"Look, it's cold and we've been walking for three days…"
Kaminski turned to Hickman who, recognizing that he had no good reason to refuse, nodded. "We got a couple of empty houses—folks who were out of Hope when it happened and ain't gonna be comin' back. You can have one of them for now. But we ain't takin' incomers; at least not until we're back on our feet."
Hick climbed in the back of the sheriff's car and sat next to Libby for the return to Hope. They shared the back seat with one of her companions, and the others crammed into the other car that Lynda was driving back into town. After a few minutes, he rolled the window down a little to let in some fresh mountain air.
Libby was looking through the front window as they drove up Main Street. "Oh my God. It's like nothing happened here at all."
"Well, I don't know about that. We got no electricity, 'cept for those folks with gennies. Sourcing propane is top of my list."
Libby shook her head sadly. "Ezra's been burned to the ground. Barely a single untouched building in the whole city. You've been so lucky."
Hickman shrugged. He didn't feel guilty that his town had survived—it had been a million-to-one chance, or an act of God. Either way, he had plenty of problems to solve as it was.
"Look, Councilman, would you mind if we got cleaned up first? Maybe something to eat?"
"Sure, good idea." He wondered whether he'd said that a little too quickly. "We can get you some hot water and you should be able to find some clothes there that'll fit well enough."
The council of Hope met in the community center gym room where poor Marlin Cook had been fed to the lions. Hickman's mind turned again to the young man. Nobody had known much about him. Most of the folks of Hope were just glad it hadn't been them.
He'd been right about one thing: Libby Hawkins did clean up well. Strawberry blonde with blue eyes and an open, intelligent face, she had a certain gravitas despite the fact that she was wearing the borrowed clothes of a large middle-aged woman.
Hick had spent the previous ten minutes pushing tables together and dragging chairs from where they'd been left facing the scene of Cook's betrayal. The window blinds had been opened, so there was no need to run the generator.
"This here's Lynda Strickland, deputy council leader, and that's Emilio and Rudy. You know our sheriff already. " he said, pointing at each in turn. With a sigh, he gestured to the last person at the table. "And this is Martha Bowie. She owns our grocery store, though she ain't officially on the council."
Martha let out a deep laugh that echoed around the big room. "I'm in charge of the supplies committee, appointed by our previous mayor. Our job is keepin' people fed and watered, so I guess I got a right to a seat at the table."
Hickman's withering expression bounced off the defensive shield of Bowie's complete disinterest in how he felt about her, so he swallowed his anger—what was that old Klingon proverb about revenge being a dish best served cold?—and put on his mask.
"Thank you, Mr. Hickman. My name is Libby Hawkins, and this is my colleague, Austin Graves. We've been appointed by Mayor Hawkins of Ezra to make contact with you and any other communities."
"For what purpose?"
She shrugged. "Information gathering at the moment. But it makes sense for survivors to come together to help each other. Pool resources."
"Well, you'll forgive me for pointin' out, Ms. Hawkins, that if the sheriff's report of the state of your city is anythin' to go by, then any help is goin' to be a one-way street."
He'd pinned her like a butterfly collector. And then Martha had to go and stick her big fat nose in it.
"Perhaps you could start by telling us how things are in Ezra, now," she said, putting out a large hand. Hick wrinkled his nose, partly at the interruption and partly when he saw the state of her fingers. She hadn't even washed herself before coming to the meeting! And he was pretty darned sure there was no beauty hidden beneath the grime in her case.
Hawkins smiled at Bowie (damn her!), then her face darkened. "It's bad. Real bad. At last count, we had a little over three hundred survivors."
"From how many?"
"Ezra's population before the firestorm was just under six thousand," Lynda Strickland said.
Bowie shook her head. "So, a 95 percent death rate. Makes the bubonic plague look like a minor cough."
Libby Hawkins wiped her eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Almost everyone I knew died that night."
"How is it you survived?" Hickman asked.
He saw Libby's eyes flick sideways to the man sitting next to her. Ah.
"I was out in the country. Saw the fires start, so I started running back. Got there in time to see a fire truck explode and take out the power cables to the mayor's office. I guess that's what saved it."
"That's what we reckon," Rusty said. "As soon as we saw the line into Hope had been cut, we thought the electrical supply must've been the vector of attack."
Libby looked across at him. "You're certain it was deliberate, then?"
"Yeah. Pretty certain."
"Well, Mom realized quickly that she wasn't going to be able to do anything for the people if they stayed hiding in the rubble, or in the odd building that escaped. So, she's secured the hospital, or what's left of it, and she's getting the survivors to set up shelters for everyone to share."
"Like a refugee camp?"
"If you want to call it that, Mr. Hickman. Though for folks who live there." She turned away from him and looked around the table. "Trouble is, though we can now defend ourselves better, the conditions aren't exactly sanitary, especially for the old and the very young. And we're struggling to salvage enough food for everyone. So, mom's plan is to cordon off one part of Ezra and create a new town. But she wants somewhere for those who can't help with that to rest up while it's done."
"Here? She wants to send them here?"
Libby shrugged. "Honestly, we didn't know you'd survived so completely. I was hoping to find a remote farmhouse we could occupy, but there's been nothing but smoking ruins. And then we saw the car moving, and the deputy…"
"My Jenson," Bowie said.
"I knew then that you must have some sort of functioning authority."
Hickman tapped the table with his fingers. "So you want to send us your old, your young and, no doubt, your sick?"
"Yes. Just until we've built the new Ezra. Maybe a hundred people, all told. "
Hick looked from council member to council member. "D'you hear this? We're struggling enough to feed the couple'a thousand Hopers. We can't take on no one else. I say we send Ms. Hawkins on her way. Fed and watered, sure, but back down the highway as soon as possible, with a message that we only deal with those who have something to offer us."
Martha jabbed a finger at him. "You really are a piece of work, Paul Hickman, and no mistake. Do I have to remind you that I'm in charge of the supplies committee, not you?"
"So, tell me Martha. Do we have enough food to feed ourselves, let alone another hundred folks?"
Snap. Gotcha.
She glared at him malevolently. The trouble with honest people, thought Hick, is that they find it so darned hard to lie.
"We're still working on it. I got a search party heading north tomorrow and another going south. Once you approve the rationing plan, I reckon we can stretch our current supplies a few more weeks."
"But that's without another hundred mouths to feed."
She nodded, though with obvious reluctance.
"I say we tell them to look after their own," Hick said. Emilio and Rudy nodded. Good. They were in his pocket. "We got enough problems without handin' out charity to those with nothin' to offer in return."
Libby Hawkins raised her hand to quell the mumble of assent around the table, though Rusty and Martha had stayed silent.
"Who said we've got nothing to offer?"
This was unexpected. "You told us you got no food, and you're only sending your most useless people. What can you possibly offer us so's we'd share what little food and water we'
ve got with them?"
She sighed, and it was as if she was playing a card she'd hoped to keep hidden. The ace in the pack.
"We've got the keys to the National Guard armory. And it's in one piece."
Hickman closed the meeting down as quickly as he possibly could. He was all for democracy when it suited him, but right now he needed to think. They'd talked and talked about the contents of the armory in Ezra, going around in circles when it was as plain as the wart on Martha Bowie's face that it was the answer to most of their troubles.
Rusty Kaminski had been organizing a weapons audit, but he was stretched to his limit and so far, his deputies had only covered a tenth of the houses in Hope. They'd found exactly what Hick had expected—a mix of hunting rifles, shotguns and handguns—and they had the weapons they'd liberated from Clay Hemmerich's militia, but Hickman found himself imagining the sorts of forces that might come down the highway and he couldn't see a ragtag band of civilians with Remington 870s standing in their way. No, he needed what was in that National Guard armory. And not just for defending the town.
He sat in the empty hall, staring at the gas lamp on the table.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Groaning inwardly, Hickman looked up and painted a smile across his face.
"Ward. Didn't see you at the meeting."
Reverend McAndrew slumped into a chair. "You have your duties, I have mine."
"Oh, and what do your duties entail?"
McAndrew had a habit of answering one question with another. "Tell me, Paul, what is your long-term plan for Hope?"
"Long term? I'm concentrating on getting us through the next month. Or as many of us as possible."
"Well then, maybe it's the role of others to look further into the future."
"You?"
McAndrew shrugged. "Perhaps. But you must have some sort of vision in your mind for Hope in, say, a year's time?"
"If I do, it's that it's more or less like the Hope of three weeks ago."
The priest gave a satisfied grunt, as if that was exactly what he expected Hick to say. "I can't help thinking that perhaps we have a chance here, Paul."
"Oh?"
"Yes. This is an opportunity to reshape our community. We have fallen low, but perhaps we should not aspire to restore the old world. It was, in all likelihood, the reason we fell in the first place."
Hickman didn't bother to hide his disdain. "No, Ward, the reason for this," he gestured at the dark hall, "is Al-Qaeda, or some other terrorist group. This wasn't some divine judgement."
"How can you possibly know that? And, in any case, my point is that if we were less dependent on the trappings of modern life …"
"Like electricity?"
"Yes, like electricity. If we weren't so dependent on it, if we didn't live such interconnected lives, then we wouldn't have been so vulnerable to that attack."
Hickman shook his head. "Electricity isn't a trapping, it's an essential. Just try telling the people of Hope anything different and see how they take it."
"And yet the gold prospectors of the 19th century and the followers of Joseph Smith survived in Sierra Nevada without the help of such technology."
"People lived in caves for thousands of years, Ward, but I don't particularly want to join them."
McAndrew sighed and shook his head. "I am merely saying that we do not necessarily need to restore the world we knew in order to live productive lives. In fact, I believe we should actively seek a simpler existence in harmony with God's laws and the bountiful world he created for us."
"Sounds great, Ward. Until you need somethin' that only the modern world can offer. Drugs, for example. No, Reverend," he raised a hand to stop McAndrew responding, "feel free to live like the pioneers, just don't come to me when you need new supplies of your heart medication. Now, if you'll forgive me, I have some thinking to do."
The chair scraped backward as Ward McAndrew got to his feet. "So have I, Paul. So have I. I trust you'll remember that we had this conversation when the time comes."
"What time?"
"When all your efforts are proven vain."
Hickman watched the priest retreat into the darkness. He sighed and added another name to the list.
Chapter 4: Pursuit
All was silent in the ruins of the church save for the drip, drip of water making its way in through the window frames. The wind had shifted direction, bringing a foggy drizzle to further darken their moods.
Jessie sat down beside him, taking the mug of coffee and inhaling the aroma. "I can't get anything out of him. He's utterly terrified to say anything."
"Then I'll have to take over."
"Dev … "
"No. We agreed. You tried the softly, softly approach, now it's time for bad cop."
"But he's only a teenager."
Devon turned to her, wincing at the pain in his neck. "He's a teenager with answers. We know what happened to Fred and Tori, and there's every chance that he killed them." Devon saw, in his mind's eye, the two wooden markers in the graveyard.
"No, I can't believe it. He's a kid."
"Who carries an assault rifle. And he's the only one who can tell us where Marianna is. Besides, I'm not going off across the country looking for Sam until I know what the hell's going on. I mean, if he's part of a bandit group, then I can see why they'd seize the supplies, but why kill the church wardens? And why burn the place down?"
Jessie was going to answer, but Margie ambled over and sat between them.
"What is it, Margie?"
"Mommy's sad." She was fiddling with her doll, her fingers brushing the fabric of its dress. "She misses Jerry."
Devon glanced over to the front row of chairs where Amanda sat, gazing up at the altar, hands clasped in front of her.
"What happened, exactly?"
Margie shrugged and began stroking her doll's blonde nylon hair. "I dunno. When those nasty men came, Jerry went out to talk to them. Mommy told me not to watch. I thought I heard Jerry shout, but then I never saw him again. Mommy says they killed him. She's been crying a lot."
On the wall above and behind the altar, a hole gaped like a hideous mouth. The remains of a stained glass window clung in places, but he could see no color against the gray monochrome drizzle and the leafless branches of a tree outside. No color. He couldn't even imagine what it was like to feel pleasure or delight again. These things were now lost to him, perhaps forever. Except when he looked at Jessie.
He drew in a deep breath and got up, his boots scraping on the ash-covered floor. Yes, those things were beyond him now. But he could have something: answers. He could have understanding. He strode off toward the back of the church, ignoring Amanda as she turned his way, and paying no heed to Jessie as she implored him to be gentle.
The world was no longer gentle. And neither was Devon Myers.
His name was Marcus, he was seventeen years old and he was tied to a chair in the storeroom Frank had been using for the weekly food distribution. The supplies had, of course, been stripped from the shelves and so the boy sat among the detritus.
His eyes were wet and wide with fear as Devon dropped into the chair opposite him.
"Seems to me, Marcus, that you've got a simple choice. Answer my questions or get left behind here, tied up and gagged."
The boy shook his head slowly as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Please. No. I didn't hurt no one. I promise."
"And yet Frank and Tori are dead. If you're caught with an automatic weapon at the site of a killing, you're going to be the main suspect." Devon sat back and looked at the boy. He was a scrawny teenager who had shot up but not yet filled out. He was no killer—Devon was confident about that now he was sitting in front of him—but the boy knew who had committed this atrocity and where Marianna was. He was also part of an organized group and Devon needed to know as much as he could about them before he went south on a wild goose chase looking for Sam Hickman.
He sighed and shook his head sadly. "Look, you're
going to tell me what I need to know, and it's your choice how much pain that involves. Now, what organization do you work for?"
"I can't … I can't say."
Devon leaped, tipping the chair backward with one hand and grabbing Marcus by the throat with the other. "Now you listen to me, boy, you either open up or I open you up. D'you get me?"
Marcus nodded, but burst into tears as Devon released him and sat back down. "They'll kill me if I say anything!"
"And I'll kill you if you don't!" Devon roared, reaching to his belt and pulling out his hunting knife. He grimaced as pain shot through his fingers. Biting back the agony, he fought to keep control of himself. He felt little sympathy for this young boy with his unblemished skin, and wanted nothing more than to get out of here and start walking in the fresh, cool, wet air.
Marcus fell sideways with a shriek and his chair toppled, taking him with it. Devon straddled him, forcing his head to the floor and bringing the knife to the boy's cheek, losing himself in his pain and frustration. He didn't care whether he got answers anymore. He wanted so desperately to take out his rage on something, on someone. Marcus bellowed as the shaking knife drew blood from his face. He sobbed, his tears dropping onto the grimy floorboards. "Please! Please! I'm begging you. Please don't …"
Devon almost lost himself. Almost. But in coming so close to surrendering to his agonized rage—in seeing the raw animal brutality that hid deep within his core—something snapped like a release valve and he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, stumbling backward and falling to the floor.
At that moment, Jessie burst through the door. "What the hell's going on here? Devon, what have you done?"
He couldn't respond, couldn't think, couldn't see anything beyond the scarlet aura of pain behind his eyelids. No respite, no hiding. He felt something pressed between his lips and he took it into his mouth and swallowed as he barely heard the scuffling behind him. Darkness took him then and, when he awoke, he was alone.
He panicked. Had they abandoned him? Perhaps his freak-out had been enough to scare Jessie away. Had he killed the boy? No, he'd have remembered that. Just a scratch. That's all it had been.
Last Dawn Page 3