"What do you mean, he looked at you?"
"I don't know!" he shouts gleefully. "But it is not only here! Everywhere. I go out, and it is becoming dawn here now, and I see them. They are in the mountains, there is a house here, and they are trying to talk to me through the glass. Talk, the ocean, Amo, with their mouths! They don't make sound but they are trying. The ocean!"
Tears blur my vision. It's too big. I look at Alan and he nods.
"In their millions," he says. "We've had reports in from half the bunkers; across Asia the mounds are spreading apart. We can see them on satellite. They're not flocking, they're helping each other." He grins hugely. "The world is coming back."
The world is coming back?
I can't think of anything better than that. It feels like a dream, a too-happy ending, but everything is unreal now. It's too big to really understand, so I just open wide and take the biggest bite I can.
Finally, I think. It's what the ocean said as they flooded for Olan Harrison.
Finally we'll be whole again, and in that moment I see that this will be my work going forward. I will be there at every place I can, with popcorn and movies to meet them and greet them and tell them, 'Welcome home.'
"Welcome home," I mutter now. Lara kisses my face. I kiss her back.
"Welcome home," she answers.
The cheer goes up, then we're all saying it, to each other, to the air. Welcome home, welcome home. We hear from Lucas next, then a steady stream of bunkers from around the world check in and we welcome them all, and they welcome us. The line has leveled out, they say. There's no infection anymore, nothing to separate us from the bunkers, so we're all human together again. I look over at my children, and their eyes shine with pride, with hope, with a new inner light.
Welcome home, I tell them. We are all home, now.
END
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thank you for reading The Light! I can't believe we've finished book 9 of this series. Wow. I'm so glad you've come on this journey with me. What a trip. I never knew all the twists and turns it would take, and have been thrilled to discover them. I didn't know Anna was going to die, or exactly what kind of man Olan Harrison would be. The one thing I always knew was the very end – the zombies come back.
That always seemed beautiful to me. Amo's killed a lot of people, or been a party to a lot of killing, but this is a good step toward atonement.
I'd love to hear what you think of this finale – could you please review it on the shop site where you bought it? Reviews from readers like you are the lifeblood of indie authors.
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So what's next? Will we ever return to Amo, Lara and the others for more adventures? The door is definitely open. The world is going to be in some serious disarray, as billions of people come back to life. There'll be psychos. New heroes. It's pretty exciting thinking about all the new adventures there. So, maybe…
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Now, read on for the first chapter of The Saint's Rise, Book 1 of my epic fantasy series.
THE LIGHT - ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sincere thanks as ever to the Ocean Elite: Pam Elmes for reading in less than a day and giving great comments, Debbie Middleton, Walter Scott for excellent suggestions and encouragement, Lee Atherton and Melissa Dykeman-Abourbih.
- Michael
EXTRAS
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- Michael
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael John Grist is a British/American writer who lived in Tokyo, Japan for 11 years and now lives in London, England. He writes science fiction and fantasy as Michael John Grist and real-world thrillers as Mike Grist.
In his Japan days he explored and photographed abandoned places in Japan, such as ruined theme parks, military bases and underground bunkers (see pictures on michaeljohngrist.com). These explorations provide ample inspiration for his fiction.
Christopher Wren (thrillers – as Mike Grist)
1. Saint Justice
2. Monsters
Last Mayor (post-apocalypse)
1. The Last (available in audio)
2. The Lost
3. The Least
4. The Loss
5. The List
6. The Laws
7. The Lash
8. The Lies
9. The Light
Soul Jacker (cyberpunk)
1. Soul Jacker
2. Soul Breaker
3. Soul Killer
Ignifer Cycle (epic fantasy)
1. The Saint's Rise (available in audio)
2. The Rot's War (available in audio)
Short fiction
Cullsman #9 - 9 science fiction stories
Death of East - 9 weird fantasy tales
SAINT JUSTICE - A Christopher Wren Thriller
It takes a cult leader to kill a cult.
SAINT JUSTICE (EXCERPT)
MASON 1
Mason walked along West Pershing Road, South Side Chicago, counting and recounting the pennies in his pocket. One note; a dollar. Pennies worth three dollars. He slipped their cool, coppery discs between his fingers, enjoying the sense of them.
It was quite a haul. He'd sat outside the 47th Street L station with his good sign for days. Being a veteran was true, and the message on the sign that he was hungry was true, but people didn't always help.
You couldn't blame them. Mason often thought about that as he sat there, watching them go by. Business people. Tourists. Mothers. He knew what they saw when they saw him. Some were scared, others frustrated, some got angry. He hated preying on their generosity, but that was life, and it didn't help to dwell on the negatives.
Wendy told him that. Wendy was beautiful inside and out. Of course he didn't deserve her. Really, he knew so little about her. She sketched on the sidewalk with chalks. Sometimes she just had white, other times she had colors, and she drew what was in her heart. Sometimes she'd draw a new sign for him, and on those days he always did better.
He passed the bus stop on South State Street and a gang of youths called out to him. "Hey, privilege, you got cash today?"
They thought calling him 'privilege' was funny, and who was Mason to argue? He did his aw shucks grin and shrug. In high school he'd been the one to draw that weakass attitude out of others; the nerds, the smart kids who couldn't play football or who joined the AV club. His time in the Marines h
ad beaten the bullying out of him, but also left him with shrapnel in his brain.
He couldn't hold down a job now. Sometimes he just jammed up; ended up standing there staring at people. It wasn't safe in a factory, wasn't comfortable for customers when he rode a register. People liked him but it wasn't professional, they explained. He was a liability. They'd tried to put him in housing, but the nightmares had come and he was back in the dark of Kabul, running through the streets with a squad hunting him from the rooftops above.
Screaming got him beaten out of the hostels. He ended up on the street, and at least there he had some kind of peace.
The walls under the freight bridge looked pretty. New graffiti, gang signs probably. Purple was Wendy's favorite color. She'd said that to him and given him her smile. She didn't have a lot of teeth but even her gums were pretty. He didn't need to know about what had happened to her, or where she went when she was away. He just wanted to be the one who waited for her, someone special. He wanted her to be the same for him.
Smiling, he crossed the expressway and went in to the Mobil. The coins felt good in his pocket. He hadn't felt such possibility for so long. Not since high school, maybe. He felt lucky.
"Man, I told you," the man behind the counter said. "You can't come in here, stinking up the place."
"I have money," Mason said.
The guy sighed. He was Mexican, probably, Mason was never sure and didn't want to ask. He had hair slicked forward then back like a toupee. He was always so put upon, and resented Mason or the others coming in.
"You still stink," he said. "I should charge extra."
Mason did his aw shucks grin and nod and pottered over to the window display.
"Hurry it along," the guy said.
That was OK, really. Mason knew the selection backward and forward. He went past the Mobil's window three or four times a day and had the options memorized. Blue and yellow Calla lilies on the left, red posies and wheat stalks in the middle, bunches of red, pink and yellow roses, and then the sweet spot; purple lilacs.
This was the best time for buying, 7pm, just after the evening rush as commuters went home and the streets emptied out. The Mobil got a fresh delivery, probably off-cuts from the florist two blocks north, and sold them cheap to stragglers heading home after a late shift; apology flowers. Mason indulged himself for a moment with thoughts of that future. Wendy at home. Mason coming home late, and buying these exact same flowers. She'd chide him, and give him that beautiful smile, and then they'd eat a microwave meal and curl up on the sofa together to watch American Idol.
"Jesus, pendejo, move it along!"
Mason picked up the lilacs, the best ones without any bits of brown at all. He carried them to the register with pride and laid them down, like a statement.
"The hell you want me to do, man?" the guy said. "Wrap them in a bow?"
"Yes, please."
The guy laughed. Mason didn't get it. Once he'd been sharp as a tack, but not any more. He hadn't done this part before. You couldn't get in the shop long enough to watch somebody buy flowers, so he didn't know how it went.
"Damn, son, we don't wrap. I can give you a bag, that's it, two ninety-nine. Now show me the money."
Mason took a moment to think that through. A lot of words could be hard to unscramble. That was another beauty of Wendy. She always talked slowly to him, but not in a mocking way.
He counted the money onto the desk. He was especially proud of the dollar note. The register guy looked at the money then the flowers, and sighed. "Who are these for, your girlfriend?"
Mason gave him the aw shucks grin. "I hope she will be."
The guy cursed again. "How long you been saving these pennies?"
Mason did a quick calculation. It took probably thirty seconds. He'd made more, but he had to eat. "Seven days. Not counting Saturday. Or Sunday. So nine days?"
"Nine days," the guy muttered, and looked at the money in disgust. For an awful moment Mason thought he was going to take the flowers off the desk, maybe the money too. What would Mason do then? He imagined himself turning tail and walking away. He'd save again. He'd try again.
"Just take the flowers," said the guy. "I been seeing you look at them for a month. Keep the money."
Mason stared at him. He didn't understand. The guy tried again, more gently this time.
"I'm serious. Take the flowers, they're yours. Take the money, get a shower, get some new clothes at the thrift store. Man, you need somebody to take care of you. Maybe this lady."
Mason didn't get it. It was wonderful? He wasn't sure. He took the flowers, then hesitantly, as if it couldn't be real, took the money piece by piece.
"I ain't got all day," said the guy, and bundled the coins up, stuffing them into Mason's hand. "Now beat it before the stink settles in."
Mason walked out, baffled. He walked along the sidewalk trying to figure it out. The gang in the theater goods lot cat-called him, as usual, and he thought they might come take the money, or maybe they'd call the police on him for taking the money himself? Neither thing happened.
He had the money, and he had the flowers. It was strange.
The bridge was just ahead. Mason put the flowers behind his back and headed under. His friends lay spread out either side, cramped by the railings. They weren't all friends, of course, but he knew them. Jimmy had been Coast Guard, and often told them stories about his time hunting a big white whale. Laverne had been in some Hollywood movies, or so she said. Most of them were quiet and kept to themselves. There was a poker game, some nights, and drinking.
Mason had a cardboard den. In it were all his worldly belongings; a sweaty old sleeping bag, a change of clothes for the winter, one left foot Nike, in great condition when he'd found it on the street but kind of mangy-looking now. He was holding out hope for the day he found the right foot to match it.
He saw Wendy across the way. He checked the flowers were behind his back and climbed over the railing, starting toward her. She saw him and smiled; so pretty. She had old eyes, old skin too where bad times had caught her, but there was joy there as well. Together they'd be whole.
Then something happened.
A big truck pulled up at the far side of the bridge tunnel, turning a jack knife so tight that the front fender scraped off the bridge corner. It grew darker under the bridge, as the trailer cut off the late summer light.
Mason stopped in his tracks, watching as a door in the side of the trailer opened up. Figures poured out dressed in black, wearing helmets and carrying rifles with thick muzzles. Mason didn't know what to think. Was this about the money? He reached into his pocket, then something hit him in the chest, high up. He reeled slightly, and looked. There was a silver pipe sticking out of his shoulder.
What?
He felt foggier than usual. He tried to squirm free. He'd fallen and not noticed. Where were the flowers? He rolled and saw them crushed underneath his body. No. He looked the other way, back toward the gang and the Mobil, but there was another black truck there too with more figures pouring out, shooting silver darts from their rifles.
Mason tried to call out to them, to explain that the money had been a gift, but he coudn't get the words out. Instead he just watched as the figures ran through the settlement under the bridge, ripping open tents and beating the people within. There were screams but Mason could barely hear them because a train was going by overhead, booming as ever.
He looked for Wendy. Despite the sudden numbness in his head, he was growing frantic. He saw her running. He tried to get up and help her, to protect her like he'd promised himself he would so many times, but he couldn't move. His whole body was jammed. Then a silver dart hit her back and she fell. One of the figures picked her up easily.
His vision went gray.
The team went through the camp picking up bodies. One large man had Jimmy on one shoulder and an old guy whose name Mason could never remember on the other. Moments later Mason was lofted too, and carried into the dark truck.
; The door slammed shut. It felt like a lifetime but couldn't have been more than two or three minutes, entirely covered by the noise of the train rushing overhead. The flowers were crushed. He felt the vehicle pulling away as if nothing had happened at all, though he knew something had happened. He began to cry, but quietly.
Wendy had been taken to the other truck. He remembered that as his last thought, as the drugs finally carried him down into the dark.
Wendy was gone.
1. VIKINGS
Christopher Wren slumped at the wheel of his leased Jeep Wrangler, looking at the still tableau of the bikers' bar set against the purplish Utah night. Red and white neon in the window announced Budweiser, King of Beers. An air conditioning flap clicked repetitively like a high, strange pulse, next to the single red dot of a functioning CCTV. Stars wheeled lazily above, insects burred and clicked, and in back the red tracer rounds of receding cars sped by on I-70.
Wren squeezed the bridge of his nose. He'd been driving for weeks, on interstate highways when the mood took him, on dirt roads through little desert towns when it didn't, through forests and canyons and empty American plains, looking for something he hadn't yet found. There was a fog in his head that wouldn't clear, that time and distance couldn't shake. Perhaps this place was what he needed.
The Brazen Hussy.
The bar's name shone with a yellow backlight. Ten large black bikes were parked neatly out front like dutiful hounds. He knew the makes and the plates, some Harley and some Triumphs, and in the fuzzy halogen glow of the bar's one security light, he registered the gang decal on their tail fins; a blue skull with blond dreads and a hammer of Thor.
The Last Mayor Box Set Page 218
