Last Hope: Book 5 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 5)

by Kevin Partner

  "Anyway," she continued. "I don't know what to do with her. I just hope Devon and Gert make it back soon, because it's going to be hard to keep Ricky's finger off the trigger. And we really can't afford to have two people watching them at all times. Those guards are needed to keep us safe."

  "Well, that's something Jade and I can do."

  "You can't go on guard duty, not until you're familiar with the farm …"

  Lynda raised her hand to cut Jessie off. "No, Jade and I can watch Scriver and DeMille. That should satisfy this Ricky character, and it'll free up the guards."

  "Tomorrow," Jessie said. "That's a good idea, but I reckon you two are going to need a night's rest first. Come on, let's go back in."

  Just then, a cry went up from the gateway.

  It was Ricky's voice.

  "Something's up," Jessie said, leading them toward the source of the sound.

  Gert Bekmann limped into the farmyard, leaning right as if his left leg was close to useless. Sweat ran down his flushed face and he looked about ready to collapse as Jessie ran to him.

  "Oh, thank God. But where's Devon?" she said.

  Bekmann straightened up, his eyes wide. "You mean he isn't here?"

  "He went back for you," Jade said.

  The Dutchman put his arm around Ricky's broad shoulders. "Idioot. I haven't seen him. But Hope is flooded with fighters. I barely got out alive. I'm sorry, Jessie. Devon's either captured or … dead."

  Chapter 19: Devon

  Devon risked a peek. He'd heard no sounds of pursuit for over an hour, biting back the cramp in his folded legs. He'd run from the soldiers in the park, heading north as the white SUV carrying Jade and the others went northwest. At least that had worked. He was almost certain they'd gotten away. Almost.

  At first, he'd thought the rusty-roofed shack built on the corner of Circle Drive was just an outhouse, but it became obvious that someone had lived here until recently. Judging by the decor, the occupant had been old and unable to escape when the Sons of Solomon came for him or her. The place looked so ancient, it must have been barely watertight, and it had no central heating system. But it did have a coal hole outside the back door, and Devon, hearing the footsteps and cries of his pursuers, ripped open the metal lid and plunged inside.

  Several times, he'd thought they would find him as booted feet passed yards away. At any moment, he expected to see a rifle barrel against a bright blue sky. But they'd always passed, and now they'd given up.

  It had taken all his willpower to stop himself from opening it up and getting out. He didn't generally suffer from claustrophobia, but, sitting there in the dark with his heart thumping against his chest, roasting like a chicken on a spit, he couldn't help but fear that the lid wouldn't open, that some sort of locking mechanism or mere age would keep him trapped in here, suffocating on coal dust.

  He squinted at the lancing light as he pushed upward on the lid. It had resisted for a moment and it was all he could do to keep from leaping up immediately when it yielded. He sat in the dark, trying to draw the fresh air into his lungs and, once his eyes had adjusted, he peered out. All he could see was asphalt, dust and junk. He pressed his ear against the gap, listening for any signs of movement. Nothing.

  His legs cramped up again, and this time he gave into it, raising himself so that his torso and head were now in the fresh air, surrounded by an expanding cloud of black dust. As soon as he could bend his legs, he crawled out and gently closed the lid before making his way into the kitchen on his hands and knees. He collapsed on the cold concrete floor and massaged the cramps out of his calves before finally sitting with his back against the ancient oven.

  Black dust covered the white shirt of his best suit, and it encrusted every inch of exposed skin. He wanted a shower, but he'd have to make do with a wash. The house was old enough to have a hand pump at the kitchen sink, so he hauled himself up and, after a couple of attempts, managed to draw up water that eventually went from rusty red to clear. He washed his face, opening his eyes to watch the dark dust running down the cracked porcelain. Then he took off his shirt, brushed it down and washed the sweat from his upper body.

  That done, he sighed and checked through the grimy windows for any sign of activity. Folks lived on this little street, he knew that well enough, but they were generally old and, he guessed, many of those had been rounded up in recent days.

  So, what was he to do now? One of the reasons he'd jumped out of the car was to go after Gert, but that was a couple of hours ago now. Even if he'd survived the exchange of fire with the fighters, Gert would have moved on. He was either on his way back to the farm under his own steam, dead, or in custody.

  And then there were Martha and Joe. She would surely have been found immediately after the attack; she wasn't exactly light on her feet. He couldn't see any way she could have escaped. Joe might have gotten away if it weren't for the fact that he wouldn't have abandoned his wife.

  They were probably in the jail, then. Which brought the sheriff into matters. If Laverne had managed to keep his role as one of Scriver's people secret, then perhaps he could be an ally. But Devon found it impossible to imagine how Laverne could protect Martha and Joe, even if he wanted to.

  So, his first stop was going to be the jail, and the little apartment on the upper story that Laverne lived in. But that would have to wait until sundown. So, Devon pulled the couch away from the window, made himself a bed behind it, and settled down to wait. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  He awoke choking, and banged his head on the underside of the windowsill as he sat up. It took him a moment to work out where he was, and then he ducked down again before sneaking a look outside. The sky was darkening, so he crawled along the floor to the front door before getting onto his feet.

  Step one, then, was to get to the jailhouse and hope that, somehow, he'd be able to speak to Laverne. He groaned as he thought about creeping back into the lion's den and, just for a moment, considered simply walking north in the hope that he'd find his way to the farmhouse. If he'd known where it was—and therefore also where Jessie was—then that might have been the deciding factor, but he didn't. The prospect of wandering around northern Nevada until he bumped into friends or, more likely, foes, and the guilt of not at least finding out what had happened to Joe, Martha and Gert was enough to persuade him.

  He checked the Glock—six rounds in the clip and no reserve—then looked left and right along the apparently deserted road before slipping out. The Mormon church formed a blunt silhouette against the orange and purple afterglow on the horizon as he kept low, supporting his aching ribs with one hand while holding the weapon in the other.

  Hope was a small enough town to make navigation easy. If he followed Circle Drive, keeping the park on his right, he'd come out on Avenue K—boy were the planners of Hope imaginative—a few hundred yards along from the community center. Then things would really get dangerous, as he'd have to find a way to cross that road, before scampering down 3rd Street, which ran parallel to the highway. Once he was level with the back of the jail, he'd cut directly across and wait until the right moment to make his move.

  Movement!

  Devon flattened himself against a tree, digging the fingers of one hand into the rough bark to give himself some leverage, then squinting into the gloom. Two figures hurried along the sidewalk, talking in whispers and completely unaware that Devon was watching them.

  He thought he heard the word "Bowie".

  Devon stepped out, pointing the gun and praying they didn't make an involuntary noise that would bring any nearby fighters running.

  It was a man and a woman. And walking between them, holding their hands was a third figure he hadn't noticed, a child of four or five.

  "Please, don't shoot!" the man said. "We got our kid here. We just wanna get home."

  The woman peered at him. "You're … you're the mayor … aren't you? I heard you were dead."

  "Not yet," Devon said, lowering his weapon.

  "They
say you shot up the committee …"

  Devon shook his head. "I was there, but I wasn't doing the shooting. That was Mendoza."

  "Well, I figure they thought folks would blame you for whatever's gonna happen next. But look, Mr. Mayor, we gotta get home. It's curfew, and they don't need much of an excuse …"

  "I heard you mention the name Bowie."

  The man moved a little toward him. "Yeah. Poor Joe and Martha. They been through enough, and now they're both gonna die tomorrow. Mendoza," the man said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he said the name, "he's gonna hang 'em himself."

  "They're in the jail?"

  "I dunno. I guess so."

  "And Laverne's still the sheriff?"

  Devon could just see enough of the man's face to notice it tighten. "Yeah. Why not? He's as twisted as Mendoza."

  "Thanks. Don't tell anyone you've seen me."

  "What are you gonna do? Rescue the Bowies?"

  Devon shrugged. "I don't see how, but I'll do my best."

  "Well, good luck to you, Mr. Mayor," the woman said, shaking his hand. "Seems folks were wrong about you."

  He regarded himself as a self-contained man shielded from the opinions of others by an ironclad disinterest, but, in that moment of genuine warmth, he realized how wrong he'd been. He knew now just how damaging it had been to be a pariah in his own town for the past weeks.

  "Thank you," he said, before running off, following the tree line toward Avenue K.

  Devon crouched in the gap between a trash can and an ash tree, as the sky finally lost the last of its light. To his left, along Avenue K, he could just make out the bulk of the low mountain range that formed one side of the valley, a solid black mass interrupting the stars. To his left, buildings lined the road and he could see the flashlights of soldiers moving back and forth. Yet another example of their hypocrisy: the people of Hope could huddle around candles, eking out their supplies, afraid of the dark. But the Sons of Solomon were perfectly prepared to use technology: weapons, vehicles and, it seemed, solar chargers for their flashlights.

  Checking himself for anything that might glint in the night, Devon drew in a breath and then ran, as low as possible, across the road. The cry didn't go up, and he headed along the road, groping in the dark until he found the side street he was looking for.

  As he turned into it, lights appeared, as if someone had emerged from a building. He threw himself sideways, his foot knocking something metallic. He froze as the lights went still before sweeping along the road and playing over the concrete wall he stood behind. They were far enough away that, by the time it reached him, he would have been invisible against the surrounding darkness.

  The lights flicked back to illuminate the guards' feet and they moved away. They'd either concluded that it was just a raccoon, or they were too lazy or cowardly to investigate. Devon sighed with relief, waited for the lights to disappear, and then jogged as silently as he could along the road until, after crossing the backyard of a derelict ranch house, he found a rusting station wagon to hide behind. It had been abandoned years before, but he could see the back of the police station from here, so he settled back to wait for his moment.

  It was after 10:00 p.m. when all but a couple of lights were turned off on the first story. Devon could see a slowly growing bubble of illumination as he imagined Laverne was taking the gas lamp up the stairs to his little apartment. Time to move.

  Devon's plan relied on the laziness of his successors. There was a brick-built shed attached to the back of the building that, during his brief tenure as sheriff, had been used to store cleaning gear that included an extendable ladder. He doubted that Laverne knew this place even existed.

  He crept through the blackness, boots crunching on the gritty, dry soil, hands outstretched like a blind man, until he collided with the wall of the jail and then felt his way along to the storehouse door. It was locked, but the ancient hinges gave way when he used his knife as a lever, though he winced at the loud cracking noise the door made when it fell.

  The ladder was there! He dragged it out to the end of the main building and extended it. The apartment only occupied part of the jail's footprint, and so Devon planned to climb up onto the roof of the first story and attract Laverne's attention from the outside. There was every chance Laverne would blow him off the roof before realizing who it was.

  Devon scaled the ladder with all the grace of an arthritic hippo, reaching the top and scanning the street below as he kneeled on the graveled roof. To the south, along the highway, lay the school that had been used as feeding station, hospital and now as a camp by Mendoza's forces. Orange and yellow lights surrounded it as the school stood out like a bonfire in the otherwise dark city. As his gaze moved from the school toward where he crouched and his eyes adjusted, he could pick out small groups of lights moving back and forth along the sidewalk. Some of the buildings opposite were lit up, and he could see uniformed figures sitting in Mary's Cafe.

  As he looked north to the intersection and, beyond it, the direction of the farm Jessie was hiding in, he saw lights here and there, some of them moving. He imagined that for every fighter with a flashlight, there was at least another without, and that every vehicle would be carrying at least four of them. In his mind's eye, he saw Hope crawling with enemies, even at night. He was fairly confident he could get himself out, but had no idea how he'd manage it with Martha, Joe and, perhaps, Gert.

  Still, first things first. He crept to the nearest window, crouched down below it and knocked, keeping himself as low as possible. Though, of course, if Laverne did shoot, it would bring enough soldiers running to destroy any hope of escape.

  The window slid open and the barrel of a shotgun poked out, moving back and forth. "Well, I reckon there's only one fool stoopid enough to be knockin' on my window at night. Where are you, Mr. Mayor?"

  Devon sat on the grimy sofa as Laverne poured them both a drink. "Here. Figured I'd see you sooner or later."

  Devon nodded his thanks. "Am I that predictable?"

  "That's the trouble with bein' one of the good guys. You gotta stick with the program. You're here on account of the Bowies?"

  "Yeah. I had to do something."

  "Tell me, Devon, what d'you think we should do with folks who try and assassinate our leaders?"

  Devon shifted in his seat, the springs groaning under him. "You know this isn't a normal situation, Laverne. We're under occupation, and they're resisting, as all good citizens should."

  "And what did ol' Adolf do to resistance fighters?"

  "Look, I know Mendoza wants them to hang. The question is, are you going to do anything about it?"

  Laverne shook his shaggy head. "No, the real question is what can anyone do about it?"

  "Come with me. We'll break them out and head for Gert's group."

  "Ha! You're actually serious? Now, why would I go and do somethin' as stoopid as that?"

  Ice speared Devon's insides. "I thought you worked for Scriver?"

  "Yeah, well, a guy can change employers, can't he? When the wind blows, like. Scriver's prob'ly dead …"

  "He got away, with Marianna."

  Laverne nodded. "Well, I don't mind sayin' that's good to hear. She's a sweet girl. But even if he ain't dead, he's broken. And I ain't intendin' to go down with the ship."

  "No, you're abandoning it like a rat," Devon snapped.

  The shotgun swung up, and Devon could see Laverne's twisted face behind the black circle of the bore. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, his rage disappeared into a chuckle. "Oh, you think you're a smartass, don't you? Get me riled up and I might do somethin' I don't intend. Bad luck, my friend. You see, even though I'd enjoy pumping you full of holes right here, right now, I'm gonna love seeing you swing from a rope even more. And I get to prove my loyalty to the general. Now, you just sit still. Move and my finger might slip on the trigger."

  Laverne looked like a dumb hillbilly, but he was fast as a rattlesnake when he wanted to be. So, Devon watched as he got up
, moved over to where the bright yellow radio handset sat, picked it up and squeeze the button.

  "This is the sheriff callin' the general. You're gonna be mighty pleased who I've got here."

  Chapter 20: DeMille

  "No, that ain't it," Hick barked grumpily.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time, Jay had pointed at the ruins of a church and asked if that was the one they were looking for.

  "Firstly, I don't reckon they'll be holdin' this DeMille fella in a burned-out pile of wreckage. And second," he said, counting on his fingers, "it's gonna be one of the big churches. And this ain't West Temple. Now come on, it can't be that much farther."

  Salt Lake City, it turned out, was a lot bigger than Hick remembered. He'd been here on business from time to time, but he'd generally flown into the regional airport and gotten a taxi. On foot, it seemed vast.

  Vast and dead. Black and rust-red piles of burned wood and brick marked where people had once lived. Even where a house had survived the firestorm it had, in every case, been destroyed since. Nothing moved except feral cats and stray dogs and Hick regretted what seemed like excessive caution in leaving the cars outside the city and walking in.

  "We need to find a place to hole up."

  It was Mara Gruman displaying her talent for stating the obvious. But she'd been generally supportive and deferred to him for most decisions—both traits he appreciated—so he simply nodded. "Yeah. What are you thinkin'? Basement? If so, we'd better be more careful this time."

  "Huh. No, I think, perhaps, that will do." She pointed at a two-story house.

  "But it's a wreck. The place'd probably fall down as soon as we opened a door."

  Gruman shook her head. "If it was going to fall down, it would have done so already. It's been over four months. No, I think this place looks less sound than it is."

  Hick shrugged. He'd had enough of making decisions for one day, and he was happy to let Gruman take the lead. When the rest of your "special ops" team consisted of two old men (Duck Dale and Brain Sullivan) and a young man with half a foot and a chip on his shoulder, it was good to have at least one capable person to rely on. Hick respected Mara—and that put her in a pretty exclusive club—but he also knew she had aggressive tendencies. She needed watching; preferably from a safe distance.