The Last City Box Set

by Logan Keys

  “So much blood,” says someone else.

  “She’s so pale,” says another.

  “What do we do about him?”

  Crystal answers last. “Just get the doctor!”

  “I’m here.”

  There’s something familiar about that voice.

  “Can you help her?” Crystal asks, sounding relieved.

  Metallic and clear, Pretend Man answers, “I’m not sure. Let’s move.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Tommy

  I’ve had nothing to do but dream in this place. The Authority flew me to an island, put me in a bubble, only to feed me stuff through a straw every week so I can’t transition. This doctor with a rubber face comes in, and even though he tries to be … normal … he’s one creepy guy.

  To this day, I’ve never heard anyone call him by name.

  He checks me over, but there’s something off about him. When he smiles, it’s empty. When he speaks, it’s with weird foreknowledge.

  I’d put my money on his being a Special, if I didn’t know that only the Underground has them.

  This place is the Authority’s island for sick people, or so it seems.

  No clue what they plan to do with me. So far, they’ve kept me caged like an animal inside four clear walls of glass too thick to break. I’ve tried.

  And the days pass.…

  Only one interesting thing’s happened in months: the bubble next to mine has recently acquired a tenant. She doesn’t talk much. Could be the coma she’s in, or the numerous tests they perform to seemingly help or kill her. Either of which, I’m not sure. Now, I pace the edge of my space, glancing over at the monitors and tubes they use to keep her alive. Her stomach’s patched up where the wound was ripped back open from her seizure last week.

  She has short hair—fine, blonde, and curly—and eyes that never open, so out of boredom, I try to guess their color. She looks so small and pale, and I have to keep myself from pounding on the inside of my own bubble to tell them to put their paddles away whenever they insist on making her heart beat on.

  “How’s Marilyn today?”

  My new medicine keeps the monster at bay, but Daisy still shows up at times. I’m thankful for her presence, even if it is evidence of my fracturing psyche.

  Right now, she’s sitting on my bed, blue-tinged arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold. Her auburn hair is the only color inside of the bubble.

  “She looks … peaceful,” I say.

  I’ve named my neighbor Marilyn. She’s no Monroe, but I like it. A blonde bombshell in life, though this one’s a different kind of bombshell. I know she’s a Special. I’m not great with deducing these things, and it wasn’t until the machines started to levitate while they were changing her clothes that I realized what had happened.

  Super-Special.

  When the machines had risen up, everyone froze, myself included, and the hair on my arms prickled. Then, the staff ran around like a bunch of nutcases until Rubber Man attempted to explain it away. He seems to be the only one who understood it. He’s also trying to keep our Special status a secret.

  “That’s good that she’s peaceful,” says Daisy. “It stresses you out whenever she has nightmares.”

  “It does. Sometimes she almost hurts herself before they come to help her. Is that normal?” I ask. “Nightmares in a coma?”

  “I only know what you know, Tommy. But probably not. Is there anything normal about Marilyn?”

  I wonder about that, too. But then again, when you live in a bubble, you start to wonder about everything, your sanity included.

  It’s hard not to feel sorry for Marilyn. I try not to, but I do. I don’t like that this dying girl has to do it right in front of me, each and every time.

  I even dream about it.

  Although I turn away and try not to watch, I find myself glued to the glass, hoping for her. I catch myself muttering a prayer each time. But inevitably, I’m praying for her to go, to leave, for the Authority to stop reviving her tiny body.

  She must be in hell. Not literal Hell, but to have a body keep trying to give up, only to be brought back to exist in an aquarium the rest of your life?

  The hiss of her machines is really my only company at the moment. That, and Daisy.

  Which isn’t saying much.

  “Hey,” Daisy says.

  “Sorry.”

  Today, a young woman comes in to speak with the doctor, Rubber Man, who looks surprised to see her. I’m lying on my side, and when they glance in my direction, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

  “The guards didn’t see you, did they, Crystal?”

  “No.”

  She walks over to Marilyn and leans down. Her dark hair makes Marilyn’s almost-white tresses even brighter. “Is she going to make it?” asks the one he’d called Crystal.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rubber Man seems to find that humorous. “Remember when I pulled you out from that third round of purging? You were almost dead, nearly a zombie, red eyes and all. If I can bring you back from that type of hell, trust me to do it again.”

  The young woman looks sad. “When she fought in the arena, it was impossible what she did.”

  “You are stronger now, too.”

  “Not like that.”

  “Not like that, no. But she’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s been here a long time. Or had been.”

  “How long?”

  “We’d begun when she was a child, and at first, nothing.”

  He’s said that final word with a great bitterness. “Then,” he continues, “she’d been near death, like you, but rather than it almost killing her with it already in her system, I waited until she was―”

  “Dead,” Crystal supplies.

  “Yes. We’d administered what we’d had, then revived her. It’s different from all the others.”

  “What’s different?”

  “Wasn’t sure … at first.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  The woman seems frustrated with his lack of information, as am I.

  “You said ‘others’?”

  He nods.

  “You select them?”

  Another nod. He thinks for a moment, then seems to reveal a large secret to the woman. “I believe you know one: Melissa Cromwell.”

  Crystal gasps. “No. Not Mimi.”

  “Should I let her die?”

  Rubber Man does not ask this like a normal person would: with attachment. He asks as though expecting the woman to comment on the weather, and if they should bring an umbrella, just in case.

  Crystal seems unsure of how to answer, which gives me more information than I’ve had since I’ve arrived. Worse than death, perhaps? I regard my dark side and agree.

  “What will you do?” she asks.

  A far door slams with a loud boom.

  “The guards.” She flicks her braid over one shoulder, saying something too quiet for me to catch.

  “I’m aware,” he replies.

  “We’re alone in this—again.”

  “I know. You ready to give up?

  “Never.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  One month goes by where Marilyn stops dying on the table.

  Then two.

  Soon, I lose count … almost. And Rubber Man starts more testing. I’d be willing to bet, out of any Special, she’s already received the most treatment.

  I don’t know whether her coma allows them to work more of their “miracles,” or whether it’s because they don’t expect her to live anyway.

  Daisy’s visits increase, and I sense that means trouble.

  One night, I wake to find him there.

  He stands near the edge of my bubble, watching me. Waiting.

  My monster has a sort of physical form to him now from lack of transitions. The lights are dimmed at night, but
I can still see him in the glow of Marilyn’s machines, and it’s such a surprise that I don’t even feel fear.

  Then, Daisy stops coming.

  Even when I try to force it … nothing.

  Only him on bad days. Days where I feel the need for … something. A driving, relentless passion to do anything. Run, eat, yell, be free.

  I spend each day with the books they finally gave me so I’d stop threatening the staff. A Bible, The Military History of America, and a training manual for flying helicopters. I’ve flown my father’s small duster, but that’s about it.

  It’s a weird mix, but I’ll take it.

  I’ve refused to so much as even crack a Bible since my father passed. But I’d gotten so bored, I eventually read the thing—twenty times.

  I pound on the doors, asking for another round of books, but no one ever comes.

  Then, I go to the vent and begin to read to my new friend, Marilyn.

  “I guess it’s just you and me, kiddo.” I sigh loudly. “I guess it always has been.”

  I tell her about the harvest back on the farm. Planting, and what it was like on a Sunday at home. How Mom would make us all sit around the table, elbows off, and how I wore bolo ties when I went to church.

  How I wanted a farm and a bunch of kids someday, even though my pops always thought I hated it. And I never told him, ever, how I didn’t.

  I tell her how I regret not telling him.

  “You’d have liked him a lot, Marilyn. He was a real good guy, despite the fights we’d had.”

  I even make up stories about who she is, tell her how she looks like she’d ride horses or ponies, or whatever tiny girls do to feel tall. I tell her she probably has a pops like mine, only with a great big bushy beard or something like that, because she looks a bit more refined than me. I tell her she’s got a friend, even if she doesn’t know it, because she’s been listening to my bull crap for so long, I owe her one.

  I don’t talk about Joelle. Even thinking her name sets me into a deep depression.

  I don’t bring up Daisy. I feel like I’m missing a limb not having her with me. I don’t feel saner not seeing her; I feel like I’m falling apart. And I don’t bring up the monster, even though he gets closer and closer each time.

  So I stay on safer subjects, happier ones.

  I tell her if we went back in time, we’d get some red Solo cups and have a party at my big farmhouse. And maybe she’d be the kind of girl to take a walk with me by the lake.

  And I try not to notice things about Marilyn, though I still do. The slope of her brow is elegant like a lady’s, not a girl’s.

  Her hands are pretty, too, and delicate. And they’d cut her shirt open to use the paddles a few times, only to reveal long, deep scars on her chest and stomach. Not that I was trying to look, but it was hard not to notice.

  It’s probably a secret she wouldn’t want a stranger to know, so I promise myself never to mention it if she wakes up.

  “Oh, won’t you please wake up, Marilyn.” I kick the glass between us before I tuck in for the night.

  Then, I lie on my back and count the ceiling tiles. Seventy-seven in total. Number forty-three has a crack in it. Number sixty-one is more faded …

  “You awake?” Rubber Man lets himself into my room, and I get to my feet.

  I’ve grown over time. With my special body, I don’t need to work out, or run, or even eat well to stay fit. I’ve been in this hellhole for almost a year, and it shows—I’ve shot up in height, so my pants ride above my ankles and my shirt needs to be half-unbuttoned to make room for my broader chest.

  I’m taller than my old man ever was, so these effects must be from the experiments. Even the doctor has to look up, and his eyebrows raise as he notices I’m not the same boy who came in here eleven months ago. Back then, I was seventeen and my body, though bulky, was still a teenager’s. At some point in this bubble, I grew into a man, and then, into a rather large one.

  He picks up the Bible and nods at me. “I’m glad you’ve been reading it again.”

  “Again?” My voice is deeper, too.

  “I know about your departure from your beliefs. Your father lost faith after burying which sister?”

  I sense the transition creep up on me for the first time since arriving.

  The doctor cocks his head with a smile. “Testy, testy. We’d better up your dosage, Tom.”

  I resist the urge to stand taller. His calling me Tom felt good. Like I’m not a kid anymore. “My faith is my business.”

  “Too true.”

  “I need answers.”

  He tsks with disappointment. “All in good time, my boy.”

  I try not to deflate at his use of “boy.” I liked my momentary maturity.

  He puts down the Bible and looks at me more seriously. “Sometimes faith isn’t about finding answers, Tommy. It’s about being okay that things are answered in their own time.”

  His voice is pitched exactly as my father’s had been the last time I’d spoken to him, and it makes me take a step back.

  The doctor had just said the last words my father had said to me—verbatim.

  “Who are you?” I ask, realizing for the first time Rubber Man may be exactly that—rubber, and not a real person.

  He smiles, and I see something else looking back. “Your father is a good man.”

  “Was.”

  He laughs softly and ceases to curl his lips the way a human does. The doctor holds up a hand to stop me from speaking. “Listen to me. We don’t have much time. She will be weak at first. In fact, impossibly fragile, as all very strong things are. She’ll need protection.”

  “What?”

  He motions to Marilyn.

  “I need to protect her? Why me?”

  “I imagine when she wakes up, she’ll be asking the same exact question, my friend.”

  “Wakes up? Will she? How will I help her, when I’m trapped in a bubble?”

  “Again, all things answered in time, Tom.” Rubber Man turns to leave, and I lunge forward, grabbing his shoulder, and force him to stop.

  “Tell me why she’s so important! Who is she?”

  He looks confused. “You don’t know? You really haven’t figured it out? All of you Specials were just trials.” The doctor removes my hand with surprising strength. “She’s the final product.”

  I stand there, gaping.

  After he leaves, I walk to the end of my bubble to search hers. And there, on her arm, is the brand. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?

  Three letters.

  E V E

  The Authority had done what the Underground could not.

  The first perfect Special was complete.

  To be continued…

  Author’s Notes

  01/11/2019

  Dear Readers,

  Thank you for reading the first book in my young adult dystopian The Last City!

  This was one of my earliest novels ever written and I still have a load of nostalgia for the characters in this world! Liza and Tommy’s journey have just begun so you can continue this saga with book two and three that are now available right here: CLICK HERE

  If you want to stay in touch with me you can follow me on amazon here: CLICK HERE

  Please sign up for my mailer to keep aware of releases and deals: CLICK HERE

  My website: LogansFiction

  I am always open to discuss my books with you on facebook or email me at logansfiction@gmail.com

  Cheers,

  Logan

  La La Land

  The Last City, Book 2

  LA LA LAND

  By: Logan Keys

  Copyright implied 2015-16

  This book is dedicated to my husband. Love you, TT.

  Chapter One

  Tommy

  Pain strikes before full wakefulness. One eye cracks open, while the other’s smashed into the cold tile. The wrongness of the position, my shoulder beneath my cheek, doesn’t strike me right off.

  Sitting up
is the worst thing to do, but I do this at one hundred miles per hour, slamming my head into the bed frame. My arm flops listlessly at my side. The shoulder’s dislocated.

  I’d transitioned again.

  The monster’s taken over a few times recently, only unable to complete the change, and by the look of my limb, this time, the arm alone had grown and he’d used it to try to escape.

  I’ve tested the bubble of glass—at least a foot thick—its strengths and weaknesses. The thing is truly a force to be reckoned with and my body bore the reckoning.

  “He’s gotten smarter.”

  Daisy’s back.

  “How so?” I ask. “You know what? Never mind. I’m not interested in knowing about what went on this round.”

  “Okay.”

  Daisy doesn’t know any more than I do … I don’t think … but she’s my clever side, putting the pieces together more quickly, weird as that is to admit. She’s pragmatic to a fault. Had been, too, once upon a time, before …

  The figment of my imagination, paces, watching me with a furrowed brow. Between her, the teenaged zombie, and the monster, it’s hard to know what’s stranger.

  “He wants out,” she says unnecessarily.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Sarcasm is beneath you.”

  I shrug and wince. “Learned it from you.”

  “Very true.”

  Daisy seems pleased, and again I fall for it. Her being real. She’s so like the girl I once knew. Although this apparition is still the age I saw her last—not a day over sixteen—Daisy had been a month older than me.

  I don’t know if she means the monster wants out of my body or out of the bubble itself, but I’m too busy working up the nerve to straighten my arm to interrogate my own subconscious.

  The tendons have stretched out, swollen from the blood pooled inside areas where it shouldn’t have. I grit my teeth, and my vision blurs when I give one quick jerk to my wrist, popping my shoulder back into place.