The Last Mayor Box Set

by Michael John Grist

  He pointed the Porsche at her tracks, riding so low it was comical, and started away.

  * * *

  Eleven miles per hour was the best he could manage. The dark forests sugared with snow went by slowly, but he found himself enchanted with their mysterious, misty beauty. The day they arrived he'd barely even seen them, so intent had he been on scanning always for people.

  Now there was only him and Myra, and he felt more alive than he had in years. The air was sweet and he rolled the windows all the way down to better enjoy it. A brilliant red fox watched him roll steadily by. A deer stood in the road, cantering away as he trundled by.

  Around mid-day the odometer showed thirty-seven miles, and that's where he found the BMW; stopped in the middle of the road, the driver's side door hanging open and the battery still beeping its warning chime.

  He smiled and got out. Her footprints were a cluster around the hood and the trunk, like confused hop-marks made by a bird, clucking around an egg fallen from its nest, pecking ineffectually, unable to do a damn thing.

  He could almost smell her upon the air. Yes, this was better. It embarrassed him to think how long it had taken him to reach this point. Six months of chasing dreams like a boy.

  Her footprints led into the forest. There was no hope for her that way. She almost certainly hadn't packed a flint and steel for striking a fire with her. He'd always been the one geared towards survival, carrying those things with him everywhere. About the only thing she always carried with her came in sealed blue foil, and what good would that do her now?

  He started out on foot.

  Sometime in the afternoon it began to snow, but it didn't worry him. She was a strong woman, fierce and independent, but for the past several hours she'd been walking in circles. Without a compass she had no way to tell direction in this dense, disheveled forest. There were no trails, no open vistas revealing horizon landmarks, only a furrowed land of steep sided ravines, raw basalt rock deposits probably left behind in the last ice age, and a dizzying mishmash of Italian cedar, dark cherry wood and various old-growth oaks.

  Here and there she'd discarded things; an empty red water bottle in the snow, a thin pink blanket, left like crumbs for him to follow. The snow fell on his shoulders and through the trees, cloaking everything in a deep, rustling silence.

  He heard the stream before he heard her, babbling away to his left. Her footprints, nearly all the way faded now, led down to the water's side, where at last he saw her, knelt by the edge and dipping a bottle through a crack in the leaf-clogged ice at the edge. He smiled. He couldn't resist.

  "Myra," he called out.

  Her head whipped up and her eyes flared wide, terrified, then she was running and slipping away down the bank.

  He walked after her carefully. Where she slipped and bounced off trees, he proceeded smoothly and evenly. She didn't have the right shoes for this. She didn't have the right clothes. Her gossamer gypsy layers, even laid over with a heavy parka from one of the malls they'd passed a month ago, didn't wick moisture the way his Gore-Tex gear did. Her black pumps had next to no grip on the undersides, not like his bulky hiking boots.

  She wasn't prepared and she didn't stand a chance.

  He next sighted her bent double over a lichen-coated boulder, gasping and hitching up one of her layers to her waist. He waited until he was closer this time, only ten or so yards away with his approach disguised by the steady fall of snow.

  "Myra."

  She let out a shriek, more like a mouse than a human, then was off again. He followed, inexorably, as she stumbled more now, driven mad with panic and fear. She slipped and her face came up bloody off a hard root, leaving a red patch in the snow. Her panting became a constant in the air as he slid along after her, cutting a smooth, perfect path through the treacherous undergrowth, like a shark.

  Until his hands fell upon her back.

  He didn't grab or seize her, just touched her, and she barked and lashed away. Her feet kicked on the snow and went out from under her, until she was scrabbling backward through the forest. For a moment he watched her, trying to enjoy the moment but suddenly struck by a pang of sympathy. For a time he'd thought he'd loved her, so to see her reduced to this?

  "Myra," he said, trying to put some sympathy into his voice. "It's going to be all right. I promise. It's not what you think."

  Her eyes bulged and she snarled back at him in gasping Portuguese, such a flurry he could barely make out even the insults. "Idiota-" this and "loco-" that and "vá se foder!" which was about as strong as she got, but it couldn't stop him now, not after they'd both come so far.

  He moved closer to lay his hands on her heaving shoulders, and she went wild. She bellowed like a banshee and went for him, raking her hands at his face, trying to gouge him with her long nails. He swayed back and caught her easily. He was twice her size, a big man, always strong, and holding her by the wrists was easy.

  She kicked and screamed and bucked, but she was weak. Her skin was cold and she'd been up all night running. She spat at his face until he spun her around and faced her the other way, pressing her firmly down and against the cold snowy ground. She tried to catch him in the groin with her heels so he dropped to his knees, pinning her calves underneath his own.

  And a thought came to him.

  Now?

  It hadn't been his plan, but he didn't see any benefit in delaying any longer. The pretense of civilization had brought them to this, out in the forest wrestling like wild animals. Hadn't he done everything for her, for so long, and hadn't he asked nicely?

  Perhaps she understood some of this, because now she screamed louder than ever, though her face was pressed into the snow. She bellowed, "Não," so loud he thought her chest would burst open.

  But so be it. Better to get it over with. He reached down to his belt buckle.

  "Ma-hew, no!" she cried, plaintively now and knowing she was beaten, but this wasn't about being beaten. This was about the future. It was this or just walk out into the wilderness until the zombie hordes found him, and took him, and had he slaughtered the whole of the Summer Wind just for that? Had he executed his own wife and child just for that?

  No.

  He'd done it for this, for this one, solitary natural law that overawed everything else.

  Survive.

  He unzipped his fly and her sobbing grew worse.

  "Please," she gasped, "Ma-hew," but he couldn't stop now, not now and not ever. He needed her just as she needed him, and that was so clear now, so simple, and it answered a question he'd been asking ever since it started.

  This was what the men did.

  FUTURE

  AMO 3

  Shit.

  I advance across Santa Monica Boulevard towards this huge guy, this real-world Bluto and his flock of silent, staring ghosts standing on the Chinese Theater's forecourt, making it up as I go along. The situation is unprecedented, and past experience provides little guidance. There's just so many damn kids.

  The number of them confounds me; stood neatly and silent, holding on to their big stuffed toys. How can so few adults have produced so many kids, I wonder as I stride over, unless they're holding some of their number back? They could be lying in wait. There may be a sniper scope on me right now. My back prickles in the wet heat against the cold Colt's haft. A scope on Keeshom too, another on the RV's engine block. If that's the case him racing away won't do anything. I scan the Chinese Theater's roofline and the nearby buildings but there are no winks of light coming back, no sign of snipers hunched over the edges, but that might just mean they're good.

  Shit.

  I stride across the metal lane divider and the horde of people and kids watches, every step drawing us closer to first contact. Every choice I make now will have lasting repercussions. This is the job of the ambassador, and Anna's faced it many times.

  I draw up to the sidewalk, over the white lane markings on black asphalt, and see that Bluto really is big. Bigger than me, bigger than Feargal, bigge
r than just about anyone in New LA except maybe Crow, but where's Crow when I need him?

  En route.

  I stop in the middle of the left lane, about ten feet away from the big guy, standing above a leaf-clogged, rusted drain. He's a real bruiser up close, with meaty cauliflower ears and a lumpy broken nose, maybe once a boxer. His fists hang at his sides like joints of beef. His chest is as big as an oil drum, though his eyes are sharp and intelligent. He's got a neat black stubble and a square head.

  We look at each other a long moment, sizing each other up like fast-draws in a Western, and I remember Don, twelve years back in Las Vegas. He was big. He was armed. He died.

  "Welcome to New LA," I say, in a neutral tone with a little warmth bleeding through. "I'm Amo, elected mayor of this settlement. Have you come on the cairn trail?"

  He regards me silently. His people do too.

  "Do you speak English?" I ask, trying another tack. "Hablas tú Inglés?"

  He smiles then, a thick fleshy thing that cuts through his stubble like a dark worm. "English? We invented it, mate."

  His accent surprises me; deep, coarse, and not from this side of the world. His consonants come out shortened, his 't's little glottal bursts.

  "You're from England?" I ask.

  "Britain, to be accurate," he says, enjoying my surprise. "Amo, good to meet you. I'm Matthew Drake. We saw your cairn trail out in Benidorm. Quite a feat, circling the world like that. RVs in the Empire State, too, that was very helpful."

  I nod and we stand there, both staring, neither offering a hand to shake; too cautious for that. In all honesty I want to cheer and welcome these fellow survivors, throw myself into their midst like I did with the ocean in Iowa, because good Lord, forty people with thirty of them kids? But I can't, not when I know so little about them. Not with Lara sick behind me, not with them all carrying guns. Trust has to be earned.

  "Good to meet you too, Matthew," I say, projecting a little more warmth. Baby steps. "I'm very glad you've come, and to be honest I'm stunned by how many people you've got. So many children." I look over them, standing in neat rows like they've been arranged that way, none of them smiling. I don't know what to make of that. "It's amazing."

  He grins. "We try. That's the First Law, after all: survive. You've done your bit here, I see."

  First Law? The phrase logs in my head uncomfortably for a moment, implying as it does a second and a third law, implying that the laws of the old world have been thrown out whole-cloth, but I can't dwell on that now, so I just keep smiling.

  "We have survived, that's right. We set up here a few months after the end, and survivors have been coming ever since. Normally we have a celebration feast on standby, but you've caught us otherwise engaged. Give us an hour and we'll lay on a proper welcome."

  "Thank you, that's very kind." He looks around, to my RV on the road then back again to me. "Where are the others, may I ask? We expected a good number, from the comics."

  I let my smile widen. A good question, and not one I'm about to answer with anything real just yet. "Gathering in our harvest. Late summer, so it's time for corn, some berries, the last of the wheat."

  "Nearby, then?"

  "En route," I answer, "and is this all of you?"

  He turns around briefly, as if confirming all his people are still there. "Yes, all of us. Forty-three souls in all, with two more on the way. Most of them speak English better than me, but for a few it's only pidgin, though I've been trying to teach them. They're from all across Europe."

  I see now, the telltale bump on two of the women. Two more on the way.

  "You said you found our cairn in Benidorm, Matthew," I ask, feeling my way. "Were you settled nearby?"

  He shrugs. "Call me Drake. And no, we weren't settled, we were traveling. Round and round Europe, picking up survivors where we found them."

  I consider that, wondering where their route might have left them a year ago, back when all the bunker demons were charging around Europe hunting for survivors. It would have been a narrow escape, a group of this size getting away unhurt.

  "So how many others are there?" he asks casually. "At the harvest."

  I can't ignore the question again, but I'm not going to answer it either, certainly not with the whole truth that we're split now across four groups; here, Sacramento, Anna in Europe and Witzgenstein's people in the Willamette Valley. I just give him the total. "Fifty-eight. One on the way."

  He rubs his chin. "One, huh? Out of how many adults?"

  That's a hard one to dodge. "The majority. We've not approached procreation with your diligence."

  He laughs, a bass rumble from that huge chest. "You're right, our ratio is skewed. Thirty-three children, only five women, what must you think of us?"

  I laugh too. This is how it's done, building bridges rather than looking for excuses to build walls. "I think you've got sustainability. We've relied on the cairn trail for our repopulation."

  "I understand. Though of course that won't last forever, will it? Solo survivors out there are not big on having babies."

  He fixes me with an intent gaze. It could be an attempt at intimidation, or just sincere interest. I wonder how much he knows; what version of the cairn he encountered. I think back on Anna's progress and at what stage she passed Benidorm. Had we finalized the treaty then, and had that been included in the cairn stocks? How many bunkers had come on board for the cure by then?

  "There's a lot been happening out there, in Europe," I say. "I'm assuming you read about it in the comic."

  "I did. Beautiful work, by the way. Last Mayor."

  I smile. "Thank you, but maybe I'm not the last anymore. You're the leader of your people, I take it."

  "Leader, yes. They call me Father, but it's not religious, not like it sounds."

  We gaze at each other for a moment. I think about Lara in the RV behind me. I need to take her to the hospital. I need to have Keeshom do some blood tests and maybe warm up the MRI machine and run her through, but I can't do that right now. I can't show weakness this early on.

  "So you'll know there are bunkers out there," I say. "We're working on a cure. We won't need the cairns if we can let the thousands of people in bunkers out."

  His expression curdles a little, his lips involuntarily rising into a faint snarl, but he smooths it out so quickly I can hardly be sure I saw it. "I read that, yes. A fool's errand, if you ask me, no offense intended. There's no cure for this thing, and those people underground are lucky you're not just wiping them out."

  He says this all so calmly we could almost be discussing the weather. I ignore it for now, a discussion for another day, and he goes on. "So, you've got some of your people in Europe still. Are they included in your count of fifty-eight?"

  I curse inwardly, though show nothing on the surface. I'm getting caught in half-truths already.

  "Nine people in Europe," I answer swiftly, trying to dig myself out. "Yes, they're part of the fifty-eight."

  He nods, taking this in, judging it for himself. "So forty-nine here. We can expect them soon?"

  He's insistent. I smile. "I think we'll take it step by step. Some will come, then others. I admire your confidence in bringing all your people here at once."

  He grins and shrugs. "What were you going to do? I figure people who draw comics and scatter them around the world, they're not cannibals, are they? We hardly need to eat now anyway. But of course, I understand you're cautious. The gun in your belt, that's a good move. I know how we can look, and that's my decision, really, not because we're warlike. I insist everyone carries a weapon at all times, because you never know when one of them, what do you call them, the ocean, might pop out of hiding. It still happens, especially since we're always on the move."

  Again he gives me the intent look, trying to gauge my reaction. I look back into his dark eyes. If he's read the comics then he knows the ocean are harmless, but then what he just said…

  "Sure," I say, because either way it's a moot point and not worth a
rguing over. If he's been killing the ocean for twelve years, then he's a fool, and even more lucky that the demons didn't find him, with no floaters nearby left to defend him. But I'm not going to say that. There are none left in New LA now, so it's not going to come up again. This is not going to go the way things went with Don.

  "No ocean left here," I say. "So you won't need those guns, but you needn't take my word for it. Trust comes gradually."

  He nods. "Gradually, that sounds right."

  We regard each other for a time. The sun beats down on my back. It's kind of an impasse, with Feargal's team still on the way. Normally I'd go to the Theater and start meeting his people, getting welcome materials ready, but I'm not going to put myself in their midst alone.

  "This is awkward," Drake says, naming the tension between us. "What now?"

  I allow a small smile. He may have some things wrong, like the ocean, but he's not stupid.

  "I propose we talk, you and I, work on building that trust, until my people arrive. They'll pull up into the forecourt, which I hope won't cause any alarm. The majority of them will be armed, but I can assure you it's only the most basic precaution."

  He nods. "Wise, in these times. It's good not to trust too easily. I suppose that's what you told them on the radio?" He nods over my shoulder, toward the RV. "I saw you on it when you pulled up. You looked concerned."

  "Yes," I say, calm and even, like there's nothing to it. "We've got a code word for this situation; it's something we drill for. It's one of the risks of living at the head of a cairn trail that stretches round the world." I let that hang for a second. "Everyone knows where you live."

  He snorts. "I like that. I think we're going to get along just fine."

  "I hope so. To that end, could you even up the scales a little? You know all about us from the cairns and the comics, but I know very little about you and your group. What it's been like for the last twelve years. Could you share a little of your story?"

  He nods. "I'll happily do that, if you'll answer one quick question first."