The Last War Series Box Set [Books 1-7]

by Schow, Ryan

  No one said so much as a word.

  He stood once more on steadier legs and was escorted back to his room where he took off his shoes and laid down on his bed. A few minutes later he jumped out of bed, raced to the head and threw up for the better part of fifteen minutes. He threw up and he sobbed and he cursed God and Silicon Valley and his position as Commander in Chief.

  When he was cleaned up, he set his alarm for thirty minutes, then closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. Instead of sleeping, he thought of how he met his wife and he spent the next thirty minutes curled into a fetal position so lost and distant, he started to lose feeling in his body. When the alarm went off, he composed himself, wiped his eyes, then tried to imagine how the hell he was going to pull himself together, let alone run the country.

  He had no idea on how to do that, but he knew he had to try.

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  When we get to the top deck, Quentin and Bailey grab seats on the open air aft bridge with the sun on their skin while I head into the flybridge where Marcus is captaining the yacht.

  “Why are we moving inland?” I ask, unable to relax, even for a second.

  “Before this thing hits the point of no return—”

  “You mean it’s not there yet?” I interrupt, my eyes on the gulf of flames that now define the San Diego shoreline.

  “—we need to round up supplies. We’re talking food, water, medical supplies, gasoline maybe, propane. And weapons. We’re definitely going to need weapons.”

  “I saw a shotgun downstairs,” I say.

  “I’m talking lots of weapons. We need to amass some sort of armory.”

  “You act like we’ll be at this awhile,” I say, a sinking feeling spreading throughout me.

  “We’ll head up the coast, see what we see.”

  “Yeah?”

  “San Diego’s officially a no-go zone.”

  “Why don’t we just ride it out on the yacht? I mean, I feel like a jerk, being on this multimillion dollar boat while everyone else is on shore, fighting for their lives…”

  “Events like this—as much as I hate to say this, for the very reasons you hate being here—it’s survival of the fittest and right now we’re looking pretty fit. But if this lasts, if this is widespread, then whatever we have, including this boat, won’t be enough.”

  “What do we have?” I ask, wondering about his assessment of our situation, since he’s obviously got a longer timeline in mind.

  “We have two hundred gallons of fresh water left, which is a little less than a two month drinking supply if we limit ourselves to a gallon a day each. The food though, that’s going to be a problem. There’s enough for a few people for a week the way it’s looking. But this won’t be over in a week. No way.”

  Thinking of Indigo, grabbing hold of something solid nearby, I try not to completely come apart wondering if she has the survival instincts to ride this thing out. If I let myself start to imagine what’s happening in San Francisco, to Indigo, I know I’ll spiral out of control.

  Either way, no matter what happens, I have to get home.

  I have to.

  “This feels like a coordinated attack,” Marcus says, almost like he’s trying to sort it out in his mind. “And if you say it’s hit San Francisco, too, then we’ve got to start measuring things as a worst case scenario.”

  When I don’t respond, Marcus continues.

  “If these drones are smart, they’ll take out the power grid first. But if they’re looking to insure the biggest loss of life, they’ll keep everyone out in the open and they’ll kill as many people as they can. It’ll be an extermination. And they’ll hunt until all that’s left is to take out the grid. When they do that, they’ll starve out the rest. In either scenario, a lot of people are going to die.”

  “Don’t be so morose, man,” I hear myself saying. “I have a daughter who is caught up in this thing and if I’m going to find a way back to her, it won’t be listening to you telling me how mass death and destruction is inevitable.”

  “And as much as this might hurt your little feelings, Nick,” he says, glancing up at me, “this is six years of experience talking.”

  “You have kids?”

  “I’m sure I do somewhere,” he says, crass, “but none that I know of.”

  “Well I have just one, and I know exactly where she’s at. And it’s not my feelings, it’s my flesh and blood, the only thing that matters to me in this life. Right now she’s scared and alone and she’s stuck in a city that, if it’s anything like this, will eventually fold in on itself, and in on her. So if you want to poke fun at me or taunt me or even try to scare me, go right ahead, but understand that’s all that’s on my mind.”

  Marcus just looks at me, no emotion, no recognition of anything I said.

  Typical soldier.

  Finally I say, “So what’s the timeline, in your estimation?”

  Now he’s back to the land of the living. “Well, let’s put it this way, if we plan on a week and it takes two, you’ll be dead three days before that.”

  “Again with the ray of sunshine,” I mumble.

  The big man’s mood darkens, his eyes changing, hardening, burrowing into me at a soul level. “If you’ve got soft skin, man, then seriously, jump overboard. Because if this is half as bad as I’m afraid it is, then this is a worst case scenario most people won’t survive. I get your internal struggles over the people you might lose and I’m sensitive to that, but I’m not going to cry with you, or hold your hand and tell you everything will be alright. It won’t. No matter which way you look at it, if you want to survive then you might want to trade that skirt in for a pair of big boy pants and a spine because, like I said, this is hell week man, and it may never end.”

  Glancing down at my polo, my pressed sailing shorts and my bleach white dock shoes, I frown, then look back up at him. “First off, these are big boy half-pants and second, I’ve got a spine.”

  “You still look soft,” he grumbles, looking back to the waters ahead, “sailing shorts aside.”

  “Well you sound like a soulless prick,” I say, not caring how I look to him.

  “None of that guarantees we won’t get along,” he says with a slight grin.

  “So what’s the plan?” I ask, a bit begrudgingly.

  “We need to get to shore, see if we can get some food and get back on the boat without getting shot or pulverized.”

  “Not in San Diego though, right? I mean, that part is obvious.”

  “I’m thinking we cautiously drift into Newport Bay, just past Corona Del Mar.”

  “Why there?”

  “Through the binoculars, it looks like it’s already been hit pretty hard, which means it’s getting a lot less drone activity. Inside Newport Bay we can grab a slip and head into either Corona Del Mar, Balboa Peninsula, Balboa Island, or even further inland through Lower Newport Bay.”

  “Won’t that be dangerous?”

  We’ll assess risk levels the closer we get. If it’s not too bad we can head into Upper Newport Bay.”

  “To what point?” Bailey asks, suddenly behind us. God, I didn’t even hear her walk up the stairs. Looking down, she’s barefoot, which explains it. Looking up, catching her eye, I can’t stop thinking she’s pretty hot and if the world wasn’t being turned into a gigantic wasteland, I might have enjoyed a cup of coffee with her.

  “There are homes everywhere,” Marcus says. “Literally everywhere.”

  “What are you suggesting we do when we dock the boat?” Quentin asks, now joining the three of us. “Just go on some giant robbing spree?”

  Marcus gives us all a cursory glance, pauses, then says, “I like to think of it as us going shopping.”

  “Where?” Bailey asks, more cautious. “I mean, how will you know it’s safe?”

  “Again, we make that assessment when we land.”

  “And then?” I ask.

  “First we’re going car shopping, then we’re shopping for guns, ammo, knive
s. When we have that, we’re going grocery shopping.”

  “What’s on the grocery list?” Quentin asks.

  “Perishables, first. Fruits, veggies, stuff like that because once they’re gone, we’ll be on a steady diet of non-perishables. Basically all the unhealthy crap. We’ll be looking for canned goods, packaged goods, anything we can get in bulk like beans, rice, tortillas.”

  “What if we encounter other shoppers who aren’t so nice?” I ask.

  “Great question, Nick. That’s why we have our guns, our ammo and our knives.”

  “So you don’t mind shooting someone over a can of beans?” Bailey asks.

  “I don’t if they want to shoot me first. But guns are reasons to stay away from us. Shooting someone else is a way to live, to protect the group. It’s not a first case scenario. Think of using them as a last case scenario.”

  “Let’s say I want to add someone to the group,” Quentin gently suggests, joining our threesome.

  “No,” Marcus replies, curt.

  “If we have to repopulate the species,” Quentin says, more urgent now, like he’s terrified of hearing Marcus tell him no once more, “Bailey will start with you two—”

  “Are you kidding me?” Bailey snaps, offended.

  Marcus and I merely shake our heads. This only serves to frustrate Marcus further, but me? I’m thinking Quentin might be right.

  “Look, I’m not thinking about sex or anything, not with the end of the world happening a mile away, but there will come a point in time…”

  “No more people,” Marcus echoes.

  “Really?” Nick asks. “Is no one going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

  “I’m not an elephant,” Bailey says.

  “More people means more hands to help,” I explain.

  “And more mouths to feed,” Marcus counters. “Plus, more targets, more chances at betrayal, more reasons for internal strife.”

  “Let’s not mince words, gentleman,” Quentin says. “Bailey is hot as hell and we’re all men, which means one of you gets her and I’m going to need an outlet if she’s not one.”

  Bailey slaps at Quentin, but he ducks fast, avoiding the slap.

  “What, you’re pissed off because we’ve got human nature to contend with? Seriously, stop thinking about just yourself already.”

  “Anyone ever tell you your timing is for crap?” she barks.

  “All the time. I’m just saying, out here in the ocean, there are no people, but if a damsel in distress needs a place to stay and we sort of hit it off—”

  “We’re about to climb into the mouth of hell,” Marcus growls. “We’re going in there armed and ready to kill to survive. I’m not sure there’ll be time for you to make a love connection, let alone speed date your way into some girl’s panties.”

  “Come tell me that when she picks him,” Quentin says to Marcus while casting a glance my way.

  Ignoring him, Marcus says, “Obviously Quentin won’t get a gun. Nick, can you handle yourself with a weapon? We discussed this already, right?”

  “We did, and yes I can.”

  “Shotgun or .357?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Quentin protests, but no one’s listening.

  “Shotgun,” I say.

  “Any last questions from everyone but Quentin?” When no one says anything, Marcus says, “Then it’s settled.”

  “I have a question,” Bailey says. Marcus raises an eyebrow. “Can I go clothes shopping?”

  “If the home we raid has ladies garments that fit your body, then yes, otherwise, it’s too risky being exposed for too long.”

  “Won’t we be raiding multiple homes?” I ask. “I mean, if this thing carries out, and we have the time and the space to safely ‘shop,’ then shouldn’t we shop deep?”

  “Yeah,” Bailey says. “What he’s saying.”

  Turning back to the waters ahead, and to the shoreline, Marcus says, “Let’s pray we’re that lucky.”

  Bailey heads down to the main deck’s bow, plops down sideways on the gray cushions and tilts her head back against the soft ocean breeze.

  I see where she’s at, but I don’t feel much like company because I can’t stop worrying about Indigo, or my own well being for that matter. We’re about to go into a war zone on a daylight breaking and entering mission in a city that’s most likely been devastated beyond measure. If I see the dead, I know it’ll have me thinking of Indigo, and even Margot, my ex-wife, a woman who doesn’t deserve a single ounce of my concern after the bomb she dropped on our family.

  Downstairs, I head to my stateroom, kick off my shoes and lie down. Who knows how long it’ll take to get to Newport Beach? Not long, most likely, but Marcus can scout it out while I grab a quick power nap, and then I’ll be ready to go.

  So I’m lying on my bed, collecting my thoughts and mentally preparing for what we are about to head into when the door opens and Bailey walks in.

  She doesn’t say anything, or even apologize for intruding, she just walks in and flops down on the twin-sized bed across from me.

  Setting aside my jumbled thoughts, I look over at her thinking her manners have something to be desired. Then again, it’s been awhile since I’ve shared the casual company of a woman, and I guess this is as good a time as any.

  “Was your room too big?” I ask, because she’s got the master and my room is a closet with two beds stuffed inside.

  “Too lonely,” she says.

  My eyes drift to the ceiling where they sit until she speaks again.

  “I used to think that I could do alright being alone. And Lord knows our job can be lonely at times, even where there are dozens of people around you. But now that things are…changing, it seems like maybe being alone isn’t so great a thing.”

  “At least you’ve got Marcus and Quentin.”

  She rolls on her side, props her head on her hand and looks at me. I meet her eyes, show her nothing: no interest, no openness, no signs of attraction.

  “Marcus is too intense, Quentin is too…nerdy, but you’re…well, you’re you.”

  “Good news is, I’ve always been me,” I say, deadpan, wondering where any of this is going.

  “Do you have someone in your life?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean a partner?”

  “A business partner?” I ask, being coy.

  “No, dummy. A life partner. Someone you pay bills with, live with, do it with.”

  “I’m a single parent.”

  “By choice?”

  “Everything is a choice,” I say, even though with what happened to me and Indigo, neither of us really had a choice. Unless you consider cutting my wife and Indigo’s mother off a choice, and then yes, technically, we had a choice.

  The way I’m looking at her, pretending to be so dispassionate, so uninterested, I’m thinking a woman like Bailey might be fun for awhile, but she wouldn’t be someone I’d want to have kids with, live with, make a life with.

  Then again, maybe it’s because I don’t know her.

  Who is she?

  Such an interesting train of thought. But no. Our chances for survival are pretty much crap, so any thoughts of long term anything fizzle out. Hell, maybe we’ll all die.

  The thought of your impending death sort of squashes any idea of new love and sex. So now I don’t have to try so hard to not be interested. I’m not. Safety trumps love on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs scale any given day.

  “Well if I had a choice now, I would choose to be with someone,” Bailey says, “but so many of today’s men are a bunch of emasculated soy boys whose idea of a good time involves pot, video games and masturbation as a means of avoiding intimacy.”

  “You trying to say romance is dead?”

  She smiles and nods. It’s a nice smile, an intriguing nod.

  “I’m sure you had no problem getting men to fall for you before all this began.”

  “Most men are intimidated by powerful women.”

  “And are you
a powerful woman?”

  “No, but that’s the air I exude,” she admits. “Especially when I tell them I write romance, which I shouldn’t do. I see how it makes men change. How they think they won’t be able to live up to my expectations in the bedroom.”

  I don’t take the bait because I don’t want to have a conversation like this. Then again, I can see she’s trying to talk about normal stuff because right now nothing is normal and what she needs is to not think about the things she saw.

  “Listen, I’ve love to play get-to-know-you and all, but we’re about to go into that mess and chances are better than not that it’s going to be worse than we’re imagining. So if you don’t mind, either hang out and let me get a quick nap, or give me a bit of privacy and you can do…whatever it is you want to do.”

  Rolling over on her back, she says, “You don’t have to be rude about it.”

  “I thought I was polite,” I say, straight-faced.

  I manage to nod off, catch a good half hour, then wake back up. Bailey is quietly asleep in the bed next to me. I study her, wonder again about the details of her life, who she might be. How in the world did the four of us wind up here? Like this? I don’t really like Quentin, and I’m not sure yet about Marcus, but Bailey…she’s the biggest unknown of all.

  Of course, that’s only because I’d like to get to know her. Seeing a woman like her, a confident woman who is beautiful and capable, I want to be attracted to her. That’s part of how I felt when I first met Margot. But she is not Margot. Maybe she’s a better person, or a worse person. Some girls, they have the loneliest lives, the most private of lives. But in public, you’d never know it the way they put off airs about being the life of the party.

  I suppose time will tell.

  As for me, considering the whole dating scene right now when measured against the idea of mass slaughter, falling cities and a long, bleak future, well that’s got to be a lot like shot-gunning vomit. As in, no thanks.