Vertical City Box Set [Books 1-4]

by George S. Mahaffey Jr.

  She points to the tail-end of the freeway that loops around the fringe of the city and continues on through an industrial area and little pockets of houses nearly stacked on top of each other. Out in the distance is a buffer area of green and beyond that a bar of sand and the ocean.

  “There’s a boat out there,” she says. “The same one we came in on.”

  We squint and the sun dips behind a bank of clouds and there it is. A small boat anchored out in the middle of the water, bobbing back and forth.

  We hop over a sewage culvert and hike by sections of fallen billboards near an abandoned overpass and past packs of wild dogs and coyotes foraging in the distance.

  It take me a few moments to notice that the air is cleaner here, almost sweeter, the colors somehow more vibrant.

  And the ground is largely free of trash and debris, no black carrion birds in sight, and not a single Dub corpse.

  Minutes later, we slip silently over buckled streets where small trees and tall grass sprout from holes in the asphalt. We leave the cement behind, Naia guiding us over a gravel path that ends at the green buffer which lies between the helter-skelter of the city and the beach.

  It’s here that Brixton spots a single dead Dub, lying at the peak of a sand dune, the man’s nude body lying shriveled and husk-like around a piece of driftwood. Zeus scents the body and looks back at us, his tail wagging.

  Brixton removes the metal canister from inside of his vest and plucks out the rusted tweezers. Naia asks me what he’s doing and I tell her that he’s trying to predict the future.

  Brixton uses the tweezers to hunt inside a wound on the Dub’s back. He reaches down and picks out a Dub Popper that he holds in the air. Unlike every other Dub Popper I’ve ever seen, this bug is a whey-colored, spindly little thing.

  “It’s dead,” Brixton says.

  “What from?” asks Naia.

  “I could be wrong, but I think … malnutrition,” Brixton says with a smile.

  We descend the reverse of the dune and stand and admire the boat which is ten or twenty yards offshore.

  Then we peer down at our boots and shoes, slicked in viscera and the unholy stench of Dub fluids and human decay. It’s something that you wouldn’t know unless you’ve lived through it, but it’s impossible to get the smell of death off of your shoes.

  As such, we remove our footgear, deciding to leave the aroma of the old city behind and wade into the icy water. Del Frisco hums an old rock song about little pink houses by a singer named Mellencamp as we swim for the boat.

  A long rope ladder dangles from the edge of the boat which we use to climb aboard. Naia does a quick search of the vessel and reports it being much the same as when she left it, aside from some water and debris in the cabin.

  Del Frisco and I admire the polished, fiberglass exterior of the boat when someone whistles and we look back. Mounting a raised platform at the rear of the boat, we spot little curls of smoke still rising up over the city from the fires burning in the Vertical City.

  “Looks awful small from here, don’t it?” says Del Frisco.

  I nod and am suddenly conscious of dozens of different odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thought or a hope or a memory. There is the salty smell of seawater and the acrid stench of fire.

  I say a prayer for Gus and all the other good people that lived and died in VC1, crying as the smoke rises into the sky.

  I cry because the Vertical City was the only place I called home for most of my life.

  I could still walk the upper floors blindfolded, still guide you down through the shortcuts and switchbacks we used to play and work in.

  I cry as I remember the good times I had there, because there were some, although most occurred long ago.

  My mental time machine transports me back and I think about the day Dad left me and all the people I loved and lost there. I think about Mom and hope that wherever she is I’ve made her proud and I hope like hell that Roger Parker is able to make a go of it and avoid falling prey to the same things that gave rise to Odin. I hope that he’s able to put down the sword and finally make peace with the Dubs and Gus, because there’s plenty of room for both of them.

  I’m handed a blanket and bandages from a tiny first-aid kit for my wounds and a few protein bars from a stash that Naia and her people left aboard before they came into the city. Then I slump in a seat near Brixton, Del Frisco, Zeus, and the others.

  With much effort, Naia finally powers up the boat and we debate for a time where to go. Some say we should travel south and Brixton says we should head for his home island, on account of him having heard of numerous fortified buildings in London and Liverpool (at or around some place he says is called “Three Graces” where his brother and parents were seeking shelter), but Naia shakes her head. She says we can eventually travel there once we get resupplied, but that at least for the time being, we should set off back up the coast to regroup at her settlement, which everyone agrees to.

  And so there I am, seated at the back of the boat, the wind whipping in my hair. I think back on what Gus said, that wherever people gather there’s a story about how things began, a creation myth that seeks to convey some profound truth about the human condition.

  A compelling story designed to help people make sense of the world.

  The crash of the helicopter will soon be forgotten, replaced by our tale which, the more I think about it, the more remarkable it becomes. It centers on our imprisonment in a skyscraper of stone and steel in a once mighty city, our scapegoating by a dictator, banishment, and eventual victory over him and the legions of the dead.

  Wherever we end up, this will be our origin story. A myth about how a small group of people who refused to lose their humanity triumphed over the powers of darkness. It is a story that’s probably been told hundreds, maybe thousands of times down through the ages, but this myth, at least as it applies to us, happens to be true.

  The End

  Thanks for reading VERTICAL CITY, Part 4, the final book in the series. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review on Amazon.

  Afterword

  Author Notes

  And so it ends, at least for now. I’ve recently begun writing sci-fi/military books with Justin Sloan (the SYNDICATE WARS series and the MECH COMMAND series), so I haven’t had time to refocus on VERTICAL CITY. I definitely plan to write several more books in the series, but I don’t think I’m going to follow the main characters from the first four books (personally, I like the way Book 4 ends). That said, I might change my mind, but at present, I’m thinking I’ll likely explore what’s been going on in other cities during the pandemic, including Miami and perhaps London (“London’s Falling” would be a pretty sweet title for the book). I’ve also got an interesting idea for an origins story on the virus that brought about the end of the world, including a story that would take place in the Seventeenth Century. In the meantime, huge thanks to everyone who read the books and to those who were nice enough to leave reviews, which I know is a bit of a pain in the neck. Keep checking back and at some point, there will be another book in the series.

  [NOTE: A short story follows this book along with the first two chapters of a post-apocalyptic thriller series I wrote with Justin Sloan called “Blood Runners.” It’s set in New Chicago a few years after the world unwinds and centers on the relationship between a guy and a girl, a hunter and her prey, who play very specific roles in a terrifying new form of justice called “Absolution.” The short story, “The Initiation,” introduces the female lead and the first two chapters of “Blood Runners: Absolution” pick up from there. It’s similar in tone to VERTICAL CITY, so I hope you enjoy it!]

  THE INITIATION

  Also By George

  NEW WORLD DISORDER: MECH COMMAND BOOK 1

  WORLD OF HURT: MECH COMMAND BOOK 2

  SYNDICATE WARS (5 book series)

  George’s Post-Apocalyptic Sci-Fi Thrillers:

  THE BLOOD RUNNERS TRILOGY

  George’s Horror B
ooks:

  AMITYVILLE: ORIGINS (Book 1 of 2)

  AMITYVILLE: REVENANTS (Book 2 of 2)

  FAMILIARS

  RAZORBACKS I

  RAZORBACKS II

  RAZORBACKS III

  THE DEVIL’S ARK

  VERTICAL CITY: A ZOMBIE THRILLER (Books 1-4)

  FALLS OF REDEMPTION (Series)

  Land of Gods

  Retribution Calls

  Tears of Devotion

  Tribulations End (2017)

  RECLAIMING HONOR (A Kurtherian Gambit Series)

  Justice is Calling

  Claimed by Honor

  Judgment has Fallen

  Angel of Reckoning (2017)

  MODERN NECROMANCY (Trilogy)

  Death Marked

  Death Bound

  Death Crowned

  ALLIE STROM (Trilogy)

  Allie Strom and the Ring of Solomon

  Allie Strom and the Sword of the Spirit

  Allie Strom and the Tenth Worthy

  CURSED NIGHT

  Hounds of God

  Hounds of Light

  Hounds of Light

  Hounds of Blood (2017)

  Epilogue

  A BLOOD RUNNERS SHORT STORY

  Blood Runners Initiation

  Marisol felt the men before she heard them. She sensed a nearly imperceptible disturbance in the air and felt the tiny hairs on her arms stand at attention. Before she could react, the door to the barracks was kicked in and the brutes were on top of her. Meaty hands pinned her down and she looked up into the bearded face of a man holding a large syringe. The scent of liquor and fire was heavy on his breath.

  “Relax,” he said with a taunting smile. “I’m going to put this into you and then you’re gonna feel real good. Trust me.”

  Marisol glared at him. “Where have I heard that before?”

  She felt the prick of the needle as it slid into her arm. Whatever drug was in the syringe was amber colored and warmer than soda left out in the summer sun. Her vision swam in and out of focus and she felt herself slur, “I’ll kill you.”

  The man holding the syringe laughed. “Save your strength, girl. You’re gonna need it for the Thresher.”

  She cursed at the men and threw a few clumsy haymakers before the drug overtook her and her legs turned to what felt like jelly. She fumbled back against a wall and grabbed a knife that lay near her body armor. The big man, a longhaired brute named Harrigan, swatted it away. He reached down and grabbed Marisol, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of trash.

  Marisol was carried across a broad field toward the open doors on an oversized tactical vehicle. Harrigan flung her inside. She rolled over and spotted a dozen boys and girls, most of them teenagers or a few years older. Before she could utter a word, a hood was pulled down over her head and roughly synched. Her arms were pried behind her back and zipcuffed. She struggled to breathe, the hood was so tight.

  She leaned her head back, wired in spite of the drug, her nostrils curling. The air inside the tactical vehicle was freighted with the bitter funk of ammonia … and fear. She knew the odor well, but it wasn’t coming from her. Having prepared herself for this day for weeks, she sat silently, slipping so far down into her inner zone that she could barely hear the whimpers of those seated around her.

  Next came the drive to the rally point, a rough ride for an indeterminate period of time. She pictured the tactical vehicle rumbling through the gates on the wall that surrounded New Chicago. The one the dictator and his army had built after the sky had fallen. The others around her whispered and some shouted and one or two cried out, but Marisol could barely make out the sounds over the roar of the truck’s engines. Eventually, after more than fifteen minutes, Marisol reckoned, the vehicle gouged to a stop.

  “OUT!” a man’s voice shouted from somewhere outside the vehicle. “EVERYBODY OUT!”

  The doors on the vehicle creaked open, followed by the boisterous laughter of men. They jeered Marisol and the others, wagering amongst themselves as to how long they’d last in the grasslands.

  “Do these sad fucks even know what’s waiting for them out here?” one of the men said as he snickered.

  The hood was yanked off and Marisol squinted. She was still seated and gazing at one of the men, a spade-faced imbecile named Sikes who aimed a penlight at her. Sikes was one of the ones she hated most. He’d been the first to take a run at her when she joined up, trying to force himself on her in the shower before she’d punted him in the groin. She was certain she’d kill him one day, but for now, protocol dictated that she had to do as he said. Sikes grabbed her arms and helped her to her feet. Surprisingly, the effects of the drug had already worn off.

  “You know the rules, girl. I undo your bindings and you take the position, accepting what I give you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you fight back, if you strike out at me or any of the other Apes, you will be put down. It’s that simple. Do you copy?”

  She nodded, nearly spitting the words out. “Yes, I do, sir.”

  There was a flat quality to her eyes and she knew Sikies had seen it. She’d witnessed the look before in a mirror. It came upon her at certain times, mostly when she was about to spill blood. Her friend Farrow had jokingly said that it was almost as if her humanity was a switch that she could flick off and on.

  Sikes frowned and reached around to cut the zipcuffs. With one final glance of disdain, Marisol pushed herself up and dropped down out of the vehicle into a field of grass that was nearly chest high. A skull-colored moon winked at her, a slight breeze wavering the darkened mass of grass, giving it the look of the ocean in the murk. Out beyond the grass, maybe five or six miles away, was the immense, fortified wall that wreathed the city. A crude bulwark designed to protect the city’s inhabitants from various things, including the monsters that roamed the tall grass.

  She turned and stood side-to-side next to the others that had been bound in the back of the tactical vehicle, the twelve souls who’d prepared over the last several months for this moment. The chance to become an “Ape,” a member of what passed for law enforcement in New Chicago.

  Sikes and Harrigan and a few other burly men commenced dousing Marisol and the others with a thick gruel of blood and animal entrails. Just slopping the warm sludge against her chest from plastic buckets. The others watching this, all except for the one named Farrow, cackled with delight.

  Some of the others to her left and right vomited or cried out, but not Marisol. She just stood there, taking whatever the men could dish out, steely-eyed. Standing nearly six feet tall with a mane of brownish-red hair, Marisol looked down at Sikes who did his best to mad-dog her. She held his look, giving no ground. None of this was a surprise. She’d volunteered for it. She knew what she was getting into and when she beat all of the others, when she outran the horrible things that were out there somewhere hiding in the grass she’d kick the shit out of every man that stood before her. All of them would fall before her, except the Ape named Farrow, the only one who’d treated her fairly, almost like a brother.

  The scent of blood perfumed the air as did the heaps of guts that were tossed into the grass by the men as if they were chumming for sharks.

  Harrigan dropped a collection of old knives to the ground. “You get one each. Whether you use it on each other or something else don’t matter to us. All that does is that you’ve got thirty minutes to each the goddamn wall.”

  All of the teenagers grabbed at the knives. Marisol reached for a seven-inch, silver-handled cutting blade at a fair-haired boy snatched it away from her.

  “Mine, bitch,” the fair-haired boy hissed.

  Glaring, she grabbed for another, only to see an Asian girl yank it away from her. Peering down, there was one knife left. A rusted, four-inch blade fastened to a wonky wooden stock. That would have to do. She plucked it up and held it at her side.

  An airhorn sounded and then they were off, Marisol and the others galloping through the grass. She looked back a fin
al time and watched the Apes enter the tactical vehicle and drive off. Pivoting and sliding to a stop, she studied the grass, watched the way it swayed back and forth as if parted by a giant hand.

  Suddenly there was a trumpeting sound, like a herd of injured elephants, a note that carried over the grass. This was followed by several gutwrenching, animalistic shrieks. She knew they were close. The ones with the eyes the color of piano keys that hunted mostly at night. The creatures that had appeared after the world ended. The Thresher!

  Marisol plunged into the grass, her senses on overload. Ever since she was a child she’d had the preternatural ability to smell things others missed, to intuit occurrences seconds before they happened. Her father, before his disappearance, had called it 3-D situational awareness, but Marisol just chalked it up to intuition.

  For instance, she knew the boy in front of her was running the wrong way. She didn’t know precisely why and she was readying to call out to him, to warn him not to go that way when—

  WHAM!

  The ground under the boy erupted and something, some pallid-fleshed monstrosity rose up and grabbed the boy and pulled him down into a pit, what the people back behind the wall called a Thresher duckhole.

  Marisol heard the boy’s screams, but there was nothing she could do. She dashed past the hole in the earth, accelerating, slaloming between the others who were startled at how briskly she ran. A putrid smell, like decaying flesh set on fire, curled her nostrils, the odor of the Thresher. She studied the monster up ahead, the long-limbed abomination hiding behind an overturned station wagon. The creature probably believed she couldn’t see it, but she did. Marisol zigzagged suddenly to her left, listening to an unlucky person behind her being attacked by the creature.