"You always was a fancy speaker, Ward. Are you suggesting an election? In the middle of all this?"
McAndrew shrugged. "Not right now, no, but soon. Paul, we got a chance here to make something new, something better than what went before."
"Are you serious?"
"I am. We shouldn't be content with a pale imitation of our old society with all its flaws. We should build something new. Something magnificent."
Hickman choked down the laughter and returned the old man's hungry look. McAndrew really believed what he'd just said, and he seemed to see Hick as an ally in this vision of a new Eden. But Hickman knew plenty about the man's past; more than enough to know that McAndrew had executed a hundred and eighty degree turn so often he had no right to know what way was north. Right now, McAndrew believed what he was saying. And right now, Paul needed every ally he could find. So, he nodded.
"Sure. I mean, it's like a farmer burns a field so he can start from scratch. Well, that's where we are now, 'cept we have a head start 'cos, by some miracle, Hope escaped the worst of it."
"It was indeed a miracle, and that should give us all the reason we need to build a new and better society. Are you with me, Paul?"
They held each other's gaze again for a moment before Hickman gave a small nod and extended his hand. McAndrew took it and smiled.
"I'll talk to Gil."
Paul Hickman watched as the tall pastor left the room. He made sure that when McAndrew turned as the door closed, he'd see Hick sitting on his bed giving every impression of thinking deeply on his words.
But Paul Hickman's mind was not exploring the possibilities of creating a utopia from the ashes of the old world. Hickman thought of only one thing.
Revenge.
14: Marianna
A blowout on the highway was bad luck. A second blowout was the devil spitting in your eye.
Devon yanked the shard of twisted metal from the tire and threw it across 80, taking out the last glass pane in the wreck of a Toyota.
He paced back and forth, cursing to the heavens as a gentle rain began to fall. It had been going so well. They'd covered half the distance from Salt Lake City to New York in a little over twenty-four hours. Sure, they'd been forced to pick their way around, oh, a dozen major crash sites and several times this had taken them off the highway altogether and onto smaller roads running parallel until they could rejoin it later. But they'd made good progress overall.
Twice they'd escaped ambush attempts, but the biggest problem had been the effect on their mental state at being witnesses to the ruin of their country. Mile after mile of burned-out vehicles and scattered bodies. Every now and again they'd spot something moving on the road, but they'd had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to chase their fellow survivors down.
Devon had felt an increasing sense of urgency as they'd headed east. It was now over a week since the night of fire and brimstone and every day's delay made the chances of Hickman's daughter still being alive lower. And even if she was still alive, she was unlikely to have stayed in one place. Privately, he thought Hickman's suggestion that she'd head for the family summer house sounded like desperation rather than a solid plan. Devon had focused entirely on arriving there, but he couldn't help thinking about what would happen when they failed to find her. It was particularly hard to park that thought when Jessie was driving and Devon had nothing better to do. It wasn't as if Marianna was exactly good company.
About three hundred miles east of Salt Lake City, she'd dropped the bomb that she was Elliot DeMille's daughter and that at least part of his motivation in sending her was because he considered her to be safer on the open road than in SLC. The conversation stopped instantly. And it wasn't as if he and Jessie were talking much.
Then the first tire blew. Devon and Jessie had swapped in the spare while Marianna watched the road in case it was a setup for a deliberate ambush, but there had been no sign of anyone. Half an hour later, they were back in the car and heading east again.
Until another bang, this time of a front tire, saw them slew off at an angle as Jessie fought to control the car and bring it to a stop. The tire had been ripped to pieces. Again, Marianna was watching each way, handgun drawn.
Jessie had been negotiating a pile of blackened cars that had partially blocked the road when the tire had blown, so Devon walked back to take a look. Maybe one of the cars had survived so he could take a wheel. Even if it wasn't quite the same size as those on his CRV.
Nope.
"We've got no choice," he said. "We'll have to walk."
"Are you insane?" These were the first words Jessie had said to him in a hundred miles.
Devon felt anger swell inside him again. He was sore at her for being pregnant; mad that it was that idiot jock; and incandescent that it bothered him so much. Inside Devon Myers lay an ember of rage that never completely cooled. In normal circumstances he could keep it under control, but right now he felt as though he'd swallowed a grenade. It was simply a matter of time before it went off and tore him apart. He glanced across at Jessie, who was gazing up and down the highway. Would she be collateral damage?
Marianna leafed through the spiral-bound road map and stabbed her finger down. "I think we're here. We just passed that state park. So, Ash City is, I dunno, ten miles away."
"Ash City? Good name," Devon grunted as he opened up the trunk and lifted out his pack. "We need to travel light, but don't leave any weapons."
"Right, Captain Obvious," Jessie said. She sat on a back seat and swapped her driving shoes for a pair of boots.
They pushed the car against a burned-out wreck and covered it as best they could with bits of debris. It wasn't exactly the most impenetrable disguise, but there was at least some chance that it would be overlooked while they were away. Devon was determined to get the car fixed—it was either that or walk the thousand miles to New York.
Devon strode off, heavy boots crunching along the highway. He didn't say anything or look behind to see if they followed, but got satisfaction from hearing their footsteps shadowing his. He'd learned some colorful words during his time in London and could think of a few to describe himself right now. One of them rhymed with banker.
Clouds of gray and black formed a canopy above a landscape of flattened grass as the remnants of heavy snowfall clung to the edges of the road. Devon pulled his coat close and glanced over his shoulder at Jessie, who trudged along, eyes fixed on the asphalt. Marianna walked alongside him, blonde hair flowing from beneath a woolly deerstalker, seemingly unaffected by the cold.
"We're going to have to find somewhere to shelter for the night," she said. "The weather's closing in and we'll never make it back to the car, even if we find what we're looking for."
"You think?" Devon snapped.
Marianna emitted an exasperated huff, but bit back any response.
"What's that?" Jessie called.
Devon squinted in the direction she was pointing. Leafless bushes lined the road and, in the gap between two, he saw it. "Good grief, it looks like a gas station!"
"And it's in one piece," Jessie said. "I can't see any sign of burning."
They increased their pace, running under a bridge that crossed the main highway and then along a ramp that led toward the gas station. How was this possible? In all the miles they'd traveled, they'd seen only one other that had been untouched by the flames—the one at Salt Lake City.
Devon led them off the road and into the scrubland so they could approach the station under cover. They crouched within a pair of straggly bushes and watched for any sign of movement. Nothing. And there, behind the station itself, was a tire shop. This was too good to be true.
"Come on, Devon, I'm freezing," Jessie said.
"Better cold than dead. Give it a couple more minutes. I want to be sure."
So, they waited a while longer before slipping out of cover and scampering across the open ground until they reached a brick wall that bordered the concrete lot the station was built on.
Devon peek
ed around it. Still nothing moved. Someone had been here, certainly. Glass and debris lay on the ground in front of the kiosk but there was no sign of burning. The pumps themselves looked intact, though without power, they were useless.
He glanced back to see Jessie gripping her Ruger in vibrating hands. She looked at him and, for a moment, they held each other's gaze. They both knew this didn't feel right, and they both knew they had to chance it. She could see that he was frightened. He could see that she was terrified, and yet she looked determined. At least he'd had some training; she had been … what had she done all those years in New York? He'd never asked her, but he'd be willing to bet it didn't include scavenging for tires in abandoned gas stations.
Beyond her crouched Marianna. She was pressed up against the brick wall, scanning the open land for any signs of danger. He recognized the symptoms. The worst thing Jessie might do if they were ambushed was freeze. Marianna, on the other hand, could easily panic and spray bullets indiscriminately. He could only imagine the sort of sheltered life she'd led until a week ago.
"Stay here and cover us," Devon hissed to her.
She looked across at him and nodded, the relief obvious.
"Are you ready?" he said to Jessie. "Let's go. Follow me."
Keeping as low as his back would allow, Devon ran toward the closest pump, ears straining for movement, but hearing and seeing nothing other than his feet and the quick footsteps of Jessie behind him.
They sat against the base of the pump, listening to the silence as the echoes died.
"I'm sorry you're so mad with me," Jessie whispered.
Devon glanced back at her. "Seriously? You want to have this discussion now?"
"I'm scared."
He sighed, peered around the pump at the kiosk and looked back at her. "Me too." He put out his hand, and she took it. "I dunno what's wrong with me. I was alright about it at first. Mad at everything, now. You stay here while I go look in the shop. Promise you won't move?"
Her eyes flashed, and he thought she might argue with him, but self-preservation—and the instinctive knowledge that she was now responsible for another life as well as her own—won the day and she nodded. "Be careful," she said as he scrambled around the pump and disappeared.
Gun first, he crouched down low as he stepped into the dark shop. His boots crunched on scattered boxes and shattered glass, every noise threatening to pinpoint him, expecting at any moment to hear the crack of gunfire. But still he heard nothing. He'd accidentally left his flashlight back at the car, so he combed the darkness with the light on his Samsung phone. Racks of shelves had been toppled, and every last can, bottle and box seemed to have been stripped from the place. It had been an efficient operation. He found himself hoping that whoever had done it had also left the place permanently. But, could they possibly have drained the fuel tanks beneath the station and, if not, wouldn't they stay near such a precious resource?
When he was sure there was no one hiding, he returned to the door and waved at where he knew Jessie was concealed. She gestured to Marianna and the two women joined him in the shop.
"Well, I don't get it, but it's abandoned. Will you two see if you can find anything useful that's been missed? I'm going out the back to the tire place. You never know, our luck might be in."
To his amazement, Devon discovered that the tire shop had also escaped any sign of burning. In the parking lot outside he found a pristine Kia with the same sized wheels as his CRV, the vehicle keys on pegs in the workshop office. He was tempted to simply replace his Honda with this one, but that would mean either abandoning most of their gear or transferring it across to this one. So, he took a wheel from the Kia and loaded it into the Civic parked alongside it, then drove around to the front of the shop.
Jessie and Marianna threw their packs onto the back seat and jumped in.
And that was when their luck ran out.
"Something's moving!" Marianna yelled.
Devon yanked on the steering wheel and spun the car around, heading back toward the tire shop, hoping to find a way out back to skirt the newcomers.
Thunk.
"They've seen us!"
Devon glanced in the mirror. A sand-colored Land Rover was following them. It was one of the old shape that looked like it'd been built out of an Erector Set and Devon could see a driver and a second figure leaning out of the passenger window aiming what looked like an assault rifle.
Cursing, he flung the car into a slide that took it at right angles inside the workshop of the tire place. "Quick, get out!" he roared as the Land Rover, fooled by his sudden movement, passed the entrance.
Devon grabbed Jessie and headed for the darkest corner of the workshop where huge metal racks were piled high with tires ready for fitting.
"Where's Marianna?" he hissed as they found a gap in the tire wall to peep out of.
"I thought she was following us."
Three of the Civic's doors were open and there was no sign of Marianna, so she hadn't frozen in panic.
The Land Rover reversed at speed into the entrance, colliding with the back end of the Civic with a crunch of glass, metal and plastic. Two figures jumped out of the front, one from the back.
Adrenaline flooded Devon's gut. The scene was familiar in a surreal way.
"They look like terrorists!" Jessie said. They were wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying assault rifles, and their heads were swathed in black cloth that covered their faces except for their eyes. Both of them pulled their sunglasses off and swept the darkness with their weapons.
"What's going on? Do you think they caused all of this?"
Devon shrugged. "I don't care at the moment. We're badly outgunned and if they catch sight of us, we've had it. Look, Jessie, I'm going to lead them off that way. Wait until they've gone and then get yourself out of here. Take Marianna if you can, but, whatever happens, get away."
"No! I'm not leaving without you!"
He didn't know whether she was saying this because she was truly concerned for his wellbeing or whether, in truth, it was the prospect of proceeding on her own. Probably a bit of both and, right now, he didn't care. "You've got to think about the baby."
He squeezed her hand, glanced at her again and scampered away.
Devon made his way across to the other side of the workshop. His only advantage was that he could see them framed against the light coming in through the entrance whereas he was entirely hidden from them.
Crash!
"Here!" a voice called out. "I got one!"
Sounds of a scuffle in the darkness. Dammit, they had Marianna. Unless Jessie had panicked and run for the car too quickly. He slid through the darkness peering around the metal rows and between rubber mountains trying to catch sight of the enemy.
"Come out or I shoot her!" The voice came from the center of the workshop. It was heavily accented, though Devon couldn't place it. Middle Eastern? Certainly not American.
There she was, standing in front of an inspection pit. A man had his arm around Marianna's throat. Her legs were shaking, and Devon could hear her frightened panting as she looked desperately around for rescue. He held a pistol to her head.
"I give you ten. One … two …"
A voice from the row behind. "Don't move. Put your hands up."
Devon froze.
"… four … five …"
"Now! Or I shoot!"
Devon began to raise his hands, gazing fixedly at the man holding Marianna.
Crack.
The man's head disappeared.
Marianna screamed.
The voice from behind. "Wasaki!"
Devon dropped to the floor and scrambled along the row.
Crack. CRACK.
Flashes lit up the darkness. Aiming into the corner he'd come from. The corner with Jessie in it.
Devon flung himself across a shelf, emerging into the row behind. He could dimly make out a shape turning toward him. He fired. The figure fell, moans replacing the ballistic thump of the shot as the ec
ho died away.
Still crack, crack came from the far corner.
One final crack and then silence.
He couldn't possibly get over there in time. He ran. All the stupidity of his sulky behavior blown away as his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. Please, God. Don't let her be dead. Please …
Finally, he made it to the corner. She was there, huddled behind a pile of tires, not moving.
She was dead.
"Devon?"
She was alive.
"Oh, thank f—"
He spun around at the sound of movement behind him, bringing his handgun to bear. And just stopped himself in time.
Blood-soaked and shaking, Marianna stood there, an assault rifle held loosely at her side. She was sobbing.
15: Clay
"You can come out now, Paul."
Hickman rolled over and rubbed his eyes. His mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on a dead rat—likely enough in this godforsaken museum of a Wild West jail—and his bladder was fit to explode.
"What … what the hell? Rusty?" He hauled himself onto the side of the bed.
"Yeah. Sorry about the unsociable hour, but the mayor's got a job for you."
You're not sorry about waking me early, just about letting me out.
Hickman got to his feet and tried to knead some life into his shoulders. It was dark outside and the only light in there was the gas lamp Rusty had brought with him. Propane was too valuable to waste on prisoners, it seemed. Or, perhaps the jail didn't have a generator.
"I'm free to go?"
The sheriff shrugged. "Well, let's call it probation." He emphasized every syllable of the last word. The creep would like nothing more than to shut Hick back up and throw away the key. "You ready? Gil's waitin'."
"Just give me a minute will ya? Call of nature," Hickman said, smiling to himself as Kaminski turned so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet. After he'd made as much noise as he could in performing his morning ritual, Hickman followed Rusty into the sheriff's office and then out into the dark street.
Last City: Book 1 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 1) Page 14