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

by Kevin Partner

  "Well, today's the day," Jessie said. "We should get to the house, and then we'll see."

  Devon's mood darkened again. "What chance she'll be there, d'you reckon?"

  Jessie shrugged. "Who knows? She's a strong-willed girl, and the summer house is the obvious place to head for."

  "If she got out of New York."

  Jessie nodded. They'd both seen the smoking ruins of other, smaller cities on the long drive here. The Big Apple must have been close to unsurvivable. But they had to try.

  They ran out of gas just south of Manahawkin. Devon and Marianna pushed the car into the bare trees until it couldn't be seen from the road—neither would allow Jessie to help. According to the route map, the summer house was only a few miles away, so they'd decided to check that out before they went searching for fuel.

  Electricity poles lined the road, burned-out cables festooning the ground like ribbons as they trudged past the black wrecks of wooden houses, alert for any sign of movement. Devon felt exposed without the protection of the car and he stalked along the road, handgun at his side, eyes scanning as went. Ranch houses sat back from the road, screened by trees—some green, some leafless, some little more than columns of charcoal—most had been consumed by the flames of that first night and the few survivors bore the signs of violence. Broken windows, doors that flapped open and shut as they passed, the only animated force being the sea breeze that brought an incongruous freshness to a ruined landscape.

  Marianna let out a cry and fired off a round, but it was only a dog that disappeared back into the ruins. Devon glared at her, but said nothing. He sent up a silent prayer that the gunshot wouldn't attract attention and directed them off the main road and into the parking lot of a red brick church that had miraculously been spared the inferno and aftermath. His thought had been to get them out of sight for a while, but the door of the church swung open as they approached it and a man peered around it.

  "Don't shoot!" he called. Then, as Devon lowered his weapon, he emerged into the sunlight, hands held high. "You are welcome here. Please, come inside. We have food."

  Devon turned to ask the others what they thought, but Marianna had already pushed past him and was shaking hands with the man. Shrugging, Devon exchanged glances with Jessie, gripped his Glock a little tighter and cautiously followed the man into the dark interior, pulling the door shut behind them.

  A row of candles guided them down the center of the hall of worship toward and past the altar. Though obviously as empty as a tomb, the place looked as though it were preparing for a perfectly normal Sunday service, just awaiting its congregation. Most of them would be dead now, Devon thought miserably. He wondered whether people would ever gather here in prayer again.

  They emerged into a communal area lit by the daylight flooding in through an eye level window that looked out onto a small yard beyond.

  "I'm Fred Archer." He was a middle-aged man of generous proportions and with an open face that looked as though it had done little smiling in the past days. "I run the food pantry here."

  Jessie introduced them, and Archer nodded as she explained their mission. His eyes widened when she told him where they'd come from. "Nevada? Clear across the country? Dear Lord, tell me it's not like this everywhere."

  To Devon's eyes it looked as though he shrank a little as she gave him a summary of what they'd seen on their long journey. He'd been clinging to hope, and Jessie's news sucked the life from him. Then, quite suddenly, he shook his head as if to wake himself up and the smile returned. "Let me introduce you to Tori."

  In a small kitchen at the back of the church, they found a large woman who showed every sign of having recently been considerably larger. She introduced herself as the custodian.

  She and Fred had been in the church that Sunday preparing for the weekly food pantry on the following day. They'd just switched the lights off and were leaving when the power lines outside exploded and they ran back inside. The neighboring houses had caught fire, and some people made it into the church seeking shelter. Since then, they'd done their best to help those who asked for it, but there had been no sign of their pastor or his wife, or of their other colleagues. So, they'd devoted themselves to making it through each day in the hope that, sooner or later, things would improve.

  "I can only pray that this is part of God's plan," Fred said.

  Devon said nothing. He'd spent his formative years in the UK where the established church was essentially a social club for the old and religion played no day-to-day role in the lives of most people. He wasn't a philosophical man, but he couldn't see how exterminating humanity could be the sort of plan that was likely to end well. Marianna's father believed that the inferno heralded the end times and Devon was inclined to think he was on the right track, whether it was divinely inspired or not.

  They ate with Fred and Tori, and Devon helped Fred fix a door that had taken a beating from a drunk who'd forced his way in one night. Then they joined in a short service before Jessie said it was time to go.

  Marianna was obviously reluctant.

  "You can stay here," Jessie said. "We'll pick you up on the way back."

  Marianna looked from Fred to Devon and then back to Jessie. "Can I talk to you? In private?"

  Twenty minutes later, Devon and Jessie waved their last wave to Marianna, who stood at the door of the church.

  "What did she say?"

  "She wants to stay. For good."

  "What? Why?"

  Jessie turned to look along the road, then took his hand and pulled him into step with her as she strode off.

  "Her father didn't send her to help us. He hoped he'd never see her again. It's why she's been so quiet."

  "So, why did he send her?"

  "He told her to find somewhere safe. To look out for people of faith. He said he expected them to come together as the country recovered."

  Devon glanced back at the church. "But why not just stay in Salt Lake?"

  "Because he's frightened. She doesn't know why, just that he was desperate for her to get away."

  "And she thinks she's safe with Fred and Tori? I'm not sure they'd be able to see off an attack."

  "No, but she thinks she can. She's found a purpose, Dev. Maybe we can come back this way, see how she's doing."

  "Good grief, it's in one piece." Devon was pointing along Cedar Drop Road to a white house that stood on stilts beside the creek.

  His feet and legs ached, and he knew that Jessie was even more spent than he was. She'd inconveniently begun to suffer from the symptoms of her pregnancy and was currently shuffling along beside him, looking as though she might puke at any moment.

  It had taken them longer than he'd hoped to reach the place, and he reckoned they had only an hour or so of daylight left. Neither of them wanted to spend the night out in the open, so he picked up the pace. There was no sign of movement. Until a man appeared at the top of the outside staircase brandishing a shotgun.

  "Move along or I'll put a hole in you!"

  The man was wide and tall, and the way the gun wobbled suggested he was barely in control of himself. But Devon couldn't simply back away, not having come this far.

  "We're looking for someone," he called.

  "You won't find nobody here. Just me and Damon."

  "Sam Hickman, she's called." Devon raised his voice, hoping that if she were there, she'd hear him and make herself known.

  The big man shook his head. "Ain't no one here. Now, I'm gonna give you five before I start shootin'. One … two …"

  Devon felt a hand on his shoulder, and Jessie's urgent voice in his ear. "Come on, let's get out of range."

  He turned and followed her back up the road, imagining a bullseye on his back as he went. They went a hundred yards and then Jessie pulled him into the blackened piles of a ruin.

  They sat down among the charred wood as Devon kept an eye on the road in case they'd been followed. "Now what?"

  "We have to go back."

  "Where? Hope?"

/>   He felt her hair against his face as she shook her head. "No, back there. The summer house."

  "Why? Our friend up there will shoot first and ask questions later if we appear again. There was never much chance that Hickman's daughter would be there, after all."

  "No, we have to go back, Dev. I don't want to, but we have to. I saw someone."

  He glanced back at her. "What?"

  "In a window at the top of the house. I saw a girl, Dev."

  "Sam?"

  "I don't know. Maybe not. But, Dev, she looked terrified. I can't leave this place without helping her, without knowing that Sam's not there. We've come so far."

  She took his hand again, and he looked into her eyes. "This is insane," he said. "That man's got a shotgun and an itchy trigger finger. There's no way in except through the door at the top of the stairs and we don't know who else he's got in there."

  "But what if it was her, Dev? I've got to know. And I've got an idea."

  "Lay it on me," Devon said, half in fear, half in anticipation.

  "Fire."

  18: Kangaroo Court

  "You can't be serious!"

  Paul Hickman sat next to Gil Summers as Marlin Cook was led into the makeshift court by the sheriff.

  The town hall was packed. There was only room in here for around a hundred, so the corridors and parking lot outside were full of latecomers straining for news. Hickman and the rest of Hope's council occupied the front row of folding chairs that faced a makeshift court bench made by pushing together several tables and draping them with the flag. Clay Hemmerich, Warrant Officer Stevens and several other uniformed figures sat facing the assembled crowd. Judge, jury and executioners.

  Accounts of the fight in the bar had circulated widely. Some were more accurate than others, but practically all of them agreed that Marlin had struck out in self-defense, having come to the aid of one of their own. Marlin might have been a relative newcomer, but the woman they'd assaulted had grown up in the town. To most, the young man had gone from being merely one of Paul Hickman's hangers-on to a local hero.

  Hickman gestured at the armed guard who stood at one door, assault rifle across his chest, and his identical twin at the other door. "You let that bandit provide the security?"

  Summers shrugged. "He has the manpower, we don't."

  Hickman wanted to strangle the coward. Sure, he also wanted Gil Summers to be beaten, and he was as defeated as Hick could possibly have wished. But not like this. Not taking Hope down with him. If they couldn't organize their own civic meetings, then their autonomy was gone.

  The door burst open and Marlin Cook appeared, a burly uniformed guard on either side. The poor boy looked as though he'd been beaten to within an inch of his life. A confession would, after all, simplify matters even though it was hardly necessary for injustice to be done. Cook was pushed into a chair at the end of the row of tables and Rusty Kaminski seated himself between Cook and the militiamen. Hick thought the sheriff had gotten a decade older overnight. Whatever else he thought of Kaminski, he knew the man wasn't yellow, but he sure looked defeated.

  "I call this tribunal to order!"

  Hemmerich's voice echoed around the suddenly silent room.

  "Now, we're here to see justice done for our comrade Karl Perkins. Warrant Officer Stevens will recount the events as they happened."

  The big South African got to his feet and read a prepared statement. Hickman stomached about three sentences before he leaped to his feet.

  "That ain't what happened. It was your guys who started this by hittin' on Rosa!"

  Clay Hemmerich pointed at Hick. "You will be silent while the witness gives his testimony."

  "And then do I get a chance to speak?"

  Hemmerich's face split into a wicked grin. "Your name is not on my list."

  Hick opened his mouth to protest, but the man to Hemmerich's left raised his handgun and pointed it directly at him. They weren't even going to pretend that this was a fair trial. It was a performance put on to show the townsfolk who held the whip in Hope now.

  Hickman sat down, his heart pounding. He wasn't a good man, had never had any interest in being one, and he didn't get hot very often. All his life, he'd calculated what choice would be best for him, and the only time he hadn't, he'd lost his liberty and all but lost his daughter. Juliet hadn't thought much of him in those last years of their marriage, and she sure as hell wouldn't have expected him to turn into some sort of civic hero. He wanted to lead Hope, not because he could serve the people, but so they could serve him. So he could get revenge. So he could make a safe place for his daughter. But living under him would be better for the folks here than letting Hemmerich slam his hobnail boot on their throats.

  For now, however, there was nothing he could do other than watch this kangaroo court go through the motions of convicting Marlin Cook and sentencing him to hang.

  Finally, Gil Summers stood up and raised his hand. The uproar that had greeted the verdict died down.

  "Captain Hemmerich, you do not have jurisdiction here. I allowed you to go through with this in the hope that you would seek justice, but I now see that all you wish is vengeance."

  What a fool, Hickman thought. To think that is all he wants. He's after a much bigger prize.

  But Summers was still speaking. "You and your men are no longer welcome in Hope. You will leave Miller's Farm with immediate effect and not return."

  A murmur circulated around the hall as the townsfolk waited to see what would happen next. For a moment, Hemmerich held Summers' gaze. Then he roared with laughter, his soldiers joining in.

  Rusty Kaminski got up, grabbed an ashen-faced Marlin Cook by the shoulder and dragged him toward the door. At a gesture from Hemmerich, his guard hefted his weapon and two other soldiers marched out from behind the table to surround Kaminski. "Hand over the prisoner, Sheriff," Hemmerich said.

  Kaminski had drawn his weapon, but he could see it was hopeless. Martha Bowie, who'd been sitting in the front row with her family, got up, but Kaminski lowered his gun. "No, Martha."

  Cook was pulled from Kaminski's grip and dragged away. A roar of protest went up but lasted only a second as Hemmerich stood and held his weapon high. "I will have silence! Good. Sentence will be carried out at 4 p.m., and I warn you that any disorderly behavior will be met with lethal force."

  No one moved until the last of the militiamen had left, and then chaos broke out. Gil Summers was in the middle of it, but he was a defeated man. Whatever plans he'd had for rebuilding Hope had gone up in smoke with the arrival of the militia. Would things have been different if he'd stood up to them at the beginning?

  Maybe not, but sometimes you got to draw the line, thought Paul Hickman, and wondered to hear himself think it.

  Right now, he was red-hot angry. He was mad at Gil Summers for capitulating. He was mad at Hemmerich for dismissing him in front of the town. And he was mad at Marlin Cook for being such a hothead. They should have struck when the bandits first took over the farm, when they were contained in one place.

  Then he felt the hazy outline of an idea begin to form like a shape in the fog.

  He needed to get away to think, so he extracted himself from the increasingly angry mob and headed for the door. A meaty hand grabbed his arm. "Martha? Wha'd'you want?"

  "Are you gonna stand by and let this happen, Hick?"

  She'd never used the shortened form of his name, probably because she didn't want him to think she liked him.

  "I'm not sure I can do nothing for the boy, they'll have him locked up tighter than a bull's …"

  "… in fly season. Yeah, you're probably right. But if we don't want others of us to be hanging from a streetlight, we need to deal with that son of a …"

  Martha looked at Hick and Hick looked back. They didn't like each other. They never would. But together they sure could cause trouble.

  "Come on, let's go find somewhere to talk," he said.

  #

  Devon and Jessie watched the house li
ght up as twilight turned to night. "Are they insane? It's like a lighthouse."

  "I don't think we're dealing with intellectual giants," Jessie said. "Look, there. I think that's a woman."

  A thin silhouette moved across the draped windows.

  "So, that's two men, a woman and a girl? But none of them is Sam?"

  Jessie shook her head. "I don't think so. The woman is too tall and the girl a little too round."

  "We could just walk away."

  "I don't think we can. Sam could be in there and, in any case, I'm certain the women are being held against their will."

  "Yeah, you're probably right." He'd watched the shadows move back and forth and, unless he was subconsciously reading meaning where it wasn't merited, it did look to him as though the male figures walked confidently and freely, while the females were nervous and restricted. Did it make the risk they were about to take worth it? Probably not, but he was way past worrying about health and safety.

  He dragged the last of the wood onto the bonfire they'd built around two of the stilts that held the house up. It was a huge pity to burn down one of the few intact buildings, if it came to that, but they had to be sure that Sam Hickman wasn't inside. And Jessie was right—they couldn't leave those women to their fate. So, they'd set fire to their house instead.

  As, on the third attempt, his match took on a scrap of tinder, he thought about the madness that had brought him so far across the country on a hopeless mission to rescue a girl he'd never met. Why did he come? Was it truly because he didn't want Jessie to go on her own? Was it because the prospect of being alone with her was too tempting to pass up? Or was it because he feared what Paul Hickman knew of his past?

  He watched the fire take, sheltering it from the zephyrs that crisscrossed between the stilts. All of those things were factors, sure. But there was more to it than that. Like every other human being in their forties, Devon Myers found himself where he was right now as a result of the millions of decisions he'd made over his lifetime. One decision in particular, back in London. A decision that had cost many people their lives. Rescuing Sam Hickman and making sure Jessie got home again safely was his shot at redemption. It would never make up for what he'd done—what he'd failed to do—but it would be a grain to his credit on the scales of justice. And there was the fact that he loved her.