Last Stand: Book 3 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 3)

by Kevin Partner

  Crack, crack.

  "Niall!" Anne-Marie said. "He's hiding. We got to go find him!"

  Bekmann helped her up, but she shrank away from Devon, and that gesture instantly washed away his rage. He turned away, pulled the belt off the attacker and tied his wrists behind his back. He didn't look as though he was in a fit condition to run off, but Devon wanted to be sure he faced justice.

  Devon jumped down from the tailgate and held out a hand to Bekmann. "Lend me your sidearm?"

  "You gonna do somethin' stupid?"

  "Probably."

  The Dutchman handed over his Glock, pulling the rifle from his shoulder to cover the pickup.

  But, by the time Devon reached the house, the fight was over. Two bandits lay dead, and Mara was tying the hands of two others.

  "It's okay. I'm pretty sure none of them got away," she said.

  "I thought you said a dozen escaped the brothel?"

  She shrugged. "I guessed a dozen and, anyway, most of them would have run away. Only these idiots looked for revenge."

  Someone shoved him from behind and he caught sight of Anne-Marie's dark head as she pushed toward the house. "Niall!" she called.

  "Let me help," Devon said.

  He barely recognized the face that snapped around to him. "You leave me alone, you … you just leave me alone. Because of you, my brother's dead. I never want to see you again. Go!"

  And so, stunned, bruised and raw, Devon staggered away.

  Chapter 8: Rustler

  It wasn't the ruined husk of a farmhouse that cut to Paul Hickman's iron-clad heart. It was the fact that the grass was growing out front and there was no one to cut it. He'd commandeered Ward McAndrew's white pickup and had pulled up outside the main building of Corbett's Farm. He'd known old Harry Corbett, and the man had taken an unnatural pride in the little patch of grass that stretched thirty yards to his front door. Years ago, Harry had taken a tour of England and had come back with an obsession for garden gnomes. Their red pointed hats poked out from the early spring growth that would soon overwhelm the garden—nature taking back what was hers.

  The farm had taken its electricity from the power lines supplying Ezra and so it had suffered the same fate as the county city. The house looked as though it had exploded, timbers lying where they'd been thrown on that night. He caught the unmistakable scurrying of rodents as he scanned the ruins.

  "Such a crying shame," he said. "One farm like this and we could feed everyone in Hope once we work out how to restore power."

  Libby Hawkins sat in the passenger seat. "I thought this was a cattle farm, but all I could see when we drove in was crops."

  "One of the biggest alfalfa farms in the country. All of that will be dying in the fields now the irrigation has stopped. He had a small dairy herd, though. Holsteins, from the UK. More money than sense."

  "Where are they then?"

  Paul turned in his seat to look at Cassie Miller. "Any idea?"

  "Well, if they've survived, they would have to be near one of the creeks. That's where I'd look. Over that way." She gestured beyond the ruined farmhouse. "I've only been here a couple times, though."

  Hick started the engine and took the car around the shell of Harry Corbett's farmhouse. He pulled it into a large barn piled high with bales. He chose a green one and, with Cassie's help put it in the back of the pickup.

  "Steer to the right of that pivot," Cassie said. "That white metal thing over there. That's the irrigation system."

  Hick followed her direction, glancing at the curve of the green alfalfa field. For now, it was still alive, but the inert bridge-like structure that sat motionless above it wouldn't be pulling water up from the wells until they could restore electricity, and that prospect was a long way off.

  The land to his left was flat and bordered by uncultivated stretches of prairie grass, sand and rocks. As he followed the line of the alfalfa field, like a satellite in planetary orbit, he finally reached its greatest extent and took the truck off at a tangent. Ahead lay low hills and gullies, and the track disappeared so he was forced to go straight across country toward the first of the hills at the bottom of which ran a creek.

  "Damn!" he cursed as they passed the body of a cow. It looked like a bag of bones clad in loose skin that had been ripped by carrion birds. Beside it lay a dead calf, its leg twisted beneath it.

  "Looks like the poor thing broke its leg and the mother wouldn't abandon it," Cassie said. "At least it means they definitely came this way. Let's hope some of them made it. And these here are coyote spoors."

  Hick put his foot on the gas and left the pathetic couple behind. His mood darkened as more and more cattle corpses littered the landscape. And then, as he crested a low ridge, he saw the creek running through the stony soil below them.

  He sighed with relief when Cassie called out, "There!"

  There were seven cows and three calves milling around at the edge of the water. "They're skin and bones," he said.

  Cassie jumped out of the pickup. "Then let's give them somethin' to eat. Follow me. Don't go too fast; they're likely nervous."

  So, Hick followed her down the side of the hill as she opened her arms to the animals. They raised their heads and bellowed, then they began walking toward Cassie. She pointed at a spot beside the creek, so Hick parked the pickup and he and Libby got out.

  He folded down the tailgate and pulled the hay to the lip, then he got out of the way as the adults barged toward the food and began pulling it off the back of the truck. Cassie stood close enough to be able to run her hands down the animals' sides, talking to them in a reassuring tone.

  "They sure are skinny. I don't think we should move them until they've been fed up a little."

  Hick cast his gaze around the little valley, almost as if expecting to see figures silhouetted against the sky. "We got no choice, Cassie. We can't stay here; it's bound to be a target for Mayor Hawkins sooner or later."

  "You could leave me here with some bales. If we put all our rations together, I'll have enough for a few days and I ain't gonna be short of milk."

  "No way. Your father would skin me alive if I left you here alone, and, besides, I need to get back to Hope before Ward McAndrew turns it into a monastery."

  Libby, who'd moved a little away from both the conversation and the noise of animals filling their stomachs, waved over at them. "I can hear something," she called.

  Hick skirted the backsides and swinging tails of the beasts and came to stand beside her. He stood silently for a few seconds. "I don't hear nothin'."

  "Seriously? Sounds like a car engine." She took hold of his hand and pulled him up the slope. He enjoyed the warmth of her grip and the pleasant sense of connection it brought. Who'd have thought it? She stopped as they neared the top—too soon for Hick—and cupped her ear. He did the same.

  "Dammit!" he hissed. It was the unmistakable sound of a car driving across rough ground. As far as he could tell, it was only the one vehicle, but it was coming their way.

  He crawled upwards and got onto his hands and knees until he could peer through a convenient dip in the bank. The earth was gritty and slightly moist, and it smelled of cow.

  There it was. A squarish, olive-green shape driving along the track they'd taken. If it was following the path around the pivot, it'd move to the right any moment now. But no, it was carrying on, straight at them. He could just make out two occupants in the front seats, bouncing around as the Land Rover ran onto the rough field between the dirt track and the creek.

  Land Rover?

  "It's them!" he hissed. "The terrorists who kidnapped Sam!"

  "What do we do?"

  Hick looked at the approaching car, calculating how long they had. "You're faster than me. Run down and get the weapons. We can't outrun them and, anyways, I ain't gonna let them steal our cattle."

  She nodded and pulled back. Hick listened to the sounds of her boots scrambling down the stony slope as the Land Rover got bigger. Yeah, two in the front and maybe othe
rs in the back. All wearing those goddam black masks.

  They were less than a hundred yards away by the time he heard Libby returning. She had an assault rifle and a handgun.

  "Are you any good with guns?" he said, as she offered him the rifle.

  "Not 'specially. Been to the range a few times."

  He pushed the rifle at her. "You take it then; I'll stick with the Glock."

  She lined up on the slowing car. "What do we do now? Warn them?"

  "Shoot first, ask questions later."

  The Land Rover came to a halt and both doors opened. Men in black masks climbed out and lifted rifles from the back.

  "At least there's only two."

  "I can't do it, Paul. It isn't right to gun people down without warning."

  "Are you kiddin' me? These goons aren't here to play!"

  She shook her head. Then, before he could stop her, she called out. "Put your weapons down and your hands up."

  Hickman cursed as the men froze for an instant, then both ducked and ran behind their car doors. Hick fired twice, the first shot going wide and the second pounding into the door nearest him. The window rolled down and Hick waited until the rifle appeared before firing again. He hit the car door, but missed the man holding the gun. Hick ducked as the dirt in front of him erupted, the report echoing around the gully.

  "You think you might shoot now?" he hissed at Libby, who was sighting down the barrel of her AR-15.

  She didn't respond, but pulled in a breath and squeezed the trigger.

  Phat, phat, phat.

  Hick brushed away the casings as they landed on his arm.

  Phat, phat.

  A cry from the other side of the car and a shape fell back.

  "Got him," she said. "Here, you take the rifle."

  She pushed it across to him.

  Bang, ba-ba-ba-ba.

  As he scrambled to one side, the rocks exploding around him, Hick thought he could feel the air searing as rounds fizzed by. Libby had fallen back. She hadn't cried out, and he sure hoped she hadn't been hit.

  And then the man was there, standing above them, assault rifle seeking a target. The barrel swung around, finding Hick, who had no time to bring his weapon to bear.

  Bang, bang.

  The man fell forward, landing inches away from Hick, who spun around, eyes wide, to see Cassie standing below him on the slope. He put his hands to his head as if relieved to find it still attached to his shoulders and then scrambled sideways to where Libby lay.

  "I'm alright," she moaned. "Twisted my ankle, I think. Are we safe?"

  Hick looked up at Cassie, who was striding toward the Land Rover with her shotgun at her hips. "Cassie, let me look!"

  "I seen dead bodies before, Mr. Hickman, I ain't afeared of 'em. It's when they're still alive you gotta watch 'em."

  She moved out of view beyond the rise and he turned back to Libby. "Come on, we'd best get out of here. These guys probably weren't alone."

  He helped her up, enjoying her closeness as she put her arm on his shoulder. "I want to see the one I shot."

  "Seriously? I don't reckon that's a good idea."

  "Paul, you've got to stop trying to protect me. It's cute, but very patronizing."

  He flushed at that. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had called him cute. Hick helped her up the hill and then toward the Land Rover.

  Cassie, who'd been kneeling behind the driver's door, got up at their approach and smiled. "Good shot, Libby. Straight through the heart. Wouldn't have felt a darned thing."

  Hick felt Libby's arm shaking as she went pale, but she pulled away from him and, using the door as a support, hopped around to the far side. "I want to see his face," she said.

  "No. Don't do it to yourself," Hick protested.

  But Cassie, receiving a nod of confirmation, disappeared from Hick's view and then stood back up holding a fistful of black cloth.

  Libby held her breath and looked. Sadness and fear instantly gave way to shock as her mouth dropped open. "Oh my God. I know him!"

  "What?" He ran around to stand beside the other two, looking down at the body. The face was that of a man; a lean man with something reptilian about him. He could have been Tom Riddle's ugly brother. And Hick had seen him before, he was sure of it.

  "Roscoff," Libby said. "He works for my mother."

  Hick slapped his leg. "I saw him! In the church. He was bellyaching about the rebuilding plans."

  Libby nodded. "Yeah, that sounds like him."

  "But what's he doing dressed up like this?" Cassie asked.

  Libby stepped back and looked up at the sky before cursing. "It means Ezra has fallen to the Sons of Solomon."

  "Or that Mayor Hawkins has joined them," Hick said. "Either way, they're on our doorstep. We gotta get back right now."

  Libby shook her head. "You go home. I've got to see my mother."

  "Are you insane? What did you say to me? That your mother would see you dead?"

  "Blood is blood, Paul."

  "And she'll have yours!"

  "I don't think she's in charge anymore. I just can't believe she'd have allowed Roscoff off his leash, let alone dressed like that. No, something bad's happened in Ezra."

  Hick sighed. There was no arguing with her. "Then at least take the pickup and leave it outside Ezra so you can walk in. If you get caught driving the Land Rover then they'll know what happened."

  "Thank you," Libby said, and she stood on tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. He blushed as she withdrew, unable to discern the gesture's meaning. He was just about old enough to be her father, but his feelings were not paternal. They were, however, inconvenient.

  It took them an hour to dig graves for the two men. Hick drove back to the ruins of the farmhouse to look for tools, finding a pick and a spade, but he'd seen no sign of any other Sons. He suspected that this excursion had been Roscoff's idea—he would probably have known the farm well enough and perhaps wanted to lay claim to it. Maybe they planned to establish one of their farming colonies here. But that would only be feasible if they restored electricity to the pivots so water could be drawn up from the wells, and Hick thought they opposed technology of any sort. And yet they drove Land Rovers. He suspected that their ideology was no less compromised by pragmatism than those of any other major group or religion. A little technology was going to go a long way in this new world, and the Sons intended to control it. Hypocrisy was ever fundamentalism's bedfellow.

  When he checked the back of the Land Rover, he found that these two only had rations for one day, so they would be expected back before dark. This gave them little time to act. If Roscoff had been exploring at his own volition, then perhaps they were safe, but if he'd told his commander where he was going, they could expect company at any time.

  He got one final peck on the cheek before a dusty and sweaty Libby Hawkins climbed into the driving seat of the pickup and, with a reluctant wave to them both, drove away. Hick felt his throat constrict ever so slightly as he wondered whether he'd see her again. Then he shook his head and turned to Cassie, who was making her way down the slope to where the cattle milled around the edge of the creek.

  Hick drove the Land Rover down to where they'd piled up the stuff he'd taken from the pickup, and hauled the hay into the trunk, leaving the door open so the cattle could smell it.

  "We need to get away from here before dark," he said, unfolding the map he'd taken from the pickup.

  Cassie looked over his shoulder. She was younger than Libby, and after a lifetime caring for animals, she had no sense of personal space. He could smell ruminant in her red curly hair as it brushed his face. "There's a farm a few miles southeast of here; we can prob'ly find somewhere to pen them up overnight. Best get goin' though, we only got a couple hours before dark and cows don't like bein' hurried, 'specially those with young 'uns."

  He looked across at the cows, his gaze focusing on the skinny calves, two of which were suckling from the shrunken udders of their mothers. They repres
ented his hopes for the future. Seven cows—along with the few they could gather from the other farms—constituted the nucleus of a herd that would supply Hope with milk, cheese, butter, meat and leather. It would take a couple of years, but it could be done, especially if they found others on this or neighboring farms.

  And then he saw, in his mind's eye, a fleet of Land Rovers driven by men in black masks carrying automatic weapons and worse. Driving across their newly planted fields, killing their people and stealing their cattle. Hope left him for a moment, but then Cassie put her arm through his. "Ain't no point despairing, Mr. Hickman. We saw off Hemmerich's men, didn't we? Anyone comes to our farm fixin' to take what's ours and Pa'll send them on their way with their tails between their legs. We gotta stand together, ain't we?"

  "Sure," he said, squeezing her arm. Though as different from Libby and Sam as it was possible to be, he liked her. And then he thought of Sam. Everything he'd done was to build a safe place for her, and yet it seemed he'd trapped her in Hope with the wolves circling. Perhaps he should drive straight across country, get back tonight, tell her to pack and hightail it out of Hope. But that would be a short-term solution at best. No, if there was one thing Paul Hickman was good at, it was seeing a plan through to the end. However bitter it might be.

  "C'mon, we better get goin' if we're to get these cattle settled for the night."

  She smiled at him and skipped over to the farthest beast, tapping its rump with a long whippy stick she'd found. With a bellow of protest, it moved toward the Land Rover, its calf keeping step alongside it.

  And in the hills, the coyotes howled.

  Chapter 9: Return

  With practiced skill, Devon brought the ax down and the wood splinters fell neatly to either side of the chopping log. He picked up another chunk of wood and put it in place, straightening with a grunt. His shirt had been cast away and his skin shone with the sweat of an afternoon's heavy labor. It was like a scene out of the past, and he took a simple pleasure in the physical nature of the work. A pile of logs became a bundle of sticks to feed the fires of Springs.