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

by Logan Keys

  “And then what?” He tries to remain impassive, but he’s rapt to my comments. Enthralled, but fearful. He knows something from beyond speaks for me.

  “You’ll end yourself.”

  A chill ricochets through me, but Cory’s the one who shivers.

  His eyes brim with tears, and he clutches onto me like a child learning to walk.

  “When?” he pleads.

  Disgusted, I yank away, and Cory rights himself, clearly embarrassed by such a display.

  I come to myself, still filled with anger to the point of breaking. “Perhaps you want me to end your life now?” I ask.

  Cory glares up at me, still on his knees. “If you try it, I’ll wipe your mind before you can blink.”

  We’re at a standoff.

  I lunge, aiming Spirit at his chest.

  Then there’s nothing.

  -95-

  I wake up beside the moat, puking and crying.

  And begging him to kill me.

  Cory watches me with a bored gaze until I see myself rising, as if I’m not even inside my body.

  My conscious slowly separates from her, that girl standing there, waiting for Cory to say what to do, while I’m becoming the tiniest creature, small enough to fit inside the particles of a water drop, floating away, through a mist, until lastly, I land in front of my old bed on the island.

  My bunk’s exactly the same. A breeze touches my scalp, and when I rub it, I find it’s shorn.

  “This seems the most comfortable, don’t you think?” Cory says.

  He’s not here.

  No one is.

  It’s the island, but it’s empty. Every which way I turn are the familiar hallways, bunks, and cafeteria, but it’s all been abandoned. Even the outside is without guards or prisoners.

  Voices echo through the camp, ones heard by my ears somewhere where my conscious is not.

  “What have you done to her!” Leo shouts. “She’s nothing more than a zombie.”

  “Leo!” I call, running uselessly through the halls.

  “She’s an insurance policy that’ll get me to Anthem,” Cory says.

  I pause to listen, and someone curses. Then Phillip’s yelling, trying to break up a fight, by the sounds of the grunts and the muffled words that cut off too sharply.

  The real world filters into this one, though only by sound.

  “Okay, all right,” he says, subdued. “Crystal won’t like it, but I’ll take you. I’ll do it.”

  “Hello?” I say when the voices shut off.

  Cory’s brought me to Phillip and has forced the Skulls to take us to Anthem.

  I fight a looming fear, telling myself Crystal will be there and she’ll know what to do.

  But here, all alone, I’m swiftly falling prey to the idea that maybe my life from Anthem to La La had all been a dream, that I’d remained stuck here instead, waiting to die from the cancer.

  That I never left.

  Even knowing it’s a trick, I can’t help curling up on the scratchy covers of my old bed and I close my eyes against the loop that starts all over again. The memories I’d wanted so badly before come rushing through, darker, more twisted than they’d truly been.

  Each time feels like the first — I lose everyone and everything.

  -96-

  The doctor — I’ve never had another name for him — watches me watching him. His eyes are clearer than any sea, or sky, and as always, I’m brought full circle to the day I met this man — if he is even a man — when he saved my life.

  I’ve waited long months on the Island, and everything we’ve set into motion is blindly going on without me. Feels strange. I’ve sat still for so long, while my own revolution turns by itself.

  Either way, Phillip’s gone ahead to LA, and I trust him to get the job done.

  “I want to know the story,” I say.

  I’ve never asked him before, about the reasons behind all of this.

  The doctor nods, looking as if he’s ready to tell me. “Simon and I were coworkers, scientists on the verge of discovery at a very early age. We found the machine together, along with other artifacts. At first, we thought they were old, and they were, as far as age went, but not like we think of artifacts — rusty, corrupted. The metal appeared new, untainted by time, and the engineering was none like we’d ever seen. We’ve always believed that ancient civilizations didn’t have vast technology, that we were the most advanced of humanity to date, but we were wrong.”

  I can’t help gaping at the idea of a technological age thousands of years ago. “What kind of technology?”

  “Magnets. We’d seen these before in artifacts, something other than simple rocks and wood machines. But they’d found a way to propel metal and create energy, all using the planet’s natural magnetism. Simple, yet so profound, and we soon realized the ancient race had actually been ahead of our advancements.”

  “Ahead?”

  “Yes, but then wiped out by some cataclysmic event. All but these items we found, one of which was a peculiar machine for travel. We weren’t the first to find it, though; it’s been unearthed many times, and it set off the dark ages before the finders were wise enough to toss it into the ocean. At these points in time, they were both given their names.”

  “What does it do?” I ask. “Time traveling?”

  His face remains unchanged by the story, though I sense the passion, the regret, and the sadness, even without voice inflections. Is this why the doctor is so changed? He’d “traveled” in this machine.

  “It does only what the traveler wishes,” the doctor says. “To go beyond? Certainly. But I saw it as a mind-opening experience, much how a naturalist had maybe felt on an expedition, finding new animals or creatures. For myself, I entered, only accessing the knowledge of our own world, past and future. I found new cures, ways to make genes healthier. Simon was more interested in the spirit world and its inhabitants. He ventured into places I felt we shouldn’t go. Not that we should have been ‘going’ anywhere, as it was. The people who created this machine didn’t live long enough to share their knowledge, either. But he wanted to use the resources to build super-humans, stealing energies. We argued to the point of physical fights.”

  “You didn’t want super-humans?”

  I sense the doctor softening. “I felt like I’d met so many of them already. My specialty was human health and biology. People fighting the diseases that worsened over time with the compound breakdown of our genes. These were superheroes to me. People who survived devastating diseases, our weather, wars that tore families apart, and eventually the zombies and the regime. This force of humanity, being unstoppable, the fact that life would find a way, was all I needed as proof of our strength. But Simon began his work anyway.”

  “Did Simon make the zombies?”

  “We both did.”

  In a flash, the first human emotion pools in his eyes — immense regret — and then it’s gone.

  “I thought if I helped him, I’d keep him from making the mistake I feared most: permanent corruption of the genetics. But more importantly, corruption of the spirit.”

  “The spirit?”

  “The soul can become very ill, and something spread — a thing we hadn’t seen a disease do alone: kill the human will, robbing it of its essence. Along with the disease, the zombie is twofold: one part biological, and one part something else. They’re like prisoners in their own minds.”

  This thought horrifies me. “You mean, deep down inside, these people might actually be thinking?”

  “I believe so. When Simon made progress with the first Special, he had little worry about the ‘rejects.’ Until they got out and began to feed on people.”

  “But not even then did he quit. He began a quest to get a perfect Special, two of them, to restart the genetic issues in our world. He was obsessed. But then, of course, it backfired. The Authority grew out of fear of the zombies, and sick people were blamed with a false science that claimed they had a higher risk of turning. Some
one had to pay, and when they took them here I felt responsible. I left him to his madness. I’d traveled too many times by then and was starting to lose which existence was reality — here or there.”

  “And you work here to counter his?”

  “We need balance.”

  I silently absorb everything he’s said. He’s never shared with me his plans before, or this story.

  Finally, I look over at the figure on the bed breathing steadily, health returned to his face and eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids.

  “Will he remember?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

  “I’ve done all I can. I think I’ve repaired most of his memory, but he might be different, Crystal.”

  I stare at the fluttering eyelids, until they spring open. I place a hand to his scratchy cheek, and he focuses on me, seems to remember, but his mouth isn’t working yet.

  “Jeremy,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

  To all readers and reviewers of The Last City series, I thank you. From the bottom of my cold-cold heart. You’ve made every bit of this journey worth it and then some. Y’all are sunshine on a cloudy, writing day XOXO.

  To my good friend Neeny Boucher, thank you for not only being there when I needed to discuss my writing, or life in general, but also for making sure that La La got the best beta reading on the planet. Because of you, she can now truly shine!

  Yessi Smith, your encouragement helps me keep on keeping on. I can’t thank you enough. You’re like my cheerleader when I feel down! Bless you.

  Christina Rozelle, you always have been The Last City’s earliest fan. I won’t ever forget that. From day one you saw the potential in this series. You have no idea how much that made this even happen. Thank you!

  My editors:

  Kimberly Grenfell, even with everything going on, you managed to give this book the best editing there is to give, and I thank you so much for that.

  Tracy Vincent, you were a life saver at the very last minute. My awesome proofreading knight in shining armor, you’ll forever be the reason she got finished, I thank you.

  My graphic designer:

  John Gibson, countless hours — nay days of working on these covers, and look how beautiful they are! Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

  We invite you to share your thoughts and reactions

  Copyright © 2015 by Logan Keys

  Le Chat Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons — living or dead — and any events or locals used is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design and Formatting by John Gibson

  www.thebookdesignguy.com