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

by Kevin Partner

  The fire leaped and his mind snapped out of its hypnotic trance as he scrambled away from it.

  "Why did it take so long?" Jessie hissed.

  Devon shrugged, pulled the handgun from his pocket and readied himself beneath the staircase. The plan was a simple one. He would intercept those escaping from the fire and, as soon as they were out, Jessie would kick the tap off the water outlet and, hopefully, extinguish the flames. They wanted to smoke the occupants out, not burn the building down, if at all possible.

  It only took seconds.

  A voice called from the floor above. "Get outta my way!" Heavy boots thumped on the wooden steps and landed on the ground.

  "Put your weapon down," Devon called, raising his G17 in one hand, flashlight in the other.

  It was the big man who'd confronted them earlier. He twisted, bringing his shotgun to bear. Devon squeezed the trigger and pumped two rounds into him. He fell with a groan.

  "Tweeter!"

  Another man appeared at the foot of the stairs. Devon, surprised, fell backward as the man's shotgun came around. Bang and heat splashed across Devon's cheek. He rolled beneath the house, toward the fire, and brought his handgun up, aiming for the legs. With a shriek, the man fell, spilling his gun.

  "Dev! The house is catching!"

  Devon clambered out through the smoke. It was too late to contemplate putting the fire out, but there was no sign of the women. "Here," he said, handing over the Glock. "If he moves, shoot him."

  He bounded up the stairs and almost pulled the front door off its hinges in his haste to get inside. The place was full of the acrid stink of burning wood. It was pitch black in there.

  "Help me!"

  He swept his flashlight around the smoke-filled interior. A woman was tied to a kitchen chair. She'd flipped herself onto the floor in her desperation, so he kneeled, pulled the knife from his belt and sliced through her bonds.

  "Margie," the woman said. "In the other room."

  "Get yourself out. I'll find her."

  Devon pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose, got to his feet and headed for the other room. With a sudden roar, flames burst through the floor behind him, a pillar of fire that licked around the edges of a massive hole, blocking his exit. This place had gone up like a bonfire.

  Cursing under his breath and then coughing the swear word back out again, he plunged through into the next room. There was no smoke in here, but it was utterly dark. At first, the room seemed empty, and then his flashlight beam found a pair of terrified eyes sandwiched between two masses of hair—one blonde, one darker. The face moved and what looked like a beard resolved into a beaten-up doll that was missing a leg.

  "It's okay," Devon said, hiding the gun in his pocket and then holding out his now-empty hand. "I'm here to help. We need to get out."

  "Where's Mommy?"

  "She's outside. Shall we go find her?" Devon's flashlight played across the girl's face. Bruised, round and reddened, this wasn't Sam. Not unless Paul Hickman had left out the fact that she had Down's Syndrome. "What's your name?"

  "Margie. Are you going to hurt me?"

  Devon could hear the crackle of flame behind the closed door. They didn't have time for this.

  "Of course not."

  "The other men did. And they hurt Mommy. They were nasty. They killed Jerry."

  "I'm sorry, but we've got to go, or the fire'll get us."

  She shook her head.

  A crash from the other side of the door. Devon pulled it open, then slammed it shut again, sucking in the acrid stench of burning hair. He ran over to the window. It was locked, but after two panic-fueled kicks of his left boot, the frame began to give way and finally the windowpane fell outward into the darkness. Cold air caressed his head as he looked out.

  "Dev!"

  "We can't get out through the main room. Is there any other way?"

  Below him, Jessie turned to the woman he'd rescued. Her shake of the head was enough.

  "She'll have to climb down me," Devon shouted. "But she might need some persuasion."

  The woman in the street called up, straining to be heard above the crackled and roar of the fire.

  "Margie! It's Mommy. Can you hear me?"

  In the corner, the girl stirred.

  "Come on, love," Devon said. It was stifling in here now even though the window was open, and he suspected the cold air was fueling the fire beyond the closed door. "Come on. We gotta get out of here right now."

  Maybe it was the call of the woman outside; maybe it was the obvious authenticity of Devon's panic or maybe it was his winning smile. Whatever it was, she put out her hand and he hauled her up.

  "Elsa can come too?"

  "What?" For a moment, Devon imagined there was yet another kid hiding somewhere. Then Margie held up the battered doll. "Oh, yeah, of course. But we're gonna have to climb out the window."

  "Like a princess?"

  "Sure, though I'm not much of a prince charming!"

  "You can be Shrek, and I can be Princess Fiona."

  "Right."

  The door burst inward on a tsunami of scorching air. Margie screeched and Devon pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, yelling in pain as the skin of his back seemed to be burning. He dragged her to the window and sat astride the frame, one foot in the cool air, the other in the disintegrating bedroom.

  "Come on!"

  She took one look out the window and shrank back. "I'm scared!"

  "So am I!" he yelled. "Look, Princess Fiona. You head for the exit. I'll take care of the dragon."

  She looked into his eyes. She knew it was just a game, that they were both in mortal danger. She'd heard Mommy say many times that she was special, not an idiot. But, right now, she decided to play along.

  "Thank you, Sir Shrek," she said as she allowed him to help her over the window frame until they were both on the outside.

  "Climb down me, then you'll only have to drop a few feet." He lowered himself from the window frame, his hands screaming with the strain of taking her weight as well as his own. "Hurry," he gasped as his fingers began to burn. Above him, the drapes caught fire, fluttering out of the window, surrounding his head.

  Suddenly, the weight disappeared.

  "We've got her! For God's sake, Devon, you're on fire! Get down here."

  He was trapped in agony. He let go. Searing pain in his legs, then he hit the ground. He couldn't breathe. Someone was screaming. He rolled back and forth, trying to rub the heat from his head. He roared in panic.

  Then cold, cold, cold. Water. Cold water. For a moment, the pain was gone. Completely gone. He opened his eyes to look into Jessie's face.

  "Oh, thank God. Let me have a look at you."

  "Sir Shrek! You okay?"

  He gave Margie a thumbs-up, wincing as his hands refused move properly.

  "I don't care what you look like. I like ogres!"

  "Margie!"

  "But Mommy, I do."

  He lay there in the darkness, feeling the soreness returning as Jessie removed his ruined clothes. He'd thought about her doing that many times on their journey east. Be careful what you wish for.

  Desperate to turn his mind to other things, he switched into cop mode and looked up at the woman Margie called Mommy. "Sam Hickman? Know anything?"

  His shock at her look of recognition made him forget about the pain for a moment.

  "Sam? You know her? She was here."

  "Where is she now?"

  The woman shook her head. "She went south, following a beacon fire. I think they're gathering young people."

  He wanted to ask more about where she'd gone, about who "they" were, about how long ago this had happened and what hope they had of finding her, but he had nothing left. Nothing but pain and exhaustion. The last thing he heard before he succumbed to agony was Jessie speaking.

  "We have to get him into the creek. Jeez, don't die Dev. Don't die. Please."

  He couldn't respond, he was gritting his teeth so tight as he tried to
help them get him down the slope to the riverbank. He said nothing as he was plunged into the deliciously freezing, shocking cold of the water. As he floated in and out of consciousness, up and down in the creek, feeling her wet body against his as she forgot all reserve and begged him to be okay, he kept repeating his new manta.

  Don't worry, Jessie. I'm not going to die. I'll recover and we'll go south. We'll find Sam and take her home. We'll be together; me, you and the baby. Because I love you, and I now know, without doubt, that you feel the same way.

  Hold tight, Samantha Hickman. We are coming for you.

  19: Hick

  Four drove to the edge of Elwood Miller's land and began the long trudge to the farmhouse. Martha Bowie's son Jenson walked alongside Paul Hickman. Brain followed them, with Ned Birkett trotting nervously behind them. Hick had confided in Rusty Kaminski and the sheriff had, after thinking for some time, let him go. He also ordered Birkett to accompany him. A strange move that Hickman hadn't worked out yet. Neither Kaminski himself nor Martha Bowie could go on the revenge mission—both felt it their duty to witness and protest the hanging of Marlin Cook. They might also be needed in the aftermath. And, anyway, their absence would be noticed. Hickman only hoped that his wouldn't.

  He'd gone home to pick up his Glock 41 and to call in on the neighbor he'd entrusted with Buster's care. He needed one ally he could rely on.

  They'd had no time to make detailed plans. By sheer good luck—the only luck they'd had so far—Hick had bumped into the farmer's son Jimmy after the trial and the young man had taken the message back to his father who was kept under guard. Jimmy now walked with them, guiding them with lifelong familiarity toward the farmhouse he'd been born in.

  "I didn't 'spect Pa to agree, an' it took a while to get the message across without his guard catchin' on. He just nodded, and I could see in his eyes that he knew it was the only way. Sure is a shame."

  The understatement of the century.

  "And you've got everything we need?"

  Miller nodded. "Sure. We got our own gas. It's locked up in a metal shed inside the main barn. Ma and Cassie are out in the fields, s'posed to be tending to the animals but they'll keep themselves hid until we've done what needs doin'."

  "How many did he leave here?"

  This was crucial to the plan. Hickman recognized Clay Hemmerich's type. He was a showman. That's why he'd chosen to be a tank driver at the museum. And he'd want the biggest possible crowd for his latest production: The Hanging of Marlin Cook.

  Hemmerich knew Cook was being made a stooge of. The point of the execution wasn't to deliver justice, it was to make a statement of power to the townsfolk and his own people. It was telling them he was brutal and capricious. That they'd better stay on his good side if they didn't want to be the next ones hanging from a streetlight. Hickman wondered, briefly, what had happened in Hemmerich's past to turn him into such a monster. Then he dismissed the thought. If all went well, Clay Hemmerich would cease to be a problem on the night he became a murderer.

  It was a pity about Marlin Cook, but Hick knew that rescuing him would be a futile exercise that would leave Hemmerich in charge. The bandit general was expecting trouble at the hanging. Hopefully, he wouldn't be thinking so much about the farmhouse he'd left for a few hours.

  "How many? No more'n a half dozen. All got assault rifles, though. Wonder where they got 'em from?"

  Six. He'd hoped for fewer than that. But they were here now, and it had to be attempted.

  "Jenson."

  The young Bowie accelerated to walk beside him. "Yes, Mr. Hickman?"

  Hick was certain that Jenson Bowie would have been brought up with a healthy dislike of him, but like the rest of his family, he'd hide it behind country courtesy. "There's six of 'em, Jimmy says. That's more than I'd like. Reckon you can arrange a diversion?"

  Bowie's eyes narrowed, then he turned to Jimmy Miller. "D'you have the keys to anything drivable?"

  "Sure. Bessie's parked in the yard. She's old, but she starts ever'time," he said, before adding, "She's a tractor. Pa's had her for forty years. You take off over the fields and they won't catch you."

  "I just need to make sure they think they can get me."

  Clever boy, Hickman thought, regarding Bowie with new respect.

  And Ned Birkett followed in the shadows.

  It took the best part of an hour to walk the two miles to the farmhouse and Paul Hickman spent most of that time expecting a shout to go up or for a bullet to crack out of the distance. It was a flat landscape of frost-covered scrub and low rocks, and aside from them the only things moving were the sheep and cattle who looked up disinterestedly as they walked past.

  Finally, they gathered behind a rusting steel barn, a hundred yards from the house. A thin drizzle began falling and there was a strange tang to the air that reminded Paul Hickman of the sea. The only sound was the heavy, wet panting of the dog at his side.

  "Four o'clock," Brain said. "They'll be draggin' Marlin outta be hung about now. You sure we can' do nothin', boss? He sure was a nice fella."

  Hickman put his hand on the oaf's shoulder. "We gotta leave that to the mayor, Brain. Our job is to make sure we get even with the scum who are killin' our friend."

  Brain nodded his head slowly and, having apparently emptied his mind of the only thought that had been occupying it, went silent.

  "There's one. Over there by the cowshed." Jimmy Miller was pointing at a small cloud of smoke that dissipated as it rose. "I always said vapin' was like wantin' to have your beer and drink it. If you wanna smoke, smoke like a man."

  Hickman's patience—never a quality he possessed much of—was at its limit, but he forced himself to be polite. He only had these few allies. "Where are the others?"

  "Usually three outside and three in. They move around, but the ones in the house will prob'ly be in the parlor—two of them at least. Hemmerich says that one should be movin' all the time, but I don't reckon he's left the sharpest tools in the box here. I reckon he's taken his best men with him into town."

  Hickman nodded. Yeah, that's what he would do. After all, they were only guarding a farmer.

  "As for out here, they could be anywhere. They just wander around."

  "Is there anywhere they could hide from the cold?"

  "Sure, lots of places. Ain't gonna be easy to find 'em without bein' spotted ourselves."

  "That's where you come in, Jenson. If you start up the tractor, they're bound to come out of wherever they're holed up. With any luck, they'll follow you."

  Jenson Bowie nodded with obvious excitement.

  "Look, son," Hickman said. "Don't go doin' nothing' stupid. I don't want to be the one to tell your mom that you've had your head blowed off. This is serious business. Lead 'em away, but keep yourself safe, d'you hear me?"

  "Ma says you don't think of nobody but yourself," Jenson responded.

  "Yeah, well I don't reckon I'd last long if I let you come to any harm." Hickman smiled, but there was no humor in his heart. He didn't give two hoots for any of his companions, but right now he needed them.

  "So, what are we gonna do about vapin' man?"

  Hickman cast his gaze at the cloud of smoke rising above the cowshed. "I'll deal with him. I suggest you men of the law turn a blind eye. Jenson, you be ready to jump on that tractor just as soon as you hear the shot. Soon as they're out of the house, we get in, deal with anyone left in there, and do what we got to do. Jenson, you keep them busy for as long as you can. With any luck, we'll be finished by the time you get back. Ready?"

  He looked at each in turn. Jimmy Miller looked grim and determined while Jenson Bowie was full of nervous excitement. Brain returned his glance with dim-witted determination, but Ned Birkett simply nodded and looked away. They weren't much of a crew to pin the hopes of the town on; they were outnumbered, and their plan was pretty desperate but come what may some scores were going to be settled tonight.

  Paul Hickman didn't consider himself a murderer, he just did what ha
d to be done. He knew nothing—cared nothing—about the man who sucked on his vaper beneath the cowshed roof overhang.

  He thought there might be a hint of menthol in the air, but it was hard to detect over the stench of manure. Keeping his lunch in his stomach was the hardest part of waiting the ten minutes while Jenson and the others got into position. Buster, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the stink as he sat obediently at Hick's waist behind a rusting hunk of farm machinery.

  He checked his watch. It was time. The figure moved a little. Disturbed by a noise, perhaps. Probably that idiot, Brain. Dumb klutz couldn't walk ten yards without falling over his own feet. Hick checked his Glock, chuckling to himself as he realized he wouldn't know if there was anything wrong with it. He raised it and sighted along the barrel.

  The figure moved again. It was a woman! Either that, or it was one of those pussies with long hair. Probably from California. No, it was a woman. Hickman sighed. That made it harder. He'd never killed a girl.

  First time for everything.

  He heard the groaning of an old diesel engine trying to fire up and the woman straightened, looking toward the farmyard. Come on, Jenson. If it didn't catch soon, he'd be a sitting duck, and they'd have five heavily armed bandits to deal with. With a roar like a machine gun misfiring, it caught.

  Under the cover of the engine's noise, he aimed again and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked and, when he looked again, she was gone.

  The door to the farmhouse opened, and someone ran from the right toward where he sat.

  Then another voice. "Put your weapon down, you lowlife ba—"

  As Hickman turned, hands raised, he caught a blur of movement as Buster leaped, forcing his captor to the ground with a yell. Hickman jumped on top of the figure and pushed the dog away. For one horrible moment, he thought Buster would turn on him, but the hound opened his jaws and sat back, eyes fixed on the man on the ground.