The Last City (Book 3): Last Stand

by Partner, Kevin

  "How long will it take?"

  "At this rate, at least three months."

  "What if I can get a dozen people—carpenters, builders—from Hope, and get it done in a month?"

  "Well, that surely would be welcome, Paul. But I still couldn't leave—someone's gotta make sure they're gettin' it right."

  Hick sighed and took a sip of his coffee as Libby slipped back into place beside him.

  Cassie cleared her throat. "I'll come with you. No, Pa, don't you be so ungrateful. You have to stay here, like you said, so I'll go."

  Hick glanced sidelong at Libby who, without looking back, smiled.

  Chapter 3: Convoy

  Why had he said yes to this? Devon sat in the driver's seat of the antique truck as he kept his eyes on the tail lights in front.

  There were three trucks in the convoy heading north along 93. Gert Bekmann drove the lead vehicle—the same modern semi that Hick had taken to the Walmart distribution center—while Waydon Downs followed in the second of the vintage rust buckets that Clay Hemmerich had brought into Hope. Aside from the three of them, they'd taken half of the Civil Defense Force and liberated four survivors of Hemmerich's militia who were serving a kind of probation. And beside Devon sat Gil Summers.

  They were heading for the small city of Springs, which was a hundred and fifty miles to the northwest of Hope and the nearest place that might have supplies they could take. They were going heavily armed and in convoy because they weren't likely to be the only scavengers on the roads—they might even run across the Sons, though Devon hoped they hadn't penetrated this sparsely populated part of the country.

  Two days in Hope had been long enough to convince him that the raid was necessary if they weren't all to starve within a week, but he'd given Hick both barrels when the scheming SOB had suggested Devon go. Having spent five weeks on a round-trip to New York—and coming back scarred for life—he reckoned he'd earned a week or two's rest and recuperation at least.

  And then Gil had stepped in. Jessie had told him she was pregnant. Devon hadn't had to be there to imagine the old man's reaction, especially since he'd think the child was Devon's. Jessie had resolved not to tell him who the father was as she wanted “Joel the Jock” to have nothing to do with the child, but it would, after all, be obvious enough that Devon wasn't responsible once it was born.

  He'd been surprised to find Gil Summers outside his apartment door, fresh from the heart-to-heart with his daughter. He'd been even more surprised at the man's obvious gratitude for helping Jessie get back safely, though he wondered just how well Gil knew his daughter. She'd been an active participant from the first and Devon knew he wouldn't have made it without her.

  Gil had finally moved onto the main reason he'd sought Devon out. While Paul Hickman was focusing on his plan to make Hope self-sufficient for dairy and meat, Gil had been put in charge of feeding the people in the short term by scavenging supplies. It was a nice piece of maneuvering by Hick—public service was wired into Gil's very being and, after a few weeks of kicking around his house, he was ready to be useful again.

  And so he was resting his head on his hand as he gazed out of the window. They'd exhausted most safe avenues of conversation, and Devon knew the old man really wanted to ask about where he stood with Jessie. Well, he would have to stew on that as Devon didn't have a clue. They loved each other—he was sure of that—but having witnessed chaos and brutality across the country it seemed ridiculous to be dreaming of a future together. At least she was safe for now, back in Hope.

  "Tell me about Springs," Devon said as the flat, rust-red landscape slipped by.

  Summers roused, banging his forehead on the glass. "What? Oh, Springs. It's a small enough city. Less people than Hope, but bigger. It's at an intersection, so it's got motels, gas stations and restaurants."

  Devon scowled. "So, it's likely either a smoking ruin or an obvious place for the Sons to take over."

  "Are they really as brutal as Jessie says?"

  "Oh yeah. I mean, I think a lot of people have a romantic vision of the past and after spending a couple of days with the Amish, I guess I can see the attraction. But we didn't have to do any back-breaking work in the fields, we were just like theme park visitors watching a historical re-enactment. That lifestyle had its merits, though, but the Sons have corrupted it. That boy in Hick's house—I watched them chop his foot off in front of everyone. And they were about to cut the throats of three women. So, yes, they're brutal."

  Summers shook his head as he gazed out of the window at the distant, snow-covered mountain peaks. "And you think they're behind the firestorm?"

  "I'm sure of it, though I haven't worked it all out yet. How did they destroy the cars and airplanes? They weren't connected to the power grid."

  Devon slammed his foot on the brake as the leading truck slowed and pulled into the side. He grabbed his Glock and jumped down as four uniformed CDF soldiers climbed out of the back of Bekmann's vehicle. He pocketed his weapon when he realized there was no sense of threat and saw why Bekmann had stopped when he came around the front of the truck.

  A group of four ruined cars lay beside the road, arranged in a square and covered with leather cut from one of the vehicles into a kind of roof. Bekmann gestured for the others to stay back as he approached the shelter, gun held at arm's length, swaying back and forth as he scanned for movement. Devon ignored him and pointed toward a small gap between two of the wrecks.

  "C'mere, boy," Devon said, crouching and patting his knees.

  A small black terrier ran out at him, its yapping swallowed by the empty vastness around them. "Well, Toto, you're a long way from Kansas." The dog leaped up at him, landing in his arms and licking him frantically.

  "Jezus. Dood. Allemaal Dood."

  Devon looked up to see Bekmann standing in the gap and lifting the makeshift roof. "Dead?"

  The Dutchman's face was as white as the mountain peaks behind him as he turned back and nodded. "Two adults, two children. Dead not long, from cold I think."

  Devon put the dog down, got to his feet and lifted the leather roof. Four figures lay still as stones. They were covered with torn-up foam and huddled together so he couldn't see their hands or faces. Though he'd seen his share of crime scenes, he was no forensics expert, but it looked to him as though the smaller bodies had been there longer than the larger ones.

  His throat thickened as he took in the pathetic spectacle. A pile of charcoal lay in one corner, tendrils of smoke rising from it as he held the leather up. "Carbon monoxide, I guess. The adults, anyway. Poor devils."

  "What are they doing out here? They can't have been here since the firestorm, can they?" Bekmann said.

  Gil Summers appeared beside Devon. "Oh, my God."

  "Don't look, Gil. There's nothing we can do for them."

  The dog squeezed between his legs and into the ferric tomb.

  "How come he didn't die?" Bekmann said.

  Devon pointed at the farthest corner from the fire. "Maybe he was over on that side where the fresh air can get in." Then he froze. Had he seen something? "What's that?"

  The dog was pawing at the bundle of old clothes it had presumably been sleeping in. Devon ripped the leather roof off entirely, casting it on to the bodies like a shroud, and kneeled where the dog was. He pulled back the rags. "Good grief. It's a baby. And it's alive."

  Much later, when he told Jessie this story, he couldn't explain why he burst into tears as he lifted the child out of its cocoon or why, try as he might, he couldn't stop until Gil reached over him, hands outstretched for the child. "No!" he yelled, getting to his feet and backing out.

  When he'd calmed a little he said, "I'm sorry, Gil. I don't know what came over me. But let me look after her."

  The child was only a few months old and dressed in a pink woolen sweater over a stripy onesie. She looked at him as his head moved against the blue sky; eyes of chocolate and skin like coffee. Devon had never experienced love at first sight until that moment.
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br />   The dog was sitting at his feet whining quietly, so he bent down and patted it on the head.

  "What are you going to do with her?" Bekmann asked.

  Devon held her to his chest, wrapping his coat about her. "Well, I'm not going to leave her here, am I?"

  "Why don't you give her to Mara to look after?"

  Devon ignored him. He knew he was being stupid. Mara was a member of the CDF and had served in the National Guard, but she was undeniably a woman and therefore had two advantages he didn't. But, since she hadn't had children herself, he decided it would be the worst kind of sexism to hand the baby over. That was what he told himself as he walked back to the truck, and he knew it was a lie. His life had changed in that moment of discovery and he wasn't going to give her up to anyone. Except Uncle Gil, who nervously held her on his knee in the front of the truck as Devon went back to search the sad little shelter. He returned with an entirely impractical dress, a handful of diapers and a can of formula with, perhaps, two servings left.

  "Come on, Toto," he said as he climbed back into the driver's seat. The little dog clambered up, under his feet and across to sit in Gil's footwell.

  "Do you know her name?" Gil said as Devon plugged the coffee warmer into the accessory socket and poured in some water. "Dorothy. She's called Dorothy."

  And so they returned to the yellow brick road and headed for Springs as Dorothy celebrated her rescue at maximum volume.

  An hour later, Devon was beginning to regret his decision. Gil had forced him to pull over and now the old man was driving while Devon tried to placate the child. He'd managed to ham-fistedly change her diaper, and she'd fed greedily enough on the bottle of formula, but she would accept no comforting. Not until Toto had forced his way up onto Devon's lap and nuzzled into the child.

  Devon had tipped the dregs of the milk into his mug and given that to the dog, before digging out some cookies so Toto, at least, was satisfied for now and Dorothy's head now lay on the dog's flank as he sat across Devon's legs. The full weight of his new responsibility was bearing down on him as he looked out at the landscape. The reds had given way to yellows as they'd driven northwest, with the clumps of wiry vegetation becoming larger and the distant mountains apparently descending into the horizon.

  They'd passed other wrecks, all pushed to the side of the road, and they'd picked up a man and a woman who'd been walking along the road in the opposite direction. Bekmann had driven past them, but Gil pulled over.

  "Where are you coming from?" he called down to them as they waited nervously by the roadside. Neither was holding a weapon, but Devon was sure each had something concealed within their thick padded coats. They looked as though they'd been walking for days: they had a harried, desperate look about them.

  "Springs," the woman said. "You got any food you can share?"

  Gil reached over the back and called for a couple of ration packs that he passed to the woman.

  "What's the situation there?"

  The woman ripped open the ration pack, then tore into the foil wrapping of an energy bar. "Bad," she said, between mouthfuls. "Bandits everywhere."

  Devon leaned over from the passenger seat, trying desperately not to wake Dorothy who was silent for the first time. "Any of them wearing black hoods?"

  "We've seen some like that. Tried to take over the gas station, but Warner's boys saw them off."

  Gil handed down another ration pack. The man—he was older, grayer and looked utterly defeated—nodded his thanks before tackling the wrapping. "The town's run by Warner's gang now. And a worse pack of coyotes you'll never meet. That's why we left."

  "Where you heading?"

  The older man nodded along the road. "We heard there's a place called Hope that survived the firestorm."

  "Hope's a long way from here, and you don't exactly look prepared for a long walk. Why don't you come with us? We're heading for Springs and could do with some local intelligence."

  The woman shook her head. "No way, I'm not going back there. I'd rather freeze to death on the roadside than face them again. You know what they tried to do to me, Ted!"

  "Well, I'm going with them. I got a feelin' they might be able to handle Warner." The older man gestured to the truck in front. The rear door had been cracked open to let some air in and two soldiers could be seen, assault rifles on their laps.

  Devon spotted Gert Bekmann walking back along his truck toward them. "Time to make your mind up!"

  The woman stabbed a finger at her companion. "And you'd leave me to walk on my own, would you?"

  The man identified as Ted shrugged. "Look, Lisa, we didn't exactly think this through, did we?"

  "We didn't have time! They were going to …"

  He pulled her into an embrace. "Come on. Let's give these fellas a chance. We might be able to help them some."

  "Climb in the back," Gil said. "Quickly."

  Devon watched them stumble toward the rear of the truck as Gert appeared by his open door.

  "What's going on? This isn't a pleasure trip, you know. We can't just pick up any hitchhikers we see—we got to have room for the supplies."

  Devon jerked a thumb behind him. "These guys know Springs. Sounds as though we're going to meet trouble there."

  Chapter 4: Visitations

  "How's he doin'?" Hick said as Sam appeared in the living room and dropped onto the couch.

  She shrugged, gazing out of the window at the frost-limed garden. "He's lost half his foot, how do you think he's doing?"

  Hick bit back his anger. He was happy she was home. He really was. And he didn't want to mess things up with her.

  She glanced across at him. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't take it out on you. His temperature's normal and he's sleeping peacefully. Amanda's coming around to dress the wound—that's okay, isn't it?"

  "Of course." Hick had only met Amanda once in the couple of days since Sam had returned. She hadn't made much impression on him at the time, though he reckoned she'd been a looker at one time. Meg Ryan crossed with Michelle Pfeiffer without the plastic surgery. And he was inclined to like anyone who'd helped Sam come home to him.

  "Sam?"

  She sighed. "I know, Dad. You want to talk about what it's like out there."

  "You realize I'm mayor here now, don't you? I got responsibilities."

  That brought a little chuckle. "Yeah. I bet that stuck in Gil's throat."

  "It sure did. You should've seen his face when he told me I'd won the vote. Looked like he'd swallowed a porcupine."

  They laughed together, and then subsided into silence. Hick abandoned his line of questioning and simply enjoyed being in the same room as his daughter.

  "Dad," she said, looking across at him. "I'm glad to be home."

  And Paul Hickman, liar, cheat, murderer and blackmailer put his hands to his eyes as they filled with tears.

  He felt her climb sideways onto his lap and pull him into an embrace as they sobbed together.

  It was the happiest moment of his life.

  He was smiling as he approached the home of Ward McAndrew. Gert Bekmann was gone for a couple of days, giving Rusty time to reassert his authority over the town, so McAndrew was the last thorn that needed extracting before Hick could go on his cattle-rustling expedition.

  He'd thought about sending someone else with Cassie Miller, but since Libby Hawkins would be going, he didn't want her to be entirely off the leash, especially so close to Ezra. Lynda Strickland and councilmember Rudy Ramone had been given the task of finding at least a dozen fit men and women willing to volunteer to help the Millers build their house. Hick reflected that the folks of Hope were going to have to get a lot more community-spirited if their town was to survive long-term.

  It had been a wrench to leave Sam again. They'd talked for what seemed like hours, though he'd done more listening than speaking—an unfamiliar experience for him. Sam had painted a detailed picture of a ruined country, destroyed from within and steadily coming under the boot of the Sons of Solomon. He still di
dn't have a complete handle on who they were, but he knew a threat when he heard about it, and those crazies would wind up here sooner or later. The people of Hope had better be prepared.

  That threat would be serious enough, but he had Mayor Hawkins from Ezra and her wolf-in-sheep's-clothing agent Gert Bekmann to contend with and, on top of all that, Ward McAndrew was an unknown quantity. Once Hick had explained this to Sam, she'd begged to help in some way. She loved Jay, sure enough, but Sam had always been full of energy and as restless as a wasp’s nest when stuck inside for too long. Jay was recovering—as much as it was possible to recover from that sort of maiming—and didn't need her beside his bed 24/7 any longer. So, he'd suggested she get close to McAndrew while Hick was away. But before he went anywhere, he wanted to see the old crook for himself.

  Ward McAndrew lived in a small ranch house with walls covered in peeling blue paint and a terracotta-colored roof. Since his return from missionary work a year or so ago, he'd rented it from the son of its deceased owner, but Hick guessed it belonged to McAndrew now. A rusty white pickup on raised suspension stood outside, and Hick squeezed past McAndrew's Suzuki Jimny on the driveway and stepped across a large muddy puddle to the wooden porch.

  He knocked on the door, but quietly. He'd hoped McAndrew might be out or, if not, that he'd be able to surprise him because as sure as sure the pastor was up to something. No answer. Good. He turned the handle and pushed at the door. The silly old fool hadn't even locked it. Excellent.

  He walked into the dark hallway, straining to hear if McAndrew was in. "Ward?" he called quietly.

  The place was a pigsty, with books, magazines, cups and bowls scattered on every horizontal surface. He picked his way through the mess and into the living room which looked out onto the front of the house. It was neater in here, but he found no sense of a man at his ease. There was something temporary about the feel of the place, as if McAndrew didn't need to bother keeping it straight because he didn't think he'd be here for long.