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

by Kevin Partner

It was weird to be walking along what had once been a pretty busy road in the absolute darkness. Not even any stars to see above him. He guessed it was around six a.m., so it wouldn't be light for another hour. What was so urgent that his highness Gil Summers—never an early riser—was at his desk before dawn and asking for Paul Hickman?

  Up ahead he saw the lights of a car waiting outside the community center. Kaminski opened the door and gestured Hickman inside. It was like that scene in every gangster movie where a naughty henchman sits in the back of the limousine and is offered a choice between a pair of concrete overshoes or an impossible mission. But, in place of Marlon Brando sat Gil Summers.

  "Good morning, Paul."

  "What's this all about?" Hickman was in no mood for pleasantries.

  "We've got trouble up at Miller's Farm. Young Jimmy Miller ran all the way—must be five miles—woke me up to say that some people in military uniforms and driving old Army vehicles rolled up, took Miller hostage and are making themselves at home."

  That silenced Hickman. They were sure to be found at some point, but he'd figured on more than a week or so to get things in order before they had to defend themselves. If these guys were well armed, then the battle for Hope was already over.

  "Why d'you need me?" he managed as his mind whirled.

  "You're still a councilman and you're the smartest man I know. We don't have to like each other to be of service to Hope, Paul. I hope you agree on that."

  With a thunk, the driver's door shut as Rusty settled into the front and turned the ignition. Ward McAndrew groaned as he climbed into the passenger seat before turning to Hick and Summers.

  "This sure is an ungodly hour, Gil. But good to see you out of jail, Paul."

  As the car pulled away, Hickman couldn't help thinking if they were the best Hope could muster in its defense, then the town was in even worse shape than he'd thought.

  Miller's Farm was south of Hope and a few miles off the main highway. The town had originally been nothing more than a couple of bars and a general store straddling what became 93, serving the copper mines established to the west of the road. Hemmed in by the Schmidt range on one side and the mine workings on the other, Hope had only been able to expand to the north and south in a landscape that didn't make farming easy.

  The Millers raised sheep and cattle and grew alfalfa over 2,000 acres of mixed land. Elwood Miller had taken on the farm when his pa retired thirty years ago, and it was Elwood who stood outside the big farmhouse as Rusty drove up the lane. The sun was rising and there was just enough light to see the man standing behind Miller.

  "Gil." Elwood said as Summers climbed out of the car. "Jimmy made it, then. Where is he?"

  "I left him in my office, El. Figured it wasn't such a good idea to bring him back here until we'd figured out what was going on."

  Miller nodded and the figure behind him moved into view. "I'm Captain Clay Hemmerich."

  "Gil Summers, Council Chairman. May I ask your unit?"

  "We're irregulars, Mr. Summers, formed from all the service personnel I could gather together, and we've been traveling north to find a place to hole up 'till winter's done. This was the first farm that hadn't been burned to a crisp."

  Elwood Miller growled. "Yeah, so they stole it. Been in my family three generations and now my wife and daughter are locked in the top floor of the house while they help themselves to what we'd put by."

  "Look, can't we talk this over inside?" Hickman suggested. "I'm losin' the feelin' in my fingers."

  "Certainly, Mr. …"

  "This is Paul Hickman, councilman," Gil said. "And Sheriff Kaminski, Pastor McAndrew."

  Hemmerich nodded at each in turn. "Well, you certainly have all your bases covered. Seems like a pretty special place, this Hope. We must have been through a dozen towns and yours is the only one standing. But sure, let's get inside."

  They sat around a huge oak table in the farm kitchen. Clay Hemmerich occupied the chair at the top of the table as a glowering Elwood Miller took a secondary place to the side. Hickman was impressed with the theatrics. Hemmerich was a large man with a big gut and sausages for fingers; he didn't look as though he'd seen the inside of an Army gym in a decade, but he had the unmistakable bearing of a military man. His camouflage jacket strained against the end of the table and he squinted at them from behind round spectacles.

  Hickman, Summers, McAndrew and Kaminski occupied the other seats, though several other uniformed figures lurked in the shadows cast by the gas lamp that sat on the table.

  "What's your story, Captain?" Hickman said once they'd taken their seats. The scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen and he could feel his brain cells coming alive at the prospect of caffeine. "I've heard tales of what happened in Ezra, all fire and brimstone. Was it like that where you were?"

  Hemmerich glanced across at Hickman as if surprised by the question. "Well, I was out driving an M35 when I saw cars going up in flames in the parking lot. Then the main building caught fire, and all hell broke loose."

  "An M35? That's an old truck model, isn't it? I remember there was one on display at Fort Bewley when I worked there."

  Hemmerich nodded. "Yeah. I worked at the Tank Museum in Prescott. The only things to survive that night were the old dinosaurs, though plenty of those got burned up when the main building went up in flames. I searched for survivors and found Wade over there. We teamed up and went looking for others. I served all over, you know. First Gulf War. I never saw anything like what I saw that night.

  "By morning, we'd rounded up a dozen others. Eight adults, four kids. It was weird, that first day. The engine of the truck was the loudest sound, and people came out from their hiding places when they heard us. Pretty soon, we had close on a hundred. Half of them were of fighting age and condition, so we organized ourselves. Those with military experience took the lead, but we knew we couldn't stay where we were, so I decided to head north, to see how far this might have spread.

  "I was getting close to losing hope of finding anywhere worth stopping when we saw the lights of this place. Mr. Miller was none too pleased to see us, but I guess we persuaded him."

  Miller slammed his fist on the table. "At the business end of a rifle! You ain't got no business here and I want you off my land."

  "Oh, we're not going anywhere, Mr. Miller," Hemmerich said before turning to Summers, though his gaze kept flicking to Hickman. "Look, we're not asking for much, but we can be useful. We won't be the last group to come across this place. Once word gets out, you'll have folks knocking on your door and some of them won't be as civilized and law-abiding as us. Leave us in peace, and we'll help protect Hope."

  Summers shook his head. "This is Elwood's land; it's his decision."

  "Hold on," Hickman said. "You said there's a hundred of you. Are they all here?"

  "No. We left them back in Prescott and went looking for somewhere to stop."

  Hickman leaned forward into the hissing gaslight. "So, how many do you have here?"

  "A leader doesn't give away his tactical information, Mr. Hickman. Not until trust has been established."

  "Well, I reckon maybe forty or so," Elwood Miller said. "I kept my eyes open when they rushed in here."

  Hemmerich looked uncomfortable enough for Hickman to be sure Miller was not far from the truth. "And if we let you stay, you'll call your other survivors here to join you?"

  "Why not? There's room enough."

  "Not on my farm!" Miller exploded, leaping up from his seat and gesturing at Hemmerich. Two figures stepped forward and flung him back down.

  The captain waited for the drama to settle, then looked around the table at the representatives of Hope. "Let's look at the facts, shall we? I've got a squad of—let's say fifty—armed soldiers with support vehicles and weapons. They might be vintage, but a World War Two machine gun is still pretty good at killing.

  "So, if we want to stay, we'll stay. We'd like it to be with your permission and all above board, but we're not going anywhere,
whether you like it or not. We can help make Hope safe and all we ask is to be left to use this farm as our base, and to be allowed into town. Now, you can posture all you like, Mr. Summers, but it won't make any difference. Me and my men will make mighty good friends, and mighty bad enemies."

  There was silence around the table as Hemmerich held each in his gaze.

  "Well, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

  Paul Hickman was just opening his mouth to tell Hemmerich where he could stick it when Gil Summers sighed and said, "We have a deal."

  "Are you insane?"

  It had taken every ounce of self-control to get Paul Hickman from the table to the backseat of the car without exploding. Even in his enraged state, he knew that they had to present a unified front when dealing with these bandits, though it was touch and go whether it was better to be unified in acquiescence or for some of them to show actual backbone.

  "Don't talk to me like that!" Summers snapped.

  "Why not? You'll throw me back in jail for discourtesy? What d'you think you're doing?"

  McAndrew looked back from the front seat. "Now then, Paul. No need for us to go fighting among ourselves. Surely we have to give peace a chance?"

  "Who turned you into John Lennon, Ward? And we all know what happened to him, don't we? I've met the likes of 'Captain' Hemmerich before. He'll take everything you give him and then a little more and a little more until he's gotten every last thing he wants. Only way to deal with the likes of him is to stick to your guns."

  Gil Summers leaned back and sighed as they passed out onto the main road heading back for town. "That's why I'm mayor and you're not, Paul. Politics is about knowing which battles you can win, and which you can't."

  "You're a damn coward, Gil Summers. Lost the war before the first battle was fought."

  Summers's arm shot out and he grabbed Hickman. "Now just you listen to me. Don't you think I wanted to stick it to that arrogant SOB? But he's right on two counts." He let Hick go and lifted two fingers. "He outguns us. We could lose half the townsfolk in an assault on that farmhouse. Secondly, others will arrive, and if we can come to an arrangement with him and his group, they can help shield us from the next bandits that show up."

  Hick didn't bother to hide his disgust. "If you act like a sheep when you're dealing with wolves, you're liable to end up as dinner. You've made a big mistake. A big mistake. It's gonna blow up in your face and I only hope you don't take too many innocent folks with you."

  "Paul, you're out of line," McAndrew said. "Gil is only doing what he thinks is best for the town."

  "Yeah, well, I think he's plain wrong and I don't want nothin' to do with it."

  Summers leaned forward and tapped Rusty on the shoulder. "Sheriff, swing by the jailhouse. I think Mr. Hickman needs a little longer to consider his place in our community."

  Kaminski nodded, but Hick noticed that, unlike McAndrew, he hadn't weighed in on Summers's side. Maybe there was hope for the sheriff after all. In the meantime, Paul Hickman stewed in the backseat seeing the triumphant smile of Clay Hemmerich and the betrayed expression of the farmer in his mind's eye. He hadn't felt so impotent and ashamed since the day the court awarded custody of Sam to his dead wife's parents and he was left alone to contemplate the unfairness of life. He'd decided then that the only justice anyone could count on was the justice he made for himself.

  He would take his revenge. And he'd make Hope a safe place for Sam to return to, whatever it took.

  If Gil Summers hadn't taken them all to hell before he could manage it.

  16: Blood

  Sam watched from the upper window as the little group trudged toward the house. The leader, a short woman wearing the remains of a business suit, but with a battered pair of sneakers in place of heels, walked cautiously to the outside staircase.

  As was agreed protocol, Amanda went out to meet them—Jerry would have gone if the leader had been a man—and Sam knew that he was covering her from the next window along.

  She watched as Amanda talked to the woman. She would explain that they had no room, but would hand over a basket of supplies and direct them along the road. For a moment, it looked as though the newcomer would be trouble as she raised her voice and gesticulated forcefully, but as soon as the food was produced, she relaxed, took it and returned to the small group. Sam counted six of them: two women, two men and two children. All looked desperate but not dangerous.

  Moving away from the window, Sam sat on her bed and glanced around the room. It was the one she'd slept in every summer; a place of mainly happy memories. The worst thing that had ever happened here was boredom or, perhaps, being on the sharp end of her grandma's tongue for going skinny-dipping in the creek that ran along the back of the house. She'd considered herself unlucky and mistreated back then. What a spoiled brat.

  Sam had been relieved beyond belief to see the house unharmed and unoccupied when they'd finally made it here two days before. It sat, as it always had, raised on six-foot stilts with a staircase leading up to the first floor. Grandpa had, indeed, switched everything off and that had protected this house from the surge that had destroyed the electricity poles outside and the houses on either side. Bright white—Grandpa had repainted it last year—the house stood out like a sore thumb and was sure to attract attention. So far, the protocol Jerry had suggested had worked. One day, however, it was bound to end in shooting. But then, that was the modern world.

  Yes, she'd been relieved. But then, to her surprise, as the immediate threat had subsided; as she slept in her old bed and changed into new clothes; as a semblance of domestic normality reasserted itself, she found herself thinking about Gideon and the young people he led. They had looked as though they felt safe in his care. They were the first people she'd met since that night who didn't seem scared.

  She heard Amanda call from below. "Panic over, you can come on down now!"

  Margie's heavy footsteps bounded along the landing and down the stairs. Sam would have been quite happy to stay where she was, but they'd been sharing a meal when Jerry had spotted the group approaching, so she got to her feet and followed the others downstairs.

  The white timber table stood where it always had. Grandpa had made it and it was his pride and joy. She could just see him now, presiding from the chair of honor as they feasted on crayfish and avocado. Well, tonight's fare was a little more basic. Grandpa always left a store of cans and boxes of dry food when he shut the house up for the winter, so they wouldn't have to go shopping immediately when they arrived on vacation. It had become a tradition for the three of them to feast on pasta and canned meatballs on the first night of their summer holiday and Sam had surprised herself by bursting into tears when Jerry had made exactly that meal on their second day. That feeling of loss, sadness and grief at least reassured her that she was still capable of the more creditable emotions. She'd killed a man a couple of nights ago and had barely given it a second thought. She guessed that she'd locked that particular episode up tight for now.

  Tonight, it was hotdogs from a jar. Of course, they had no rolls, so they made do with beans and a couple of ancient onions Amanda had found in the back of a kitchen cupboard. It tasted good, but Sam would have given good money for real bread. As Jerry had mansplained, bread could be made from just three ingredients—flour, water and yeast. He was confident that he'd be able to turn up some of the first if he searched enough of the houses along this stretch of the creek, and water wasn't a problem. But not many people kept cans of dried yeast in the kitchen these days. Still, a little went a long way, so if he found a single can, he'd be able to make bread indefinitely.

  Jerry dominated discussion at the table with his opinion on different breads, only succeeding in making Sam miss it all the more. She found herself gazing out of the living room window, over the creek and the marshland beyond as the sun set, twilight arrived, and still Jerry droned on.

  Several times, Amanda tried to involve her in the conversation, but after several monosyllabic answers
, she gave up and left Sam to zone out on the darkening sky.

  A fire appeared, dead center. Beginning as nothing more than a spark in the night that she thought was a reflection of the candlelight on the window, it spread outward until there could be no mistaking what it was. Someone had built a bonfire. Someone had lit a beacon.

  She stared, transfixed by the pulsing of the flames and the way, when caught by the wind, they flared or seemed to flatten momentarily. The beacon called to her. How far away was it? She had no idea. The perfect darkness robbed the scene of any perspective, but it couldn't be more than a handful of miles. They were raised up here, in this house on stilts, but she knew that the horizon couldn't be too far away.

  It called to her, but she wasn't stupid. The fire had to be in the marshland, and that was no place to go stumbling around in the dark. No, even if it wasn't stupid to seek the beacon, it would be futile to do it tonight. She got up, tore the edge off a Post-it note from a stack beside the now-useless phone and stuck it on the window. She went back and forth from her seat until it was positioned perfectly over the flame when she sat there.

  "Why are you doing that?" Amanda asked.

  "So I can tell where that fire is in the morning."

  Sam felt Amanda's cold hand on her arm, her words whispered against her cheek. "Don't leave us. Please."

  She dropped her gaze to the table and stared at the fingers clasped on her flesh with their faded red remnants of nail polish, but she couldn't bring herself to look at the woman. They both knew, and neither truly understood. Later, Sam would realize that, sitting there in the house of her grandparents, she was sifting through the embers of a lost past and the beacon that flickered and pulsed out there in the dark was a new future that had no connection with anything that had gone before.

  More than that, however, was the burning desire to be free of the burden of decision making. She felt sure that if she responded to his summons, Gideon would tell her what to do and she could finally be a follower, not a leader.