The Last City Box Set

by Logan Keys

  It’s actually grown a bit. For me, that is. Even my eyelashes and brows are back.

  “I think I’ll just add some wigs to the list,” he says. “Other than that, get with Serena in the morning, and she’ll give you the lowdown.”

  “What is it? The job, I mean.”

  “Oh, right. Well, the rich people around here don’t like jury duty much. Ever been? No? I didn’t think so. Anyway, you go, hear the short arguments, using a reader in front of you all day for evidence. With the strict rules, and new ones every day … lots more hearings. Getting a proxy to go instead is big money, but you kind of have to play the part. If you look or sound dicey, they’ll pick you up in a heartbeat. Plus, we can’t use the same proxies over and over again, so you’ll have to sort of … change your identity.”

  “What?”

  “It’s no big trouble, or technically illegal. Plus, the rich don’t want to get caught any more than you do, so they pay a lot of hush money in the off chance that you do get into trouble. Been doing this for years.”

  “But what about your rules?” I ask. “The ones about keeping out of situations like this?” I didn’t mention the other, but he smirks anyway.

  “That’s just something we say to the newbies, to try to scare them into giving us all of their good rations.”

  “You mean, I didn’t have to give up my desserts?”

  Journee laughs. “So that’s why Manda looks like she’s put on ten pounds.”

  I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow.

  “Nah, Mozart. Chill. We got you. Don’t worry, mon, ‘cause every little ting gonna be all right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After a weekend spent with Serena, my wardrobe includes a dress suit, a wig, heels, and some sunglasses. Pearls, too.

  “They’re fake,” she said with another eye roll. “Stuff your bra and put on some makeup. You have to look a lot older than …?”

  “Sixteen,” I supplied.

  “Yeah. We need to make sure you don’t look like jail bait.”

  “But I …” I began, and then, “You know what? Never mind.”

  I didn’t want to start a dialogue on why I didn’t even own a bra. I’d tape socks to my chest if I had to.

  Today, Serena wears a pant suit, herself. It’s sharp. And Journee’s out in the alleyway, his own tailor-made suit and tie perfect for his physique.

  “I know, right?” Serena nudges me, and we start toward a waiting taxi.

  The rules are simple: Act rich. Get paid.

  My fake ID is snapped onto my jacket, and Serena dabs some lipstick on me. The dark grey looks silly with my pale skin, but I’m trying to keep my confusion to a minimum for this job.

  As I enter the courthouse, my blonde wig and heels turn a few heads, but I’m too busy gawking, myself. Massive white pillars bracket the entrance. Banners of the Authority’s eagle insignia hang from the ceiling. Inside reminds me of a cathedral, but instead of saints on the walls, statues of the Authority figures stand—the same man and woman I’d seen from the train.

  Below these, however, are their names: Reginald Cromwell, and Karma Cromwell.

  “Next!” At the entrance, a guard wands me down, and I hope he isn’t the same one I’d choked after my arrival to the city.

  Just getting through this one step at a time is my only plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “The defendant pleads ‘not guilty’, your honor.”

  The judge fixes his wig, mops his brow, and waves his hanky in reply to the defense attorney’s statement.

  All day it’s been boiling hot, like the fans are broken, and everyone looks melted.

  “A treason sentence is the same either way,” the judge says between pants, “so I wouldn’t expect him to plead otherwise.”

  The juror next to me whispers into my ear for the fourth time during the trial. He says, “Death,” with a chuckle like it’s all too much to contain the fun he’s having. “See that thing in his arm? It’ll lethally inject him as soon as the verdict’s in. You ever see one?”

  My head shake is stilted. I’m not interested in seeing the guy die. Well, kid. Boy. He’s in the wooden chair across from where we jurors sit, staring at the floor, IV taped to the crook of his elbow. Can’t be much older than me, but taller by far, and heavy is the head that rests on his shoulders, too. Framing his face is shaggy brown hair that’s grown long while waiting in jail.

  When the defendant came up on the screen for his testimony, I could focus on nothing else but the violet eyes staring back, seemingly right at me, electrified with such passion and zeal. If asked later what he looked like, I wouldn’t be able to give a ready description other than the vivid coloring of his irises and their ability to focus with such intensity that I’d felt entranced.

  I’d heard about that birth defect before. When old vaccinations were given to pregnant women―yet another anti-zombie serum that didn’t work—they had terrible side effects like children being born blind. Some were born with perfect sight, though with eye color as unnatural as that stuff they keep passing out and calling sugar.

  His are a radioactive purple, almost glowing. Maybe that’s because he’s insane.

  On the large screen, a pre-recorded video plays, and when he starts to speak, you can hear a pin drop in the courtroom. For such a young guy, he has presence, I’ll give him that; each word is chosen carefully, and he doesn’t plead with us for mercy. Instead, he’s taken his moment to testify about freedom of the people.

  Basically piling on more treason.

  Mercy can’t save him now, anyway. Fat man next to me practically wants to push the plunger. This boy will be dead soon. No reasonable doubt, and the whole group of jurors know that. They’ve all but hovered over the guilty button near our readers to get him injected quickly, freeing us from this sauna. Some will press theirs immediately when we’re told, like it’s a race.

  His crime? He wrote a pamphlet against the Authority. Signed his name to it and everything. Jeremy Writer. Obviously a pen name. We all chuckled a bit at that, yet something about this boy … I can’t put a finger on it. When he spoke, so much had been right, I had to keep myself from standing at the end to applaud.

  In this environment though … insanity.

  Everyone else heard only the parts about stopping forced vaccinations, ending rations, hindering control. They reasoned that we’d starve, get sick, and die without the Authority, and this boy was a disease as much as cancer to the people here in Anthem. Thoughts like that spread. Infect everyone.

  The Authority needs us living off of fear. Control is like a warm blanket protecting us from the outside world. Protecting us from sick people....

  People like me.

  A dictatorship is what it is, and Jeremy Writer has that part right, though I’d never dare say it out loud. But he had. And now he’ll die for it.

  The judge yawns and stares at us, wig askew. “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, as you know, with cases where the death penalty is granted, we will need full agreement to consider the verdict guilty. If one of you says ‘not guilty,’ this young man will be free to go. But if all of you find him guilty, the sentence is immediate.”

  We nod and murmur our agreement.

  The buttons click and click eleven times.

  My hand freezes, though, fingers spreading and clenching over the little “guilty” button.

  Oh, no.

  “Don’t you dare,” I mutter to myself like an imbecile.

  I take deep breaths before trying again. My job is to blend in. He’s guilty. Of course he is. Under this law, he’s as guilty as sin. He knew what he was doing. Besides, I’m a proxy for someone who’d press the button between powdering her nose and putting on new, greyer lipstick.

  But I hesitated.… I shouldn’t have thought about it so much.

  Now, the whole courtroom’s waiting, while bright purple eyes find me … search my soul.

  I press the button.

  Chapter Twenty-Five />
  Tommy

  “When you’re in the suck, boys, when you feel the enemy surrounding you and chances are you won’t make it out, that’s when you’ll know what it’s like to really live!”

  Sergeant Nolan has a way with words. He can make dying for your country sound as good as apple pie to us soldiers. In a gravelly voice from too many cigars and not enough restful years, he grits out words like an ancient meat grinder. “Fight for honor, fight for control. Hell, fight for that square foot you’re standing in. But for God’s sake, don’t give up!”

  You don’t quit on Sergeant Nolan. Not unless you want him to put you down himself. The man’s found a case of Mountain Dew on every run, they say, and he’s been drinking it ever since. No water, not even on a twenty-five mile ruck march with soldiers falling out to puke up their own liquid is Nolan drinking anything but the green slime from his camel-back.

  “Most of you will die. I’m okay with that. I’d rather see ten of you in boxes, than even one civilian. If any of you try to go AWOL—even one soldier on the lam—I swear to all that’s holy, I’ll label you an enemy of what’s left of this here outfit and hunt—you—down.”

  I realize in this group we’ve been washed out—pronounced dead, missing, or killed in action, and if I had a family to worry about back home, I’d be crying in my bunk like some of these other sorry sacks.

  Sergeant Nolan gestures behind at the barracks. “Armistead is named after Confederate General Lewis Armistead. Someone thought it mighty ironic to name this here Swedish military installation, and their neutral-loving asses, after a man who’d been on the south side of the American civil war.”

  He glances over at the scientists waiting on the sidelines, many of them decidedly not American, before he continues, “General Armistead was known for tipping his hat with his sword before riding into battle, and breaking a plate over the head of a fellow cadet.”

  We can’t help but laugh, but the Sergeant seems offended that anything he says could possibly be funny.

  “Zip it up! He was one to buck the system, and while that may seem heroic, if any of you so much as blink in the wrong direction, you’ll wish you’d died of a fever wound like he had.

  “And I’m taking away all of your ranks for you Specials,” Sergeant Nolan yells not two feet from me. “You start fresh. You boys ready to begin?”

  We stand taller and lift our chins.

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Private Ripley, are you paying attention!” Sergeant Nolan barks.

  I snap to attention, blinking, fighting a yawn. My sleep patterns have been screwy since my transition. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  Sergeant Nolan won’t call me Hatter, even though it’s on my name patch. He says the name sounds like some damned idiot Alice in Wonderland character, and since this ain’t Disneyland, he sure as hell isn’t going to call me it. His words.

  That jutting jaw almost brushes my nose when he talks. “Are we interrupting your woolgathering, Fuzzy?”

  “Sir, no, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Fuzzy” means newbie, and about thirty of us are in formation at parade rest. Some of these soldiers I’d already met in the labs. Santiago’s directly in front of me; Cory’s to my right; and Vero’s down the way, chewing her cheek. She can tell that I’m tired. Vero notices things like that.

  Joelle’s asleep back in our new barracks, lucky little brat. Can’t do sunlight; the mere thought of sunrise puts her in a trance. Sometimes I hold up sunny pictures to shut her up when she’s in blab mode. That always gets her hissing.

  Sergeant Nolan presses a finger into my chest. “You boys’ll be running the course, then we’ll need to see laps in the pool, push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. As an added bonus, the course has extra obstacles. I want to see you push yourselves.”

  He always says “men,” “boys,” “guys,” and even “sissy girls,” but he never once mentions Vero as being a woman. He can’t stand the idea that she’s a Special, and the only female on our squad. Left up to him, we’d all be men. Too bad for Nolan, though, the higher pain tolerance resides with the “weaker” sex, hence the reason scientists are making both genders into Specials.

  He also avoids Joelle like the plague. No surprise really, as everyone mostly does. But Vero’s different. She’s like us, an outsider to outsiders.

  I bite back a groan, seeing the obstacle course’s hastily made additions. My body won’t hold up for most of it, and already Sergeant Nolan’s eyeing my slumped posture and rumpled clothing like he’s just waiting to shred me.

  Cory yells for us to line up. He’s taking his new team leader job far too seriously. I catch Vero’s eye, and together we share a look behind his back.

  But Cory sees it. “Is there a problem over here, Private?”

  Vero starts to reply, but he’s on her like a junkyard dog. “I said, is there a problem over here!”

  “Sir, no, sir!”

  Cory shoots me a glare, then we begin.

  In the maze, Cory chases me around, shadowing me unrelentingly. He’s a tall guy, but what he has on me in height I make up for in muscle. In the normal world, he’d likely have been a sports star, parents proudly stacking and dusting his trophies, his dad calling him “sport” like Jay Gatsby. He’s got the looks for it, too. But no doubt most of his talent has been wasted running from zombies.

  I used to be built differently. Before the labs, I was pretty average, but when they couldn’t fit any more muscle on my skeletal frame … they made room. Lots.

  Cory edges in close while we round the corner, so I slam on the brakes, letting him crash into my shoulder. He clotheslines himself a good one before gasping in sputtered outrage. It would be comical, if I had the energy to laugh.

  I jog away, shaking my head, and he wisely backs off and leaves me be.

  At the last wall, my arms give out around the halfway point. Lifting my heavy body while exhausted is too great a task, so I let go of the rope with a curse and fall twenty feet to land hard on my back. Feels like something’s been pulled—a muscle, or my ego. Either one.

  Vero’s over me in an instant, grey eyes peripherally checking for Cory before her hands light up at the same time I’m telling her, “No.”

  Using our Special is forbidden on base. We’re all still tippy-top secret for the most part.

  Though my head continues to shake, Vero presses on, and it feels so good, like being shocked by a stupor-inducing bug zapper. So instead of stopping her as I mean to, my hands wrap her wrists in an attempt to siphon out whatever she’s giving. It’s like a drug. I’ve never felt her touch before.

  Warmth bleeds stress and worry out of me, like I’ve stepped into a bath of warm jello in a low-lit room. Even the breeze smells sweeter while things far away sound close. Vero’s words are lost in these other noises, and I pull her nearer, trying to hear, when I realize I’ve yanked her body on top of mine. The sensation of her lit-up hands is incredibly … erotic.

  The magic fades, bringing me back to earth, and with a face full of mischief, Vero says, “I didn’t finish.”

  My mouth gapes at the innuendo as we attempt to scramble to our feet.

  Cory’s come over, chiseled face like a thundercloud. “Sleeping on the job?”

  “No,” Vero and I say at the same time, and Cory’s wide eyed like a spooked horse at our lackadaisical attitudes.

  We both realize our error and pull apart to snap at attention. “I mean, nothing, sir!”

  “Nothing, sir,” Vero says.

  Cory eyes us like we’re gum on his boot before spinning on his heel to stalk away. “Private Hernandez and Private Hatter,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’ll start the course again.”

  We drag our feet to the first obstacle, and though I now feel great, all too soon after re-starting, Vero’s energy flags from using her Special.

  When Cory’s not looking, I hunch over. “Put a foot in my hands, Vero. Come on, I’ll give you a boost.”

  By the end of
the course, I’m sluggish, too. In the pools, we’re the last ones to do laps, so we splash each other and mess around. The PT Sergeant is passed out in his chair, so he’ll probably fill in fake times to keep from being busted.

  I climb out, while Vero porpoises alongside in the water. Her dark brown hair’s like a seal’s pelt when she breaks the surface.

  She smiles up at me. “Hatter, you look … bigger. You weren’t small before, but in these last few months, it’s like you’ve filled out even more, if that’s possible.”

  Vero’s “filled out” quite a bit herself, but I don’t say that and instead hand her a towel. “Just get out of the pool, GI Jane.”

  “Who’s that?” she asks.

  I laugh. “Never mind.”

  After the flood of undead, most people didn’t keep up with old entertainment. But I’m a buff, and my library’s extensive. The UG paid us a good chunk to do their experiments and I’ve not really had a chance to spend any of it (where would I?), so I traded up items for a huge interactive flat screen that’s now in my barracks. Movies, music, and entire collections have been pulled off of old drives from various runs where we made good finds.

  Vero and I dress and head back.

  When we arrive, everyone’s waiting in formation, and Sergeant Nolan’s glaring. “Push-ups,” he says between chugs of his Mountain Dew, and we move to our hands onto the hot pavement.

  Vero fizzles out quickly, so I slow down, trying to draw heat away from her. If we get sacked, we go down together.

  Sergeant Nolan rushes forward, along with Cory, to spout insults into our faces.

  “Get up, you worms!”

  Vero starts back in, and I follow suit. We have each others' backs like that.

  I hope she can finish this. It’ll be my fault if she can’t.

  Sergeant Nolan chuckles when he catches me checking on Vero. “I see we’ve got ourselves a couple of love birds, here.” He puts a foot onto my shoulder, forcing me down. “Well, c’mon, Romeo. We don’t have all day.”