The Last City Box Set

by Logan Keys

Team leaders step forward with Vero. They’re leery of me. That’s fine. Diverting their fear from what’s to come is as good a plan as any.

  “Private—” I read the name tag of the soldier nearest. “Stagg.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Do you know what I am?”

  “Sir?”

  “I asked if you know what I am.”

  He looks unsure, but shouts, “A member of the American Army, sir. Sergeant Hatter acting platoon sergeant and operations commander for this mission, sir!”

  “Correct. But, what I mean is what I am, not who.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Sergeant!”

  “What I’m asking, soldier”—and I say it loud enough to get everyone’s attention—“is do you know what I can turn into?”

  No answer.

  “Anyone?”

  A private steps forward. “Sir, I hear you can turn into a giant, sir.”

  Coughing covers some laughs, and my mouth turns down to avoid cracking my own smile. “Well, I suppose it could be worse, fuzzy. Get back in line.”

  “Roger!”

  I position myself where all of the leaders, at least, can hear me over the wind and the waves. The orange sky makes everyone glow, and I wish we had a flag to help set the mood. My words will have to do.

  “Do you know where you are, soldiers?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “When you later take off your boots, the dirt that falls out of them belongs to us. It belonged to our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers. Ladies and gentlemen, we are home.”

  Vero steps forth. “Can I get a hooah!”

  “Hooah!”

  A few smiles open up the faces of a once seasick, pale, and industrious crowd. Life sparks in their eyes, and some inch forward to hear me better.

  “I’m no Sergeant Nolan,” I tell them. “If he were here, he’d probably say something about you not needing to live forever, or that the chicks back home love a hero. But I’m not going to say any of that. We don’t need any more stiffs, so this is what you’re all going to do: You’re going to be careful. You’re going to keep from making mistakes. I don’t need stupid bravery or dumb luck; I need quickness, wisdom, and real leadership. Remember your training, and come back in one piece. And that’s an order!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  For a moment, I let nostalgia overtake me, and the wind quiets. “We can’t lose what’s ours already, soldiers. Not again.” A few look down at their feet. “This place holds our memories, and the Authority took our country without our permission. Now that we’ve returned as prodigal sons and daughters, what are we going to do? I said: What are we going to do!”

  “Take it!”

  “That’s right! And nothing will stand in our way! For home!”

  And two hundred soldiers yell back, “For home!”

  Vero and I move into the lead, and she stays close, ready to radio the team leaders with their orders. Once we get near the buildings on the boardwalk, I hold up a hand, and everyone waits.

  “It’s quiet,” says Vero.

  “Take cover,” I call back.

  A faint noise comes from between the buildings—shuffled, dragged feet.

  “Stiffies,” someone whispers.

  “Lots of them,” Cory adds unhelpfully.

  Inwardly, I shudder, but outwardly I give a hand signal that has everyone putting their backs to the nearest building and checking ammo.

  The first stiffie walks by, and I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. It’s got on a backpack that looks new and—

  “They’re rigged!” I barely yell out before it explodes.

  The blast flings me across the street, and I’m catapulted into the next building, feet first. Luckily, the wall was already crumbled from previous battles, so I land on a pile of rubble and I’m less dead than I should be.

  Unfortunately, my ears are ringing and my limbs don’t work. More bombs explode, raining plaster down onto my head. I cough and fight to sit up, but everything’s blurred in a haze.

  I struggle onto my side, now facing the burning boardwalk, and watch the carnage continue. Somewhere from a safe distance, the Authority’s triggering stiffies strapped with bombs whenever they get close to us.

  When the feeling finally returns to my legs, I begin to crawl—the moans of the living are much louder than that of the zombies’—and my hands squish into a pulpy mess of what could only have been a soldier.

  My search for surviving team members is slow going with only one leg functioning properly. When I find Defoe, he’s got his hands pressed over a hole in his stomach that’s gushing lifeblood in a steady stream, and Vero’s nowhere to be found, not in time. No amount of Special could help him now, anyway.

  Stiffies steadily climb over the concrete mountain to get to us; the smell of blood draws them in like a dinner bell. Smoke stains the air, making my eyes burn. I stay between the zombies and Defoe, firing when I’m certain I have a good shot. At least I can keep him from being eaten … alive.

  The streets are littered with bodies, both zombies and ours. I can’t spot any movement of green fatigues near me, but I also can’t see beyond the felled buildings to know if the other teams had fared any better.

  “Defoe?” I say, but when I turn, he’s already gone.

  Another zombie’s gotten close, still wearing a UPS uniform that’s shredded in strings and barely covering his skeletal-thin body. He’s got on a backpack, too.

  The explosion knocks me from my perch.

  Only this time, when I land, I’m staring up at an orange sky between a swirl of smoke and concrete powder while my vision slowly shrinks.

  A steady buzzing in my head wakes me. Feels like I’ve been lying in the same spot for hours. Rolling over onto my belly and dragging myself toward the one single building that’s still standing, I’m truly lucky that the blast had killed the zombies nearby.

  My legs are useless, so when I finally reach a window, it’s a struggle to hoist myself up over the ledge. I’m alone now, with nothing but snapping jaws trying to find anything still squirming. I need cover.

  A hand grabs mine, and I lift my gun, but it’s only Cory, pale but unharmed, and he pulls me through the rest of the way by my shirt.

  I try to ask if he’s been hiding the whole time, but I can’t hear any sound. Cory sits me down in a corner before moving back to the window to headhunt for zombies.

  Everything’s in a haze; I feel like a flickering lamp. One minute he’s there at the window, the next, he’s over me shaking his head. His mouth moves, and he gestures emphatically, but I’m unable to hear.

  The room spins. When it stops, Cory’s clean and well-dressed, standing at a dining room table.

  “I thought this was better than where we were,” he says.

  I look down to see I’m dressed in a suit and tie, too. “Not this again! Send me back!’

  “I will. Chill out. This was the only way to communicate with you, since you can’t hear.”

  Like I trust this bastard. “Send. Me. Back.”

  And with a sigh, he does.

  Again he tries to say something to me, but I’m fighting to stay conscious. Cory points at the window, then at me, trying to convey probably something very important.

  And then we’re back at the dining room table. “Would you just listen!” he yells.

  Vero appears this time.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, looking down at her dress in surprise and disgust. “Where are we?”

  I ball my hands into fists, ignoring how good it feels to have control of my body again. “Cory’s head,” I tell her.

  Cory makes a frustrated sound. “Your boyfriend’s hurt.”

  She looks at me, then at Cory in question. “What?”

  “Take this as an SOS,” he says, and we return to the present.

  Smoke burns my throat. The building’s caught fire while we were in the fake universe.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Cory’s lip
s are easily read this time.

  “Go,” I say, only feeling the words. “Just go.”

  He looks at me in question.

  “Go!” I try to yell.

  He shrugs, then jumps through the window, disappearing into the smoke.

  Slumping against the wall, I try to look at the bright side. At least I won’t be eaten. No, I’ll burn to death long before that. At this, a laugh rumbles in my chest. A Tommy Ripley-Hatter barbecue.

  My eyes drift shut.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Liza

  As a child, I’d only had one other fear besides trains: The Nutcracker. Or, more accurately, the giant Mouse King in all of his rat-like glory. He left me with nightmares for weeks after watching any rendition of the favorite seasonal production. And since my mother so often danced as Clara, I’d had to watch it nearly fifty times per Christmas. That is, until she was too old to effectively pull off the role, or so she said.

  Each opening night, I’d develop an anxiety fever from waiting for when he would appear. Even though I’d seen the Mouse King plenty of times without his costume on, the role was so well played and terrifyingly passionate, it was frightening. He’d get up on that stage, drawing me in until my heart beat so fast and my palms had gotten so sweaty.

  At that age, it was easy to picture the evil mouse eating me in my bed.

  Upon seeing Reginald Cromwell, leader of the Authority, I’m reminded of the Mouse King. Firstly, because he resembles some sort of rodent. Secondly, because he wears the leadership role like a cloak upon his shoulders.

  Karma, on the other hand, is a vision of pure plastic, richly dressed and blinking at me like I’m some dinner guest and not a revolutionary gripped tightly by guards at each arm. That’s what they’d called me on the way over: “Liza, the revolutionary.” I didn’t know whether to deny it or embrace it.

  Karma’s depiction at the wall must be of an older version, before she’d undergone work. Now, she’s poised without moving, or even seeming to breathe.

  Reginald strokes his non-augmented mustache. There’s a vibe coming from him, tendrils of anticipation, which makes me search Jeremy—his son—for answers.

  None are given.

  Instead, we’re put back into separate vehicles and driven even farther north. Through the area where the explosions had removed half of Anthem, it seems; the heart of the big bang. Our car has to veer around the devastation that’s taken out entire roads.

  Farther on, there’s less of anything except the wall on this side. But before it sits a sprawling mansion that’s breathtaking.

  Amid the bright green grass and the red roses stand white marble pillars upon which a third floor balcony enables visitors to gaze at the city from the home’s strategically placed hill.

  This lavish, colorful setting faces Ash City in contrast, its effervescence saturating.

  The idea that the Cromwells live here in opulence after leaving the bloody streets of downtown is disturbing. Journee’s face comes to mind. His handsome features were so still when I’d pulled him from the water, making him a stranger for the lack of humorous, cocky expressions I’d come to know him for.

  Breathing is a chore with the thought of him being gone.

  We’re let out of the car, and Jeremy remains separated from me. I’m given my own room, albeit with a guard outside. And even though it’s nearly morning, I’m told to wash for dinner.

  No one cares to answer any of my questions.

  The door’s promptly closed and locked in my face.

  Now, with plush red carpet beneath my feet, it’s a far walk from one side of the empty room to the other. Oversized furniture, ornately carved wood … it all makes me feel so small. My hands drift over the silk bedspread, the velvet curtains, and the silver vanity; it’s like a dream, a vision born out of blood and smoke. An ethereal palace built upon the backs of a forgotten humanity.

  That such things have made it through to the end of the world is astounding.

  Giving in, I shower, secretly hating myself for enjoying the hot water on my skin. Such luxuries make my emotions erratic. Tears would offer me release from the threat of the day, the sadness, the fear, and the adrenaline that would wear off to a dullness. Instead, I hold them in, standing limp beneath the spray, clinging to relief.

  “Live to fight another day” may seem brave, but I’m a coward. I’m just happy to be alive. The thought is selfish, but brief. I only relax for a moment before everything is rushing back: Nate, and the twins … all fighting, or worse, while I’m busy sudsing my hair. But these images are quickly banished. To continue will make me crumble. I’m a glass house right now, and there are cracks already.

  The foggy mirror spares me from having to look myself in the eye as I dry off with pristine, ornate towels.

  My steps slow upon entering the bedroom again. As if by magic, dresses have appeared on the bed. Both of them ballroom gowns and prettier than anything I’ve ever worn in my life.

  One is red, the other white.

  They nauseate me further.

  They do because they are so absolutely gorgeous. And because they mean such terrible things.

  Maybe they’ll poison us at dinner.

  Anything’s better than these empty gestures of goodwill.

  A guard follows me silently to the dining room, where the Cromwells have left me a seat at the end of the table. Jeremy’s there, staring at his plate, suit pressed and hair slicked back.

  He’s so different now. Already they’ve sucked the life out of him, and it’s barely been a week since I’ve last seen him.

  My seat is next to a girl whom I can only assume is his sister. Not quite as “worked on” yet as the mother, but certainly some upgrades. Hard not to notice the large chest that keeps her from sitting too close to the hors d’oeuvres.

  Karma comes to life in that jerky, animated way, mouth appearing to move a fraction behind her words. “Liza, aren’t you darling in Carolina’s dress.”

  Carolina claps, and things jiggle unseemly before she leans forward, reaching out a pale hand to touch mine. My obvious grimace and recoil as though she were a snake makes her straighten in indignation.

  “Oh,” she says prettily.

  Some would say “I’m sorry” out of pure manners, but anger wires my jaw shut. These people are evil. They can try to hide it under whatever mechanics they choose to invest in, but I’m no fool.

  The truly vile is never outwardly repulsive; it’s usually wrapped up in gorgeous ribbons or implanted with Technicolor eyes, like Jeremy’s sister, Carolina.

  Or tucked neatly into a white dress of pure majesty that’s tight around the bust, and swishes silk softly against my legs.

  Disgust curls my lip.

  Then, my heart falls a little. So Jeremy had been a part of this world all along?

  Karma looks at her husband, then freezes in that unsettling way while she waits … as if she doesn’t have a heartbeat, which is fitting. The sheen of her black hair is as unnatural as a rainbow in the thick of the worst storm.

  The Mouse King takes in the exchange with obvious pleasure. Reginald sips something as red as blood, and though it’s no doubt simply wine, my imagination fills in the rest of his deviousness.

  Our meal is still covered by sterling silver, and I’m half-expecting a sacrificed innocent or something more ominous beneath the reflection of my face in the shiny surface. My expression is one of complete revulsion.

  By Reginald’s scrutiny of the white dress I’ve chosen, I suspect he believes it’s an omen.

  “A toast,” he says, and lifts his glass. His family—all but Jeremy—lifts theirs quickly in kind.

  Jeremy sighs in resignation and lifts his by the stem in a mock salute, then sets it down without drinking.

  A servant wheels in a tray, removes a screen from it, and places it onto our table … right in front of me.

  Reginald watches carefully, mustache twitching.

  He’s still waiting for me to toast. So, I lif
t my glass and, holding it over to the side, I say, “Cheers.” With a twist of my wrist, I pour the entirety onto their pale carpet.

  The two women gasp, but Reginald takes another sip in answer.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is light. “But I thought it best we tell you what our demands are. Now.”

  He smiles, teeth stained and darker than his family’s. “I thought you might be a little rough around the edges, having lived in that rebellious commune for so long.”

  Reginald nods at the servant, who reaches across me to touch the screen.

  An image comes up, and the blood leaves my face. It’s a live feed from a line of prisoners the Authority’s guards are marching in. The camera zooms in on familiar faces—the twins, and then Nate.

  Reginald purses his lips. “If I were you, Liza, I’d be polite.”

  It’s strange, but after the meal, none of which Jeremy nor I had eaten, they let us meet outside in a courtyard, alone. Proof of how little a threat they view us.

  I speak quietly to him, wondering if they have us surveyed. Of course they do. “We’re dressed pretty nice for an execution.”

  Guards stand stoically at the back doors to the mansion. We’re prisoners, no matter what the setting.

  “They won’t kill us,” Jeremy says, giving me an apologetic glance. “My father hopes to make us puppets. A new treaty with the rebellion. And us? Their icons.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  Jeremy laughs. “I think they realize that. The carpet has a permanent reminder, in case they forget.”

  “I won’t.” But my friends’ faces flash in my mind, and my resolve wobbles. Doubt tries to creep in.

  A sad purple gaze follows me without judgment, but holds a “that’s what we all say” expression.

  We sit down next to a giant pond with a small waterfall. Some fish swim closer to the surface, hoping to be fed. The Cromwells live in paradise.

  My lily-white dress is bright in reflection, and my curls spring away from their roots to catch the light of the rising sun after the washing I’d given them with good shampoo. It’s hard not to stare in fascination at the changes in my appearance. I haven’t had dresses or hot showers since childhood. But this person in the pond … she’s a woman now.