The Last City Box Set

by Logan Keys

  Lotte’s giving me an I told you so look every few minutes.

  Next to Sara, Joe sits white-faced, staring forward. He hates her, but loves her. Hates the situation, loves his kid.

  He’s duty-bound, is what he is.

  Doesn’t help I’m much younger than Sara and better-looking by some standards, although she’d be a queen if she stopped dressing like someone from Little House on the Prairie.

  Again, this puts me in a bad light, what with my tight leather ensemble.

  “Make her leave,” Sara pleads softly, hiccupping, looking as pitiful as she can.

  We all know it’s an act; she’s an awful shrew. But today, she’s playing her role so well, so piously, even I feel so guilty, I’d resisted giving any statements on my own behalf.

  If they say go, I’ll go.

  Her sister stands, and Dina isn’t known for mincing words. “Sara’s anemic and ill over this; I worry about her health, and her new babe’s. I only ask the town keep to the code. I’m not sure what that will mean for you, Dallas, but Sara’s not the one who’s breaking the rules, and Joe owes Sara a chance to fix things. She says she wants to. Stubborn or not, Sara’s a good wife, and she loves him. If he’d just come home, they could start over, be partners.”

  A lie. A total lie, but I catch Joe falling for it. He’s even staring at Sara with a longing to do just that. In fact, he’d jump at the chance.

  And Sara deserves an Oscar.

  She grabs his hand, brings it to her lips. “Let’s be a family again, Joe. Please.”

  “The code!” a few people yell from behind, making Lotte answer to a mob of angry “Let’s just get this over with!” citizens.

  Any infraction—any whatsoever—and you have to leave. Adultery’s one of those infractions, despite some argument there. Here, it’s legal to divorce, but not to marry another person in town, which seems like a strange rule, but it stands.

  Finally, Lotte gets to her feet and cuts off the Gone with the Wind moment between the married couple, stifling the yells to kick me out. “Joe,” she says, “what answer do you have to the charges brought against you? Which of these women do you choose?”

  He hesitates, face reddening. “Sara’s spiteful toward the girl but … I love my wife. There’s been no indiscretion. Lotte,” he says, looking up at her, “you know I speak the truth.”

  “Do you have any proof?” she asks.

  Joe shakes his head.

  “Do you?” Lotte asks Sara.

  “None.”

  “Bring me some.”

  Sara’s won, and she practically glows with happiness while Joe closes his eyes as Lotte metes out her own judgment over the bumbling Decker who’d not presided, but instead watched the circus. “Dallas,” she says, “if Sara brings proof, then you must leave.”

  I don’t cry. I don’t even get angry. I just get up and walk out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tommy

  Today smells like a gun right after it’s been fired—metallic and burning. We don’t have to speak to know a horde surrounds the house, as silent as buffalos and elephants; the brush cracks and breaks and mashes against the building. Some pace more quickly like they’ve recently eaten, and I can’t help wondering what wayward meal they’ve had. Some poor vagabond alone in this world?

  Marilyn lies on her back, quiet in her own lucid thoughts. No doubt she’s imagining what I am: our untimely death if we make a sound.

  Can they smell our fire?

  What can they figure out? I saw one write on my window, after all.

  Neither of us asks, “What should we do?”

  Because nothing ─ nothing is what we do. We both agree without speaking.

  And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  The chimney had been full of gunk; we knew that, but we were freezing. It’s been raining sheets and buckets, and it soon turned to layers of ice on the ground.

  We had to get warm.

  So now, of all the times, the debris from inside the chimney decides to fall into the fire—birds’ nests, rats’ nests, leaves … all of it slides out with a hiss.

  Not very loud. Not even medium loud.

  But one zombie stops.

  On the porch, the clunk-clunk-clunk of one boot cuts off sharply, and our breath along with it.

  Spat.

  Spat.

  Spat.

  Like the most vivid Poe tale of the raven, something knocks at our door.

  Spat.

  Spat.

  Spat.

  Like its hand flops wetly against the thin wood.

  I picture a bloody nub—a dish rag running with red.

  Spat-spat.

  Spat-spat-spat.

  More have joined the first.

  Marilyn stares wide-eyed as a spooked horse, nostrils flaring, jaw opened.

  I steady myself before I slowly sit up. Marilyn mimics me.

  I mouth to her: Holy shit.

  She nods.

  It’s as eloquent as we are going to get.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tommy

  The door goes first, but stiffs bang at every window. Our first knocker has given the others the cue. We’re on our feet, and now’s the time to ask what to do. I’m supposed to know, but I don’t. Marilyn’s supposed to ask, but she’s scared witless.

  For her, this is a rewind into time when humanity fell. For her, the first zombie in the entire world has just arrived. She’s seen them from a distance, not had them come chomp-chomping at her door.

  I answer her silent question anyway. “You’re a Special. Just trust your instincts.”

  Now? Now is the time I decide to enlighten her?

  She shakes her head, rapid, panicked. “What does that even mean?” She’s even more British when frightened.

  “It means, you’re not just plain human. You can do things.”

  For a moment I think she’ll rise up, stand tall, realize her destiny.

  Instead, she gapes, her whispered words tumbling out. “That rubbish means nothing to me.” Definitely more British.

  Before I can confuse her further, a sudden cracking of dry wood announces the undead. They pile in like a dam burst.

  On instinct, I lift my gun and start shooting. This part’s easy. At this distance, I’m a headshot seven out of ten times, and hitting near enough on the other three that they spin away.

  Marilyn drops to a crouch, hands cupped over her ears.

  I think she’s screamed a couple of times, but in this small space, the report is far too loud and the stiffs are groaning and moaning, some starved down to skeletons.

  I keep firing.

  But they keep coming.

  Marilyn waits. Soon, one passes me, goes straight for her. Another. Then another. I’m too focused on shooting, hoping to take them down faster than they can get to us.

  But I don’t. I can’t. Then it’s too close to shoot. They’re all around me, separating us like a flood of dangling flesh, spilling guts, bony legs, and missing limbs. An incredible amount of torn flesh and gaping wounds assault our eyes, while the stench of rotting corpses burns our nostrils.

  “Marilyn!” In the sudden flow of snapping stiffs and hands pulling me to my knees, I lose sight of her. “Marilyn!”

  They push me down, press me to the floor, ready to tear me apart.

  My knife is up and out, and I stab everything in a circle.

  I dive between a zombie’s legs to Marilyn’s spot, but she’s not there.

  Instead, a yell comes from the back of the room.

  A path clears out enough for me to see, and I do a double take. A ball of blazing fury is working her own circle; her knife’s up, and she’s stab-yanking, stab-yanking, and kicking her way through much more quickly than I.

  Her blue eyes flash, her face glows, smeared with blood. Her hair is stringy with stuff I don’t want to even imagine.

  The eyes. They’re terrifying.

  They’re bonfires, set inside her skull.

  Ch
apter Twenty-One

  Dallas

  Cara’s lying on our bed as if someone’s died.

  I gather up my things, ignoring her, knowing if I start, I’ll never stop. So, I do like I’ve always done: avoid things like emotions. No need to wait around. This, for me, is enough.

  Cara stops me on my way to the door. “Don’t you dare, Dallas. Don’t even think about it.”

  “It’s just to hunt, Cara.”

  It’s a lie, so she blocks my path, radiating anger. “Just to hunt? Just to go get some water, Cara. Just to stop by and check on Joe, nothing more, Cara. Who are you kidding? This is me you’re talking to. Is that man so awesome in bed? Are you so hot for him, you can’t even control yourself!”

  I slap her so loudly, the sound ricochets through our cabin, and she looks as surprised as I feel at the bright red handprint forming on her cheek.

  I open my mouth to apologize, but she points at the door.

  “Get out. If you want to go, then go!”

  “Cara—”

  “Get out!”

  And I do.

  Not far from the gate, I realize Cara’s following.

  Despite my angry stride, she catches up, and her hand landing on my shoulder should piss me off even further. Instead, I turn to face her, glad to see she won’t let me go it alone—ever. Her bag’s on her back, her rifle in her hand. If I go, she goes.

  Then I feel selfish.

  “Carebear …” I start, unable to finish. How can I ask her to do this? We both know what’s out there. Zombies don’t hold a candle to what we’ve both been through.

  “Don’t call me that,” she says.

  We walk on, eventually tiring enough to sit beneath a tree and share a few pieces of deer jerky. Every sound makes us look over our shoulders; every too-quiet moment makes us suspicious. Far worse things lurk in the Wilds than what ended the world.

  “Let’s go back,” I say.

  Neither of us are ready for this. Cara won’t let me go it alone, and I can’t bring her right back to the same hell we’d run out on.

  She puts in some dip, and her bulging cheek makes me smile.

  Cara spits, then wipes her lips. “I don’t blame you for wantin’ to leave. I can’t imagine if I found someone I liked … or more … and then he’s taken by some short-tempered, bitter ninny who doesn’t want him anyway.”

  She levels me with brown eyes that don’t quit; the pupils swelling like a cat’s. “But Dal,” she adds, “everyone’s lost someone. All of us are half-a-whole, and somehow, you just gotta move on. I know it’s not that easy,” she rushes out when I glare at her, “and I know I sound like I’m just trying to make light of your feelings, but … Joe Windsor is going to be your end, you hear me? And mine, too.”

  I take a deep breath, uncurl my fist, and nod.

  “Yeah,” I say into the woods, “and … I’m sorry for that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Liza

  When an opening arrives, Thomas doesn’t have to say run. I’m killing them in waves, sure, and that’s certainly amazing, but I’m not going to take a chance and hang around.

  My hand’s in the mouth of one so fast, I don’t see it happen—my skin pinches between the jagged, rotten teeth, and then rips. I scream more from fear than pain.

  I shove the zombie back, and see my opening.

  Immediately, I push through and out the door, dodging them, crashing into one then leaping over its body, as I rush for the tree line at the rear of the house. Luckily for me, Thomas is directly behind.

  “Keep running!” he calls.

  Obviously.

  Once I’m closer to the trees, with him hot on my heels, I see it and yell back, “Is that a—”

  “Tree house,” he says in unison with me.

  Soon, we’re both climbing up as if we were monkeys in a previous life. Thankfully, the old wooden slats hold … until we’re almost to the top; at once, I’m stepping up, then I’m free falling to the ground, passing Thomas, who tries, but fails, to grab me.

  My landing’s painful, but I’m immediately on my feet with a limp and scaling the tree trunk once again.

  Thomas is already all the way up—for a big guy, he sure moves fast—he’s struggling to unstick the door. I catch up, and together we work it from each side until the hinges squeal in a high harmony as it lifts.

  We elbow each other as we enter the treehouse, both trying to fit through at once.

  “Zombies can’t climb, right?”

  I lean over to see if I’m correct.

  “Yeah,” Thomas replies, but just in case, he begins to pile things on top of the door.

  I help, until my hand leaves a bloody smear. Then I remember. Thomas turns … then reaches out for me.

  I wave him off. “Stay back!”

  He takes two big steps, and a demon snaps from my mouth: “I said, stay back, dammit!”

  We’re both taken aback by my deep, threatening tone, but terror has pushed me to insane beyond reason.

  “I’m bitten,” I explain more quietly. “Don’t come close.”

  Thomas doesn’t look like he’ll comply, so I pull my knife.

  “Listen,” I say, wetting my lips, “if I turn into a zombie, you shoot me, okay?”

  He glances at his gun, then back up to me. “No. I mean—”

  “Get it ready.”

  His mouth moves.

  “Pick it up!”

  He does.

  “Now point it at me.”

  He doesn’t.

  “Tommy,” I say trying the name he’d given on the beach so long ago. “How … how much time?” I ask.

  “How long for the turn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been trying to say—”

  “How long!”

  “Immediately. But I think—I mean, I’m not certain, but—being a Special… Ah, I should have told you all of this sooner. I think you’re safe. I don’t think you can change.”

  “You’re not sure, though.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then point your gun at my head. We’ll give it at least a few minutes.”

  Tommy paces while I sit down and stare at my limb like it’ll fall off. I’m not bleeding that badly, which is good … I hope.

  He’s shaking, though. Not like nerves, but like an earthquake way off the Richter scale. At first I think it’s simple concern, and it may still be but … watching him closely, his face seems to change. Then I feel silly, because really, it’s just him there.

  He drops the gun, covering his ears. “Shut up!” Tommy screams.

  He’s starting to scare me, shaking worse than before, while the noise from below has become unbearable. The moans grow in chorus as more undead join the hundreds we’d already faced until there must be thousands.

  How long before they push the tree over?

  Tommy says it’s normal to experience all kinds of nasty side effects from the toxins, but at least I’ve passed the incubation period, so I’m safe. He tells me my pain has subsided much more quickly because I’m a Special. Whatever that means.

  Tommy’s on his back, looking at the stars.

  “Do you know any songs?” he asks, now sounding tired instead of panicky.

  “No.”

  But one does come to me, low and somber: “Oh, don’t you remember a long time ago; two babes in the woods whose names I don't know; were stolen away on a bright summer’s day; and left in the woods, I've heard people say.”

  Tommy knows this one, so he starts the second verse: “When it was night, so sad was their plight; the sun went down, and the moon gave no light; they sobbed and they sighed and they bitterly cried; and the poor little babes, they lay down and died.”

  We both sing the last: “And when they were dead, the robin, so red; brought strawberry leaves and over them spread; and all the night long, the branches along; they mourned and they whistled and this was their song: poor babes in the woods, poor babes in the woods.”

  “T
hat song is terrible,” I say.

  Our tree sways from the pressure mounting below.

  “It is,” Tommy answers.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dallas

  When we get back, I can’t sleep, so I wait until the sun rises then try my best to detach from all feelings in order to face the new day. “Stuff ’em all down, girl,” I tell myself.

  Squaring my shoulders, I decide to hunt alone.

  Even though I’m scared I’ll disappear into the Wilds forever, with Ironwood as my anchor, I feel invincible while hunting.

  Since the cold has turned up to visit, my first mile passes without sweat. The cursed sky seems to be paying us back.

  With my rifle up, I creep over to a spot where the grass has grown, knowing I’ll find some rabbit trying to get a bite between frozen tufts.

  One hops over to stuff its face.

  The “aww, how cute” feeling wars with my breakfast plans and, leveling on him, I whisper, “Sorry, little fella.”

  I squeeze the trigger slightly, and he lifts his ears, then hops clean out of sight before I finish.

  Swinging my rifle around, I point it right between Joseph Windsor’s eyes.

  Last person I want to see. I almost don’t lower my weapon.

  The anguish in his stare makes me want to run away and never look back.

  He knows Sara lied. He knows she won’t really try to be with him, that he’ll forever be tied to a woman who loathes every part of Joe that makes him Joe.

  “How do you do that?” I ask with a sigh.

  “What?”

  “Make me feel guilty for being the one who should be hurt.”

  Joe, the iron man of Ironwood, removes his hat and kicks at the dirt. “I’d say I’m sorry about Sara, but it won’t be enough. What she did … it’s all my fault.”

  I try to walk by, but he grabs my hand.

  “Let me go!”

  “No.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t relent.

  Confused, I set back on my heels, ready for a fight.