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

by Kevin Partner

  Nothing moved along the dirt track as the sun descended toward the horizon, and Devon found he could relax and enjoy the gentle zephyr that whistled in the old building. Bits of rusting machinery littered the walls, and it looked as though the barn had once been a vehicle store and, perhaps, a repair shop.

  Devon opened up his lunchbox and found a sandwich made with Mary's wonderful whole-grain bread. Strawberry jelly had been spread on the inside of both slices, and he found a handwritten note underneath. He smiled as he recognized Jessie's writing and settled back to enjoy the melt-in-the-mouth deliciousness of the fresh bread.

  Dear Devon,

  Don't be an idiot, will you?

  We all need you. Dorothy, Jade, the baby I'm carrying and me. I sometimes think you believe you've got something to prove, or some mistake of the past to make up for, and that's why you constantly volunteer for dangerous tasks. I think you tell yourself that it's just to keep us safe, and I'm sure that's true, but there's more to it than that. You're prepared to put our relationship at risk because you know I didn't want you to go. Maybe you'll tell me when you see me.

  So, come back.

  Come back and marry me. And then never leave me again.

  All my love,

  Jessie

  The chunk of sandwich he'd just put in his mouth dropped to the ground as he gripped the scrap of paper and read it again. Good grief. She wanted to get married? A tingle of ice-cold terror spread down his spine. It might have been the familiar fear of commitment, or, perhaps, he now truly had something to live for and that made surviving the next few hours all the more important. He wasn't deluded enough to think he wouldn't fight for his life anyway, when push came to shove, but imagining that he didn't care made it easier to enjoy these last minutes of peace. A now-shattered peace.

  He read the letter one more time before folding it and sliding it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, he leaned back and looked up. The perforated barn roof took up half his field of view, the right-hand side dominated by a blue sky dappled with high clouds. Swallows—or swifts, he never could tell the difference—chattered as they darted in and out of the roof space, dive-bombing the flying insects that formed a haze above the yellow grass outside. It was idyllic. He could happily stay here forever.

  A shadow moved above him, cutting off his view. "C'mon. Time we got goin'."

  With a grunt, Devon got to his feet and followed Ricky to the back of the SUV. They'd divided the explosives into four batches, each with its own timer staggered so they could be laid at fifteen-minute intervals but go off a few minutes apart. If it worked perfectly, then the first to detonate would be the one they'd planted nearest to the town, with each subsequent explosion taking the enemy farther out into the suburbs. They wouldn't know that the fourth was the last, and this uncertainty, coupled with the fact that they were attacking on the opposite side of town from where Gert was freeing the prisoners would hopefully give the Dutchman enough of a head start.

  With each bomb laid, the risk of discovery increased. They took two charges each. Devon would lay the second and third, Ricky the first and fourth. That last one was the riskiest, as he would be planting it very close to the community center. Even if he wasn't discovered before it went off, he'd have only minutes to get away. They'd talked about laying that one first, so they'd be farther away when it went off, but if they planted the others first, then even if they were captured, the others would explode, and the distraction would be at least partially successful.

  Ricky had taken on planting bomb one himself and Devon couldn't be bothered to argue. He suspected it was mainly testosterone talking. The redneck couldn't handle the thought of returning to Gert after a successful mission and Devon getting credit for planting that bomb.

  Devon swung the pack over his shoulder and trotted after Ricky as he strode off into the twilight.

  They walked a few hundred yards toward the town, stopping at a small brick building with a collapsed iron roof. Grass and wildflowers grew in the shadows, and the old metal door shrieked as Ricky pushed against it. They both froze as they glanced into the gloaming, half-expecting to see the lights of a patrol attracted by the noise.

  After a few moments, Ricky kneeled and pulled the first package out of his bag. "Settin' sixty minutes," he said.

  "Yeah. Eleven p.m. That's when Gert's going in."

  To Devon's surprise, Ricky didn't bother with any sarcasm. They were both stating the obvious because they were both scared.

  "Done. Let's go."

  They jogged along the dirt track toward the outskirts of the town and, as their boots met the crumbling asphalt, they stopped for a moment. "So, we clear? Bomb two in this road. Set to detonate at ten fifty-five. Bomb three on First Street, set for ten fifty."

  Devon nodded. "Right. And yours set for ten forty-five. Better get going; it might take a while to get close enough without getting caught. Where d'you want to meet?"

  "Back at the barn. I'll be able to use the fireworks to light my way."

  Putting his hand out, Devon said. "Good luck, Ricky. Don't take too big a risk. If you can't get close enough, then plant the bomb where you can and get away."

  Ricky looked down at the outstretched hand, and after a few moments' hesitation, he nodded. "I plan on stickin' it up their tailpipe. I ain't no coward." He let Devon's hand go, then slipped away, wiping his palm on his jeans.

  Devon watched him jog along the street before he darted up a side road. The man didn't have many redeeming features, but he was brave enough. Devon turned away, heading for his first port of call: the home of Joe and Martha Bowie.

  He moved as silently as his substantial frame allowed, but finally made it to the fence-rung compound. He'd worried that someone else might have moved in—committee members, perhaps—but the place was dark, so he slipped through the gate and hid in the darkness of the yard.

  It had been Joe Bowie's idea to site a bomb in his own house. After losing their son and his father in short order, he had no wish to ever return to it. Martha herself was still too ill to consult on the matter, so he'd taken Devon aside after the planning meeting and handed him the key to the front door. Aside from asking Devon to retrieve some personal items, he only had one request, and Devon had asked him to repeat himself before he could believe his ears.

  He turned the key in the lock, opened the door a crack and went inside on hands and knees until he could close it behind himself. He didn't dare light a candle or use his flashlight, so he felt his way, using his memory of the place to guide him in the darkness. The moon had just risen behind the mountains visible in the long window looking over the backyard, offering dim patches of light to orient him.

  Devon took the pack from his shoulder and pulled out the first of his two charges, which he laid in the hearth. He would have to risk a little light, so he got out his flashlight, putting it down on its end so it was shining into the carpet and leaking just enough light for him to see what he was doing. He checked his watch and programmed the digital timer so it would go off at ten fifty-five.

  Now for Joe's special request. Devon made his way into the kitchen and pulled open the patio door. The moonlight illuminated a small hopper, and he opened the lid and plunged his hand inside before kneeling and turning his palm upward. "Roger? You here?"

  Devon crouched behind a garbage can and waited for the patrol to move away. Roger the cockerel, it seemed, understood the peril and kept himself out of sight behind his new human caretaker, springing into action as Devon slipped out of the shadows and jogged toward the empty house.

  It had been the home of Ward McAndrew, the now-dead pastor and the reason Hope had survived the firestorm. Devon peeped over the picket fence, sneaking a look between the branches of a privet. It seemed likely that someone would have moved into the house in the months since McAndrew died and, sure enough, he could see the flickering light of a candle seeping through the drapes in the front window. From time to time, shadows moved.

  Devon sighed. H
e'd dreaded this. There was no way he'd plant a bomb that would blow up fellow Hopers. This, he realized, was another reason why Ricky had chosen to place the device near the community center—he judged it all too likely that Devon would bail out if he thought citizens would be caught up in it.

  He crept along the fence and peered around the gatepost. A Land Rover sat on the driveway. So, the place housed Sons of Solomon fighters or, perhaps, a committee member. If the house had been empty, he'd planned to break in and place the device in the hearth, which would most likely bring the roof down and send the place up in flames. The garage was the next best option, but he found he couldn't do it. He didn't know for sure that the people inside were his enemies—if the attack on the committee had shown him anything, it was that matters were more complicated than that. And, anyway, he didn't consider himself a terrorist. He would minimize collateral damage as far as possible.

  So, he crawled along the driveway, chips of asphalt scraping his knees through his jeans, half-dragging the pack along as Roger trotted unconcernedly behind him. He held his breath as he placed the second of his two packages under the Land Rover and adjusted the timer. He would have to hurry if he was to be far enough away for comfort when the charges detonated.

  Devon froze as the door of the house opened. He could see light flooding out from inside and a pair of booted feet standing on the threshold for a moment before stepping into the night air. They came toward him and the suspension springs creaked as the car door slammed shut. He pulled the pistol from inside his jacket—if the car reversed, he'd be exposed and would only have seconds to react.

  Roger snuggled into Devon's body, as if getting ready to spring to his defense, but the car didn't start up. The springs creaked again as the person in the driver's seat fidgeted. Devon checked his watch as the minutes passed. Ten minutes till detonation. Then the car door opened again, and Devon inhaled cigarette smoke as the boots went back to the house.

  Devon dragged himself out as soon as the door shut and then crawled to the end of the driveway.

  Which way should he go? If he ran at full speed, he might make it halfway to the barn where they'd hidden the car before Ricky's bomb went off, but there was an even chance he'd be spotted.

  No, it made more sense to make his way closer. For some reason he couldn't put his finger on, he wanted to see the community center go up with his own eyes. The chaos of first that explosion and then the others at five-minute intervals would give him the cover he needed to escape.

  He gathered Roger up and shoved him into the now-empty backpack before slinging it over his shoulder and, after double-checking the dark, silent street, scampered toward the community center.

  It was within a whisker of ten forty by the time the squat building came into view. Immediately, he could see something was wrong. Figures were running toward one side of the center where someone stood, hands behind his back, gun to his head.

  Dammit! They'd caught Ricky. It must have only just happened because Devon could see the explosives by his feet, as if he'd been setting the timer when they'd discovered him.

  Devon edged closer, bringing his Glock to eye level. At the moment, only one guard had hands on Ricky, but others would join him soon enough. Devon didn't know how it would play out, but if Ricky were to have any chance, Devon had to act now. So, he sighted along the short barrel of the handgun and squeezed the trigger.

  The guard dropped to the ground. Ricky spun around as some of the fighters running toward him split off, looking for cover, looking for their attacker.

  For an instant, Ricky's eyes locked with Devon's. He gave the slightest of nods as the running guards raised their weapons, then fell to his knees.

  As rounds ripped past Devon's head, he threw himself to the ground.

  Then the world was light, heat and, a moment later, a roar that threatened to overwhelm his senses.

  He leaped to his feet and took a single glance at the raging inferno where Ricky had been, then ran away from the flames, into the night.

  Chapter 4: Escape

  Gert Bekmann checked the magazine of his M4 carbine for the hundredth time, then looked left and right at the others in his snatch squad. On one side, Kris Ritter waited patiently, the moonlight glinting from her tied-back blonde hair. On the other, a young man called Wade nervously fidgeted as they waited.

  He'd quickly learned to trust Kris. She was capable and reliable, which put her in a pretty exclusive group. Wade, on the other hand, was much more typical of Gert's fighters: a potentially dangerous combination of anger, fear and inexperience.

  Gert glanced at his watch. 10:58.

  "There!" Kris said, pointing over the dark roofs of the mine buildings below at an orange glow.

  Darn it, Ricky never was good with details.

  "Now!" Gert hissed, and the half dozen climbed down the slope toward the back of the main block of Barratt's Mine, just as a guard came into view.

  Instantly, the crack, crack of gunfire tore apart the night's silence. Gert accelerated, heading for the cover of an oil drum. A shot from Kris took the first guard out, but others ran from inside the building, laying down suppressive fire. Gert cursed as he sighted along the barrel of his carbine, waiting for a target to appear.

  Jessie heard the shots, nodded to Jade and put her foot down on the gas. Five of them were crowded into the battered squad car Devon had used to escape from Hope.

  As Gert had predicted, the guards at the gate had run toward the sound of fighting, so Jessie was able to drive into the compound without encountering any resistance.

  She stopped the car behind the block she'd escaped from a few weeks before and got out. Joe Bowie climbed out of the back, face grim in the harsh moonlight.

  "The trucks are over there," he said, nodding into the darkness, "just like you said. Let's get these folks out of here. You sure you don't wanna wait in the car?"

  They didn't have time for this. Jessie ignored him and headed toward the front door as gunfire echoed around the compound. But, as they'd hoped, Gert's feint had drawn off the guards.

  Most of them.

  A big shape burst out of the front door, bearing down on Jessie, who fell back in surprise. Jade threw herself at the guard, knife flashing as her tiny figure pushed him sideways, Joe kneeling to deliver the killing blow.

  A second guard emerged, attracted by the noise, and Jessie didn't hesitate. He fell instantly as the snuffing out of his soul rang in her ears.

  "Come on," Jade said, pulling on her arm as she stood in shock, staring down at the corpse.

  She snapped out of it, following the others inside. Dim electric lights throbbed throughout the metallic interior as they ran past the little table where the guards had been playing cards moments before.

  "This way, " Jessie said, leading them down a short corridor that ended in a locked door, the key on the outside. The guards really were amateurs. Dead amateurs.

  She turned the key and, bringing the gun to her cheek, opened the door.

  Jessie recoiled from the stench.

  "Jeez, it stinks!" Jade hissed.

  Jessie led the way inside to a chorus of frightened cries and the groans of people being woken out of a restless sleep.

  "Now listen up!" Jessie called. "My name's Jessie Summers, and my dad was Gil. You all knew him. We're here to get you out. Any who want to come, you've got two minutes to get yourself ready."

  Now her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she could see two rows of beds, one against each wall. Some were no more than blankets rolled up on the floor. She watched as some of the figures began to move.

  "Come on! My friends are creating a diversion, we have to get away!"

  A woman sat on the side of her bed, which was one of the nearest to the door. "Where's my Jonathan?"

  Jessie got onto her haunches, almost choking on the smell of stale sweat and dried urine. "Is that your husband?"

  "Yeah. They took him away, and he never came back."

  "I'm sorry, but … Jonathan
…"

  A figure appeared behind the old woman and put a hand on her shoulder. "Jonathan's dead, Maisie," he said. "We both know that, and I sure am sorry. But if we don't want to go the same way, we've gotta go now with Ms. Summers here."

  The woman broke down, leaning against the man while he looked across at Jessie. "Thank you for coming. My name's Weston. I guess you got plans for gettin' us out of here?"

  "Yeah. There are three trucks outside. But we've got to move quickly."

  He nodded, his long mane of white hair catching the light from the corridor. "You leave that to me. If you bring the transport around, I'll get these folks ready."

  Jessie took his hand, nodded and called the other two. She was glad to be out of that place of waiting death and into the fresher air of the corridor. As they emerged into the night air, it seemed to her that the gunfire had gotten closer. "Right, there's three of us and three trucks. Let's go."

  The others followed Jessie around the building to where the vehicles were parked. She climbed, panting, up into the cab, finding the keys in the ignition. The truck roared to life, and she glanced across at the other two in their trucks. She wondered whether Jade had ever driven anything with a manual shift and had her worst fears confirmed when Jade's truck lurched forward before stalling. But there was no time to wait.

  Jessie reversed the truck into place outside the dormitory and jumped out just as the first of the old folks came out. "Climb aboard," she shouted, holding the door open and pulling down the steps. "Quick as you can."

  The back of the second truck appeared beside hers, but there was no sign of Jade's, so Jessie jogged to the front of hers to see the young woman's vehicle kangarooing its way toward them. She put her hand up to stop Jade just as a fighter emerged from behind the main building. He'd just raised his weapon to his eye when the truck went still, Jade fell down and the cab filled with light. The crack of Jade's gun reached Jessie's ears at the same moment that the guard fell to the ground.