The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers

by Michael R. Hicks

  “That’s messed up, messing with dead bodies like that,” Shawn said. “Good way to wind up with a bunch of Godzillas.”

  The town was dead silent. A crater yawned across the intersection to the WinCo. Shawn slowed to the shoulder and stopped the jeep.

  He huffed into his hands, breath roiling. “This place looks all jacked up. What say we proceed on foot?”

  “Beats getting blown up on jeep.”

  Shawn handed him his old shotgun and a machine gun with three spare magazines. “It’s set to three-round bursts. Nothing fancy about it. Your basic point-and-shoot interface.”

  “Thanks for putting it in my language.” Ness turned over the matte black machine gun. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Again, stealing. Let’s roll.”

  Shawn jogged past the crater. The streetward faces of the dorms were pitted and scorched. A skeleton lay facedown in the patchy grass, legs missing, shriveled skin and ligaments clinging to its elbows and ribs. They crossed town without hearing anything but the calls of nocturnal birds and the rustle of rodents. At the hills on the east end of town, the trailer showed few signs it had been abandoned for the better part of a year. Cobwebs on the siding, wind-blown dirt. A profusion of half-dead grass. The windows were fine, though. A bit of cleanup and they could live there again.

  They climbed into the pines and crossed the mountain. As they approached their old cabin, Shawn crouched low, gun ready, and slowed to a silent creep. Shredded boxes and bags littered the grounds; something big had gotten into their abandoned food cellar. The cabin appeared untouched.

  Shawn stopped when the pines gave out. The Rogers’ farmhouse waited down the mountain, as dark as the fields around it. He watched it through his binoculars for a long time, then passed them off to Ness.

  “What do you see?” Shawn murmured.

  Ness panned across the vacant grounds. “Whole lot of nothing. No ships. No cars. No creatures.”

  “Me neither.” Shawn exhaled through his nose. “We might have just gone on a wild lobster-chase, man.”

  Ness’ hopes sank by the moment. Perhaps the things had finished their research here and moved back to quash the major cities. He and Shawn could try Seattle. Portland. But that could add days to their venture. Who knew what was happening on the farm in the meantime. Even if they drove all the way to the cities, there was no guarantee they’d find any of the creatures there, either. If he and Shawn simply drove away, what then? What about Nick? What about Kristin?

  “Want to check it out?” Ness said.

  Shawn shrugged. “We came all this way.”

  They slunk through the high grass. No sirens sounded. No lights strobed. Keeping one eye on the house, Ness circled to the tree in the back where he’d buried the canister. A bowl-like hole had been dug in the ground. Winds and rains had softened its edges, half-filled it with dirt.

  “Shit,” Ness said.

  “Shit?”

  “They got what they came for.” He didn’t know why the aliens wanted the old canister so bad, but that’s what had brought them to Moscow, that much was clear. “They must have been gone for months by now.”

  “Shit,” Shawn said.

  A blue bolt burned past Ness’ head. He screamed and fell into the grass.

  24

  Tristan walked up the hill to the city of cones. Footprints told stories in the soil. Narrow, deep divots announced where aliens had walked. Five-dotted treads told of human toes. She shucked off her shoe and placed her feet next to the human prints. Almost universally, her feet were larger.

  She approached one of the cones. A door unzipped itself and disappeared into the wall, producing a moist noise that reminded her of the orange. Tristan jerked up her pistol. Inside, the cone was nearly pitch-black, weak moonlight shining through the slitted windows. A ramp spiraled up the inside walls. She crawled up it, feeling her way forward with her four-fingered hand while keeping her gun ready in her left. At intervals, the ramp expanded into alcoves hollowed from the walls and flat platforms extending into the center of the cone. After reaching the top, she clicked on her penlight. The spaces were just as empty as they felt. Like the orange, the blue surfaces of the cone had a semi-organic feel, but were dry and pebbly beneath her fingers.

  She poked around a bit, then walked back down the road to a one-story rambler with a functioning well and pump. At daylight, she returned to the city of cones for a longer look, but found nothing more than old footprints and empty buildings.

  The trail went cold.

  She returned to the Bear Republic Rebels to let them know the site had closed and to ask them to keep their eyes open. The woman asked her to join them. Tristan shook her head and walked back to the Vespa.

  Los Angeles was half burnt; alien ships keened across the skies. She rode south to Anaheim, which had fared little better, and then to San Diego, where she parted with half a box of ammunition in exchange for the location of two more camps up in Oregon: one in Eugene, one in Corvallis. She motored north up I-5. Once, two wedge-shaped jets creased the sky, contrails spiraling behind them. A foreign tank had been blown across four lanes of the highway through Sacramento, its hemisphere cracked, burnt shards gleaming in the autumn sun. After the long yellow valley, she detoured around Redding and climbed into the mountains, where pines and redwoods thrust from the slopes to surround the serpentine road. Past the grasslands of south Oregon, she found the two camps. They were as empty as the one outside Fresno.

  The days drew short and cold. Hope became a distant thing. She went back to the rebels and found they had gone. Perhaps they’d been wiped out.

  She siphoned gas, collected food, rigged a second basket to the Vespa to tote her water. Learned what she needed and what she didn’t. Her scars healed. On the off chance Alden had gotten free and returned home, she braved a trip to Redding, stashing the well-worn scooter south of town and approaching on foot through the woods. Smoke and engine-noise rose from the railroad tracks. Red skulls blazed from the walls of houses, grinning under the full moon.

  The house, too, was empty. She stood in her old room and gazed at her old things. She went to the bathroom to pick up the extra toothpaste they’d left behind. Something flashed in the darkness. She drew her pistol; so did her reflection. From the safety of the shadows, she faced herself. Halfway down its slope, her nose crooked. A web of white scars snared her right eye. When she grinned, blackness gapped her leftward teeth. She smiled gently, eyes stinging. It was better than she had expected. Even so, it wasn’t her.

  September became October. The nights grew sharp. She scavenged a heavy leather jacket and a proper helmet. She avoided the cities as best she could, speaking to the survivors flung across the farms and small towns. After a while, and two shouting matches that had nearly become shooting matches, she developed a system: sit down a couple hundred yards in front of any obvious habitation—smoke and gardens were the most obvious giveaways; clean cars, too—raise a sign saying “TALK?”, and wait for the survivor to emerge. Most times, the curtains ruffled once and not again, and Tristan rode away. Often enough, however, the survivor walked into the daylight, one hand raised, and Tristan stood and met them.

  They were so eager to talk. So eager to hear. About the survivors. The aliens. The roads. The dangers and safe harbors she’d seen along the way. After soaking up five minutes of her stories, they were ready to tell her whatever she wanted about alien camps, other towns, whether they’d seen any thirteen-year-old blond boys. She drove through the damp chill of Portland and Seattle, then followed I-5 through the pine-choked hills to Bellingham. Miles outside Vancouver, she stopped the bike. The black ship hung above the city, impossibly large, a false moon above the field of pines.

  She returned to southern California to build a cache and wait out the winter. When she wasn’t riding, she practiced her kung fu. Alden hadn’t taught her anything about weapons, but she began to integrate sticks and knives into her shadow-fights, finding the flow of her attacks adapted easily
to short blades and batons. After so much practice using both hands at once—block and attack, simultaneous offense and defense—wielding two knives concurrently and independently was no challenge at all.

  One after another, all their tips about other camps or descriptions matching Alden failed to pan out. She settled in Oceanside as a base of operations, scavenging at night, when it was too dark to approach homesteads without risking gunfire, and continued her sit-down parlays during the day. The mountains stood in easy reach if the aliens came to lay waste to the town. Midway between L.A. and San Diego, she was positioned to catch and filter news from both.

  And that was how she met the old man.

  She found him on the beach, shirtless, three fishing lines flung into the breakers. When he saw her walking down the sand, he reached for a pistol, holding it in his lap as she stopped and produced her sign. He narrowed his eyes and nodded.

  They put their guns away. Tristan offered him water; he accepted. She swept her greasy hair from her face. “I’m looking for my brother. Thirteen, nearly fourteen. Blond. Last time I saw him, he was thin, couple inches shorter than me.”

  The man glanced at his fishing lines. “And when was the last time you saw him?”

  “Months ago. The aliens took us.”

  “Probably not beneath the couch cushions, then. Or in the fridge. I can’t count how many times I left the remote in the fridge. Keys in the other pants. Like they had little legs of their own.”

  It was sometime in November—she hadn’t been keeping close track of the days—but the wind from the ocean remained a neutral non-temperature. “My missing key does have legs. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him.”

  The old man scratched his beard so hard she winced. He examined his nails, wiped them on his cutoffs. “La Jolla Country Club.”

  She nodded. She’d run into too many maniacs to be disappointed. “If it helps, I saw the ship coming into Los Angeles a few days ago. Thanks for your time.”

  She turned down the beach. The man called after her. “I heard there’s a man who turned the La Jolla Country Club into his own little fiefdom. Got his own knights. Horses and swords and lances. Makes ‘em swear oaths of fealty.”

  “I’ll try not to offend His Liege, then.”

  The man shook his head, tanned face scowling. “Will you let me finish, young lady? He’s got peasants, too. Which is a very polite way of putting it, if you ask me. Turns out the king has a thing for blonds. Male and female.”

  “Kids?”

  “Them, too.”

  “Know where he gets them?”

  The man shrugged his mole-mottled shoulders. “Sends his knights a-ranging.”

  “I appreciate it,” Tristan said. “Anything I can do in return?”

  He looked suddenly out to sea. “A hug.”

  “A hug?”

  “Don’t have to.”

  “A normal, hands-in-the-right-places hug?”

  He glanced sharply back to her. “Don’t know what you’re implying, ma’am.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve spent too much time with the wrong crowd.”

  “These days, it’s hard not to.”

  She extended her arms, ready to jab his eyes or twist out his beard if he got funny. He smelled like sea salt and less sweaty than she expected. After a long moment, he disengaged.

  “Been so long since I felt anyone but myself.” He went red beneath his beard. “Not to say—”

  “I know what you mean,” she smiled. By the time she got back to the bike path, he’d gotten back to his poles.

  She went to the house to ready her gear and her cover story. She was the employee—the agent—of a wealthy man. One with specific tastes of his own. A man whose vast wealth had survived the Panhandler perfectly intact, if in different forms: gasoline, women, groceries, orchards, a small fleet of working cars, boats, even jets. She consulted her map and got on her bike and rode down the coast.

  It was a quick trip. Thirty miles, if that. With only one major traffic snarl to detour around, her Vespa killed the distance in just over an hour. Palm fronds waved from the drive to the club. A wall of stakes barred the turn into the parking lot. Tristan stopped and killed the engine.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Tristan peered for the source of the voice. An ostrich feather bobbed behind the stakes. The sunset gleamed from a metal cap. A man planted his feet and stared down the road, a pike in one hand, a machine gun in the other.

  “Tristan Arthur,” she improvised; could have done better, but at least the last name couldn’t link her to Alden. “I seek an audience with the king.”

  “Is His Majesty expecting you?” The guard had a deep Southern accent, Tennessee or Georgia.

  “He is not. However, I represent a lord of San Francisco, and I believe the king may find the proposition I bear more than fruitful.”

  The man leaned the pike against the stakes and raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth. It futzed and clicked. After a short talk, he holstered it and gestured with the gun. “Well, come on in, milady. Leave your steed at the gate. ‘Less you think it’s likely to bolt.”

  Tristan dismounted the Vespa and threaded through the stakes. The guard requested her guns and knives but left her with the two foot-long batons she wore strapped around her left shin as an apparent brace. A woman raked leaves from the shoulder of the asphalt path. Other fieldhands chopped at yellow stalks in the fields beyond, which were interrupted by sand traps and putting greens. Beyond the high barb wire fence enclosing the grounds, the ocean glittered in the sunset. A horse clopped down the path. The guard stepped off, scowling at Tristan until she did the same, and doffed his plumed cap to the rider, who glanced their way and carried on.

  An expansive white building waited at the end of the path, glossy black solar panels glinting from the shallow pitch of its roof. Inside, the guard presented Tristan to Lady Winslowe, a forty-year-old woman with a swan’s build and a chandelier of braids dangling from her head. Electric lights beamed from the ceiling. The lady took her to a former office repopulated with cushions and candles, and used her walkie-talkie to summon a servant for coffee.

  “You have electricity,” Tristan said.

  “His Majesty believes in gilding tradition with modern advances,” said Lady Winslowe. “Does your lord lack power?”

  “Only help skilled enough to act as quickly as My Lord would like,” Tristan smiled. “Lord Hugo expects to have the grounds repowered by spring.”

  The woman chuckled. “Well, I hope you haven’t come to poach our man.”

  “Bear no such worries. I am here for the purpose of...my lord’s diversion.”

  “The harem,” Winslowe said casually. “Well, if you’re hoping to part Lord Dashing from his pleasure, I hope your own king is wealthy indeed.”

  “Lord Dashing?” Tristan said.

  The woman eyed her levelly. “Our king.”

  “My lord’s resources are expansive,” Tristan recovered. “And as his agent of the field, I have been granted full power to disburse them.”

  Lady Winslowe nodded, braids swinging. They chatted a while—weather, roads, the likelihood of alien attack—then the lady withdrew with promises to return soon. Tristan sat still. The black hemisphere of a security camera lurked in the corner.

  Winslowe took a full thirty minutes to come back. “The king will see you at his table.”

  “An honor.” Tristan followed her up a broad staircase. Men with rifles stood at arms, ostrich plumes twitching in the fan-stirred air, which was moist and warm despite the snow growing on the mountains. Servants bustled past, eyes downcast, plates clanking on their trays. They moved with the precision of those who know their task and the consequences of its failure.

  King Dashing took his dinner on a patio overlooking the sea. A cherrywood table glowed in the light of two electric lamps. Blackened whitefish steamed on his plate, adorned by mashed avocados and a careful tower of orange wedges heavy with molten sugar. Two guards stood b
lankly behind him, rifles held to their shoulders. Black hair flowed from his widow’s peak, a braided silver crown circling his head. He had the long, hawkish nose of a Roman lord and the dark-rimmed eyes of a man who’s been up all night drinking.

  “My liege.” Tristan knelt, bowed her head. “I bear greetings from Lord Barry Hugo, ruler of the kingdom of North San Francisco. As his agent of the field, I—”

  The king set his fork on his plate. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “Patronize you, my lord?”

  “You talk like a fucking hobbit.”

  “The rest of your men—”

  “This isn’t Camelot. This isn’t Westeros.” The man waved his hand as if dispersing noxious smoke. “This is a pageant. This is how I roll. Does this Barry Hugo even call himself a king?”

  Crickets chirped from the golf course cornfields. Tristan lifted her eyes. “I believe he’s related to a French baron.”

  Dashing forked up a bite of whitefish and chewed around the meat’s heat. “Look, talk however you like. Spit it out in iambic pentameter, if that’s what gives you a kick. But if you think I’m a madman playing dress-up, you’re going to leave with nothing but bad news.”

  “Thank you for correcting me,” Tristan said evenly. “To my distress, I’m somewhat ignorant of courtly etiquette. Should I be seated?”

  “I forgive your ignorance, since it’s shared by nearly the entire damn world. You may sit and stand after securing my permission. Address me as ‘my Lord,’ ‘Your Highness,’ ‘Your Grace So Generously Endowed That None May Doubt the Proof of God’s Love,’ et cetera.” He considered her across the night. “Basically, follow the Leaden Rule: treat me as you would treat any other man surrounded by a compound of men with guns.”

  “Noted.” She sat. “Then allow me to flatter you. Your estate is run like Mussolini’s wet dream.”

  “Men crave order. Remind them of that and their lives get much happier.”