Last City: Book 1 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 1)

by Kevin Partner

  Jay ran between the burned-out cars in a gridlocked intersection, darting from one lane to another to avoid those that were still burning. An arm shot out of one car and grabbed him as he passed.

  “Help me!”

  It was an old woman—Jay would have guessed she was in her fifties—in a car beside the road.

  “I’m trapped. Please, please help me get out!”

  The car was untouched by fire, but he could see that another had driven into the back of it and that had pushed it into a blackened vehicle in front.

  Cursing under his breath, Jay tugged on the car door. “It won’t budge!”

  The car in front was still on fire and he knew that if he left her there, as he desperately wanted to, she would die trapped in the wreckage.

  He ran around the piled-up cars to get to the other side.

  She was screaming.

  “I’m here!” He hadn’t run off, though he’d sure been tempted. The passenger door opened, and he leaned inside, just as something exploded in the air above them, showering burning fuel on the hood and windshield.

  “It’s like hell on earth!” the woman cried out over the pitter-pattering of the gasoline rain. “What’s happening? My car had broken down—”

  “We ain’t got time! C’mon!”

  Jay grabbed her by the arm and, inch by painful inch, pulled her from beneath the steering wheel that had pinned her legs. She screamed as he did it, but screaming was better than burning alive.

  With a final heave he pulled her onto the sidewalk and helped her get to her feet. Her leg gave way, but they managed to stumble toward shelter beneath the bridge.

  “Look, I gotta go,” he said. “I gotta find my mom.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  So, he told her. Then, without another word, he ran back to the intersection keeping as far away from the burning buildings as he could by hugging Brooklyn Bridge. All around him people ran—seemingly at random—calling out the same message of despair in languages he didn’t know, united by grief and desperation.

  And so, he didn't hear the great whooshing roar of Delta Airlines flight 2489 as its flame-wreathed fuselage plunged toward him. By the time he'd spun into the rush of hot air that poured along Old Fulton Street and saw the burning carcass of the plane hurtling his way, it was too late. Way too late.

  He shouldn’t have stopped to help that woman.

  "Mommy," he whispered.

  Introduction

  Modern civilization has depended on electricity since the end of the 19th century. In the space of a hundred years, Benjamin Franklin famously flew a kite in a thunderstorm, Alessandro Volta developed the first battery, Michael Faraday invented the motor, and electric lamps began lighting the streets of major cities around the world.

  An intricate web of power stations, distribution hubs and cables now brings this life-sustaining energy into our homes, hospitals and workplaces. If evildoers could find a way to harness this network and ride the waves of electrons into the heart of our safe spaces, they would bring civilization crashing to its knees.

  In 2019, Wu Chi-yu of the Chinese Institute for Quantum Investigation discovered a surprising property of AC supplies. When looking for a way to increase the efficiency of power transmission over great distances by reducing impurities in the metal cables, he accidentally contaminated his sample and the resulting explosion destroyed his laboratory.

  It turned out that small impurities of a specific type cause the quantum waveforms of electrical flow to synchronize perfectly, amplifying the electrical current almost instantaneously with devastating results.

  Wu was so frightened by the implications of his research that he immediately left his position and retired to a small farm.

  But such secrets are impossible to keep.

  What if he was found by those who wish to bring civilization crashing down? What if they discovered a way to use his research to create portable devices that could be wrapped around remote distribution cables? What if the resulting pulses made it into the homes of millions of Americans?

  What if, in one night, the United States of America was thrust back to the time of the Revolutionary War?

  Millions die, and those who survive wake up to a world they neither recognize nor are prepared for.

  Disease, War, Famine and Death.

  And yet one town survives unscathed, like a poppy on a battlefield. It holds the key to the apocalypse and what will follow.

  Welcome to the last city.

  1: Hope

  Paul Hickman—"Hick" to those who thought they were his friends—shut the front door, padded into the kitchen to wash his hands and then fell into his easy chair in front of the silent TV. It was Super Bowl Sunday. He hated sports. But he hated others knowing things before him even more. He was the font of all knowledge in Hope. And knowledge was power. So he left the TV on.

  He dug out a tortilla chip and settled back.

  "That girl needs to learn if she don't mind that rodent of hers, it's gonna to come to a bad end, one way or another. I won't take it back again."

  He looked down at his pants and brushed away white hair with the back of his hand. The girl next door had sure been relieved to get her rabbit back, but it wasn't the first time the mangy thing had escaped into his garden. It'd better be the last.

  Buster the Doberman watched the chip sway back and forth as Hick talked. The dog had learned that patience would be rewarded. Patience and obedience.

  Hickman sighed and reached for the phone. Best get it over with. He thought better of making the call with a mouth full of chips and tossed it toward the dog before dialing the number. It was Sunday evening and on Sunday evenings he called his daughter, but that meant talking to her call-screener first.

  "Evening, Jane. It's Paul."

  His eyes rested on the scampering figures in yellow and white on the TV. It was either that or watch the dog devour another Dorito.

  "Oh, hello, Paul. How are you?"

  She must be distracted; Jane couldn't give a rat's ass how he was.

  "Is Sam there?"

  In the background he could hear the cries of the crowd and the excited voices of the commentators. His eyes flicked to his silent TV as someone in yellow was tackled out of play.

  "Turn it down, Vic! Sorry, Paul. Give me a minute, I'll go fetch her."

  Hickman heard the phone being dropped none too gently onto the table. The Sunday evening call was an awkward chore, especially since he and his eighteen-year-old daughter had nothing else in common, but it was their one connection.

  He sighed as he waited, half listening to the incoherent commentary down the phone line. It enraged him he didn't have Sam's cell number, but he didn't dare push the matter. His former mother-in-law's landline was the only number he had for his daughter—it had been one of the rules when she'd gone to live with her grandparents—and he couldn't bear the idea of being unable to get in touch with her. Sam was his one weakness, and he hated her for it.

  He heard muffled footsteps as the old goat walked down the stairs and back into the living room of her Bay Ridge home.

  Then he heard her cry out. "Vic! What's that? Oh, my G—"

  The line went dead and, moments later, Paul Hickman was plunged into darkness, tearing his eyes from the TV, with the afterimage of a burning ring of fire etched into his retina.

  #

  Devon Myers sat at a table in Hope Club, sipping the battery acid that passed for beer in this godforsaken part of the world. He forced it down—any alcohol was better than no alcohol—and looked up at the TV hanging from the ceiling. He tried to focus on what he was seeing.

  "… third and five and Kernick has not completed a third down throw …"

  It was no good. It looked like rugby—apart from the shoulder pads and helmets—but the ball kept being thrown forward to men who then ran off the field.

  He lazily scanned the bar. A young man in a blue jersey with an orange 99 on the back was leaning over a table nearer the
TV, pausing every few seconds to point up at the screen as if explaining something. Then Devon saw who he was talking to. Jessie Summers.

  If he'd known she would be here, he'd have stayed at home. Or so he told himself. Right now, he had all the self-control of a pyromaniac in a match factory. But he certainly didn't want her to know he was here. It would take a few days (or maybe weeks) for the sharp edge on his embarrassment to blunt a little. He should never have asked her on a date. Should never have fallen in love with her.

  "… if he's gonna make him miss, make him miss at the line of scrimmage …"

  No, he wasn't going to ask the jock talking to Jessie to explain the game to him. For now, he was going to divert his attention from her to the spectacle on-screen hoping some sense would seep into his brain by osmosis.

  And then the stadium lights snapped out. A flare erupted from one corner of the TV screen then, milliseconds later, the image filled with fire bursts that shone white-hot before curtains of flame and sparks cascaded in all directions. Devon's jaw dropped as his mind flipped into rewind, playing back the worst moment of his life. The event that had driven him to return home. And yet the fire had followed him here. That time, dozens had died. This time, he was certain it would be hundreds, if not thousands. But he knew with the utter certainty of a decade spent fighting extremists that this was a deliberate act of terror. A deadly act.

  The power died an instant later. Cries of shock erupted all around him, but Devon simply sat there, glass halfway to his lips, staring at the green afterimage of the liquid fire.

  Bodies stumbled past him—voices calling out as people became disoriented, hands brushing against him as they groped for the exit. He'd been in situations like this during his years in counterterrorism and so he sat perfectly still, his body flat on the sticky tabletop, and focused on his breathing as people found the exit and the panic subsided a little. He sucked in the scent of stale beer and pretzels. He could feel the pounding of feet through the floorboards and he flinched as the table next to his flipped over, glasses shattering as they tumbled to the ground.

  Phone flashlights flicked on as a few of the more levelheaded patrons lit a way to the exit, but still Devon sat perfectly still. Was it his training? Or was he paralyzed by fear? Time to find out.

  He put his palms to the tabletop and pushed upwards. Lights were flickering across the fire escape, so he got onto leaden legs and stumbled toward them, panic rising in his gut at the thought of being alone here when the last of the patrons left. Or worse, being locked in. He sped up, knocking a chair flying, his eyes fixed on the exit.

  Someone cried out as his boot landed.

  He snapped his leg up and almost fell backwards, twisting around and grabbing the next table before kneeling.

  He felt a hand grab his. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. Are you hurt?"

  "Devon?"

  "Jessie?"

  "Help me."

  He could see light leaking from her phone which lay under the table, so he picked it up and activated the flashlight. She flung her hand over her eyes as he examined her. No obvious injuries except for a bleeding nose.

  "I can't move my fingers."

  He got to his feet and helped her up. "Let's get outside. I'll take you to the hospital."

  She put her arm around his waist and Devon regretted letting his training regimen slide. What had once been firm muscle was now rapidly transforming into a middle-aged spread. But he enjoyed the contact—he'd had precious little since moving here and beginning a new life. Or resuming an old one. You pays your money and takes your choice. Either way, it was a new start he'd never wanted.

  They were the last ones in there, the only sounds coming from their anxious breathing and the muffled murmurings of the crowd on the other side of the closed fire-exit door. Panic circled him like a hunting wolf pack as he dragged Jessie along, the flashlight jerking up and down and exposing the chaotic mess left behind by two dozen panicking bar customers.

  He thrust hard at the metal bar across the door and thanked all that was holy that it yielded instantly, and a jet of cold desert air blasted away the musty aroma of the bar.

  They emerged into an alley that led back to the main street, where the flashlights and smartphone screens reminded Devon of an animation from Cosmos. The birth of a star cluster, or something like that. Or the death of a galaxy.

  The streetlights were out, and he could see no sign of power except for one or two cars moving along Main Street. One truck had stopped outside the bar and people had gathered in its headlights like moths around a candle.

  Some were gesturing back at the bar as others appeared from the buildings either side. Many had phones to their ears, others were massaging their screens, fingers flicking up and down as they searched for news. Voices called out in frustration as lines dropped and the internet went dark.

  Devon looked back at Jessie as he felt her weight shift and she began to walk independently. "I can feel my hand again."

  "Good. How did you end up on the floor?"

  "Seems Joel's afraid of the dark. When the lights went off, he ran for the door and knocked me down. I couldn't get back up, so I was going to wait for everyone to leave. Then you stood on my hand."

  She stopped as they neared the street, and she looked up at him in the stray light from the parked truck. "What did we see on the TV? Before the lights went out. Was it an attack?"

  Devon sighed as he saw again billowing curtains of flame. "Yeah. My first guess was that someone had done a 9/11. Flown a plane into the stadium."

  "What do you mean your guess was?"

  "Well, then the lights went out. It was either an amazing coincidence or the two are linked."

  She grabbed his forearm. "Oh my God. Could it have been national? Or even nuclear?"

  "Who knows? Best not to assume the worst," Devon said as his mind did exactly the opposite. He doubted it was a nuclear attack because he couldn't see how that would affect this out-of-the-way town. The power station that served it wasn’t that far away and he couldn't imagine the little town of Hope, Nevada would be a priority target in an attack.

  "We have to go to the community center," Jessie said. "That's where Dad’ll be."

  She wanted him to go with her? He wasn't going to say no, especially since if anyone knew what was happening, it would be Councilman Gil Summers.

  He felt Jessie's hand on his arm as she guided him through the crowd milling around in the headlights of the parked truck. People were beginning to move away, some striding off along the sidewalk, others to their cars.

  The red and blue flashing lights of a police car mingled with the suddenly moving vehicles until it pulled in and a figure emerged, flashlight in hand.

  "Jessie? That you? What's goin' on? I was watchin' the game, went out to fetch … somethin', and the lights went out. I bin stopped three times on the way over here. Folks are all spooked. Stories about a terrorist attack. I told 'em it's just a power cut …"

  "You been drinking, Ned?"

  The deputy—a small everyman with a short brown beard—bristled. "I was off duty …"

  "And you thought it would help to drive over when you're intoxicated? Go back to bed, Ned. And walk it, don't drive. Oh, and let me have your flashlight."

  He bristled momentarily before sighing, scanned the crowd and handed her the light before turning to go.

  "Typical of him," Jessie said to Devon as they pushed past the vehicles and stepped into Main Street. "It's not exactly a coincidence that he came to the bar first. Hoping to score a few shots, if you ask me."

  Devon, who'd been thinking that they'd get to the community center a whole lot quicker in the police car, simply nodded and followed her across the road. Oliver Hardy's face peered out from behind a glass window as Jessie scanned the street. The Laurel and Hardy museum was Hope's one claim to cultural fame and the first place Devon had visited when he'd come here looking for a new start. It was quaint (though a little motheaten) during the day, but at night it b
ecame an abode of ghosts.

  They passed Bowie's Grocery Store which stood on the intersection of Main Street and Avenue K. Martha would not be happy if her freezers started defrosting and he could imagine her on the phone right now to some poor night shift call center worker at the energy company who'd be getting both barrels right about now.

  If the phones were still working.

  "Hey Jessie, what's goin' on?"

  A tall shape had emerged from behind the grocery store and into the beam of the flashlight.

  She pushed him away. "Get away from me, Joel."

  "Look, I'm sorry. You know I don't like …"

  "The dark? Seriously? Leave me alone, I'm going to see my father."

  "But, Jessie …"

  Devon inserted himself between them. "She said to leave her alone."

  "Oh yeah?"

  The jock inflated his chest, but Devon had been around the block far too many times to be intimidated by a peacock and simply pushed past him.

  "Think you'll have better luck second time around? She ain't gonna say yes. She don't like your kind. She tol' me!"

  Devon felt his cheeks flush as he strode along the street.

  "Don't listen to him," Jessie gasped as she jogged along beside him. "He's just sore, that's all."

  "Forget it. We got bigger fish to fry."

  The community center, which functioned as the home of local government, loomed in the darkness, the dim residual light giving it the appearance of a beached white whale. A small crowd was gathering outside; no doubt nearby residents looking for answers from their always-available leader, Gil Summers.

  A large figure in a long black coat over what looked suspiciously like slippers stood at the door to keep the crowd at bay.

  "Let me in, Lester," Jessie snapped at him. "Yeah, and Devon." She yanked on his hand and pulled him into the building.

  The lights were on inside—a generator in the basement, probably—and he followed Jessie as she climbed the staircase and into her father's crowded office.