Last Victory: Book 6 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 6)

by Kevin Partner

  Well, if she was Dorothy, then that begged a couple of questions. Firstly, where was she trying to get back to? Dorothy missed Kansas, but Sam hadn't felt at home anywhere. The closest she'd come to it was at Zak's, and Jay had ruined that. Or she had. It depended on perspective.

  It would be easy to think of Margie as the Scarecrow—all heart and no brain. But, like that character, she was sharp enough in her own way. Sharp enough to know where the blame lay. Luckily for Sam, Margie had taken to this new environment as easily as she had all the others.

  "Nearly there!" Margie said. She was starting to puff, and her sense of adventure was dwindling in the humid, windless heat. They passed an open gate, beyond which stood the remains of a cabin raised up on stilts, presumably in case the creek flooded. But that hadn't protected it from the firestorm. Above them, the single power cable that had brought electricity into the house swung back and forth, caught in the branches of a magnolia that grew beside the gate.

  "Be careful!" Sam called as Margie skipped ahead, bucket swinging.

  It was just there, as the road bent to the right before starting to climb again, that it came within a few yards of the creek. Margie pretended she couldn't hear Sam and disappeared from view. Sam sped up, taking a left through the gap between two redwoods. Margie was already paddling in the muddy river, giggling as the cool water tickled her feet and calves. Elsa lay forgotten in the bottom of the bucket.

  Sam made her way carefully to the bank. "Watch out for the traps," she called.

  "I ain't stupid," Margie shouted back. "They're miles away." She gestured up at the partly submerged row of wicker that lay across the narrowest part of the creek here.

  Sam kneeled and swept her bucket through the water, taking care to get as much of the clearer upper layer as she could so they could actually use it sooner. She did the same with Margie's bucket after evicting Elsa and then pulled off her boots and stepped in. One thing she had learned since the world had turned upside down—take your pleasure where you can.

  She sat on a rock, her feet suspended off the pebbly bed of the creek, allowing the cool water to play across them while Margie, now soaked from head to toe, frolicked, her high voice belting out "Let it go! Don't hold it back anymore!" Sam envied her friend's ability to enjoy the moment unencumbered by the horrors of the past or the undiscovered country ahead of them all. It wasn't that Margie didn't have moments of introspection and concern; she was simply able to discard them like unwanted clothes for a few minutes or hours at a time.

  "I thought I'd find you down here."

  Sam started, then smiled as she recognized the voice. Said approached her from behind, then kissed her on the cheek before casting off his boots and perching on the rock beside her.

  "Aren't you supposed to be finishing the roof today? It'd be nice to sleep under a real ceiling tonight."

  "Even slaves are allowed a short break from time to time," he said, laughing. "Anyway, Jonas had to go. Zak's called a meeting."

  Sam sighed. "So, why didn't you go?"

  "We're not invited, remember? You're a pariah, and I'm tainted by association."

  She pushed him sideways. A little too hard, as he fell off the rock and landed with a splash in the algae that sloshed against the riverbank. "Hey!"

  "I don't know how you tolerate my company! It certainly isn't for the same reason most boys want to get to know me."

  He pulled himself up onto the rock again, his left side drenched, and they both looked across at where Margie was seeing how far into the creek she could get on the large boulders that formed an almost complete stepping-stone path across the little river.

  She could sense him looking at her. Was it regret she detected?

  "I'm sorry, Sam. I wish I could be more like other boys."

  "I don't. Not most of the time, anyway." She turned to gaze into his dark brown eyes. "I love you just the way you are. Honestly."

  He smiled like an actor in a toothpaste commercial, brilliant white against his dark skin. "I love you too, the only way I know how."

  They sat for a moment watching Margie. "Any idea what the meeting was about?"

  "No. It seemed urgent. Jonas gave me his saw and went straight off. Told me not to touch anything till he got back. So, I came down here."

  Sam groaned. "My spider sense is tingling."

  "You're just nosy."

  "No, I'm not," she protested. "Well, okay, yes I am. But this is more than just curiosity. They might be discussing stuff that affects us. Will you watch Margie and bring her back up to the cabin when you've had enough? I'm going to … be nosy."

  Sam left Said sitting on the rock before he could protest. She pulled on her boots by the side of the road, then sprinted straight up through the overgrown ruins of a cabin before coming out on Springfield Drive. She took a left, puffing by now in the stifling heat, sweat trickling down her back.

  Finally, she arrived at Zak's cabin. It was a large, single-story building painted gray with a garage outside. That's where they'd be meeting.

  When they'd arrived here, they'd found an existing community run by someone Zak clearly knew well. His name was Richard Stokes, though he liked to be called Dickie for reasons Sam couldn't fathom, and he led perhaps a hundred people further along the creek road and centered on a pair of large ranch houses that had escaped the fire because a falling branch had broken the electricity cable that served them. She hadn't learned whether the one Dickie lived in had belonged to him before the firestorm, like Zak's had, or whether he'd taken it since. She didn't really care, to be honest.

  The garage door was wide open, so she followed a wide path approaching from the next-door plot. Where the original house had stood on this plot, Zak and his people had constructed a materials yard where they stored felled logs, recovered bricks and salvage roof tiles, among other things.

  Sam crouched down beside the garage wall, pressing her ear to it. Yes, Dickie was there; she could hear his high-pitched timbre. So, this was no ordinary meeting.

  Now Zak spoke. He had a rich authoritative voice that she could hear clearly through the wooden garage wall. "Are you certain, Richard?" Zak was the only one Dickie didn't correct when he used the old man's full name. "If we commit ourselves too soon, we will lose everything."

  "Zachariah," Dickie responded. She found his nasal voice harder to hear, but he was speaking louder now, perhaps in agitation. "I explained this all to you when we first met. We traveled here to stay safe until we received the order to return. That order has now come. The agreement we made, you and I, was that you and your fighters would come with us."

  Sam heard heavy boots move across the garage floor, and she shrunk down, half-expecting someone to emerge from the door. She peered through the slatted fence as a figure stood in the open air, and a plume of smoke rose into the sky.

  "I don't need reminding of our obligation," Zak said, his voice much louder as he blew out the last of his cigarette. "But can you be sure of the message?"

  Footsteps grew louder and now Dickie's voice floated over the fence. "As I said, the cipher matches."

  "Codes can be cracked."

  "That is true, but it's unlikely in this case. The information we received with the message was explicit and in line with our expectations. It is highly unlikely to have been faked."

  Another plume of smoke rose above the fence. "You know, you really should give up that habit," Dickie said. "It's very bad for your health."

  "Not half as bad as being your friend, it seems. Look, give me a little time to get my head around it. We've only just settled in here, and I have to think about how to make sure those who don't come with us stay safe."

  "In moments like this," Dickie said, "we have to take risks. The prize goes to the bold, doesn't it?"

  Zak grunted without enthusiasm. "Up to a point. But there's gonna be precious little sweetness in victory if we return to find our people killed by bandits while we were away."

  "I understand. I'm not suggesting that we leave
them entirely undefended. I'm sure there are those among your people who'd be better remaining here than coming with us."

  As Zak contemplated this, another voice spoke. "But Mr. Stokes, if we're gonna go clear across the country, how we gonna get there? We ain't expected to walk, are we?"

  "No, indeed … er …"

  "Jethro, sir."

  "Jethro. We have the vehicles we arrived in—these will be enough for more than half of those who will go. We will have to find transport for the others, but I daresay we'll manage."

  Sam adjusted her legs to stop them cramping, and one of her feet slipped. She froze. Had anyone heard? Then she heard the newcomer's drawling voice again.

  "But can't we fight them here? We don't have to go so far to find 'em. "

  Dickie sighed, and Sam suspected his veneer of patience was worn pretty thin. "The key to the strategy, Jethro, is to bring our forces together to strike a heavy blow against their main general. There's no point each of us going off and trying to face down one group at a time. Destroy their leaders and their whole organization crumbles."

  "There's a lot of assumptions, right there," Zak said.

  "Look, it's what we agreed. If we don't come together, we won't stand a chance."

  Zak blew another cloud of smoke into the sky, then drew in a deep breath. "Let me think it over."

  She could hear Dickie begin to speak, but then Zak cut through. "Now, there's no need to get hot. I'm pretty sure we'll stick to our agreement, but I gotta talk to my people first. I'll be comin', as I promised. The question is how many we take, and how many we leave."

  They went back inside again, but they must have moved over the other side of the garage because Sam couldn't hear more than the occasional word. Soon enough, she heard many booted feet leaving and, finally, Zak said, "I'll come see you later."

  Dickie mumbled a response and then she listened as a single pair of footsteps made their way back up the drive. She was about to creep back the way she came when a deep voice said, "Reckon you've heard enough, Sam Hickman?"

  Zak's bearded face appeared over the fence. Sam couldn't tell whether he was angry or not, but she decided that defiance was probably the best policy. "Seems to me it's the only way to find out anything. When were you planning to let us know what was going on? Before you'd loaded up the trucks or after?"

  "Nice try, but I ain't gonna let you make me the villain here. You're spying on business that you're not old enough or wise enough to understand."

  "And I haven't got a Y chromosome. Don't forget that!"

  He jabbed a finger at her and opened his mouth to fire back, but then laughed and shook his head. "Nicely done. Turned the tables on me after all. Now, come inside and maybe—maybe—I'll fill you in."

  Sam hated being patronized but, like her father, she hated being in the dark more. So she got up and jumped over where the fence shortened, just beyond the end of the garage.

  Zak waved her through the door into the dark hallway.

  "Don't you have any candles? Or gas lamps?"

  He chuckled. "Check this out." He flicked a switch and two lights embedded in the walls came on.

  Sam shrieked in surprise.

  "Yeah, real electricity. The folks who owned this place installed some solar panels on the roof and lithium batteries in the basement. I reckon they were used to the power going out, so they had a twelve-volt circuit with low-wattage LED bulbs. That way, when the cable outside got cut, they'd have at least a couple of days of power even if the sun wasn't shining. Clever, eh?"

  "I'd forgotten what it was like to flip a switch. But you had a setup back at your cabin, didn't you?"

  "Yeah, but this is in a different league. I sure traded up here." He led her through into the living room that looked out over the front lawn, taking great delight in turning the lights on. "But I guess I'm gonna have to leave it soon enough."

  "What was Dickie talking about?"

  Zak settled into an armchair, the leather groaning under him as he waved Sam onto the sofa. "Well, I first met Dickie when I was traveling south to my place. He darn near shot my head off when I drove down this very road; me and half a dozen others I trusted. Somehow, I persuaded him I could be trusted, and I stayed for one night before moving on.

  "Over time, we kept up communication and, in the end, I learned who he was and why he was here."

  He paused, drawing his broad hand through his beard and settling back. "You've heard of the Mormons?"

  "Of course. Wear black suits and come knocking on our door. There's a church in Hope, though most of them used to come from out of town. So what?"

  Zak nodded, then leaned forward. "I guess Hope's not too far from Salt Lake City, then? Well, right before they got taken over by the Sons, their leader sent the survivors out into the country in small groups to hide until called upon. They call themselves the Lord's Army. Seems the call has been sent."

  "And Dickie's group is one of these?"

  "Yeah. I reckon if you were to look in his luggage, you'd find the Book of Mormon and a pressed suit. He came farthest west of all of them; said he used to vacation here."

  Sam sat back, the leather creaking under her. "But, how many people does he have?"

  "A little less than a hundred fit to fight."

  "And we've got, what? Twenty?"

  "At most."

  "So, what's the point of that? The Sons are an army."

  Zak chuckled. "Yeah, well, Dickie says that his group is just one of many. It's not just the SLC Mormons, you see. It's every one of them they could gather together, and others like us."

  For a moment, they both sat in silence. He was gazing out over the front lawn, and she was staring unfocused at a row of porcelain figurines above the hearth.

  Finally, she said, "So, what are you going to do?"

  This seemed to snap Zak out of his contemplation. "Ah, I guess we'd better do our bit. We're gonna have to think carefully about how we keep this place safe while we're away. It's a long way to Nevada."

  "Nevada? You're going straight to Hope?" Sam said, catching her chin as it dropped.

  Shaking his head, Zak said, "No, we're gathering everyone together at a place a hundred miles west of there."

  "Springs?"

  "How'd you know that? Have you been spying on Dickie too?"

  Now it was her turn to laugh. All of a sudden, she could sense the invisible hand of her father at work. "Lucky guess. Right, when do we leave?"

  "What? You're stayin' here."

  Suddenly, her future was clear. All uncertainty had left her, and she could see the path of destiny running straight and true.

  "No, Zak, I'm not. I'm coming. I've got scores to settle."

  Chapter 3: Diversion

  Devon parked the battered white SUV in the shade of a rusting barn. They'd taken a wide arc, approaching Hope from the north and going off-road until they hit one of the many dirt tracks that crisscrossed the landscape between the city limits and the mountains.

  He glanced across at Ricky and nodded. If he didn't know Gert better, he'd suspect the Dutchman was laughing his butt off right now. This mission needed two people, and Gert had picked Ricky as the best partner for Devon. Logically, he had a point. At some time in Ricky's murky past, he'd gotten some experience with explosives, but Devon wasn't clueless in that regard and, frankly, he'd be happier risking blowing himself sky-high than having to spend another minute in Ricky's company.

  It was a simple plan. The first settlers built the town of Hope along a highway that ran more or less north to south from Salt Lake City to Ezra. Hemmed in by mountains on each side, the copper mines that exploited the mineral wealth of this area had sprung up on each side of the town, leaving a narrow habitable corridor where the mine workers had once lived. By the time of the firestorm, all but one of those on the west side had closed, joining the long defunct series of workings that scarred the landscape to the east, confining the residential areas to a narrow strip.

  They'd parked here, a half
mile or so to the northeast of the town, intending to creep closer after nightfall, and plant their explosives close enough to the community center to draw off the troops while Gert and the others liberated the prisoners from the mines on the west side.

  So, it was a simple plan, but that didn't make it easy.

  Devon climbed out of the car, Glock clutched to his chest as the dry heat hit him. He glanced over at the blue-green-tinged slagheap, checking for any signs of movement.

  "Don't worry yerself," Ricky sneered. "There ain't no one here, 'cept me and you. Now, I guess we better hide the car and hunker down till nightfall."

  "Sure," Devon said. He was determined to do his best to resist Ricky's endless provocation. He knew, at some point, he'd snap, but he wanted to be able to say he'd at least tried.

  Together, they covered the SUV with fragments of wood and metal. "We'd better make sure we can get this stuff off quickly. We might have them on our tail by the time we come back."

  "Oh, right. Yessir, Captain Obvious. I'd a never thought of that."

  Devon banged his fist on the roof of the car. "Jeez, Ricky. Give it a rest! What's your problem with me?"

  "I don't like collaborators," he responded as he continued to spread an old sheet of sacking onto the roof.

  "You know the truth of that now."

  Now he stopped and moved around to the hood. "Oh, do I? I heard a lot of words, but not a whole heap of proof. Heck, you even brought them back with you!"

  "Don't you trust Gert's judgment?"

  "Not where you're concerned."

  Devon grunted. "So, it's nothing to do with the color of my skin?"

  Bullseye. He could see it in Ricky's expression as he kept his eyes down, focused on covering the car. "No, it ain't that. Yer a collaborator, that's all. Now, I suggest you keep yerself to yerself until the sun goes down. We'll do our job and hightail it outta here. Then you can go your way and I'll go mine."

  Devon was content with that. There was no sense trying to talk rationally with Ricky. Bigotry didn't respond well to logic. So, he found a corner of the dilapidated barn and sat with his back to the warm metal, looking in the direction of Hope from the shadows.