And that decides it.
I bark orders.
"You're going to drive back to Chino Hills with Lara," I say firmly. "Then you're going to Fallout One, do you remember where that is?"
"I, uh…"
"Josh knows. Get there, fuel and gear up, then we're going to make a run across the country. I'll be following on behind, Sacramento too. Is that clear?"
"I, uh..."
I rub my eyes. Why am I even telling this to Keeshom? "Focus on her," I say, then bring up the walkie and send the message out to all our frequencies, with a certainty that I don't feel. "We're leaving now. It's almost a certainty that demons are coming. I'll meet the harvest group on the 40 heading to Albuquerque, then join with Sacramento in St. Louis, Missouri. This is happening right now. Get ready and start moving. This exodus is live."
I put the walkie down before they can ask me any questions. There's no time to spare. The thought crosses my mind to contact Witzgenstein, but there's no way but the comms office in the Theater, and there's no time for that.
Tense moments pass until I see Feargal coming toward me on the other lane, emerging bright yellow from the gray and blue of the city. They're in the school bus, once my battletank and still decked out with defensive grilles. We keep a stash of weaponry on board; not heavy gear but enough for an AR-15 rifle each, more than the handguns they have back at the Theater.
I think through the plan. We'll roll up in the forecourt and put a bead on the adults, then I'll go out to persuade Drake. If I can't, then we'll be well-positioned to try force, and if force doesn't work then… Maybe we'll find the strength to do what has to be done.
I bring the RV to a halt and the school bus stops across the way. I wave to Feargal then duck in the back. Here's Lara, breathing in short pants, her jaw basted with drying bloody foam, with only the slightest twitch in her left leg. Here's Keeshom, slathered in sweat, leaning against the booth and gasping.
He can't drive like this. His eyes barely fix on me.
"She's better," he says, delirious with exhaustion. He's been restraining her at full throttle for close to an hour in the extreme heat and he's broken. I hate to think of what the fit's done to Lara.
I bring up the walkie.
"How many men you have, Feargal?"
He comes back. "Seven."
Seven. If I spare one to drive Lara back we'll lose one seventh of our firepower. One man left behind gives Drake's people one more shot at the bus, if it comes to that. But there's no choice.
"I'm coming to you," I say to Feargal, then put the walkie down and turn to Keeshom. "Buddy, you lie down. You did good. Don't try to drive. Just lay up here and wait."
He nods like a man just pulled out of the ocean. He slumps to the floor on his back and I leave it at that.
Out of the RV I run to the line divider and vault over it, picking out faces in the school bus windows, each sitting with black rifles spiking up at their sides. Feargal and Crow, Phillipa, Lindy, Belle, Greg and Jack. Not the strongest, but then the strongest are already out in Europe dealing with the bunkers. I'd give anything to have Anna here, Peters, even Cynthia, but this is what I've got.
I climb into the bus and look over their faces.
"Jack," I say, picking the guy who just had a baby, "I need you to take the RV back to Chino Hills; Lara's in there with Keeshom, they're both pretty sick. Sync up with the rest of the harvesters and follow Josh's lead to Fallout 1. Is that clear?"
"Clear," Jack says, already getting to his feet. He's a great guy, a wonderful young father and an incredibly safe pair of hands, but of the seven here he's the least likely to shoot down thirty children in cold blood.
As he's climbing out I say, "Drive," and Crow drives. I look over the six that remain, still working through in my head how I'm going to say this. Feargal's face is hard, barely marked by the scars that tore up his chest and throat in Bordeaux. Crow is focused at the wheel, trusting in me. The others are plainly worried.
I don't have time to be the quiet, uncertain Amo they've gotten used to this past year. I have to lead.
"Demons are coming," I say flatly, as Crow pushes the battletank up to a chassis-rattling speed. "We're not safe. Our people at Chino Hills are not safe. I know it's demons because Lara was just in a fit that lasted nearly an hour, and we all need to run. Crow?"
Crow grunts, playing his role. Hell yes, we should be running.
I look into their eyes. I need them to feel this in advance. "But there are forty-two survivors on the Theater's forecourt. We need to get them to come with us. I can't leave them to be converted."
Greg licks his lips. Lindy stares past me to the road. Belle nods gamely. I see that I need to spell it out.
"You won't like this. It's ugly. But the fact is, we can't risk the chance of forty-two demons chasing us. Even if we outran them to the East coast, there aren't any ships big enough ready at port. The only way we survive this is if those people don't turn into demons. There are no ifs or buts, it's as simple as that. Can we agree on that?"
Some of them nod, though the doubts are starting to show. They're wondering what I'm actually asking them to do. I have to feign certainty enough for all of us. I stare fiercely at them, and outline the worst-case scenario.
"There's a chance they may not want to come. That they won't agree to follow us peacefully." I say that and no more. I want them to see it for themselves.
Lindy breaks the silence. "Wait. Are you saying what I think-"
"They don't even believe demons exist," I interrupt. "They've never seen them, and they don't trust me. There's a real chance they won't take our word for it."
Now Phillipa goes pale. Greg won't meet my eye. Feargal gulps loudly.
I don't say it. It's not an order I'm going to give, because that'll destroy our group faster than the demons. Maine was one thing, but this is was different.
"Like Masako," Crow says from my side, calm and solid. And that's the reality.
"Like Masako," I repeat grimly. "But more, and with children. Lots of children. I can't tell you what to do, but I need you to think about your family and the people you love. If a demon really is coming, there won't be time to decide in the moment. It'll be us or them. We need to decide now."
"Are you really talking about killing children, Amo?" Greg blurts out. He pushes his rifle away. He waits for an answer, but I don't give him one. I'm just the messenger. He sees that in my eyes. "You are. Oh my God. No. No way I'm going to kill children, just 'cos they won't get on a bus. You can't make me."
I look at him and nod. He's right, I can't make him and I won't try. Everyone has to make their own determination about what survival is worth.
"Stop the bus," I say.
The brakes squeal. The bus stops.
"Leave the bus please, Greg," I say. He stares at me. He doesn't like it. Perhaps he thought his protest would be enough to make this whole thing stop.
"But, I-"
"We don't have time," I tell him. "Leave the bus or I'll throw you off. Now."
He flinches. He drops his gun. He gets off the bus.
I look around. "Anyone else?"
Greg is out there now, looking in at me like a child, hoping this isn't real. But it is. Inside the faces are ashen. Someone is probably going to puke. But none of them get up.
"All right," I say, and Crow drives without needing to be told. The bus rattles and clanks, and I stare out the front until I come to some kind of peace with what lies ahead, until I'm steely and cold and ready.
Then I turn back. They're gray but they meet my eyes, and there I see a terrible strength, and I know that they'll do what they have to.
I just hope I'm wrong. I look at Crow; my barometer. If he stays fine, if he doesn't feel any cold at all, then it must be something else, and there'll be no need for any killing.
But if Crow does feel it? I look at the road. Six of us to tackle nearly fifty. I hope it isn't demons. I hope they listen, if it is. I hope, I hope, I hope.
But I'm ready, if they don't.
Drake doesn't have a clue what's about to hit him.
AMO 5
The Chinese Theater appears ahead round a bend in the beach line on Santa Monica Boulevard, and there I see them, gathered on the forecourt like terracotta soldiers, arrayed facing Drake. He turns and looks our way as we race nearer.
"Steady," I say. It's hard to believe we're really going to do this, only moments after he offered to send a doctor to help Lara, but I know that we'll do what we have to. I've killed more for less before. "Crow?"
"Nothing," he says.
I set my jaw.
"Rifles down," I say, "where they can't see them. It has to go smooth. If all goes well we won't need them. If not, on my signal."
I don't spell out what comes next. All I can do now is push on through.
Drake squares his shoulders as we come up the beach road, one hand on the gun at his hip. That's right, I think. You've got the idea.
"Right there," I say to Crow, pointing to a spot on the forecourt alongside the crowd of people, on the other side from their row of neatly parked RVs. Hopefully it'll help shepherd them in that direction.
"Feargal, you're with me," I say without looking at him.
The school bus mounts the sidewalk with a bounce, pulls up to the side and bounces to a stop. Crow swings the handle for the door and I stride out into the hot sunlight with Feargal right behind me.
Here they are up close. Here's Drake, confusion and a little anger on his blunt face. His people stare at me with wide empty eyes. They're dressed in jeans and shorts and T-shirts, caps and sneakers and skirts, but there is something fundamentally gray about them. Even close up like this, though they're not faded or white-eyed, not lurching or biting at the air, they look like the ocean. They look like an empty cup waiting for a charge to fill them, clinging to Drake for comfort.
I hold my arms out to alleviate any worry, focus on Drake, advance a few steps and stop. All our lives may rest on what happens next.
"Tell me this is not the welcome party, Amo," Drake says.
I almost smile.
"The sick person in that RV was my wife," I say, no longer standing on ceremony. The truth and the whole truth will be the only way. "She was having a terrible fit while we spoke, similar to ones we've seen before, when the demons came. It's led me to believe there are demons imminent, right here. Perhaps they were following you across the country, I don't know. When they reach us the body count will be total. Everyone will die. We have to leave right now, all together, if we hope to survive."
The surface emotions ebb from Drake's face as I speak, to be replaced by a steely calm. He studies the school bus, likely counting the number of people aboard, perhaps estimating a casualty count if it comes to that. When I'm done he gazes at me seriously and speaks in a calm, measured tone.
"We'll take our chances. Thank you for the warning. You go if you have to."
Shit.
It's a flat refusal of everything I just said. He doesn't believe the demons are real so he doesn't believe this. Perhaps it looks like a rehearsed maneuver to him, to get his people on the move, get them vulnerable, and- what, take them captive?
"You don't need to ride with us," I say, trying to allay that fear. "You don't even need to follow us, as long as you move. I'll give you a walkie, we can meet up when and if you want on the East coast. We'll need to evacuate to Europe. But we have to go now."
He smiles, uncomfortable now. If he does believe it's a trap, he's not going to buckle now. "Amo, we're fine. You go."
I shake my head. "You're not fine. Unless you're immune to having poison vomited down your throats, you're not fine. If you stay here you'll die."
His expression twists a shade darker. His eyes flick back to the bus, and his tone roughens. "Is that a threat?"
I can't stop, can't pull any punches. "It's a fact. Either you move right now or we find ourselves in the middle of a mass firefight that very few people will survive. I can't let you stay here to be converted."
He glowers.
Then I feel it.
It's a whiff only, a tendril of cold, but it strikes me in my belly despite the heat of the day. It speaks to me of loss and grief, of fallen friends and death, and it curls around my intestines like a serpent seeking warmth. I feel it like a gut-punch but manage not to gasp. What I do is turn, past Feargal who seems unaffected, to see Crow at the wheel.
His eyes have gone wide. Slowly, so slowly it's agonizing, he nods his head.
That's confirmation. That does it. The demons are almost on us. We may have just seconds left.
I turn and smoothly draw my gun, raising it to point directly at Drake's forehead. He doesn't bat an eyelid. There's a rustle from Feargal as he levels his rifle behind me, followed by the crash of breaking glass from the bus as the others stand up and take aim.
Now the wisp of cold is clearer. It's not like Pittsburgh, not the same pure dread as then, because there's a confection of hot and lukewarm notes mixed in, but it's close enough.
"I need you to get in your vehicles and drive," I say. "Right now."
Drake doesn't move. His people don't move. They don't say a thing or even let out a gasp of breath. Nothing happens but for the sea lapping somewhere off to my right, and a bead of sweat trickling down my temple, and the light getting in my eyes.
How long until the demons appear? As soon as they do it'll be too late. I look at Drake and will him to shift on this.
And he does. "All right," he says. His calm matches my exterior calm, though inside my heart is hammering madly. I scan his people in my peripheral vision, but none of them have moved. There are no guns on me. "You've got us. We'll go."
Clearly he thinks he's humoring me, but I don't care as long as he moves.
"Now," I say.
"All right," he says again, and nods. "But two of our RVs are almost out of gas, we'll need to refuel soon. One's overheated; we can't drive it now. We'll follow you, and if you'll let us I'll bring some of my people in your school bus."
I study his eyes. Is this a trick? "No guns," I say.
"No guns," he agrees, "only children, if it sets you at ease."
It does. I nod. "Then let's go."
He turns and speaks to his people. "Into the RVs, we're following Amo. Group three, you're coming with me. Let's move."
The adults and children move with military precision. They don't need to be told twice, and even the younger children move at once, as one. In seconds they're filing into the RVs, the adults moving alongside the children with neither ushering the other, while a handful of the older kids come toward Drake.
It's getting colder by the second. I turn to Feargal, who still has his rifle at his shoulder, and signal to the four others in the windows, who watch dutifully as the children board the bus. Belle and Lindy make some effort to clear broken glass from the seats. I scan the Chinese Theater, up its roof and round its sides. No demons yet.
Then everybody's in, with only Drake, me and Feargal left on the forecourt. I get on the bus first, to give Drake that much respect, and sit in the front right seat by Crow. Drake comes next and hunkers in behind Crow, taking up almost the whole two-seat row with his bulk. Feargal comes last, rifle still aimed at Drake, and Crow shuts the bus door behind him and launches us off.
I look back at the RVs starting up as we pull away; a whole new convoy, a new rush for the East. I count the children with us, seven in total. Each hugs some kind of teddy bear or stuffed horse or dinosaur to their chest. I would have thought these ones were too old for that, but who can say what life Drake's people have known?
"It's getting stronger," says Crow, as we bounce down from the sidewalk and into the road, already hitting thirty.
I grunt because I feel it too, and look to Drake. Maybe I misjudged him earlier. Thank God he saw reason and we didn't have to shoot. He's not looking at me though, he's looking out the back. "I don't see anything," he says. "Where are they, if they're so close?"
&
nbsp; I don't see them either.
The bus tears back along Santa Monica Boulevard, onto Artesia and up to 91. Nobody talks, not even the kids in back. I catch their eyes and they look back at me. There are four girls and three boys, none of them more than nine years old. One of the girls has striking dark hair and I wonder if she's Drake's daughter.
Crow zooms us on. Drake stares only ahead.
I bring my walkie up.
"Josh, we have forty-one survivors with us, including thirty children. Report."
Josh's voice comes back. "Good, we're ready. We're here at Fallout 1. Lara just arrived, with Keeshom and Jack. We're about to leave."
"Hold," I say, and look to Drake. "You said two of your RVs are low on fuel?"
"Less than a quarter tank for one, fumes in the other. We didn't want to stop before arriving at your New LA."
That's a taste of guilt for this poor welcome, which I disregard for now. The perfect host wouldn't pull a gun on his guest. But then saving that guest's life must also count for a lot.
"Wait for us," I tell Josh. "We'll be there in fifteen. If you can have a refueling team ready, diesel for two of our Empire State RVs and the battletank, we can be out in minutes together. Confirm."
"Confirm," he answers. "Did you see them?"
He's talking about the demons. Weirdly it makes me glad that Drake hears that, because I want him to believe me. I don't want him doubting me all along, believing this is some extravagant con to lure his people into a vulnerable position.
"No," I reply. "But both Crow and I feel them. Out."
I clip the walkie back to my belt. Drake is looking at me now.
"You really believe in demons," he says.
I manage an understanding smile, just as the school bus slows down.
"Greg," Crow says by way of explanation, and there's Greg in the road ahead, running flat out. He notices us as we slow and stop beside him. He climbs in panting, and I usher him to go to the back. He stares wide-eyed at Drake, then at the kids, then sits.
We tear away.
"Yes," I say to Drake, trying to walk the line between his reality and mine. "We've fought them before. You've read the comic."
The Last Mayor Box Set Page 127
