K.W. CALLAHAN
THE LAST BASTION
BOOK 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, or events is entirely coincidental.
Text and image copyright © 2018 K.W. Callahan
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Callahan, K.W.
The Last Bastion - Book 1 / K.W. Callahan
ISBN: 1-548-55220-8
BOOKS BY K.W. CALLAHAN
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: DOWNFALL
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: QUEST
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: DESCENT
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: FORSAKEN
THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: ASCENSION
AFTERMATH: PARTS I-III
THE M.O.D. FILES: THE CASE OF THE GUEST WHO STAYED OVER
THE M.O.D. FILES: THE CASE OF THE LINEN PRESSED GUEST
PALOS HEIGHTS
PANDEMIC DIARY: SHELTER IN PLACE
PANDEMIC DIARY: FLEE ON FOOT
PANDEMIC DIARY: PANDEMIC PIONEERS
THE FIFTH PHASE: BOOKS 1-5
THE LAST BASTION: BOOKS 1-5
THE LAST BASTION
BOOK 1
Chapter 1
He hesitated, but only for a second. He knew what he had to do.
“I’m sorry…I’m so, so sorry,” he pulled the baseball bat back and then swung it as hard as he could.
The bat struck his wife’s skull with a sickening crack. Paul was crying so hard, his eyes so full of tears that he could hardly be sure of where he’d landed the blow.
As he wiped away the tears with the back of his sleeve, he could see his wife now lying on their bedroom floor. Blood trickled from the side of her head.
Paul quickly got to work, binding her wrists, her legs, her ankles, and finally running a thick leather strap through her mouth.
Once he was finished with his work, he stepped back and away from her. As he stood staring down at what had once been his wonderful wife, Paul was overwhelmed with a debilitating sense of guilt, almost to the point of becoming physically ill. But he knew that what he was doing had to be done. He had no other choice. He had to take this upon himself. Trying to involve the authorities would only delay the inevitable and chance harming others. Not only that, but it would only prolong his wife’s suffering. The responsibility had been thrust squarely upon his shoulders, a responsibility that would have to be borne solely by him for the rest of his life.
He lifted his wife’s limp body and set it on the bed, preparing her for the final journey. She was unconscious but breathing.
“I’m so sorry, Ruth,” he whispered as he adjusted her dress and smoothed it. “If there was any other way…” he stopped, his words choked off by sheer emotion. He wiped away more tears, swallowed hard, and rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.
He stood, taking the opportunity to spend one last peaceful moment with the woman he’d been married to for over 30 years. He shook his head, hardly believing what he was about to do, now for the sixth time, before walking over to the bedside table. There, he found a syringe filled with clear liquid.
He lifted it, looked at it, and then looked at his wife. Doing this had been intensely difficult the first five times, especially with the children. But this was altogether different.
As he stood there, torn between taking the last few moments with Ruth, and doing what he knew had to be done, Ruth’s eyes flickered open. They instantly flashed to the only other living thing in the room – Paul.
Even with her limbs bound, Ruth was still able to lurch quickly and violently up in the bed, her tied hands reaching out for Paul as she struggled, animal-like to free herself from her bindings. She shook her head back and forth ferociously, hair flying, tongue working out and around the leather strap in her mouth. Finding herself restrained, she emitted a low growl and then an ear-piercing screech that jolted Paul to action.
He shoved his wife forcefully back down onto the bed, knowing that it was time. He straddled her while leaning forward, syringe in hand. She tried to bite him, but her gnashing teeth were blocked by the leather strap that Paul had inserted in her mouth and tied in place around her head. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Even if she could have gotten at him, Paul had pulled most of her teeth days prior.
As Paul straddled his wife, preparing to inject her with the syringe of poison, she managed to get her bound hands free. She began using them club-like to pound him first against the shoulders and arms, and then like ramrods against his chest. The blows to his chest were forceful, and they nearly knocked him from his position atop her. He was mentally and physically exhausted. He’d been up for nearly two straight days with Ruth, and his energy levels were sapped.
After a moment, he regained his balance and got a grip on his wife’s flailing arms. He managed to hold her steady again, shoving her arms down with a hand and holding them in place.
“I’m so sorry. You know I’d never do this if I didn’t have to, but there’s no other way. It’s too late. And I love you too much to see you waste away in a hospital. I love you more than that. I love you enough to end it for you now. I know you’re still in there somewhere. I know you can hear me. Know that I love you…I’ll always love you.”
He plunged the syringe’s needle into her neck and squeezed the plunger down, watching the liquid inside disappear.
Ruth’s head shook back and forth violently. Foam spewed from her mouth. Then she grew still.
Paul rolled off her and let the syringe drop to the floor. He felt like refilling it one last time. Then there would be no more guilt. He could join his wife in everlasting peace. But he knew he had to be strong. If he did that, people would look at what he had done with horror. They’d never understand what he had done, what he had gone through, why he had done it. They’d label him a psychopath, a serial killer. They wouldn’t look at the circumstances. They would only accuse. No, he had to stay alive. He had to conceal the evidence – at least until he was dead, and their friends and neighbors were dead. Ruth would have wanted it that way. She was too prideful a woman. She wouldn’t have wanted the gossip around the neighborhood, the lingering stares at their apartment building as people passed. She wouldn’t want kids telling ghostly tales about her, whispering about what had happened as they passed the building on their way to school. And she wouldn’t want Paul to be punished for what he had done. Paul didn’t want to be punished for it either. If anything, he should be rewarded, but people wouldn’t see it that way.
No, Paul had to hide what had happened. He had to hide the bodies – all six of them. It was the only way to guarantee that no one else would be exposed to the horrors he’d witnessed.
Chapter 2
“Just another day in paradise,” the head of Jose’s sledgehammer pounded into the brick wall with a thud.
“Man, watch it!” Victor cringed as flecks of brick flew like buckshot from the impact. “You just like hittin’ things or what? Ain’t no money in that. You just wastin’ time and energy. And you take out one of my eyes with a flyin’ piece a brick and you gonna regret it!”
“Right, right,” Jose nodded. “Sorry. It’s just cool being able to beat the shit outta stuff in somebody else’s house, that’s all.”
“Ain’t gonna feel so cool when you been on the job for three years rather than three days. Then you gonna be savin’ those swings, trust me. Your back’s gonna be screamin’, your arms are gonna be burnin’, and your neck’s gonna be so stiff you’re gonna think you got one of them male enhancement pil
ls stuck in it.”
“Huh,” Jose snorted. “So when’s this place coming down?”
“Next week. And they’re gonna hit it down with a wreckin’ ball, so save your energy. All we gotta do is get the scrap metal outta it. So nowhere you don’t think there’s no pipin’, wirin’, or some sorta other metal, you ain’t need be hittin’. Got it?”
“Cool man…cool,” Jose nodded, shouldering the sledgehammer. “So where we start?”
“Always start in the basement and work your way up,” Victor said.
He led the way through the apartment building’s central corridor until they came to the back of the structure. All the doors had been open or unlocked for their arrival, including the stairwell door that led to the building’s basement.
“Basement always got the best stuff when it comes to scrap,” Victor went on. “Boilers, pipin’, wirin’, tools, and all sorts a other shit. It’s usually a gold mine for scrap metal, and I like to get first dibs on it. Places like these, you leave ‘em opened up like this and the scavengers will beat you to the punch. They come to the basement first too because they know that’s where the good shit is. That’s why we gotta get at it first.”
Victor led the way downstairs, clicking on a flashlight to guide their way since the building’s electricity had been turned off long ago. He jingled as he walked. An assortment of tools dangled from his belt – wire cutters, screwdrivers, a hammer, a small hacksaw. He carried a large pair of bolt cutters in the hand that didn’t hold the flashlight. He’d left the bigger saws and tools in the truck. He’d send Jose back if they needed them. That’s what the young bucks like him were for.
The bottom of the stairway opened into a small foyer with another door, a metal one that was propped open with a brick. The space was dark, dingy, musty. There was about a half-inch of water on the floor.
“Good, it ain’t flooded down here yet,” Victor said. “Some of these buildings,” he shook his head, “they open ‘em up for tear down and the water just pours down into the basement when it rains. Ain’t no one around to take care of ‘em, so they just gradually fill up. I’ve worked in buildings where I been up to my waist in goddamn filthy stinkin’ water. Dead rats, raw sewage, snakes, god knows what else floatin’ in it. This here,” he shined his light around the basement as they walked, “well, this here is ‘bout as near we come to goddamn paradise in this line of work.”
The basement was cool, the air dank and stagnant. The floor was concrete, the walls brick. The space into which they entered was large, spanning nearly 30 feet deep by 40 feet across.
Jose unclipped his flashlight from his belt and clicked it on. He shined his light around the area. “Not much down here,” he murmured, shining his beam up to the ceiling and then down to the half-inch-deep water in which they stood.
“Never take a place like this at face value,” Victor trudged ahead, his boots splashing through the water as he walked. They created ripples that reflected their lights’ beams and played shimmering shadows across the walls. “Look over there,” he shined his light toward one corner of the space. “Potbelly stove. Good iron value there. Too heavy to be carried out on its own, but we can bust it up and take it out in pieces.” He shined his light across one wall and over a darkened rectangle set in the center of the wall about four feet up. “Good piece of iron there too,” he nodded. “Old coal chute door.”
He walked a few feet farther into the space. “And there,” he shined his light up at the ceiling. “The old natural gas line and sewage pipes. We’ll get the cuttin’ equipment later and make quick work of them. Just gotta be on the lookout for…remnants when you cut ‘em. Nothin’ like getting’ a face full of raw sewage when one of ‘em cuts loose. But for now, let’s finish checkin’ this place out. Pretty soon, you’ll be spottin’ this stuff quick as me. Just gotta get your eyes on. It takes some time, but you’ll get it quick.”
They splashed across the room to where a large wooden worktable was built into one wall. An old blanket was tacked along its edge, covering the shelves below.
Victor walked to one end of the bench, grabbed hold of the blanket, and gave it a yank. It detached from the table with a loud ripping sound. He walked toward the other end of the table, continuing to tear the blanket off as he walked.
Once the blanket was detached, he threw it down onto the water sodden floor.
He shined his light down along the table’s now exposed shelves and then reached a hand inside. He pulled out a bucket that was filled with nuts, bolts, screws, hinges, and an assortment of other metal scraps. He set it on top of the worktable and then reached back into the shelf to pull out a sledgehammer with an aging wood handle. He pulled the hacksaw from his belt and handed it to Jose.
“Hack that handle off and put the hammer’s head in the bucket with the other stuff. Good weight in that.”
He continued rummaging in the shelves beneath the worktable. Occasionally, he’d pull something from within and set it on top. More often than not, he’d find something he considered useless and throw it back or drop it with a splash in the water around them.
It only took him about a minute to clear the entirety of the table’s shelves.
“Okay,” Victor nodded, shining his light down past the end of the table toward the other side of the basement, “not much so far, but better than nothin’. We ain’t done yet, nope, not by a long shot. Come on,” he led Jose on through the murky waters that seemed to grow somewhat shallower as they entered a new section of the basement.
It seemed darker in this portion of the space. Earlier, they had received a little bit of ambient light from the open stairway through which they’d entered the basement. But now, they’d lost even that, and they relied solely on their flashlights’ beams.
The basement ceiling in this area seemed lower, the air somewhat cooler, thicker almost. Most of the walls in this portion of the space were concrete, but one section along the far wall was brick.
Victor gravitated toward that area.
He pointed to it with the beam of his flashlight. “See that?” he nodded toward the wall.
“Yeah,” Jose shined his own light over the portion of brick that encompassed about a ten foot span of the rear wall.
“Sometimes there’s a reason people block up an old portion of a buildin’. Could be a boiler or coal furnace or who knows what. People usually don’t pay much attention to spots like this ‘cause they ain’t really here lookin’ for nothin’. But me, well I pay attention ‘cause I know that the places other people don’t look, that’s where we should be lookin’. They think just ‘cause there’s a wall, there ain’t nothin’ behind it. I know better. I seen enough old buildings to know that people do all sorts a weird shit to places like this. Lot a times, they ain’t wallin’ up buried treasure or nothin’; they’re wallin’ up something they don’t want a buildin’ code inspector or a prospective buyer to see. Could be somethin’ that might get ‘em in trouble, get ‘em a big ol’ hefty fine or have ‘em payin’ somebody to come in and fix or take out. Could be somethin’ that’s gonna cost ‘em big money…buckets a lead paint or asbestos or some shit.”
Victor walked over to the wall and peered closely at it. “Mmm hmm,” he nodded. Then he shined his light up at where the bricks met with the ceiling. “Yep…that’s what I thought,” he muttered mostly to himself. “Bring that sledge over here, will ya?” he called to Jose. “They ain’t dealin’ with no idiot here,” he smiled to himself in the darkness. “Thought they’d be coverin’ somethin’ up…hidin’ the goodies from ol’ Victor. But that ain’t happenin’. Nope, not today.”
Jose handed him the sledge. “Think something’s back there?” he asked.
“Nope,” Victor said, taking the sledge from Jose. “I know somethin’s back there.” He shined his light up, illuminating his own face, wide eyed. “Question is…what?” He put the light’s beam back on the wall, playing the light across it. “Here,” he said after a moment. “Right here. Hold the light right
on this spot,” he handed Jose his flashlight.
Something cold and wet dripped onto Jose’s neck from above and ran down under his collar. He twitched and squirmed, shivering inadvertently as the moisture trickled down his back.
“Stop movin’ that light ‘round!” Victor hollered. “Keep it steady! Here! Right here!” he smacked the wall hard with a hand and then gave it a thump with the head of the sledgehammer. “Ah ha-ha!” he chortled. “Hear that?” he whacked the wall again. It reverberated with a hollow thud. “Uh huh,” he nodded. “Yup! You’d better believe there’s somethin’ back there. We could be in for a good payday here, boyyyy!” he jabbered excitedly.
Victor stepped back from the wall and pulled a set of plastic goggles up from around his neck. “Better get your eyes on. Chunks of this shit’ll fly all over the place. Don’t wanna get any in your eye. Hurt like shit if ya do.”
Jose stuck Victor’s flashlight under an arm while continuing to hold his own. He used his free hand to pull a set of safety glasses from his front shirt pocket and put them on.
“I’m good!” he called once he was done, pulling Victor’s light from under his arm and refocusing it, along with his own light’s beam, on the spot Victor had pinpointed.
Secretly, Jose was wondering if this guy had gone off his nut after too many years of hacking up metal for scrap. But he was getting paid by the hour, with a bonus if they went over their metal quota for the day, so he was willing to indulge Victor’s whims. If he wanted to stand around smacking brick walls half the day, that was up to him. Maybe he even knew what he was talking about.
Victor warmed up, taking a few practice swings like a ballplayer preparing to step to the plate. He was a beefy man – tall, muscular, well formed. Jose pegged him at somewhere in his late forties, maybe early fifties, but he put Jose, at least 20 years his junior, to shame in physique. Jose had to admit that for his age, Victor was in great physical shape.
The Last Bastion (Book 1): The Last Bastion Page 1