Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) by Harry Manners

Allison.
    The young had loose tongues these days, without enough crowds to teach them any better.
    Robert drew away from his charges until Norman had to look straight up to make eye contact. His body now cut out the glare of the sun, allowing Norman an unmarred view of his face: small features set amidst vast tracts of forehead and pendulous cheeks, all of it weather-beaten, exuding a sense of frank pragmatism.
    Despite his all-man appearance, his voice had fallen to a whisper that wasn’t much more than a sigh on the wind. “Listen, Norman, what’s going on? I mean, with all this?”
    Norman blinked.
    Robert watched him expectantly. “I mean, what’s the plan? Alex has filled you in, right?”
    Norman’s stomach sank.
    Robert was above playing sheep—was, in fact, one of the few who’d known Alexander since the Early Years—but in his eyes was the same look Norman had seen more and more often over the last year. Just like the others, Robert was fishing for guidance—as though Norman were privy to some deeper, hidden truth.
    In that moment, he couldn’t have felt less divine. But the look in Robert’s eyes was too sincere, too trusting, to crush underfoot. He forced a smile onto his face. “I’ll keep you posted,” he said. “Listen, have you seen Allie this morning?”
    Robert looked stricken. “Don’t tell on me. She meant no harm.”
    “She’s coming out with us.”
    Robert pointed down the street. “She was up at dawn. I stopped her before she could run her mouth too much. I left her with Sarah.” He winked. “Go easy on her.”
    “No promises.” Norman made for the stables once more.
    *
    Sarah Clarke was quite possibly the world’s last librarian. She was also the last schoolteacher. And with such a ridiculous, inch-thick pair of spectacles as hers, she suited both roles to a tee. The warehouse behind Main Street was her domain, and everything beneath its high roof was under her protection.
    To most, she was a kook to be avoided, hovering upon that delicious sweet spot between giggling lunacy and unbounded enthusiasm. To Norman, she was instead something to be appreciated, like a piece of experimental—if not overambitious—art.
    An average day saw her flitting back and forth between the endless, sweeping towers of rescued books brought back from the wilds. The warehouse, an industrial-storage behemoth the size of an aircraft hangar, was filled to capacity; save for a network of narrow alleys, not an inch of floor space had been spared.
    There were similar buildings for articles of art, electronics, and vehicles—but none as large as this. The Old World’s books, which housed all its knowledge and secrets, lay strewn in the rubble of towns and cities, waiting to be picked up like nuggets of gold shimmering in a riverbed.
    The city folk saved as many as they could—had been doing so for years—but there were always more to find, and time was beginning to take its toll on their vulnerable pages. Here, they were sorted before being moved to vast storage catacombs beneath the streets.
    Norman gawped at a new, yellowed skyscraper of leather-bound volumes close to the doorway until Sarah’s flowing figure rounded a bend in the aisle ahead and cried, “You’re back!”
    She approached from an unsorted heap of hardbacks, her bony face and tomato-red hair illuminated by the widest of smiles, which was occupied by her four million teeth. Hanging from her shoulders was a robe identical to those worn by the elders, a simple white cloth that billowed around the body and stopped just beyond the knee. Precious few younger citizens were awarded the cloth, Norman among them, though he only wore his during ceremonial times, when it was expected of him.
    “Morning, warden,” he said. “How are the inmates today?”
    “Stale. Rotten. But still singing their sweet songs.” She threw her arms around him and giggled. “Welcome home.”
    “Careful now,” he said. “Robert catches us and I’ll have a