The Protectors

By Ryan King

It has been twenty years since the Great Plague. In a few months, Teal will turn sixteen and be able to Take the Chit from a Protector as so many have before her. In a cruel and dark world the Protectors supposedly keep away the violence and madness. But Teal is starting to realize that all is not what it seems, and her grandfather and mother harbor old secrets about Before and the Dark Years. As she seeks to stand for truth, Teal inadvertently sets off a chain of events that could destroy them all.

The Protectors is a future dystopian short novel suitable for young adult or adult readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Three Kings Publishing
• Release date: Jan 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386391685

Ryan King

Ryan King is a career army officer with multiple combat tours who continues to serve in the military. He has lived, worked, and traveled throughout Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. King is married to fellow author Kristin King and they have four young and energetic boys who keep them constantly busy. Ryan King writes post-apocalyptic, dystopian, thriller, horror, and action short stories, short novels, and novels. He has also published the first book in his post-apocalyptic Land of Tomorrow series called Glimmer of Hope. Ryan King also writes under the pen name of Charles R. King for historical non-fiction. He has published 22 works, primarily covering the Punic Wars and late Roman Republican Era which was the focus of his graduate degree. Five of these works are currently on seven different bestseller lists. King is also writing a historical fiction series about Hannibal and the Second Punic War. The first book in that series debuts 2013.

Book preview

I was born in the Dust Year, exactly twenty years after the Great Plague when my mother was born. This December I'll be sixteen and able to Take the Chit if I want. Not that we're that bad off since Mother knows how to sew, but plenty of girls have.

Get back to work, Teal, hissed Mother under her breath, not even daring to look up at me. Reaper, the Protector assigned to watch us, leaned against a nearby wall, his long whip curled around his massive tattooed neck.

Plunging my hands back down into the rich earth, I pulled out weeds carefully, avoiding the tender shoots of carrots. I could feel the other women and girls around me. We communicated in subtle ways. Miriam who supposedly was once a math teacher, whatever that was, moved casually as if to tend the melons, but we all discretely spied her shadow. It was almost lined up with the first cornstalk. When that happened, we would get a break for lunch. Most of the women would go to other assigned tasks, but Mother and I would return home to work on clothes for our fellow Newton residents or possibly a new order from the Shriekers.

I stole a glance at the Protector. The Shriekers were once a road gang back when there were such things. You could still see the rusting relicts of their motorcycles in front of the courthouse if you liked. It wasn't simply the fact that gasoline was as scarce as to be nearly mythical, but except for the small roads and tracks around town, it would be suicidal to travel at any speed on the old highways. Those long wide roads were covered in thick layers of kudzu that was nearly a foot deep, and to ride a bike on them would be impossible. The motorcycles were worthless for anything more than a monument to the Shriekers', now our Protectors, earlier days.

All right, said Reaper, staring at one of the few functioning watches strapped to his beefy arm. That's it for Morning Shift, my little doves. Take your breaks and then report for Afternoon Shift.

We all stood as one and moved to the fenced-in garden's one exit; all of us funneled into a single line and consciously avoided Reaper's gaze. Even so, he slapped us all lightly on the butt with his whip as we departed, the closest thing to affection this man was probably capable of, I imagined. Cringing as he slapped Mother's rear, I prepared to walk through myself. Reaper's arm reached out to block my way. Instinctively, I stood there still and silent, so like a rabbit under a circling hawk, hardly daring to even draw breath.

Look at me, little dove, he grumbled.

Reluctantly, I raised my eyes up to his oversized shaved head. Cruel eyes and a wicked smile greeted me. He licked his lips.

You're about ripe there, my little tomato, he said. Come see me first if you decide to Take a Chit. I treat all my girls good, you'll see. As if to prove it to me, he reached out and caressed one of my small breasts lightly, showing me his gentleness.

I felt Mother tense in front of me, but I dared not look at her. Technically, it was against the Code for a Protector to touch a girl in such a way if she hadn't Taken the Chit, but who was there to complain to?

I nodded and forced a weak smile.

He removed his hand from the front of my coarse shirt and slapped my ass with his coiled up whip. Get along then, my little cherry tomato.

Forcing myself not to run, I walked out of the garden and Mother fell in beside me. I could tell she wanted to talk about what just happened, but what was there to say?

It didn't take us long to walk home. Newton was once a much larger town, but after the Great Plague and the Black Years, every home and building outside of a quarter-mile circle was burned to the ground. The reasoning of burning the dead bodies and their numerous scavengers, while making it easier to defend the town against road gangs, had certainly made sense at the time. Now we understood it also made it easier for the Shriekers to control the dwindled and traumatized population.

We recognized faces as everyone returned to their homes or the Dormitory after Morning Shift. Few people spoke, although it was allowed. We limited our interactions to brief nods or light waves of our hands. Several pretty girls strolled more casually with no regard for time, as they did not have to work outside of the Shrieker House. They wore a round chit of wood around their neck by a cord. On the wood was a symbol corresponding to the Shrieker they were mated with. Several of the women wore chits upon which the original symbol had obviously been scratched out and changed, evidence that they had been traded for something or someone.

Mother crossed to the other side of the street as she always did when we approached her own mother's old bridal shop. The actual dresses were all gone. Lace and veils had been taken to cover broken windows, satin long ago gone to bind wounds or sores. Peering through shattered windows, you could see dusty floors littered with naked female manikins, many of them defaced by paint or knife.

I still liked to gaze in there and see the faded pictures on walls. The women seemed too clean and healthy and happy in their unearthly white dresses. Nothing was truly white anymore, not even the clouds. I imagined that if I could glimpse an angel, it would closely resemble one of these women. Grandpa assured me that it was not uncommon for women to dress this way for something called a wedding, but I had learned to disregard much of what the old man said. It wasn't that I doubted its truth; the information simply wasn't useful.

My mother taught me to sew, Mother said suddenly.

I was so startled I almost stopped walking. It was unusual for her to talk about anything that was not absolutely necessary. You told me once, I finally respond.

Mother's eyes were distant. She was already sick by then. Grandmother and my brother all died from the Plague, but she had something else.

The Small Pox? I asked with a shudder.

Mother shook her head. "No, it was another