Jessie was probably right, and the gunshots they heard were citizens of Hope being executed. But he didn't think the grunts who'd searched their apartment were the type who would execute in cold blood, so perhaps they marked down names on a list and others were sent in to do the deed.
It took a special kind of killer to murder the helpless, the sort who had been indoctrinated to such a degree that they could view their victims as less than human. It was an age-old technique that dated back to the brutalities of the ancient world, the crimes of the Second World War and the radicals he had infiltrated in London. As far as they were concerned, planting an explosive that would kill dozens, including women and children, was not a crime because they were kafir and, therefore, not truly God's people.
He hadn't seen that madness in the eyes of the two who'd been here. They'd taken his weapons—or, at least, those he'd disclosed to them—and marked down the answers to their questions with business-like efficiency, but they were not murderers.
So, he watched them work on the barrier, glancing along the road to see others moving to and fro as, like jewel thieves, they examined every corner of the city to discover what they'd actually taken.
Hope was under a heavy boot, and the best Devon Myers could hope to do was to survive.
They answered the ringing of the Greek church bell and followed the others walking along the troop-lined street to the community center. Bowie's store was dark and, from what he could see, empty and he thought about Martha. He hoped that Joe and Dave had gotten her hidden away before they'd had their knock on the door, though there was every chance they hadn't been visited yet, as Devon guessed they'd started at the intersection and had worked their way out from there.
A pickup was parked outside the community center and someone had placed a step beside the tailgate to allow someone to easily climb up. By the time the bell rang again to indicate noon, echoing quietly across the little city, Devon reckoned most of the population was there, though there was no sign of the Bowies. People were looking at each other, as if working out who was here and who had escaped. Some were obviously searching the crowd, but the only sound was a quiet murmur and words spoken behind hands.
Silence fell as two figures emerged from the community center and black-masked troops lined the pickup, assault rifles held to their chests, fingers on trigger guards.
The first to reach the step was a woman, though her face was covered in black. She climbed onto the bed and reached down to help the second one up. It was a man who stepped carefully up, though only one of his legs would bend. He straightened himself and looked out at the crowd before theatrically pulling his mask away.
"My name is General Jorge Mendoza, and I am the newly appointed governor of Hope."
He was a stout man with a neatly cropped gray beard and black hair topped with silver. A good-looking man of, Devon supposed, fifty or so, and a man used to having his orders followed to the letter.
"You might imagine that my rank is an affectation," he said, his rich voice reverberating in the quiet as the people of Hope waited to learn of their doom. "But I served twenty years in the US Army, rising to the rank of brigadier general. I was privileged to serve in many countries, both in peacetime and at war, and I believed in the American ideal and the society I was defending."
He paused and then very deliberately gazed out at the crowd, as if making sure that they were listening and understanding.
"But I was wrong!" He roared this last word, and Devon saw many in the crowd flinching as if he was aiming his anger at them.
"I came to realize that the country of my birth and the country I was sworn to defend was rotten to the core. It wasn't the only one, to be sure. Around the world, I found corruption everywhere. The poor sprawling at the feet of the rich for scraps from the table. I knew it had to end."
Again, he paused, as if to allow what he was saying to sink in. "And then I met those who shared my aims for a simpler, fairer world in which a man could make his way with hard work and loyalty. A world that works with nature and not against it. A smaller world. A world for our children and their children. This, people of Hope, is our philosophy. You were granted a reprieve—by God, perhaps—on that fateful night when we, with heavy hearts, cleansed our country, setting fire to the rotten wood so new shoots would grow from the ashes.
"Those who work hard and adapt to our way of life will be rewarded. Those who resist us will be punished. This is the beginning of a glorious future and you, the people of Hope, are blessed to be at the heart of it. The new capital of Eden."
There was utter silence as he finished. Devon was confident that Mendoza's message would have resonated with some of the folks there—the followers of Ward McAndrew, for example—but, as a whole, the people of Hope were too stunned to react.
"Do you have nothing to say?"
Devon spotted a ripple in the sea of heads and then the crowd spat out a figure he didn't recognize. An old man pointed up at Mendoza, and Devon's heart froze as he heard him speak. "Sure, I got somethin' to say. How about you and your boys get yerselves back on yer trucks and hightail it out of here? I served a full tour in 'Nam and I'm here to tell you you're a disgrace to the uniform you once wore. You swore an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States, and instead you betrayed it. You're nothin' but a terrorist and I ain't about to bow my head to the likes of you."
It was as if everyone there—Hoper and occupier alike—was holding their breath while Mendoza allowed the man to sign his own death warrant.
The new governor indicated to a soldier who was standing in front of the pickup who grabbed the old man by the collar and dragged him toward the step.
"No, leave him down there," Mendoza said. He moved to the edge of the truck bed and looked down. Devon craned his neck to get a view, but he could barely see the old man's head looking defiantly up at the general.
Mendoza turned his head and raised his voice so it boomed out over the silent crowd. "For a community to function, it must have unity of purpose. It must act as one for the benefit of all. But even the strongest walls can be undermined, and I will not allow the poison of sedition to spread here."
He pulled a handgun from within his jacket, pointed it at the man, and Devon saw a spray of red as, an instant later, the report bounced from house to house. Mendoza held the pose for a few moments and then turned to face the crowd.
"I thank this man for making the choices you face crystal clear. Work with us to create a future in which everyone can lead a meaningful life or oppose us and die. It is as simple as that. I am your governor, and this is my adjutant.” He gestured at the female who'd remained motionless beside him throughout. As I have removed my mask so that you can see who I am, she will also do so."
He gestured at her and she began pulling at the black balaclava.
"She will be responsible for the day-to-day operation of Hope and she has my full authority to act in my name, including the enforcement of summary justice."
The mask came clear and the woman shook her strawberry-blonde ponytail free before gazing out at the nervous crowd.
"My name is …"
"Oh my God," Jessie hissed. "It's Marianna!"
Devon's jaw had dropped open as he watched the woman speak. He didn't hear what she was saying as his mind was whirling so fast he could barely keep himself upright.
The last time he'd seen Marianna DeMille was when they'd left her at a church on the East Coast. When they'd come back, she'd gone and the two people they'd left her with were dead. Devon had figured that the best that could have happened was that she'd been taken by the Sons to one of their communities and turned into just another indentured worker.
And, if this really was her, then that must have been the beginning of it. But it couldn't be. Marianna DeMille had been the naïve daughter of the leader of Salt Lake City's Mormon survivors. Elliot DeMille had sent her with Devon and Jessie because he thought she'd be safer with them than by staying in SLC.
Then it s
truck him. The force that had invaded Hope must have come through Salt Lake City, which lay on the highway north out of the town. Which mean that SLC had fallen.
But Marianna?
"It is my task to ensure the efficient operation of Hope, and I will see it done. You will shortly receive your work assignments. Those who do not work do not eat. Now, return home and wait for further orders."
Devon remained there, staring at her as she surveyed the crowd. Just as she turned to go, he thought their eyes met, but she instantly withdrew and climbed down from the pickup.
Elliot DeMille thumbed through the green book that his daughter had given him just before she left. He would have preferred to console himself with his copy of The Book of Mormon, but they had taken it from him along with everything else when they'd shut him in here to sit and think.
The green book was an odd amalgam of religious text (mainly blasphemous to the eyes of Elliot DeMille), secular philosophy and practical manual. It had sections taken from the works of men and women through the ages on how best to control large populations with small occupying forces. He'd read the words of Julius Caesar, Adolf Hitler and Mao Zedong as well as the gentler teachings of Jesus Christ, the Tripitaka and Mohammed. He'd learned how to irrigate fields without using the electrical grid. There was much about the practicalities of various crops and where they should be grown. He'd been fascinated by the section on ensuring water was fit to drink and how much food a working man or woman needs to fuel them for a long day in the field.
It was interesting and terrifying in equal measure, but Elliot DeMille was most intrigued by the words and phrases highlighted in neon yellow. On the inside of the front cover he found his daughter's name; so this had been her copy and, therefore, her notes. Individually, they seemed to make some sense in that they would highlight a significant part of the overall page. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she might have hidden a message.
In his darker moments—and those were many—he considered this a delusional thought. He couldn't accept that Marianna would turn from the loving, placid daughter to an apostle of this hateful group that had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of millions in the US and, almost certainly, billions worldwide.
And yet she had treated him with nothing but contempt when she'd returned. She'd ordered him locked in this room with nothing but the green book for company and so he languished here, fed and watered, but otherwise forgotten.
He looked at the jumble of words he'd scribbled on the back of a torn-off section of wallpaper. If there was a message, he would find it. If there was a message, then his daughter would have needed to hide it well for fear of being revealed herself. And if there was a message, then there was also hope.
Elliot DeMille stared at the words until his eyes grew sore.
Chapter 15: Amanda
"Amanda? Margie? Are you here?" Sam peered into the dark interior of the cottage on the beach as the kitchen window banged against its rotten frame.
There was no reply, so she edged around to the back door under the veranda where she had watched Margie playing in the sea. Said followed her while Jay sat in the car, only half awake. She had no idea where they were going to go next, but first they had to find the friends they'd left at the house when they'd gone to find fuel. Jay had assured her that he hadn't given away the place's location when Azari had questioned him—not least because he hadn't really paid attention to where it was exactly. He'd left the navigating to Sam.
She pulled the door open, wincing as it screeched against its rusty hinges, and crept inside. Her heart had sunk as soon as they'd arrived to find the windows smashed and debris scattered everywhere. She imagined passing bandits killing her friends and ransacking the place, but she'd been able to find no sign of any bodies. The place certainly didn't smell as if there were corpses rotting inside.
Said had given her his handgun and she led with it, finger resting beside the trigger guard, swinging it left and right as she moved inside, squinting into the shadows cast by the bright sun.
She snapped around as something creaked in the living room. Just a cupboard door moving in the breeze? Or someone waiting to ambush them.
"Who's in there?"
"Is … is it really you?"
Another creak and then a familiar round figure emerged into the corner of the living room, creeping across the floor as if it were being stealthy.
"Margie? Margie! Oh, thank God!" Sam handed the gun to Said and ran into the room, pulling the sobbing Margie into a hug.
"They killed Mommy. She made me hide in our secret place, but I saw what they did to her. They hurt her real bad and I wanted to help, but I had promised and Elsa says you should always keep your promises."
Sam held her tight and wept for her friends—the one who had died and the other who'd witnessed it.
"I … I buried her. When they'd gone. It was horrible, but I couldn't leave Mommy. She had blood on her and everything. Poor Mommy."
"Why don't you show me?"
And Margie led her by the hand out to the beach where pebbles had been piled over what was probably too shallow a grave. But it would have to do, because it had been made with love.
"We cannot linger here," Said muttered. "I am sorry, but we are too close to my father's vineyard and we cannot be certain that Jay didn't tell him where he'd been."
Sam held Margie close and talked over her shoulder as they stood on the beach. She'd felt at peace here, from time to time, but it was now forever tainted by the death of Amanda. "Where should we go?"
"Back to your father?"
Sam shook her head. "No, he sent me west because he knew Hope was going to be attacked."
"Hope? Is that where you're from?"
"You've heard of it? How is that possible?"
Said leaned in, as if they might be overheard. "My father told me of it. He said it is a town that was spared the cleansing, and that it would be the western capital of the new America. A great army has been sent to take it from the non-believers."
"Those infidels are led by my father," Sam said. "Good grief, he has no idea what he's up against. He thinks Ezra is his enemy …"
"I am sorry, but if your father is in Hope, then we must not return there."
Sam took in a lungful of sea air. "No, we need to disappear. We need to go somewhere they won't look for us."
"Then we must find somewhere that the Sons would not consider interesting."
"Like where?"
Said shrugged. "Their vision is of a land full of farms and farmers. So, we need to go somewhere they would not think of. It's a big country, and they might pass us by if we can stay hidden. And who knows what the future holds? Maybe they will fall apart."
"What does that mean?"
"They're united enough at the moment, but my father fears that the organization will fall apart once they've established control across the country."
Sam grunted. "Which would be too late for most of us."
"Yeah. We need to disappear."
"What I want to know is who put Abdul here in charge?"
Sam looked up to see Jay limp into view, looking like death warmed up—and only slightly. "Don't be a complete jerk, Jay. You know his name's Said. And he saved our lives."
"You haven't forgotten who his father is, have you?"
Said turned to face Jay. "But I am not my father, and if you asked him now, he would tell you he no longer has a son. If anything, I have more to lose than you do if my father should find us."
"Well, I say we should go our own way."
"Where?" Sam asked.
"Back to Springs. We know people there and we can rest while we come up with a plan."
Said turned back to Sam. "Where is this Springs?"
"A hundred and fifty miles northwest of Hope. Some of our people helped them get rid of the gang that ran the place."
"Too close to Hope, I think. Springs will inevitably be taken by the Sons. But please, if that is your wish, I will not stop you. Though I wo
uld be happier if we remained together."
"I bet you would."
"Oh, shut up Jay!"
Margie pulled away from Sam. "Stop arguing," she said. "We have to stick together. And I know where we can go."
She ran into the house and returned with a leaflet in her hands. "Look, Mommy told me about it. They would never find us if we went there."
Sam took the leaflet and examined the map on the back. "What do you think?" she said, showing it first to Said and then, more reluctantly, to Jay.
"Yes. Margie is right. We will be safe there, for now."
She didn't wait to get a reaction from the sour-faced Jay. "Well done, Margie. Let's go see the redwoods."
#
Sam's father was pacing up and down outside the barn where, a mere couple of months before, he'd woken up to the vision of Cassie Miller washing herself in a barrel.
This had been the only place Hick could think of where they could stop to tend to their wounded enemy fighter. He and Donnie had transferred a tire from one of the other Land Rovers to the one that had been least damage by the gun battle, though the wind whistled through the bullet holes in its doors. They'd then completely disabled the other two, in case the commander they'd last seen running away was hiding behind a rock, ready to scamper out when they left.
When they'd reached the highway, they'd turned right toward Springs, but May was turning into a pain in the butt and she'd insisted they stop so their prisoner could be attended to. As far as Hick was concerned, the perfect medicine was a lead bullet, but May had a way about her he wasn't entirely inclined to defy.
Last Freedom: Book 4 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 4) Page 12