mother's love.

  Esmeralda consoled Fiona with gentle words and caresses, as if it might be the last time she saw her.

  "They said you are to leave her with Isabella?" Kirby asked.

  "One of the caretakers," Esmeralda explained. "A while ago, Isabella lost a finger in one of the machines in the shops. She couldn't work as fast, so they pulled her from the shops and tasked her with taking care of the children. Isabella has a challenging job. She will do her best to handle Fiona, but it will be hard to give her specialized attention."

  Kirby nodded. Turning her sympathy into a suggestion, she said, "I am sorry to hear about your trouble. Perhaps you can visit her at lun
ch?"

  "Perhaps, but the guards mostly discourage it." Esmeralda sighed. "We have so little time, as you know."

  Kirby nodded. Too many rules.

  Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she inadvertently touched her swollen eye.

  Guilt passed through Esmeralda's face as she said, "I am sorry to wake you like that. You might've had a few more moments to sleep."

  "It is okay. I needed to be up for work anyway." Kirby looked around, surprised she had slept as long as she had. But it made sense, after the physical and emotional pain she'd endured the day before.

  "I find that some cold water works best in the first few days, to reduce the swelling of a black eye," Esmeralda said. "Let me get a washcloth for you."

  Kirby nodded. Too many previous injuries told her that what Esmeralda said was true. She accepted the washcloth and held it to her eye.

  Esmeralda bent down, getting a better look. "I don't see any blood in it. Can you see all right?"

  Kirby nodded. In another scenario, she might've considered herself lucky. Not now.

  "Thank you," Kirby said, thinking to add, "I'm sorry about Fiona."

  "It is fine." Esmeralda looked back at Fiona, perhaps finding some new guilt, or a reason to obey, as she considered Kirby's injury. "I will prepare her things. When the time comes, I will leave with the others."

  **

  Kirby kept a steady, inconspicuous gait as she walked past the last few houses in her row, approaching the path near the shop buildings. Slaves mingled, or parted ways as they broke from the homes around her, heading for various buildings in time for work to avoid a beating, or a scolding.

  She kept her head down, trying to hide her bruised face and her swollen eye. Her injury felt like a beacon to those around her, drawing curiosity or sympathy. More than once, she hurried away from someone whose stare made her uncomfortable.

  At the edge of that path, a caravan of wagons and carts trundled up the pathway. Kirby hesitated, watching a line of slaves pull or push the goods inside. Most were covered by cloth, or secured in boxes. One slave fought with a tipsy wagon, loaded with sheets of metal that he continually readjusted, probably headed for one of the many metal shops. Another slave rolled a cart filled with carefully tied bags, about the size of a man's head. She couldn't see what was in them.

  Like with most shipments she'd seen, the guards were careful, moving the goods from the gate to the eastern side of the city with haste. None of the slaves faltered or delayed.

  Farther back, toward the end, Kirby saw a few guards helping to wheel a wagon covered by a tarp, pulling a heavy load as they headed for the Glass Houses.

  Probably some material for the massive building's windows, Kirby thought.

  She continued in the direction of her shop, grateful for the distraction that gave the slaves and the guards something to look at, other than her. She spotted Drew. Pushing faster, she caught up, getting his attention long enough for a careful word.

  Concern crossed his face as he spotted her injury. "What happened to you?"

  "I'm fine," she said, with no desire to explain any more. Drew could read her tone. He didn't ask any more questions.

  "Can we meet tonight?"

  Drew said, "I will make it happen."

  Chapter 44: William

  William lay in his bed under the covers, listening to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. After allowing him out for those few moments to see Barron, Amelia had returned him to his room.

  All morning, the guards had either occupied the stairwell, carrying Barron's body down and out of the building, or making preparations. A few times, he'd caught snippets of conversation from The Gifted, speaking about Barron's death. His passing was a sobering reminder of their mortality.

  Good, William thought. Let them think about it.

  William had seen the end of The Gifted in Barron's lifeless eyes as he lay on that bed, staring at nothing. More than that, he'd seen an end to the violence and enslavement.

  He had the gun, and the ammunition to go with it.

  Looking under the covers, he studied the smooth, antiquated weapon he'd managed to acquire, at the cost of Barron's life. In those quiet moments when The Gifted were in their rooms instead of the stairwell, he'd figured out how to load it. The old weapon wasn't as simple as the guns he'd used in the forest.

  The balls and the small, cap-like pieces he'd found in Amelia's tin were easily paired, though he'd had to figure out where to put them. The powder had taken more time. After unlocking the long, metal piece under the gun's barrel, he'd swiveled open the chamber, smelling and seeing some of the black powder's residue inside the holes. That had given him direction.

  Studying the flask, he had figured out how to portion out what he needed, using a mechanism that placed some of the powder in the tube.

  A few times, he had spilled some of the black substance, stopping to scoop the precious powder. Once he had the hang of it, he'd put some in each of the gun's six chambers, along with a ball, and carefully put each of the caps in the back of the cylinder, using intuition to figure it out. It seemed as if he had loaded it right.

  He wasn't sure.

  He wouldn't know, until he fired a first shot.

  Or the gun failed.

  William was unnerved.

  The uncertainty of the gun wasn't the only problem. The gun only had places for six balls, making the seventh ball and cap useless. Once he started firing, those rounds would go quickly. The Gifted wouldn't stop and wait for him to ready a last ball.

  That meant he had six rounds to kill nine Gifted.

  The gun wasn't the solution he'd hoped.

  He couldn't stop recalling Barron's grasping hands as they'd struggled. The Gifted were centuries old, but they had adult bodies, and more strength than he did. Taking on all of them at once seemed impossible. He might kill a handful, but not before the others got to him.

  Frustrations.

  William thought about an individual attack. Maybe he could enter each of The Gifted's rooms at night and take them down singly with his gun, as he had done with Barron. But a single gunshot would rouse attention. He'd kill no more than one or two before the guards and the rest of The Gifted determined that there was a threat and cornered him. A bludgeoning might work, and would be quieter, but he might only kill a few in that manner before he created noise, or a struggle that forced him to use the gun, and then he would blow his cover that way.

  He needed a quiet method to dispose of them.

  Perhaps smothering them?

  Thinking of Tolstoy's large, imposing figure, William couldn't envision taking the man out with his bare hands. Most of The Gifted had similar statures, or were at least bigger than him. He needed to kill all of them at once. Another death would cause too much suspicion, and he'd certainly be questioned, or caught. He felt just as frustrated with the gun as he did without it.

  The gun was power.

  But it was power he couldn't use.

  Even if he could get past the guards downstairs, the demons would eat him before he took a few steps. There was a possibility he could threaten the guards into showing him more weapons, but he didn't know for sure where they were kept. William might raise enough noise in the process to be caught.

  William felt as if he had only one chance.

  He needed a better way—a more probable way—to use that chance.

  The gun was part of the answer, but not all of it.

  Chapter 45: Esmeralda

  Esmeralda looked out the doorway, holding Fiona in her arms. Hot, mid-morning sun beat down over the stone roofs of the neighboring dwellings. Most of the slaves, including Kirby, were hard at work in the shops, toiling on machines, or sewing clothes in the eastern side of the city. Others worked in the fields in the hot sun.

  Holding Fiona tight, Esmeralda walked out to the path and headed down the row of houses, aiming for the main path.

  She took several turns, winding between some houses until she approached the larger buildings
on the city's eastern side. She glanced at a tall building with an open doorway, with larger buildings in front and behind, peering inside at the room filled with machines. Slaves slid pieces of fabric through the devices in front of them, stepping on pedals at their feet. Head Guards stood guard outside the doorways. Others walked the rows.

  Esmeralda kept going.

  Passing another tall, wide building with a large chimney, she saw three furnaces inside one of the Glass Houses. Esmeralda didn't need to get close to feel the heat coming from that room. A few guards stood near the doorway, overseeing the melting of some product.

  She continued.

  Esmeralda passed a row of machine shops with similar setups. The slaves sweated through the day's heat as they labored on machines, creating whatever pieces The Gifted had in mind. Tomorrow, Esmeralda would return to one of those buildings, producing angular pieces of metal, helping to power the windmills, or other pieces of equipment that she didn't understand. The slaves were taught the skills to do what The Gifted wanted, but rarely more.

  Passing more machine shops, and then some woodworking shops, she finally stopped. Esmeralda kept to the sides of a nearby house as she waited to be noticed.

  Across the path, Ollie yelled at some people inside a building used for storage. A few guards stood next to him. Esmeralda knew better than to interrupt. She looked down at Fiona, who smiled at her from beneath the blankets. When she looked up, Ollie was coming across the path and toward her.

  He looked at her as if she might be lost. "What do you want?" he asked angrily.

  Esmeralda lowered her eyes. "I was hoping I might speak with you a moment."

  "What is it?" Ollie's eyes showed disdain, as he looked her up and down. A few guards behind him smirked as they stepped in to take over his duties.

  "Can we speak privately?" she asked, gesturing toward a nearby alley.

  Fiona cooed, forcing Ollie's eyes to Esmeralda's arms. He quickly looked away. "Only for a moment."

  Esmeralda led him down an alley that resembled her own, passing a few empty houses whose inhabitants presumably worked. Finding a quiet place, she stopped.