La La Land: A Zombie Dystopian Novel (The Last City Series Book 2)

by Logan Keys

  “However,” Charles adds, “there’s a difference of opinion on what to do when we arrive. I’d like to not be squashed like bugs again.”

  “You don’t think the Underground can win?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t think the Underground is ready for a war with the Authority and their legion of guards, is all. And if we lose this time — ”

  “You never get another chance,” Leo says, before trying his own wine.

  “It’s not that we don’t believe Simon has a good plan of attack,” Devon says, “it’s just that — ”

  “He’s a mad scientist? His methods are archaic, barbaric, and psychotic?”

  Everyone looks at me, and I shrug, lifting my glass. Wine.

  “Besides, we can’t go to Anthem just yet,” Devon says. “We have to wait now, anyway.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “The queen,” the men say simultaneously.

  My glass freezes, midair. “The queen? You mean she’s still alive?”

  They quickly fill us in about the adventures of the queen. Apparently she’d been thought dead when she’d traded places with a servant during the first war. Not until someone had been alongside her and recognized something very distinct that marked their queen from many others: her two different colored eyes — one blue, and one green. Along with that, she had a burn mark upon her wrist from childhood, one in the shape of a crescent moon.

  “Poor old dear!”

  “Not old,” Charles says. “The previous queen did pass during the war, leaving no other children. The princess was but a child traded with a servant, and had all but forgotten her parentage when they found her.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Fourteen,” Devon says.

  “Oh my! Is she here?”

  Charles leans forward. “On her way. The ship was waylaid by the storm. The Underground has promised to give her the respect a queen deserves. She is, after all, the last of our royalty.”

  “I hope she arrives safely.”

  Devon raises his glass. “To the queen.”

  “To the queen,” we all reply.

  I mentally send her a prayer. What would it be like to be royalty in a time like this? The Authority loathes competition.

  Leo and I rise to leave. “Thank you for the wine,” I say.

  The two stand and bid us farewell, before Charles stops me outside. “Liza, be careful.”

  I nod. “Thank you, I will.”

  I have my enemies; I’ve reconciled with that. But it seems my list of friends, too, is growing.

  “Leo,” I say quietly, while we walk on toward the training arenas.

  “Mm-hmm … ?”

  “What were you like before? Did you have anything you loved?”

  “Yes,” he says, eyes squinting in thought. “I surfed.”

  I laugh at the unexpected answer. “Surfed?”

  “Yup. I loved nothing more than finding that perfect wave every weekend I could.”

  He seems excited to speak of things unrelated to our circumstances, and his dark eyes light up. “Once I visited the Baltic sea. Ever been?”

  I shake my head, unsure, but not wanting to interrupt.

  “Anyway. It’s as black as night in the winter. We took a boat miles out from the breakers to body surf the larger waves. Most of the surfers began to get nervous and climbed back into the boat. The dark water does that to you, makes you imagine all sorts of monsters waiting to get you. Not me. I floated on my back for hours in the stuff, letting the ocean toss me around. I could have stayed there forever.”

  “Wow.” I try to imagine him, alone, face toward the blue sky, surrounded by the dark water.

  “Yeah. I swear there’s Viking blood in me somewhere.”

  We both laugh at that. “Maybe,” I say, not looking too obviously at his dark skin. “You’re tall enough!”

  We get to the training area, where a woman stands on the road, holding a wooden briefcase. She watches the people passing by, and if she’d been facing another direction, I wouldn’t have seen it. There, right on her hand, is the tattoo of a small spider.

  “Leo.” I nod in the woman’s direction. “Let’s follow her.”

  When we get to the arenas, she disappears, and then, from behind me, an accented voice says, “Why are you following me?”

  I turn to the woman standing there.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just wondered if we might have … similar acquaintances.”

  She nods with a knowing look.

  “Why are you here?” she asks, motioning toward the training area.

  “Because I need to learn to fight,” I reply.

  She nods again like it’s a good enough reason. She knows who I am. I’m not sure if it’s because of Phillip, but she decides to stand next to us beside the arena.

  The group’s a mixture of all kinds of people. Some of the nationalities get along, while many spit in the direction of others when passing.

  My skin prickles, and I look across the arena to find Phillip watches me. He’s closer to the men soldiers and their sparring circle.

  Women soldiers take up the circle on the left of where we stand, and the woman with the briefcase tells me the line waiting to fight is all Israeli women. Their thick hair is in braids and various ponytails to hold back sweaty, dark locks, and they choose to spar with the Czech women, all golden and much taller than anyone here, eyes light, bodies heavy. They’re brutal in their tactics.

  There’s a lot of grunting, cursing, and dust billowing, while the woman with the briefcase watches them closely, yelling encouragement to some of the girls. “Faster,” she shouts. “Faster!”

  “This training is good for you,” she says to me, slapping a backhand on my shoulder. “You are small. Watch how they use what they have. You need to make this type of move. Really grab that sucker, down low.” She motions to her knees, then chops a hand in the air. “Take their balance, yes?”

  I nod, understanding her broken English quite well.

  The seemingly best fighters from each side square off in a final match.

  Every round between the two, the larger Czech woman pins the shorter Israeli woman, or slams her, or knocks her over by sheer bull force.

  Again the briefcase woman calls out some instructions that the smaller Israeli girl listens to then nods before facing her opponent again, wiping her hand across her bloody nose.

  This time, the shorter woman doesn’t let the taller one get close. Instead, she does a series of fast combinations with her feet and hands, swiping lower at the taller woman, making her lose her footing, before she hits the larger woman’s side hard enough to drop her to her knees.

  The winner nods her thanks to the briefcase woman. My ringside companion touches my knee and then my elbow. “These, weapons,” she says. “If fists, elbows, and feet fast enough you strike soft part. Doesn’t matter how big. Understand?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, and she elbows me in the side, jerking her chin at the next round of girls coming forward.

  The African and Lebanese armies are my favorite fighters; they take down their opponents with flourish. The fastest are the Asian squads, with poles and katana.

  Leo and I stay during hours of drills.

  I soak in the jabs, the upper cuts, and the kicks. Faster and faster they go, until the combinations have become a blur, and I feel my muscles twitch as I predict their movements easier each time. Soon, my brain hums with all of the visuals. The human body is a marvelous weapon, just like the briefcase woman said.

  After a short break, they open the entire arena, and the best women square off with men. The winner of the women’s rounds takes a hard knock to the head and goes down. But while falling, she swings her legs like a windmill and catches her opponent, bringing him down before kneeing him in the groin. She scrambles over to straddle him, forcing his arms behind his back until he taps out.

  I look around. The American army has been conspicuously absent in training, stayi
ng on their base behind the fences. I’d been so enthralled by the competitions; I hadn’t noticed Bradford’s arrival with his MPs to join us.

  He watches the men spar, gesturing at this move or that, talking to his second-in-command, Wise. Just seeing them makes me want to run and hide.

  I lift my chin instead, and watch the fights.

  Bradford motions toward Phillip, seeming to size him up, and when the ring clears, he requests for them to enter. But Phillip shakes his head.

  “What are you afraid of?” Bradford asks, stepping into the arena anyway.

  I wonder if he knows who Phillip is, or if he’s guessing.

  With a smile, Phillip shrugs off the crowd’s jeering. “Why can’t we all just … get along?”

  The crowd laughs. Some translate for him, and their own groups chuckle.

  “Don’t you need to train?” Bradford asks. “Which army are you from?”

  “A universal one. Training? While this might be good work, it’s pointless.”

  Bradford stiffens while Phillip speaks to the crowd. The briefcase woman steps forward, as do a few others, and I hear some people translating around the arena for him.

  Out of all of the armies, twenty or so people have come forward, and I’d be willing to bet they’re all Skulls.

  Bradford notices, and he motions to Wise, who also signals the MPs to step forward.

  “So you want to fight the guardians of the Authority?” Phillip asks the crowd, then waits for their translators. “Their inhuman bounty hunters that have endless strength … ah, but you already know this. What you don’t know is that they, unlike all of you, have no weaknesses.”

  “They don’t seem so strong without their heads,” Bradford says.

  Wolf-like eyes pin Bradford as Phillip nods, seeming to decide something as the tension rises. “Fine,” he says, and he steps forward to the cheer of his comrades and some others.

  He pulls off his shirt, revealing the black widow that takes up the entire span of his back. Its abdomen is a deep red, with legs that wrap around Phillip’s middle. On his shoulders are feathers of red and black, and one arm sports a tomahawk.

  I can picture Phillip on the plains, yodeling a war cry, riding into battle with headdress, paint, and armbands.

  When they approach one another, Bradford reaches his hand out to shake Phillip’s own. But Phillip grabs it and, in one long arc, flings Bradford onto his back; an impossible move for any normal human being. The motion’s too fast to see clearly, and the loud snap of bone makes me cringe.

  When the dust settles, Bradford’s curled around his arm that looks shattered from shoulder to fingers.

  It becomes almost an all-out war then, as the Skulls face off against the MPs. But Phillip motions for them to stay back.

  He turns to the crowd, speaks above Bradford, who’s grunting and groaning while Wise tries to help him to his feet. “Special or not, if one of them is injured, they cannot use their power.”

  He gestures toward Bradford, whose face is red with anger.

  So Bradford is a Special.

  “The guards have no such weaknesses,” the wolf-eyed man continues. “When they fight, they don’t shake your hand, play fair, believe in rules. They don’t tire, or sleep, or need many resources … just like the zombies. Specials may seem powerful to you, and Simon might seem like he’s commanding a winning army, but his projects are all useless if their injuries are too great.”

  He pulls his shirt back on. “The guards, on the other hand, have no morals. They will march straight through you — children, old, young — at a million strong. The wave of the Authority’s dogs is so deep and so thick, you’ll be mowed down like blades of grass.”

  Phillip shakes his head. “Simon and his science can’t save you. In his attempt to unleash some great and mysterious magic, he preys on your superstition. The perfect Special? Doesn’t exist.” He scoffs. “You will lose this war.”

  -71-

  My office has a desk, plus a library with books from WWII battle strategies to novels that no doubt have been collected for safekeeping. My fingers brush across their edges, stopping at Wuthering Heights as the door opens, and in breezes Baby. She finds a seat across from my new desk, sitting primly on its edge, that cunning smile never leaving her glossy mouth.

  I sit back down into my leather seat, unsure of how to begin.

  She saves me the trouble. “I must admit I was surprised when you called me here.”

  “So am I.”

  That wipes the smirk off her face.

  “But I don’t need a friend,” I add. “I need something that’s much better than that.”

  This piques her interest. “You need a double agent?”

  “Not exactly. I need a vault.”

  Baby lifts a hand, then gracefully places it back into her lap.

  “I know you know about Liza,” I say. “And if you haven’t betrayed her yet, I feel you won’t. Or maybe you’re waiting to play your hand. Either way, I can use a person who can keep a secret. I’m in need of someone who doesn’t owe any loyalty to Simon and who doesn’t care much about what other people think of them.”

  “That does sound like me.”

  “I thought so.”

  She sighs. “And I’m guessing you know they’d never let Liza past the gate.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Simon, as you know, has impassioned patriotism.”

  “Confused patriotism.”

  “My office is probably bugged,” I warn.

  She clears her throat, then says more clearly, “Misappropriated, confused, and downright treacherous patriotism.”

  This makes me smile. “Be that as it may, I’ve been given leave to have an assistant, and I think you and I would work well together. I’ll trust you to keep everything between us, and that’s nothing I don’t take lightly.”

  “She’ll be hurt, you know, that you didn’t choose her,” Baby says, frowning.

  “She’ll be safe.”

  “And why should I help you?”

  “I’m not sure that you should,” I say, wearily.

  Baby levels me a look of seriousness. “But I will.”

  Then she stands and reaches across my desk to shake my hand as she says, “What’s first?”

  “We have ambassadors to welcome.”

  The ambassadors coming into my office are a startling thing. The two adults are smooth-faced, too soft, almost shiny and plastic looking, with lineless mouths and not even normal breaks in the skin — their bodies are as perfect as science can make them. They don’t walk, they glide, and whenever they’re still, they remain unblinking and eerily statuesque.

  The small figure standing to their rear couldn’t be more their opposite — a towheaded boy, naturally made, with eyes big as saucers. My joy at seeing his excitement, like he’s at a trip to Disneyland, is immediately zapped from my body in horror.

  Baby looks from the family to me, and then back again, her expression so blank, it could only mean one thing: a hidden depth of emotion.

  She has, like I have, seen into this young child’s future: death at the hands of Simon’s men, because they dared to bring the poor tike into the mix of negotiation.

  Why Simon wanted me to meet them is now crystal clear: so I wouldn’t focus on his ambitions, but on the grotesqueness of the Authority. And grotesque, it is. We fought for our lives here on the West Coast, and we live militant, sparse means, while Anthem still holds fashion as an important gesture of humanity.

  “Sergeant Hatter,” they say in unison, voices doctored to a pure, syrupy sweet.

  A chill sets into my back as I nod, welcoming them both: Lia Helmsley and Mr. Douglas Helmsley. Two ambassadors of Anthem.

  I’d had no idea what Anthem was. Just a fairytale of a great grey city held under reins tight enough to choke the mount — the people, that is. But here they are, these monstrosities. A society of people who value beauty so much, they end up twisting it into something j
ust short of nightmares.

  I’m repulsed, but Baby shoots me a strong glance, for fear I’ll offend them, so I focus on the son instead, which immediately softens me. Their gorgeous, fresh, viable, sweet child stands there, clutching his airplane loosely in his fingers. Nothing I’d love more than to sit with him and make vroom noises, playing with his toys; to be that human again, the one who had time to entertain a younger person with something of distraction.

  I’m so moved with a foreign emotion, I’m still choking on it as Baby shows them to their seats.

  I go and look out the window while she makes niceties, commenting on the woman’s gown, the man’s tuxedo. She addresses their boy, too, and shows him to the edge of the library where some model planes and bombers are, ones that look like his own.

  The entire time, I’m filled with a rush and I’m fighting transition. My eyes close to the scene some seven stories up. Below me is La La Land, where people get lost in the ideals of the Underground. They have their own sins, to be sure. Where Anthem values beauty, La La Landers value power.

  Power versus beauty. Power. Beauty. What wins?

  Do the citizens of Anthem get lost in the never-ending war against those who covet their place? No, I’ll bet they give no thought to those who want their home any more than the coveters who think about Anthem’s people. Would they give it willingly to be free again? They might. But the Authority would never let them know freedom is at their doorstep.

  Besides, once we held that city, would Simon ever let everyone be truly free? I think his paranoia would remain. I doubt anyone with full control could relinquish it, once it’s been made.

  But none of that is what’s brought me to a sweat. It’s the one, single, lonely wisp of a new idea that’s running through my brain: I’ll never be a father.

  There.

  I’ve thought it.

  I’ve let it pass through one chamber of my brain, to be heard by the other.

  Seeing their boy, seeing the son of a man who’d no doubt brought him into the fray without a second thought, makes me think that maybe, just somewhat possibly, I’d want this future for myself. A boy, or girl, like my father had had, to farm with, to look out at all the hard work, while rubbing our calluses, and say, “We did this.” A son to shoot with, or daughter who’s been caught sleeping in the hay again with her pony. It all came out, just this moment.