The Last City Box Set

by Logan Keys

  My heart speeds up so fast that I bang my head on the bottom of the bunk when I jump up, dumping Vero from my lap like a cinder. She slams down hard on the floor.

  “Oh my God, Vero.” I help her back up with one solid yank on her hand that makes her yelp. “I’m so sorry.” But already I’m pulling away, feet tripping backwards over themselves when she’s up.

  Inside me, the change has begun.

  He’s here.

  Only, I’m not transforming. He reaches forward―not me―moving of his own accord, and my mouth’s smiling—I can feel it.

  Then, he’s got her in his arms, and she melts against him.

  My voice still works. “No!”

  Vero stiffens like she’s been slapped.

  It’s a fight to regain control, and I’m losing ground. “Get out of here!”

  She doesn’t move, so I shove her away when I find that I can, and she barely keeps from falling, hands flung out to stop her from crashing into the furniture. “Tommy …? What the hell—”

  “I said, leave!” I advance, trying to scare her before he comes back.

  She hesitates with a strange look.

  “Run!” I roar.

  And she does.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  To cool off, I walked in the rain for a good solid hour. Joelle’s silent when I enter, like she can read something’s off with my mood, and she pads around in quiet uncertainty.

  I shuffle around, too, just as uncertain.

  That episode with Vero … did it really happen? He took control of me without the transformation. How is that even possible?

  I’ll need to sober up some before I talk to anyone. Try to figure things out in my own head first. I make a pot of coffee and then lie down on my bunk, arm over my face.

  My eyes open, and Joelle’s standing over my bed. She has on a cape, and she’s painted her face white. “I vant to suck your blood!”

  I fight the urge to shrink away. She has no idea how scary that is. I have to remind myself, though, that she’s still a child, so this prank is her goofy way of staying true to her age.

  Joelle giggles. “I found a movie about you.”

  “You did?” My voice is gravel against metal.

  “Yeah.” She shrugs and hops onto the edge of my bed. “Big green guy runs around destroying the city, and he changes back, just like you do. He only turns when he gets angry; you won’t like him when he’s angry!”

  “The Incredible Hulk … ?” I smile, though it feels muted.

  “Yeah,” she says. “That’s it.” Stars sit in her eyes. “Incredible.”

  I sigh and rub my face. “Have a seat, Jo. We need to talk.”

  “I am sitting, Tommy.… ” Her voice wobbles like she’s afraid.

  Joelle’s black brows furrow, cracking the white paint, and she moves her throat in a swallow while her dark eyes grow damp. I’ve seen Joelle cry a few times; there’s never any blood or vampiness to it, just a little girl who’s sad.

  Tears spill onto her cheeks in long smears, and my heart snaps in half.

  “You’re leaving,” she says. “I can sense it. Goodbye Jo-Jo. You don’t even have to say it; your face is telling me over and over. I’ve seen it enough to know, Hatter.”

  She never calls me Hatter. It’s always either Tom-Tom or Tommy. My turn to swallow. “I’m sorry, Jo. We knew this might happen.”

  Actually, we knew it would definitely happen. But so much time has passed, we’d been pretending that we could live out our lives here for a long time.

  Suddenly, she brightens. “Why can’t I just―”

  “No. You stay, Joelle. The boat ride alone is too dangerous. Once we get there, there’s no time to let you sleep, and no way to keep you fed. I won’t argue. You stay here and keep safe. The UG will always take care of you; that’s their promise to your mother. So you do it, okay …? For me.”

  She balls her hands into fists by her sides. Her silly costume makes this all the more surreal. Joelle’s face is tight with pain, and my eyes burn in the sight of her stricken fear. She’s lost everyone and everything already, and I’m just another person abandoning her.

  “Every day,” she says, lip quivering. “Each and every day, I sit in the dark and watch movies, or maybe, if I’m lucky, we go out into the city—you, me, and Simon. But I won’t even get to do that anymore if you leave. I’ll just sit here like a prisoner for the rest of my life.”

  I close my eyes for a beat. “I know. But Jo … if we win, if we defeat the Authority, then—”

  Her own black eyes are like razors when they flick upward to meet mine. “Stop. Don’t make any more promises, Hatter. I’ve lived my life believing in them, only to have every single one of them turn out to be a lie. Don’t lie to me, okay?”

  And I don’t.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  My father’s words weigh heavily on my mind. He once told me a time would come when I’d have to stop running and just face it—all of it. Little did I know how prophetic the old man would be.

  Strange thing is, though, it’s not just my own problems coming home to roost. It’s all of civilization’s.

  Our foolish discontent over what we thought was so terrible has taken on new meaning, now that the undead creep over every bit of earth that’s not fenced in. Only a madman would believe this is the best we could offer.

  If God gave us the precious gift of life, only to have us throw it back in His face, would it be so crazy to think He’d now show nothing else but wrath? My dad figured it was amazing that our Creator would still love us after what we’d done, and I’m trying to see this through my haze of anger. But it’s distant to me now, this idea of God and men and saviors. It’s so far away.

  He’d be so damned disappointed in me.

  Another voice, this one young and sweet, comes, as it always does when I’m like this. Untouched by time, or by my monster, she’s there …

  “Your pa would have wanted you to move on, Tommy.”

  Daisy’s in my head, saying the things she always said.

  “He wouldn’t even recognize me now.”

  “Maybe that’s ‘cause you keep lettin’ it get to you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Pfft. The Tommy I know wouldn’t be whipped so easily.”

  “I’m not the Tommy you know. Not at all.”

  “Listen to me, Thomas Ripley Hatter. I’ve known you for a long time, and you’re as stubborn as a mule.”

  And then, the figment of my imagination is here, with me, in the barracks. I gape down the aisle between the bunks as Daisy moves forward. She’s not so young anymore, or beautiful; her face is blue, and the whites of her eyes are red.

  I’m losing my mind. I must be dreaming.

  “No,” she says, “you’re not dreaming.”

  Daisy—or my image of her—walks over and sits down on my bunk. I choke back a yell when the mattress moves beneath her weight.

  “How—?”

  “You know how. Because of him.”

  She tilts her head in the direction she came from, toward a spot where the lights have been out since we got here—a dark space at the end of the barracks. In between old, unused bunks stands a shadow.

  Fear thins my voice. “Him, who?”

  When Daisy doesn’t answer, I expect to turn to find empty air. Instead, green eyes watch me. Her hair’s still auburn but stringy, her skin’s chalky, and the bloodshot around her irises makes them stand out in stark contrast. Daisy looks like a zombie.

  “Sometimes you need your past to conquer your future, Tommy. Never forget who you are.”

  I nod, and her mouth, as always, quirks.

  “I’ve missed you so much.” I’m really losing it.

  Beyond Daisy, the shadow’s moved to a different spot. It’s now more outlined, and big. The monster. He hovers in the dark, watching us.

  “Why are you here?” I ask Daisy, not looking away from my nemesis.

  “You know why. You’re splitting down the middle
. Choices will have to be made, and we both pull you in different directions: him to the bad, me to the good. I’ve always been your sense, even when we were kids. Your subconscious probably thinks I’ll help you now, and so you’ve made me up.”

  Then, she laughs. “Lord only knows why, since you don’t listen to a thing I say.”

  In a strange way, this totally makes sense.

  Giving into the imaginary Daisy being there, I ask, “What do I do?”

  “You always were a scrappy boy; you never took punches like I did. Be careful when you fight the monster, that it doesn’t make you into one, too.”

  I regard the darkness, feeling it still watching me. It won’t come into the light. Somehow, I know this.

  “Even if you’re lost, defeated—get back up.”

  “But—”

  When I glance over, she’s gone. And down the aisle, the monster’s gone, too.

  I’m alone in the barracks.

  My skin ripples.

  The sensation of being watched remains, and I have to wipe my face hard to try to rid myself of it.

  I decide to wake Joelle so I can spend as much time as possible with the little imp before I ship out. But when I lift the top of the conex, I find it’s empty.

  She’s not in the barracks.

  I check the window. The sky’s brightening on the horizon.

  Dawn.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Liza

  Gregor and Serena have some heated discussion that’s coming through my walls.

  Then, it begins—a crash, a door slams.

  When I rush outside, there stands a red-faced Gregor, screaming at the top of his lungs, pointing at Serena. She’s pale-faced, crying, and surprised.

  “But what will I do?” Her whispered words are swallowed by more of his outrage.

  Manda’s come out, too, and I picture a knife being pressed to Gregor‘s throat, but Journee throws open his door in time to catch the obscenities pouring from the lawyer’s mouth like water from a faucet. Journee takes one look at Serena’s face, the hand over her belly, and the word “whore” is still ricocheting off the buildings like a gunshot. He’s on the finely dressed man in an instant.

  Thinner, taller Gregor lands on the asphalt from a tackle that’s tinder-keg explosive. Together, he and Journee roll and punch while the population of our section comes to see what the commotion’s about.

  With cat-like screeches, Serena gets them to pause, and Journee scrunches his face at us without his glasses on.

  She lays a hand onto his arm, and it’s like an invisible leash; he stays, albeit still bristled, as he watches with hatred the other man who shuffles to his own feet and straightens his tie.

  “It’s okay, Gregor,” Serena says. “I’ll figure this out. We’ll―”

  “We? Don’t you dare put this on me! I’ve been careful. It’s not mine. It belongs to some scummy loser you slept with; probably this guy. But it’s not mine!”

  My hand barely catches Journee’s other arm as he starts forward again. Then, Manda jumps between the two men and jerks her chin toward the end of the street.

  Two guards approach, and when they get near, they address the one with the new leather shoes, turning their backs on the Section scrubs.

  Gregor rubs a hand through his hair, implants mussed and the perfectly straight, too-large teeth are white in contrast to skin a shade darker than what he’d probably been born with.

  “Is there trouble here?” one guard asks, and Gregor nods.

  “I’m … I’m this one’s attorney.” He flings a hand at Serena, and she glances quickly between him and the guards in confusion. “She’s pregnant without a license.”

  The guard turns toward us. “Take her.”

  Serena stiffens when they grab her arms.

  Journee rushes forward, out of my grip, and in one slick move, he’s snatched one of the guards’ batons. He swings it above his head, landing a hard blow directly onto a visor, which cracks down the middle of the helmet.

  They have to taser him twice to get him bound.

  Serena begs Gregor to tell them the truth, even as they bind her hands.

  Manda hugs her sister, whispering into her ear to stay strong as the guards force them apart and take Serena to one of their transports.

  We’re left alone, then, Gregor and I.

  Manda’s following the vehicle that holds both Journee and Serena as far as she can, on foot.

  Gregor shoots me a nervous glance, and every vile thought vibrates through me like a signal until he looks away, shamefully.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  After a week, Serena comes back to us, eyes sad and looking ages older. She’s lost at least ten pounds that she didn’t have extra to begin with.

  “They took the baby,” is all she says.

  Now, she sits at the window every day, wearing depression like a sweater, while Manda wipes her eyes and pretends to be busy whenever we’re together. The way Manda nervously checks everything twice, three times, makes me jumpy.

  We all wonder how things can possibly get worse. Any hope felt is wiped away by Serena’s lifeless gaze. She doesn’t have to explain. Stolen, her posture says. Invaded, her eyes scream.

  A lady Manda found through word of mouth comes to give Serena some holistic medicine. Sephora’s her name, and she’s the closest thing we have to a doctor down here.

  They had one in Section once, I’d been told. But he’d been arrested for some small infraction.

  South Anthem dwindles with people barely leaving their rooms.

  Manda asks Sephora what we can do, but Sephora merely washes up and shakes her head. “It’s not here.” She points at her stomach. “But here.” And she points at her head and heart. “There is nothing I can do for her.”

  Then, at the door, Sephora hesitates and, taking in the level of our desperation, sighs. “There is a place. I knew one girl who said they helped.”

  She writes down an address, but grips my arm before handing it over. “You don’t get this from me.”

  Sephora leaves quickly after that.

  Manda reads the paper. “Um … can you take her?”

  “Why?”

  “Because”—Manda looks down guiltily—“that address she gave you is for a church.”

  I play with the paper, conflicted. I’ve never been to church, but I nod anyway. What else is there left to do?

  Serena follows me there, listlessly.

  I was picturing an actual church, like with a steeple and maybe some stained glass; some grim and Gothic setting here, hidden in Anthem. But this church is just another warehouse in the poorest of the poor areas of Section. One worse off than us, where almost everyone I’ve asked for directions from is homeless or speaks another language.

  The last wrong turn we made seems to have put us near the Cantonese-speaking area. Not one of my even passable languages.

  Serena walks like she’s in a fog. Plus, she refuses to eat and has grown perilously thin. Manda has fussed and worried, tried everything to avoid this dangerous visit, but it’s becoming clear we might actually lose Serena, so we have to try everything.

  Once we arrive, we wait at the back while a man in front of a gathering of four speaks rapidly in Russian. It takes me a moment before I realize he’s the preacher and he’s giving a sermon.

  From what little I can decipher, they’re laughing at his joke about roosters in his room and an “everything” soup with a boot in it that he’d eaten once in their country.

  Serena sits and stares at the crucifix propped up against the far wall. That thing makes me uneasy; it has to be illegal.

  When the man has finished, he strides over, mopping his brow. It’s boiling today, strengthening the odor of humanity.

  “Can I help you?” he asks in an accent that’s decidedly not Russian.

  “Oh. You do speak English.”

  “I do.” His lilt and his smile are both broad. “There’s another night in English.”

  “
Okay then,” I say, “we can come back.” And I place a hand on Serena’s elbow to leave.

  “No,” he says, “I think you can stay.” And he glances at Serena with a knowing look. “Name’s Nathaniel, but everyone calls me Nate.”

  “Liza.” I sigh with relief. “And this is Serena.”

  Nate notices me eyeing the cross. “Mother is a bit of the old church,” he tells me, and his accent becomes clearer.

  “Irish … ?” I ask.

  “’Tis. Is that English you’ve got there?”

  My laugh is stiff. “Yes. Slightly.”

  He grunts a noise from his throat. “We’re a long way from home, miss. I’ve seen England since the flood, have you? No? Well, it’s doing a far bit better than my own island, I’ll tell ya that. They’ve not as much food, mind you, but plenty of tea.”

  “I miss my mother’s tea.” So, England still has people. How many other regions are alive?

  “A true blue blood, was she?” Nate crosses his arms as if he’d known all along.

  “Yes. She said coffee was like drinking gasoline. My father disagreed.”

  “Probably why they stayed married, then. I know my da was always pickin’ on my ma, and it took me until the last few years to understand it.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “It’s good to argue about banal things in light of what arguments we have now.”

  Nate scratches his scruffy chin in thought. “A philosopher and a royal. What made you leave?”

  “Well, I actually never lived there. Even though we traveled a lot, I only visited London once, and it was such a short visit. I always thought to go … until … well, after.”

  “You’ve not been living in Ash City, though. That much is sure.”

  “How’d you know?”

  He shrugs. “That look of seemingly useless hope is still stamped upon your face.”