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

by Kevin Partner

  "But that doesn't mean you've got to be the one to go get her." He sighed and looked into her bright blue eyes, sitting beneath eyebrows that rose like inverted letter Vs. "Look, let me go on my own." It was his voice, sure enough, but he marveled to hear himself say the words. There was something about this woman, some sort of bewitchment he hadn't experienced before. She was dangerous and perhaps he'd be better off on the other side of the country so he could get his head straight.

  Jessie smiled. "You don't know where to go looking. Anyway, how do you think I'd feel, stuck here while you go and do what I should be doing? No, I need to go."

  The smile vanished and he felt a thrill as she took his hand. "You don't know me, Devon. You think you do. You think I'm just a blonde divorcee who's come back to her hometown with her tail between her legs. No, don't say anything. I am that, but not just that. Like you, I've got a history and, like you, Paul Hickman knows enough to be able to manipulate me. If it was just that, I might suck it up and weather the storm. I mean, what does it matter after all? The world's gone to pot. But there's Sam, and there's my father. If he found out, it would destroy him. So I'm going."

  "I could say the same. Maybe you think I'm just some washed-up former cop who’s got the hots for you."

  She blushed at that and glanced downward, but didn't turn away.

  "But I promise you I'm not quite that shallow. If you're determined to go, I want to come with you. Will you let me?"

  Jessie looked up at him, their eyes locking—blue and deep brown—as if each was seeking to divine the hidden soul within the other. She drew in a deep breath, stepped back and put out her hand. "Deal. Partners?"

  "Partners."

  And so it was done.

  Devon dreamed of long empty roads and burning cities, but he awoke the next morning feeling more rested than he had since the night of the pulse. Jessie had insisted that her father not get wind of their departure, so they were leaving early, but Devon had found time to see Rusty Kaminski before they left. The former engineer had come pretty close to blowing Devon's head off when he appeared outside Rusty's careworn ranch house shortly after sunrise.

  They sat in his kitchen as the coffee brewed and Devon told his friend the truth. Enough of his past so that he was unburdened and Rusty understood what it was that Paul Hickman had on him. If he didn't come back, he wanted someone here to know the truth, and to watch Hickman. After they drained their coffee, he stood and shook hands with Kaminski, then went around to Jessie's place.

  They planned to head northeast toward Salt Lake City, but it became obvious within a few hours that they weren't going to make it in one day. As the mountain-hemmed plains of central Nevada gave way to the flatter expanses of the northern part of the state, their progress slowed.

  To begin with, as they drove in near silence following their departure from Hope, they'd skirted quickly around the occasional burned-out car or truck that lay like tombstones on the black tar, but they'd learned to be more careful when two men with shotguns had emerged from beneath a trailer, and only Devon's instant reaction to wrench the car off the road had saved them. As it was, his rented CRV now sported a hole in the passenger door. So much for his deposit.

  After that, they'd approached any vehicles with suspicion, and especially those that held places for someone to hide. And that slowed them down.

  They were now driving through a landscape of tired grass and white soil that ran from horizon to horizon, broken only by a distant hint of the mountain ranges on either side that shepherded them north.

  "It's three thirty now," she said. "Sunset's around five thirty and I don't want to be poking around in the dark in the middle of nowhere trying to find somewhere safe to sleep."

  "Me neither. And we shouldn't use the car's lights if we can help it. Might as well put up a Please Rob Us sign. Where can we get to in the next hour?"

  Jessie unfolded the map and laid it over her legs. She traced Highway 93 with her finger. "It'll have to be Wendover, on the border of Utah."

  Before they'd left Hope, they'd talked a lot about where they'd rest along the way. On the one hand, Devon's instinct was to find isolated spots where they could either sleep in the car or, weather permitting, put up the tent they'd been loaned—for a modest fee—by Martha Bowie. The downside of that plan was that the more remote the location, the more likely it was to contain people who'd escaped the firestorm and were, therefore, a potential threat.

  Finding somewhere more urban carried its own risks, however. Firstly, it would have to be somewhere that hadn't been destroyed in the conflagration and that wasn't now occupied by other survivors. They'd also have to hide the car, and Devon had learned just how valuable a working vehicle was when he'd been in Ezra.

  In the end, however, neither wanted to hunker down in the Nevada outback on a cold night in February.

  "Do you know anything about Wendover?" Devon asked. He'd visited the mother town in the hills of central England, and he could barely imagine a greater contrast between the rolling green countryside of Buckinghamshire and the wide white-and-green landscape they were driving through.

  "I'll just Google it," Jessie said. "Oh, sorry, I can't."

  Devon grunted. "You know what they say about sarcasm. I just thought you might have local knowledge. We're only a hundred miles north of Hope, after all."

  "Yeah, well, I didn't pay much attention to geography when I lived there, and I've spent most of my life in other places. How much did Hickman tell you?"

  "He holds information close to his chest. I got just enough to persuade me to come with you."

  He kept his eyes on the road as she rustled the route map, though he knew she wasn't really paying attention to it. The gray start had given way to a bright afternoon with patches of blue sky emerging between the clouds. If it hadn't been for the greens and browns that lined the road, he could have been looking at a lunar landscape.

  Finally, Jessie drew in a deep breath. "Like I said, there's things I don't want my dad finding out. Oh, he knows I'm not the good girl he wanted me to be, but being so far away he could turn a blind eye. I lived in New York for over twenty years; built a career and a life there. And I lost it all."

  He knew she was waiting for him to ask how she'd gotten into trouble, but he suspected it was only so she could tell him not to ask. He'd never been married, but he'd had experience with women like her. He suspected she'd had plenty of experience with men like him. All of which had left them both alone together on a highway heading north.

  Thin wisps of black smoke rose from the airport on their right as they neared the intersection of Highways 93 and 80, the peaks of a low range of mountains dipping behind the commercial buildings that lined the east-west road.

  "Jeez, that used to be a casino," Jessie said.

  All that remained was a squat roofless ruin in a sea of broken glass. A blackened windowless bus with flashes of yellow around the wheel wells blocked the intersection where it had collided with a truck and trailer. The truck had traces of the word "Castle" on the side and Devon could see that, though the cabin had disappeared into the side of the bus, the trailer itself had escaped the impact only to be looted in the days since. A perfect place for an ambush. "Come on. We can't stop here."

  Again, the route map rustled on Jessie's knees. "Head back down 93 for a couple hundred yards. There's a side road there. Takes us into the quieter streets."

  He put the CRV into reverse and swung the car around, constantly scanning for movement as he followed her directions.

  She folded the map again. "I hope you're not going to go all Stone Age on me and insist on driving the whole way."

  "No chance," he said, and meant it with all his heart. "It's all yours tomorrow."

  He turned right off 93 and headed along a road that ran parallel to 80. "Have you got anywhere in mind?"

  "There's a sports field just up ahead. I figure there might be a shed or something that maybe didn't have electricity. Turn next right. Jeez, it's start
ing to get dark."

  Devon was also cursing middle age as he squinted into the twilight. Then they emerged onto a side road and he could see the white lines of the baseball field reflecting the last of the daylight as if just waiting for the floods to come on. He turned into the parking lot, wincing at the noise the tires made as they crunched on the broken asphalt, and pulled up behind a rectangular green building made of corrugated sheet metal with a flat roof. He glanced across at Jessie. "Have you got your gun?"

  "Yeah," she said, pulling out a compact revolver.

  "Be careful where you point it," he said as he slid out of the car, pulling the G17 from his pocket.

  He felt Jessie glaring at his receding back. "I sure will be."

  The sun had gone down behind the distant hills to their left, so Devon checked the flashlight was in his jacket before heading cautiously toward the other side of the hut where wooden steps led up to the door. He stood outside the hut, perfectly still, his gaze scanning the dim parking lot, ears straining for any sound that might indicate an incoming threat. He was exposed, unable to cover every direction at once and he yearned for the false security of the car.

  Hearing and seeing nothing, he turned and crept up the stairs, beckoning Jessie to follow him. When he reached the top, he pressed his ear against the cold metal and listened. Nothing. He transferred over to the other side of the doorway and gestured for Jessie to be ready. She held her Luger two-handedly in a pose she'd no doubt seen on reruns of Magnum, P.I. and Devon found himself praying they didn't find anyone inside. As far as he was concerned, she was an accident waiting to happen.

  Devon turned the door handle slowly and pushed it open an inch. There was no hint of light inside and the only sounds he could hear were the gentle whistling of the cold evening breeze, and his own breathing.

  He looked across at Jessie, who shrugged. Was he being over-cautious? No, he'd seen what things were like in Ezra, and that had been in the stunned aftermath of the disaster.

  Devon flicked on the flashlight and shone it inside, careful to avoid the windows. At one end, the beam bounced off wooden chairs and tables arranged neatly as if for a post-game meal. He pushed the door open a little wider so the flashlight could reach to the far end. Sleeping bags lay on the floor beneath a long window. Someone had been here. He glanced at Jessie and was just about to sneak backwards and head for the car when someone grabbed his arm and hauled him bodily inside.

  He yelled as the air was knocked out of his lungs, landing on a hard floor with a heavy weight on his back, his gun spinning away.

  Shouting all around him. Voices crying out in anger and panic, Jessie's among them. Instinct took over; he thrust his elbow behind and was rewarded with a grunt as the pressure on his back eased for a moment.

  And a moment was all he needed. Devon flipped over, taking his assailant with him and made a desperate grab for his gun. A shape leaped across his arm and he called out in pain as he felt something slice into his outstretched hand.

  He yanked his arm back and flung off the …

  … child.

  Scrambling across the dusty floor, he reached the gun as, again, something heavy landed on his back. Devon immediately thrust his hips up and grabbed a pair of booted legs, pushing hard and throwing himself at the child holding his gun pointed at him.

  Jessie's voice cut through the chaos. "Now, everyone calm down!"

  Like contestants in a game of statues, he saw the shadowy figures freeze. He let the leg go and turned over to see Jessie standing above him, her gun sweeping the dark interior of the hut.

  "Please, don't hurt us," the owner of the foot said. It was the voice of a young man. "We ain't got nothin'."

  Jessie pointed the gun at him. "We don't want to hurt anyone. Now, I want you all to go stand over there." She was pointing her flashlight at the far end of the hut where the sleeping bags were. Shapes moved, hollow steps on the wooden floor, and Devon retrieved his weapon before getting to his feet and standing beside Jessie.

  "They're kids," he said. And so they were. Seven, no eight, stood in a line in front of the window.

  One figure raised its hand. "Not all of us. Coach Lacey, he stayed with us."

  The largest shape stepped nervously forward. Devon recognized him as the owner of the boots. Lowering his weapon, Devon said, "Kids, why don't you sit down? We'll have a little chat with the coach."

  The kettle boiled on one burner of the camping stove as the hut filled with the smell of baked beans warming on the other. Once he'd been convinced they were in no danger, Devon had gone back to the car and brought in their supplies so the kids and their protector could eat a warm meal for the first time in forty-eight hours. He'd allowed them a little light in here, but had gone outside to check that not a glint escaped from behind the drapes of the single window at the far end.

  "It was soccer practice night," Lacey said. "I had fifteen kids here, but lots of them went running off when they saw the fires and explosions start. I couldn't stop them all, so I tried to keep the others safe. Seemed to me we were safer here than among it all. I thought it'd pass … "

  Jessie nodded sympathetically. "And you've been here ever since?"

  "Yeah. Couldn't leave them, could I? But I knew someone would find us in the end. We've seen some horrible things out there while we've been hiding."

  "How old are you, son?" Devon asked.

  "Nineteen."

  And he looked even younger. Slightly built with short blond hair and a Celtic tattoo just visible under his collar, he looked like a miniature David Beckham without the squeaky voice. He'd come here that night to coach some kids and had ended up as their lifesaver.

  Devon made him an instant coffee and handed it to him. "I'm afraid I only make it one way, black. But I've got some sugar if you like. I'm Devon, and this is Jessie."

  "Jordan. Thanks, the coffee's fine as it is. Haven't had anything hot for two days." He took first Devon's hand, then Jessie's. "Sorry for attacking you."

  Jessie shook her head. "You did the right thing. No harm done. Now, I'll go see to the children because if we don't feed them, we'll have a mutiny on our hands."

  Devon watched her as she called the children across and got them to sit at the tables. She turned her flashlight into lantern mode and put it in the center before she began dishing up the beans. "We're going to need another can."

  As Devon busied himself opening their last can of beans, he found himself wondering how much more there was to learn about Jessie Summers. He'd found her attractive from the first time he met her, but as he learned more about her, he found his attraction waxing and waning, though his love for her had grown. Right now, however, as she focused on the children like a mother hen, he thought he perceived something new, something gentler. She was a mystery, and one he was unlikely to solve anytime soon.

  He switched his attention back to the young man. "What have you lived off since it happened?"

  "There was a vending machine in the main hall. It blew up and scattered candy and chips all over. The water in here is still working. I was thinking I'd have to go scavenge for supplies tomorrow. And I need to go check on my parents. But Devon, what's going on? Have we been attacked?"

  So, Devon told him what he knew and a little of what he suspected. And the night got darker.

  7: Daddy

  Sam lay in the dark, dreading the coming of light. He'd tied her hands behind her back and left her on the floor of the outbuilding with nothing more than a filthy rug on the floorboards.

  Aside from a little roughness as he tied her hands, he hadn't hurt her yet. But he would, if she didn't give him what he wanted. And hell would freeze solid before she'd do that willingly. Or so she told herself.

  So, she lay there as the minutes ticked by, searching for a flicker of hope to cling to. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but the dust from the rug sent her into a coughing fit, so she tolerated the damp, rancid smell and waited.

  Perhaps he'd get mugged while he was out and ne
ver come back to torment her. That'd mean she'd die of dehydration, but that didn't seem as bad to her as what would happen otherwise.

  Then she heard footsteps on the path outside. She knew it would be him, but she couldn't help hoping beyond hope that it was a rescuer. Light flooded in and a figure stood silhouetted on the threshold. A familiar shape wearing baggy pants and a baseball cap. It was him.

  "Daddy's home," he said in a voice like a chocolate frog—all sweet on the outside, but pure poison within. "Have you been a good girl, or have you wet the bed again?"

  She bit into the gag and squirmed. He had caught her outside the shed in the marina and brought her here. He hadn't bothered to blindfold her, though he'd found some ropes in the shed and used those to bind her hands so she couldn't remove the gag. They'd walked along the shoreline to a boathouse that had a small cabin right next to it, and it was here that she'd been kept the last two nights.

  And he hadn't let her pee that first night, though she'd begged him. He'd made her wet herself and then blamed her for it. He'd untied the ropes, then ordered her to take off her pants and go wash herself in the freezing river while he watched. When she got back, her clothes were nowhere to be seen, and he gave her an old dress to wear. It looked like it had been used as a rag to polish up a boat and it stank of wax, but it was better than being naked. Since then, he'd allowed her to use the little bathroom next to the cabin while he waited outside. She thought he listened as she did what was necessary.

  His name was John. An ordinary, normal name for an abnormal man. He told her to call him “Papa”, but she'd refused and the longer she resisted the angrier he got. She sensed a violence in him that was barely in check, but she knew that if she gave in, if she played his game, then that would be the short road to whatever sick fantasy came next.

  She guessed he was in his fifties though, like most people her age, she was a poor judge of anyone over thirty-five. He was thin as a broom handle, his head so large and his neck so narrow that it looked as though it ought to snap off every time he nodded. But it never did. Behind that sinewy frame was a dreadful strength and an ice-cold grip. He was a vampire—though not one of the cool ones—and it wasn't her blood he was after. At least, not until he'd taken everything else she had.