"So, you can't tell us anything about what the general plans?"
"General? Who's he?"
"Mendoza."
Todd nodded sagely. "Ah, yeah, I heard his name from time to time. But I get my orders from a fella called Darius. Greek, I think. Or maybe Iranian. He passed through here a few days ago. Said they was headin' west for a big meetup. Seems there's this place in Nevada. Survived the fire, and they're gonna flatten it and build a new city on the ruins. Somethin' about divine justice."
Devon sighed. "Hope."
"Hope for what?"
"No, that's the name of the place."
"Well," Todd said, taking another drag, "I sure wouldn't wanna be there when they arrive."
Devon looked out at the night beyond the light of the glowing brazier. Health and safety had clearly taken a rain check around here. "And you don't know when they're aiming to meet up with Mendoza?"
"All I know is they was in some kind of a hurry. Said they'd be headin' back this way once the job was done."
"Did this Darius tell you where he was going next?”
Todd shook his head. "I heard him say somethin' about Denver. He was workin' out how many fuel stops he'd need between here 'n there."
Gert wandered up. "Denver? Well, I guess that would make sense as a meeting place. He could assemble his horde and then move on Hope. I still don't get it, though."
"What?" Jessie said. She'd been packing some of the supplies Todd had donated into the trunk, though both she and Gert had heard the conversation. "It's just about revenge for Mendoza, isn't it?"
Gert made a noncommittal sound. "Yeah, that's true. But come so far east, gathering together thousands just to subdue a small city like Hope?"
"Maybe we should be asking what he intends to do next? So, he crushes Hope, but then he has an army at his command. He must have something in mind."
Todd dropped his cigarette butt and trod it into the ground. "Well, I hate to break up the party, but you'd better be movin' along. I'll be in a whole mess of trouble if a patrol comes along or if Lem wakes up. You take care, though. You hear me? But tell me, what are you fixin' to do?"
"If we told you that, we'd have to shoot you," Devon said with a smile.
"Hmm," Todd said, glancing from one to the other. "Seems to me you guys are on a mission. Maybe you'll catch up with that there general. Good luck to you." He held out his hand for each of them to shake.
"And to you," Devon said. "I have to believe there's at least a chance of light beyond this darkness."
"The sun always rises," Todd said with a smile, before watching them drive away.
Devon stewed as he steered the car through the night. They had decided to risk headlights because every indication was that the local Sons of Solomon fighters had left with their commander. They'd wasted weeks trying to find Mendoza, and it turned out he was gathering his forces together a few hundred miles east of Hope.
So now they were in a race to get there before Mendoza turned on Hope. Their plan, such as it was, had been to catch him out in the open and with minimal guards, but that was now in ruins unless they could somehow overtake him. He'd drained the East and Midwest of fighters and would surely be impossible to get near.
Todd said that the local commander had been heading west three days before, so they could no longer afford to travel by the back roads. Devon guided them onto the highway and set course for Columbus.
The man had only been dead for a day or two, his corpse swinging in the wind, black mask over this face. Devon had stopped the car when he'd seen the body as it hung from an electric pole beside the highway just outside St. Louis. Neither Jessie nor Gert got out of the Honda as Devon walked carefully across, checking for any movement in the green fields on either side of the highway. A large barn with a rusting iron roof and fading yellow walls sat to one side of the road, the winding track leading to it weed-choked and overgrown. His guess was that a contingent had stopped there for the night before dispensing justice on this man.
Devon had no desire to remove the man's mask, but he could see from his bare, wrinkled hands that he was old and white. Someone had shoved a piece of paper into his pocket alongside the green book synonymous with the Sons. The book looked well-thumbed, so Devon guessed the dead man had been an earnest member of the organization. He unfolded the paper and read what it contained:
Be it known that Wendell Thorne, being found guilty by tribunal of the crime of disloyalty to the cause, has been sentenced to be executed by means of hanging by the neck until dead. Sentence to be carried out summarily.
True Sons have nothing to fear from continued fellowship. Those who disobey our ordinances must be purged to preserve the purity of the brotherhood.
Take heed.
Devon glanced up at the dead man as he slid the paper back into place. He flipped open the green book and found that Thorne had described himself as a commander. He'd probably committed many evil acts in the name of the Sons before the biter was bit. Devon couldn't find much sympathy in his heart for this man, so he turned away and got back in the car.
"What did you find out?" Jessie asked. She was sitting in the front passenger seat and was obviously relieved when Devon turned the ignition key and put the car into drive.
"He was a leader."
Gert grunted from the back. "Maybe the dogs are turning on each other. It'd be great if they'd do our job for us."
Devon guided the Honda back onto the highway, lost in thought as the green countryside slipped past.
The following day, they found four bodies tied to a Frontier Motel sign just outside Kingdom City in Missouri. The single-story motel looked to have survived the firestorm intact and to have been inhabited since then, though it now looked empty. Bullet holes punctuated the outside wall on the end of the row, and Gert found matching injuries on the bodies.
Devon was watching from the top of the bank that the highway ran along, looking for any signs of movement from the motel. Gert called up from where he crouched beneath the sign. "These were all officers, judging by their ID cards. All found guilty of disloyalty. I reckon they were shot no more than a couple of days ago."
The Dutchman searched each of the bodies, discarding the green books on the concrete. "Ah! Now this is useful!" He pulled out a folded map and opened it. Even from fifty yards away, Devon could see the bullet holes and bloodstains as it flapped in the fresh breeze.
Gert laid it out on the ground as Devon trotted across to stand beside him. "Here," he said, pointing at a square drawn by hand on the map. "This is the rendezvous point. East Topeka in Kansas." He ran his finger along the stained paper. "We are here. Maybe two hundred miles. Come, we should get back to the car."
Gert got up. "It looks like a purge to me," he said. "I guess Mendoza is tightening his grip, especially on the units that used to report to other committee members."
"I wonder how many more of these groups of bodies there are?"
Gert shrugged. "Impossible to say. We don't know what route he took to get here, or how many units his army has. And we don't know if he was personally responsible for this, or whether he has subordinates weeding out those who might oppose him. Like the SS in Nazi Germany."
Devon wandered back to the car. "What do you think it means for us?"
"It means he's taking an iron grip on his troops."
Shutting the door as he got behind the wheel, Devon turned as Gert got in. "And maybe it means that without him, their organization will crack apart."
Gert shook his head. "That is wishful thinking, my friend. But maybe that is all we have right now."
The main body of Mendoza's forces would meet just south of Topeka, by the shores of Lake Shawnee. Devon had no idea why he'd picked this place, but Gert guessed it was because it was close enough to Hope to make it possible to keep a large army together and because there was some local reason. Maybe even something personal to Mendoza. Devon's impression of him had been that he was certainly capable of ordering his entire army to mus
ter somewhere because it was where he'd lived as a child, for example. Perhaps he wanted to exact his revenge on his middle school. The man was a monster, after all.
They got off the Kansas Turnpike ten miles or so to the east of Topeka and headed south so they could approach the city along the smaller, and hopefully safer country roads. And it was a beautiful landscape of small lakes, lush grass and verdant trees. They didn't see a single soul. It was as if a world had been created for them, ready to populate. A second Eden. They planned to drive toward the city and leave the car somewhere close enough to walk the rest of the way without running across the enemy.
"What about there?" Jessie said, pointing at a tall spire sitting atop a low stone building.
Devon slowed down. "Are we close enough?"
"I'm not sure, but I think maybe a mile from the lake. A good place to stop."
Nodding, Devon turned into the parking lot, rounding a living hedge that marked the entrance, and almost collided with a Land Rover that was coming the other way.
He swore, pushed the car into reverse and put his foot down. But a second Land Rover, which had been lurking behind the hedge, blocked his exit. Gert pulled the handgun from inside his jacket and kicked open the door. He fired off a couple of shots as Devon got out, taking cover behind his own door. Jessie ducked as she struggled to get a grip on her revolver. The windshield shattered, and gunfire surrounded them. And then Devon glanced to his left to see two fighters running toward the passenger seat, grabbing Jessie and pulling her out.
A voice called out, "Give up or we shoot her!"
He had no choice. Cursing again, Devon sighed. So, after all the evasion, all the care, they'd walked straight into the hands of the Sons of Solomon. Into Mendoza's hands. He dropped his weapon, raised his hands and slowly stood up.
Rough hands grabbed him, checking his pockets and removing his knife before pushing him in the direction of the church building.
Devon looked across at Jessie, tears running down her face, then he twisted to look at Gert behind him.
He wasn't there.
#
Paul Hickman got out of his car and walked to the barricade. An armored car stood on the other side being covered by a dozen of Hope's militia. Scriver, of course, had gotten there before him, but had at least had the courtesy to wait for Hick to arrive.
"What's goin' on?" Hick said.
Rusty Kaminiski nodded at the vehicle. He hadn't been a happy camper since being recalled from Springs, and he had a feeling his day was not going to improve. "These fellas turned up, demanding to speak to the leaders here. So, I sent a message to you and Marshall."
"Come on then, let's see what they have to say."
A tall man in pressed fatigues and a military cap stepped down from the front seat of the armored car and walked confidently toward the barrier as Hick and Scriver passed through it.
"Welcome to the free city of Hope," Hick said brightly.
The man couldn't hide the sneer. "My name is Captain John Carver, representative of the group formerly known as the Sons of Solomon."
"Carver," Scriver said, stepping forward. "What do you mean formerly?"
Carver's eyes widened. "Mr. Scriver, I'm pleased to see you survived the attempt on your life. The Sons of Solomon, as an organization, has served its purpose. But where there are many voices, dysfunction is inevitable, so we have united under one leader."
"So, Mendoza has taken full control."
"The general is our leader, yes, and he has brought together an overwhelming force that you would do well to bend the knee to."
Hick grunted. "Why, so he can slice our heads off? Is that what you came here to say? Submit or die?"
Carver turned back to Hick. "Our forces are gathering nearby. Once the muster is complete, thousands will come. We will overwhelm you with ease, and everyone who resists us—man, woman and child—will die. Surrender now, however, and the general has promised clemency."
"You always were a liar, John Carver," Scriver said. "You come here in your military uniform, like a peacock with your puffed-out chest. What were you before the cleansing? An account manager with a petrochemical company. The closest you've ever come to battle is watching Letters from Iwo Jima on Netflix."
"I guess that places me one step above a politician on the evolutionary ladder. Now, if we have finished swapping insults, do I have your surrender?"
Hick held Carver's gaze for a moment. What did he see there? Fear? Of what? Perhaps he thought they might simply shoot him here and now. Or maybe Mendoza had ordered him to obtain their capitulation and he was scared to go back empty-handed. But then, it seemed out of character for Mendoza to want to give them a way out of fighting a hopeless battle. Unless his grip on power wasn't quite as firm as he'd like. Would it be a risk for him to send troops in against a civilian militia who were just trying to protect their homes?
Hick shook his head and, without looking at Carver, turned away. "You might want to get back in your big fancy armored car before one of my fighters gets an itchy trigger finger. You tell your master that Hope says no."
Scriver caught up with him as he reached his car. "You're supposed to confer with me when making decisions that affect us all."
Hick sighed. "So, Marshall, should we accept their terms and surrender?"
"No, of course not. Mendoza doesn't know the meaning of mercy. But he will come with overwhelming force. We can be sure of that. We can't possibly stop him."
"I know. Time to begin the evacuation. I'll let Rusty know. But don't give up hope."
Scriver raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
"Yeah. Don't forget Devon and the others are out there somewhere. They might succeed. You never know."
"A fool's hope."
"Maybe, but it's still Hope."
Chapter 19: The End
They were kept overnight at the Baptist church, but early the following morning, a message came that the prisoners were to be brought to Mendoza. Devon watched as the local commander—a Latino man in his thirties called Martinez—read the handwritten note after saluting the messenger. Martinez's eyes widened a little, and his expression stiffened. He was nervous.
Devon had spent several hours in his company the previous night. Martinez considered himself a tough guy, but his threats of violence—and the half-hearted demonstrations—revealed him to be, at heart, a decent type. He'd been on active duty in the Army when the firestorm happened. He and a handful of others had escaped and, after attempting to restore order to the settlement they landed up in, joined the Sons of Solomon when they rolled into town. The particular branch they'd signed up for seemed to be one of the more moderate groups, but by the time their commander in chief was killed in Mendoza's purge of the committee, they were in too deep.
It had been a clever strategy. Mendoza cut away any resistance to his totalitarian control one piece at a time, never making enough enemies for any of them to stand up to him. And so, he led a largely resentful army through terror. And the look on the face of Martinez as he read his orders was enough to tell Devon that Mendoza's grip was one of iron.
"Still no sign?" Martinez said to a figure who'd marched into the church and saluted.
"No. Sorry, sir. We've had the entire squad out looking. He's vanished."
Martinez glanced across at Devon. "After shooting two of our people. He's no ghost, Michetti." He sighed, wiped his forehead and looked down at the handwritten order slip again. "The general isn't going to like this."
"Maybe we shouldn't have told him there was three of them, sir."
"And lie? That's the fast way to a bullet in the head," Martinez said. "Losing him, on the other hand, is the slightly slower way. But I can't delay any longer. Keep looking, and buzz me if you find him."
"When we find him, Skip."
Martinez put his hand on the man's upper arm. "My God, I hope so. Hellberg, Nonaka, bring the prisoners."
Devon watched as one of the two men Martinez had called—Nonaka, judging by his app
earance—disappeared into an anteroom before emerging with Jessie.
"On yer feet," Hellberg said. "Seems we gotta take you to see the general. You and yer girlfriend."
Devon got up and caught Jessie's eye as she was looking across at him. She gave a tiny nod and a smile that broke his heart. He tried to look reassuring, but he couldn't help focusing on her swelling belly and the life within. Would any of the three of them survive the day?
Gert was his only hope as they emerged into the bright sun. If he'd escaped, as seemed almost certain now, he wouldn't abandon them. But what could he do against thousands of enemies?
Figures moved back and forth with purpose as they turned onto the street heading toward the center of Topeka. Overgrown lawns swallowed up the ruins of houses to left and right, but Devon could see people and vehicles farther along the roads leading off the main street. One or two houses had survived the firestorm and folk had surrounded them with other structures that were now being used as shelters for companies of fighters.
The contrast between Martinez's well-ordered platoon and the first group they passed which looked more like a camping meetup shocked Devon. He wondered how many of Mendoza's army could be considered soldiers in any meaningful way. Then hope died in his heart as he realized that the army was plenty big enough to sweep away his city's defenses even if they were entirely untrained. With this many men, Mendoza could simply order them to point and shoot and it would be more than sufficient.
A white water tower that looked like one of the Martian Tripods from War of the Worlds appeared on the horizon and Martinez took a left into the parking lot outside and pulled up in front of a two-story office building.
Last Victory: Book 6 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 6) Page 15