Devon threw down his mop and ran toward the sound of the gunshot, Ned Birkett in his wake.
"Came from Martha's, I reckon!" Birkett called out. It was an obvious statement, but as it was also just about the first thing he'd said without sounding petulant, Devon would take it.
It was only fifty yards from the boarded-up former police house to Bowie's Grocery Store, but Devon was breathing heavily by the time he threaded his considerable frame between two station wagons and took in the scene.
Like all the other establishments in Hope, Bowie's was set on the highway, with a small parking lot outside. It was a single-story, glass-fronted building that went back a long way. Above the entrance a sign hung from a plaster and brick facade and a small crowd had gathered around a figure standing in the entrance.
Next door was the faded monochrome of the Laurel and Hardy museum. No one had seen Mr. Finn, the owner and reputed descendent of one of the boys' co-stars since the night of the firestorm. Some said he was out of town that night. So, the museum sat as a reminder of more whimsical times when making people laugh seemed important. A redundant relic. Another fine mess.
Birkett accelerated past Devon as they approached the crowd outside the grocery store. "Now then, Martha, what's happening?"
"Ah, so you've turned up at last have you, Ned Birkett? Ain't you got no cleanin' to do down at the jail?"
"No need to be like that, Martha. Got here as quick as I could," Birkett responded, visibly deflating.
Devon pushed through the crowd, ignoring the grumbling as he emerged from the front. "Mrs. Bowie, I'm … "
"Ain't no one calls me Mrs. Bowie 'cept my good-for-nothin' husband when he's in the doghouse—which is most of the time. I'm Martha, and I know who you are; you're pretty easy to spot in a crowd. Anyhow, we've met before. I get that foreign paper in for you. Least ways, I did. Don't think I'll be getting any deliveries for a while."
Devon decided to go with the flow. "What's happening here?"
"Well, that's easy enough to explain. Some of these fine folks—folks I've known their whole lives, mind"—the crowd froze as her gaze swept over them—"some of them seem to think they can take things from my store without payin'. I don't stand for that kind of nonsense."
One brave soul raised a hand like a schoolchild. "But Martha, our cards don't work. What are we supposed to do?"
"Now you listen to me, Jodie Weatherford. If you don't have the sense to keep some cash set by, you can't blame me. Take it up with your parents if you like, but I don't give my produce away."
Yet another reminder that everything had changed. Running along the street from the old police house, Devon could almost have imagined that it was a normal day. Except that no traffic moved on Main Street. And he was wearing a sheriff's uniform. But, though the grocery store hadn't changed, the entire system it was built on had vanished in a puff of smoke. What were they to do now? Barter?
He decided it wasn't his problem, for now, so he turned to the crowd. "The store's closed to anyone who doesn't have cash to pay." Then, as several voices broke out in protest, he added, "I know, I know! But until the council has come to an arrangement with Mrs. Bowie, it's cash only."
An ugly murmur emanated from among the crowd. Devon's skin tingled as he recognized a dangerous situation.
"Now come on, folks," Ned Birkett shouted, raising his handgun and pointing it at the sky. "Move along quiet-like, unless you want to be the first in ten years to try out the accommodations at the jail."
Crowds were odd things. They were groups of individuals and yet, at the same time, they acted like a single organism. Devon had been in plenty of crowd control situations during his time as a beat copper on the streets of London and he knew that decisiveness was vital. He pulled the gun from his belt and lifted it skyward, standing beside Birkett.
"You heard Deputy Birkett. Disperse, or I get the cuffs out."
Truth was, these were ordinary folks, used to respecting and obeying the law. The world had changed, but it would take a little while for people to understand that at the sort of deep level that would see them defy these principles. For now, the law held and most of the crowd began moving away.
One man remained and wagged his finger at Birkett. "That's all very well, Ned, but you know we got a baby and we've just about run out of milk."
Devon got his wallet out. "How much is it?"
"About fifteen dollars."
"Oh, hold on to your money," Martha said. She disappeared into the shop and returned a few seconds later with a tub of Enfamil. "Here, Jonas."
"Thank you, Martha. I really appreciate it."
"Yeah, well, don't you go blabbin' to no one. I got a reputation to keep. And you, Sheriff, I suggest you swear in a deputy or two and station one here while your friends on the council sort out how they're gonna handle things. You could start with my son Jenson. He's a bit of a hothead, but a decent enough jackass."
Paul Hickman was waiting when Devon returned to the jail with Birkett, his heart still racing. Right now, Hick was as welcome as a debt collector on Christmas morning.
"Mr. Hickman."
"You know, you could've got this place straight a lot quicker if you'd sworn in some deputies first."
Devon held out the mop. "You're welcome to lend a hand." To his surprise, Hickman took it and with a, "Sure," he began working on the floor.
It didn't seem to Devon that the old police station had been used much in the years before it was shut more than a decade before. It had two large rooms, one of them dominated by a pair of jail cells formed by a row of iron bars stretched from one side to the other and divided in the middle.
He and Birkett had spent the morning finding desks and chairs for the other room, dragging them from neighboring units and piling them in the corner as they cleared the floor. The place smelled of dust and bore the unmistakable signs of dry rot and termite infestation. But it was all they had, so it would have to do.
"I'd be happy to sign up. No hard feelings about the meeting yesterday," Hickman said after a few minutes.
Feeling as though he was stepping into a trap, Devon nevertheless couldn't think of a single reason to refuse. Hickman was a council member with a certain amount of weight in the community. He wasn't liked, but he was respected. And feared.
"I appreciate the offer," Devon managed. "I wanted the police station to be re-established before asking anyone to sign up."
"Symbolic?"
"Yeah. I want deputies to know that this is a real police force, not a posse. And that begins with having a working base of operations."
Hickman grunted. "Fair enough. My offer stands." He turned to Birkett who was sweeping up one of the pair of cells. "Hey, Ned, why don't you take a quick break. Your lungs sound a bit too clean."
Birkett sniggered, shot a look across at Devon and, receiving the slightest of nods, slunk out, flipping open his pack of Marlboros as he went.
"What's this all about, Paul?" Time to find out if helping with the cleanup was just an act or, at the very least, a means to an end.
Hickman leaned the mop against the wall, and gazed out through the dusty windows, casually pulling one of the remaining boards away. "Do you have any family, Devon?"
"My mother lives in London, but I've got no one close over here." His mind recoiled from even considering what might have happened to her if the UK's capital had also been attacked.
"So, you've never had children? No? Well, that makes you lucky in my book."
Devon tried hard to maintain an impassive expression. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I do have a kid. Samantha. Nineteen going on twenty-nine. Lives with her grandparents in New York since her mother died. Or, at least, she did live with them."
Devon felt his perspective on this man change. Suddenly, Paul Hickman was a real human being. This tin man, it seemed, did have a heart.
"Jeez, I'm sorry Paul."
Hickman raised his hand. "It's okay. I don't think she's dead."
&nbs
p; "Look, you weren't in Ezra. Facts and figures don't tell the true story. It was utter devastation, and New York would have been worse."
"No, you don't understand. I got a text from her."
Hickman fished in his pocket and pulled out his cellphone before activating it and handing it to Myers.
Dad, gone crazy here. Help!
"So, this was sent a few minutes after the pulse. That's right, isn't it? But you've had nothing since?"
Hickman shook his head. "No, but I guess the cell network went down almost immediately."
"True. But Paul, the chances of her still being alive if she was in the middle of it all … "
"She's alive, Sheriff. Sam's more like her mother to look at, but she's got my survival instinct."
Devon shrugged and picked the mop up again. "Well, I hope you're right. But I'm not sure what this has to do with me. If you want to delay signing up as a deputy until you've found her, that's fine."
"Oh no, Sheriff. I'm not going to get her. I've already recruited someone."
"Who?"
A reptilian smile spread across Hickman's face. "Jessie Summers."
"WHAT?" Devon threw the mop down, his mind spinning out of control. He could barely think of anyone less suited to a rescue mission clear across the country.
"Oh yes, she volunteered."
"Why? Does she know your daughter?"
Hickman began mopping the floor beneath the window as if they were having an idle conversation. "A little. Jessie lived in New York for a long time, only moved back to Daddy when her husband got tired of her. Sam met with her a couple of times—Jessie grew up with her mother. So, you see, she's pretty much the perfect choice. She knows the city, knows Sam and where she was living. She also knows where my daughter will head."
Devon grabbed the mop out of Hickman's hand and flung it away. "What are you playing at? What is it, two thousand miles? Why don't you go?"
Hickman looked down at his empty hands, then gazed out of the window again as a couple of people passed the old police house. "Tell me this, Mr. Myers. How long do you think you'll be able to keep the peace here? What happens when food gets short? Or when folks run out of propane for their generators? What happens when people from outside get wind of the fact that we escaped scot-free?"
"What's your point?"
"This town needs a firm hand if it's to survive. Frontier law and all that. What we don't need is some highfalutin sheriff who's too tied to the rule book. This is a new world and we need new rules."
Devon grunted. "The firm hand of Paul Hickman? So, that's why you were so desperate to take charge of the police."
"Well, you see, Jessie was right about one thing, I was a bean counter in the military. I can handle this town, but I'm not suited to traveling thousands of miles. You, on the other hand, are. Big man like you; piece of cake. And you get all that time alone with the lovely Ms. Summers."
Devon went to open his mouth, but Hickman raised his hand. "And if that isn't enough for you, I'll tell you this. You know my business, but I don't reckon you understand how much I know about the people here. I got dirt on Jessie Summers. Enough dirt that she near bit my arm off when I offered her the chance to wipe the slate clean.
"But you're right, she can't go on her own. So, you'll go with her, Mr. Myers, and you'll appoint me to lead the department while you're away. I doubt the council will want to replace me when you get back so take this as the earliest retirement in history."
Hickman picked the mop up and handed it back to Devon. "I suggest you finish up here and get packing. You're setting out tomorrow."
As he opened the door, he gave a cheery greeting to Ned Birkett and then turned, lowering his voice. "Oh, and one more thing to consider, Mr. Myers. I know all about you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Devon asked, panic rising in his gut.
"Well, I know why you left the Metropolitan Police. Or should I say why you were busted out in disgrace? Not something you'd want folks around here to know, 'specially lovely Jessie."
Hickman pulled a baseball cap from his jacket pocket and slapped it on his head before touching the visor. "Bring my daughter back and I'll forget everything I know about you both. But don't imagine that you can just walk away, because I can promise you Jessie will want to come back. You see, good ol' Gil Summers is going nowhere and it would be awful bad if something happened to him. He's not in great health. Have a safe journey, Sheriff."
Devon watched him go, his heart pounding, jaw clenched tight. He couldn't travel clear across the country. Who knew what was out there? Likely more of what he'd seen in Ezra and he wasn't certain he could handle it.
But then he imagined Jessie, alone on the road. What in God's name would compel her to do it? What could that snake possibly have on her that was so devastating? And why did Hickman think Devon would be fool enough to go with her?
He was right, of course. Devon reckoned he might be able to handle it if Hickman made public what had happened to see him expelled from the police. He could, after all, simply disappear, taking his disgrace with him. It would probably be a death sentence, especially if the situation out there was as bad as he imagined, but he was a big boy and the judgment of others was of less concern than how he thought about himself.
But Jessie, on her own? Out there? No, he couldn't stand that. If she went, he would have to go. But he couldn't quite explain to himself why that was.
#
As her father was blackmailing Devon and Jessie Summers into rescuing her, Sam Hickman was peeking from behind a hedge at the smoking ruins of Larchmont Yacht Club and praying that she could rely on Richie to do his bit without falling apart.
They'd waited for Jay, but both now accepted he wasn't coming. If he'd found his mother, then he was obviously staying with her. Or he was dead. And that was the only conclusion the hard, rational part of Sam Hickman could come to. So, they were moving on.
Sam's grandparents had a summer house in New Jersey she'd visited often over the years, and that was where she was heading. Away from the main conurbations, it might have escaped the firestorm—especially since her grandfather was meticulous about disconnecting the electricity supply when they closed it up at the end of the season. Sam didn't know what had caused the catastrophe, but it was obvious that it had affected electronics—active electronics.
Richie's father's boat—well, she thought, since he's now inherited it, it's Richie's boat—had escaped the firestorm because it was so old it lacked any sophistication. That was their working theory, in any case.
So, if it was still in one piece, she'd hole up at the summer house while she worked out how to make the rest of the journey. Her dad would have survived, she was certain of it. Nothing could kill Paul Hickman. So, in the end, she would find her way to Hope, though she didn't want to think about how far away it was.
She fixed her gaze on the small group of buildings beside the tennis courts. The floodlights were nothing more than tall metal posts with blackened tops, but there seemed to be no other damage and she was hoping beyond hope that they had some marine diesel in the gray sheds at their feet. Third time's the charm—she'd barely escaped from the last place with her life.
Sam scampered across the grass, expecting to hear a cry go up, but no one called out and she crouched down in the cover of the tennis court entrance, breathing in the tang of diesel. She shivered, either from fear or the February cold, but she was determined. The only route on foot to her grandparent's place was back through New York City, and she was not going there again. But they needed fuel to go by sea.
She pulled the knife from her pocket. They'd found it on a body that lay in an alley as they'd made their way through New Rochelle. It had once belonged to a young black man who'd survived the fire only to be murdered afterward. On her hands and knees, Sam crawled around to the front door of the metal shed and slid the knife between door and jamb. Once she'd widened the gap a little, she pulled the crowbar—another find—inserted it and heaved. The door g
roaned under the assault, but it didn't open.
Sam stood to get a better angle, placed her foot on the wall of the shed and used it to brace herself. She groaned as she pulled, crying out as she gave it every ounce of her strength.
The door gave way with a rasping groan, and she fell onto the grass, her arms flung backwards, the wind knocked out of her lungs. She looked up at the gray sky, swallowed hard and pulled air into her chest. Sam was about to get up when a shadow passed above her.
A drawling voice said, "Now, what do we have here?"
6: Hiding Place
"This is crazy!"
As soon as he'd calmed down a little, Devon had gone after Jessie, hoping to talk some sense into her. He'd cornered her as she came out of Martha's store and began walking toward the community center. A misty morning had given way to a fine afternoon that suggested spring wasn't so very far away, but his mood admitted no light.
"I'm not asking you to come!"
They were talking—or yelling—in the entrance of an alleyway between the back of Bowie's and the used furniture store behind it.
"You know I won't let you go alone."
She shook her head, blonde curls scattering like seeds on a field and paced back and forth. "It's not up to you. And, anyway, I've only known you for, like, a few months. Who says I want to spend weeks in a car with you? How do I know I can trust you?"
He froze as shock flooded his system.
She saw his expression and stopped her pacing. "Look, I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."
"It's the smartest thing you've said so far," he said, casting his eyes to the scruffy asphalt. "But I just don’t understand what Hickman's got on you that's so important you're even thinking of doing this."
"The whole thing is complicated, Devon. I do care about Sam, you know. I was real close to her mother, Juliet. When I lived in the city, I kept an eye on her. Felt sorry for the poor girl—trapped halfway across the country with a grandmother who seemed to resent Sam was alive when her mother wasn't. She got cared for, and her grandpa was a kind man, but she needed more. I gave what I could. If she's alive, I want her to come back here safely."
Last City: Book 1 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 1) Page 6