To Devon, it seemed like going about things the hard way. Sure, it looked impressive and would become even more so once the browns and yellows of the arid soil had turned green, but on the other side of the highway were alfalfa farms with huge water pivots capable of keeping hundreds of square yards irrigated. The far simpler solution would have been to find a way to get the pumps working again so they could bring up the groundwater. But that, of course, would mean using technology. He shook his head as he contemplated the hypocrisy of their new masters. Refusing to hook up a gas-powered generator to get the pivots turning while driving around in vehicles bearing almost identical engines.
Despite all that, Devon's throat tightened with pride as he took in what they'd achieved, and he found himself wondering whether the community would have come together like that before the firestorm. He dismissed the thought as soon as it popped into his head. He didn't want to give the Sons of Solomon any credit for galvanizing the people of Hope because that thin wedge could open a crack in his resolution. The ends did not justify what amounted to enslavement.
Jade put her arm through his. "We did it, Dev."
"Yeah, so I guess that's one bullet dodged. I'm sure Marianna will shoot another one in our direction tomorrow."
"You need to learn mindfulness."
He turned to her, as if expecting to see evidence of his young friend's transformation into a life coach. "What?"
"You have to enjoy good things when they happen and not think about tomorrow, like. You got me?"
He looked back over the fields and nodded. The sun had sunk below the horizon and, now that the field was empty of humans, birds began twittering in the trees and bushes that lined its periphery. The light had a golden tinge to it as the heat of the day leached away into the rocks.
She pulled herself in tighter and, for a few uncountable minutes, the two of them existed in a private universe where they found happiness in the space between today and tomorrow.
The last thing he'd wanted to see was a white envelope on his doormat when he got home. He briefly wondered who was brave enough to sneak into town from the rebel camp to leave this token, but then gave himself up to self-absorbed regret. There was no avoiding it, so he gave himself a candlelit sponge bath, changed into dark clothes and left the protesting Jade to slip along the apartment building to the rendezvous point behind the LDS church.
Ricky was lurking in the shadows to lead him through the dark streets to where the car waited.
Devon was disappointed when they pulled up outside the pigsties again.
"So, you drag me out in the middle of the night, and I don't even get to see the farmhouse?" He said as Gert emerged from inside to offer his hand.
"It doesn't make sense for you to know where it is, my friend. If you get captured … "
Devon scowled. He knew Gert was right—he'd worked in counter-terrorism long enough to understand the dangers of entrusting secrets—but he didn't like it. He felt as though he was a pawn in someone else's game.
But all that vanished as Jessie's warm arms wrapped around him. "I hate that you have to be there, Dev and I hate that we keep things from you."
"It's okay," he said as his hands ran through her hair. "How are you? Still nauseous?"
She moved away and smiled. "Mornings and evenings. But it's okay. We're safe, Dev, me, the baby and Dorothy."
"Sorry to break this up, but we've got a lot to talk about and the longer we take, the more chance you'll be missed," Gert said.
They dragged the crates into a circle again and sat: Gert, Devon, Jessie and Ricky. "This conference next week," the Dutchman said. "We're gonna attack it. Kill them all."
Devon had been expecting this. A visit by all the commanders of the Sons of Solomon was too big an opportunity to pass up. "How?"
"We're gonna blow them sky high," Ricky said, a sick grin spreading from ear to ear.
Devon opened his mouth to respond, but Gert got in first, "We've found some explosives in the mine buildings. They're used for making big holes, but they will do a good job of vaporizing those filth." His face twisted in rage and hatred and Devon knew he was thinking about Libby Hawkins, his lover, who was killed in an attack on the Sons.
"Hold on—how can you possibly be sure you won't kill civilians? Our people?"
"I do not pretend there is no risk, Devon. We will be careful, but think: if we destroy their leadership, their organization may collapse. Think of the suffering that would end."
"I'm sorry, Gert, but I'm not happy trading the lives of Hopers for 'ifs' and 'mays'."
Gert leaned forward, the dark marks around his eyes thrown into relief by the yellow light of the gas lamp. "We will do our best, my friend, but we have an opportunity to strike hard at them. We cannot pass it up. If we do, how will we live with ourselves as we watch people suffering under them?"
Devon got up, shaking his head. "I infiltrated terrorists for long enough to know that their sort of violence doesn't solve anything. And I won't be part of any plot that puts the lives of innocent Hopers at risk. Now, I'm exhausted. When you've got a better plan, let me know. But, for now, I'm out."
"Sure sounds like a collaborator to me," Ricky muttered as Devon got up, planted a kiss on the cold cheek of Jessie and stalked out.
Ricky didn't say a single word to Devon on the journey back to Hope. He couldn't believe Gert would be so angry that he'd order Devon's death, but he was relieved when the car pulled in behind the church building and came to a halt.
As Devon climbed out of the car, he heard Ricky mutter, "You better be careful, buddy. Watch your back."
He slipped around the church and headed along a street running parallel to the highway, toward his apartment. He struggled to breathe, his ribs squeezing together like a pair of giant hands gripping his chest. He felt like a rat in a maze, desperately searching for a way out that wasn't there.
Looked at objectively, he could see how even his closest friends might be having second thoughts. As Ricky had said, he sure sounded like a conspirator. But it was all very well for them; they weren't living among the people they were putting under threat. There was no way they could eliminate their targets without killing many Hopers. Sure, when you weighed it up, dealing a killing blow to the evil organization that was oppressing Hope and many other communities across the country seemed worth a sacrifice, but these were human beings—innocent human beings. Who were they to decide how much these lives were worth? How were they better than any of the terrorists he'd spent his career fighting if they followed that logic? Those groups shared one thing in common—an absolute belief that what they were doing was right and just.
And yet, how would he live with himself if they missed this opportunity to strike? What about all the innocents who would die in the weeks, months and years to come if they didn't act?
But it was a false choice, and he knew it. On the one hand, blowing up the room containing the leadership of the Sons of Solomon—if that could be achieved—in the certain knowledge that innocents would die by his hand, against possible suffering in the future.
His boot caught on a crack in the sidewalk and he stumbled, putting out his hand to steady himself against a wall. He looked up and realized he'd been lost in his thoughts and not paying attention to where he was or to concealing himself. A burst of adrenaline brought him out of the deep places where his mind was wandering and he pressed himself into the gap between two buildings as he oriented himself.
Above him, the first hints of light suffused the sky, but they did nothing to illuminate the scene other than to make silhouettes of the buildings on the other side of the road. Then he heard it. The low rumble of an engine. He crouched so he could peer over a low wall that ran at right angles to the street. The sound was coming from the left, and it was getting louder.
Then he saw it. A dark shape against the night moving slowly along the road. It was a truck, creeping along. Then it pulled up, only twenty yards or so from where he hid. Figures ran from it. Another gr
oup ran forward and handed someone over, someone struggling silently. Devon could see, even in the darkness, the head moving back and forth as if trying to free itself. Ice speared through his guts as he realized what he was seeing. In this quiet suburban street, the Sons of Solomon were snatching people from their beds.
Suddenly, all the introspective thoughts, all the doubts, all the fear for the future disappeared as the muffled, terrified cries of the prisoner were cut off and he vanished behind the truck.
Devon slipped over the wall and, looking out of the corners of his eyes, he made out the pathway that led to a ranch house. He felt his way to the front door and began banging on it, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds at the truck.
The door opened a crack to reveal the terrified face of a young woman illuminated by a candle held in shaking hands.
"Who is it?"
"The mayor, Devon Myers," he hissed. "Don't open the door any farther."
The light disappeared, and Devon could just make out a pair of eyes glinting in the darkness. "What do you want? Mr. Mayor."
"Someone's being abducted, and I need a car to follow them."
"What?"
"I don't have time. Give me your keys. You do have a car?"
He heard the sound of metal clinking from behind the door and then felt a bunch of keys brush his cheek. He grabbed the invisible hand. "Thank you. I'll bring it back, I promise."
"So, you're not a collaborator, like everyone says?"
"Apparently not," Devon said. "Where is it?"
"Around back. Cut across the yard."
Devon took one last glance over his shoulder, muttered his thanks and plunged into the deeper darkness beside the house.
Chapter 7: Dave
He parked the car near to where the side road joined with the one the truck had been on, leaped out and ran to the intersection. It was gone! He cursed under his breath. He'd spent too long talking to the woman at the door. And then he looked right and caught a flash of red as the driver punched down on the brakes.
"Gotcha!" he said, running back to the car and starting it. He had to catch up with the truck and see where it was going, so he threw caution to the wind and turned onto the main road just as the red brake lights seemed to merge. They were turning right onto the highway. He put his foot down and when he reached the turning, he was just in time to see the lights going over the crest of a rise in the road and disappearing.
By the time he reached that point, the truck was heading off the highway to the left. Now he knew where they were going. The mine workings. Where Jessie had been briefly imprisoned. The mystery solved, he almost stopped and turned around. But something tugged at him. This was an opportunity to see with his own eyes what happened to the people the Sons of Solomon snatched. And he could hardly return the car so quickly without some explanation. His heart had lifted a little when the woman at the door had said he wasn't a collaborator. Time to prove it.
He put his foot down and, praying that he wouldn't hit anything on the dark road, he kept the red lights in view until they turned into the compound outside the only working copper mine in Hope.
Devon parked just inside the entrance. He could now see well enough to avoid the bigger potholes in the rough roadway, and he made his way as quickly as possible to where the red lights had gone out.
Someone lit the lamp above an open door. Shadowy figures walked in threes through the entrance—a hooded shape with a black-masked fighter on each shoulder. Devon counted five of these trios, as he crouched behind a rusting metal drum.
The last of the figures went inside as the truck remained in place. He couldn't be sure all the soldiers had gone into the building, but he had to risk it. He had no weapon, but the least he could do was be a witness.
Devon drew in a deep breath and ran out of cover across the dark and broken asphalt just as the door slammed shut. He diverted toward one side of the door, and rested against the corrugated metal wall. Feeling his way along the wall, he found the corner and jogged along until he found a second door. At first, he thought it was locked, but by pushing down on the handle with all his strength, it suddenly gave way and the door flew backwards, screeching on its hinges. He bit his cheek as he shrank away from the noise, but no one appeared and, desperate to see what was happening, he plunged inside, tripping over something in the darkness and sprawling on his hands and knees.
He froze as he lay there, lips gritty and hands sore, waiting to hear booted feet running in his direction. But the seconds went by and no one came. His heart thumped, and he swayed a little as he stood up, black clouds framing his vision for a moment before retreating again. What was he doing here? Walking into a building full of his enemies without a weapon? Who could be that stupid? But he had to know, he had to.
So, he stood for a moment in the darkness and tried to get a sense of where he was. A faint light was coming in through the open outer door, and he could make out metal and plastic objects on the floor where he'd tripped. Was he in a kitchen of some sort? Yes. And where there was a kitchen, there would be knives. He moved back toward the open door and felt his way to a countertop, then found a drawer. Nothing useful inside. But in the next one along his fingers closed around a handle. It was a cleaver, and it would have to do.
He followed the counter as it turned at right angles and finally ended in a door. Devon put his ear to the wood and tried to calm his breathing. He could hear footsteps and the mumbling of voices, but they didn't sound as though they were close, so he felt for the handle and pulled it gently down before, inch by inch, opening the door outward.
He could see a dim light coming from a larger room. It was the yellowy-orange hue of gas lamps and now the murmuring of voices seemed closer and more urgent. He opened the door until he could fit his head through the gap. The light was coming through another entrance on the opposite side of the larger room. Between him and the beckoning light was darkness.
There was nothing else for it. He pushed the door fully open and scampered across the room, following the dim path of orange light coming from the far opening. He could see nothing to his left or right, though the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he ran. He felt as though, at any moment, something ghoulish might jump out at him, and he was on the verge of turning around and running back to the kitchen when he heard a cry of anguish and fear that was quickly muffled.
It was then, standing in the dark, frozen mid-step and half turned around toward the exit, that Devon Myers faced his test. Go one way and he could be out and free to skulk back to Hope, suspecting but not knowing what was going on here. Go the other, go toward danger, and he might see what he knew in his heart was happening deeper within the building. As his mind scurried along all the potential pathways, he realized that it wasn't fear of capture and almost certain death that was holding him back. He was terrified that once he had witnessed what was happening in the next room, he would never be able to unsee it. Like Marley's chains, it would weigh him down for the rest of his natural life.
Devon Myers moved toward the sound.
By the time he got close to the doorway, he could tell it was half open. His hands trembled as he steadied himself at the threshold and, after swallowing his terror, he peered inside.
A single gas lamp sat on a small table in the center of the room. It illuminated a dusty concrete floor and he could just make out two figures standing against the far wall. A rich, sweet smell like molasses hung in the air. Indistinct shapes interrupted the flat contour of the floor nearer to where he crouched, as if piled against the other side of the wall he was leaning against.
Devon jumped as footsteps moved away from him, the figure of a man who must have been standing mere feet from him walked into the center of the room. In his hand he carried a shopping bag, or something similar. He took his place beside the table and nodded.
One of the shadowy figures standing against the opposite wall moved to the side and knocked. A door swung open and someone emerged, jerking, into the room. An
other figure stood behind, holding the arm of an old man in a bathrobe who struggled against hidden bonds. As he staggered forward, the gaslight illuminated his face, a gag plugging his mouth, and Devon gasped as he recognized Leonard "Dave" Bowie, Joe's father and Martha's beloved father-in-law.
The black-masked guard forced the old man to his knees and, for a moment, Devon's eyes locked on those of his friend. Dave's head shook almost imperceptibly as Devon fought against the encroaching darkness of shock and panic. He had made the wrong choice. He shouldn't be here.
How many of them were there? Was there any hope of rescuing Dave?
No. He counted five in here, all carrying sidearms. He wouldn't get more than halfway to where Dave kneeled before they'd drop him. And then there would be no witness.
The man with the bag stood over Dave and took out a green book. "And it is ordained that until the new world is remade, those who take rather than give, those who cannot or will not contribute, they shall be as the chaff to the corn, and they shall be eliminated. So it is ordered, so shall it be."
The last echoes of the deep and melodic voice died away. The speaker put the book back in his pocket and took the bag, placing it with care over the head of Dave Bowie who, in that final moment, looked pleadingly at Devon, tears running down his cheeks and his head shaking in vain denial.
The executioner pulled it down to the bottom of his throat and pulled the drawstring tight. The two guards held Bowie in place as he convulsed, the bag pulsing in and out as he desperately tried to draw air into his tortured lungs until, finally, he went still. And all the while, Devon watched, unable to look away.
Last Hope: Book 5 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 5) Page 5