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

by Schow, Ryan

  Speaking of Tad, when you strip down today’s men, they’re seldom defined by who they are, what their moral compass is or how much good they do in the world. This is the sad truth. Instead, where I’m from, we’re measured by our job, our income, all our precious little things. Times are changing though. When all of these material things are stripped away from Tad, who will he really be? Most likely, he wouldn’t be the man Margot thought.

  That’s my conclusion. My belief.

  Bailey shifts off my chest, sliding down my side a bit, her body fitting nicely into the back of the couch. Would she really leave her fiancée? Come with me if I ask? Do I want to bring her home with me? I do. I really want her to come home with me. But how do I introduce her to Indigo?

  The worry I carry around for my daughter is like an extra piece of luggage. One that’s loaded with bricks rather than clothes. I’m so scared for her. When this finally becomes too much, I feel the warm sting of tears hitting my bloodshot eyes. Boiling over, they trickle down my cheeks and I don’t care. I let them flow. Right then Bailey takes a deep breath, then opens her eyes and looks down at me. She touches my face, feels my sadness.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, brows furrowing.

  “I am.”

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No,” I reply. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Bad dreams?” she asks, yawning and shifting off of me, pulling the blankets around her body like she’s about to head to the bathroom.

  “Something like that,” I answer, wiping my eyes.

  She finally crawls over me, smashing my thigh, almost crushing one of my nuts. She successfully works her way off the couch then shuffles into the nearest bathroom and shuts the door. I can’t help listening to her going pee. The house is small. Intimate.

  When I first met her, I had no idea we would spend this kind of time together, that she would actually draw down my defenses. Or help me set the worst parts of myself free. Yet here we are. Together.

  When she returns, I say, “Your panties are on the floor.”

  “I was about to get them,” she says, working them up while trying to keep the blanket on.

  “I’ve already seen you a few times, you know.”

  “Yes, but there are no waxing centers or estheticians available, so…honestly, I hope you have a thing for seventies porn.”

  I laugh, then she laughs, and then she drops the towel and wiggles her panties back into place before settling down beside me.

  “You can sleep in the bedroom,” I tell her. “I’m just taking first watch.”

  “It’s too lonely in there. Besides, I want to be next to you.”

  Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

  The next morning Marcus and I head into town while the girls make breakfast. It wasn’t our idea, it was theirs. Bailey told me she wanted some time to get to know Corrine. She said they needed some girl time for sure.

  “How do you know she wants girl time with you?” I ask.

  “You wouldn’t get it.”

  “Four sets of eyes are better than two when it comes to a scavenger hunt,” I tell her.

  “She’s been through an ordeal, Nick. She needs this.”

  “We’ve all been through an ideal.”

  “She was raped,” she says to me, and yeah, I get it. I just don’t like thinking about it because it makes me worry about Indigo. Which I’ve now become obsessed with, but not in a good way.

  So Marcus and I set out on foot going from house to house looking for keys. Not to the house, or the family car. We’re looking for keys to a boat.

  Any boat.

  “The houses we choose, you knock and if there’s no answer, I’ll go around back and kick open the door. Or break a window. Or do whatever I have to do to get inside.”

  “Break a window?”

  “Try not to, but yeah,” he says. “Don’t overthink it, just know we have to get in. And be quiet because I’ve already been put on warning earlier.”

  I have a Glock, like Marcus, but I pray I don’t have to use it. The things I did getting us out of The Warden’s prison gave me nightmares. I didn’t use a gun on him, but I would have. I should have. These last couple of days, in the early mornings, as I’m drawing up out of a deeper sleep, I think I hear the sounds of him gurgling to death.

  Wiping my mind of this, I try to focus.

  Bailey said not to be out more than an hour, and this was what Marcus was planning on doing anyway. I think it’s his way of trying to get over the fact that we lost the boat.

  Rather, I lost the boat.

  We hit a couple of homes, head in some Marcus already entered a few days back, then meet up in the street.

  “This seems like a waste of time,” I say.

  “Until it isn’t.”

  Looking up the block, I say, “You were pretty good with that rifle.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did it bother you that you shot all those guys?”

  “No.”

  Now I look at him, scan his face for signs of false bravado and see only a iron-spine soldier. There is no bluster here. The man is a hard shell. No feelings at all.

  “You learn to shoot in the military?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not very conversational, are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You could try,” I hear myself saying. “I mean, if we’re going to spend some time together, you could not be such a cold shoulder all the time.”

  “You want me to be fake?”

  “If it makes you more likeable, and more comfortable to be around, yes.”

  “You really are a girl, aren’t you Nick.”

  “Yes, Marcus, I am.”

  “My father taught me to shoot,” he finally says. “He was a hard nosed son of a bitch. A product of the Marines. He said you’re nothing if you’re not a soulless, heartless killing machine.”

  “He really said that?”

  “Those guys have egos. The guys like my dad, anyway.”

  “You follow in his footsteps?”

  “No,” he says, heading to the next house. “I went into the Army. Found my way into Special Forces.”

  “You wanted to be as tough as him?”

  “You’re terrible at this, Nick.”

  “I’m not a very social person. I mean, for work yeah, but with others? Not so much. Like you, I prefer to keep to myself. But for different reasons entirely.”

  “Well look at this,” he says with a grin, glancing over his shoulder at me, “we might actually have something in common.”

  I huff out a conciliatory breath.

  “When you’re in Special Forces,” he says, “you grow your beard, develop a crappy attitude and basically tell just about anyone you want to suck it.”

  “You really that hateful?” I ask.

  He stops, turns and hits me with those steely eyes, and says, “Yes, Nick. I’m really that hateful.”

  “Why?”

  “Bad upbringing. Always at war with something. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I think…I think there are guys like me who are simply better behind a gun, on foreign soil, living alone on a base in a country that’s always perpetuating chaos and death.”

  He knocks on the front door of the next home, waits.

  We both wait.

  Then, just as he’s about to kick it in, the door opens and a little girl answers. She must be six or seven years old, brown hair brushed thoroughly and held in place with a headband and a bow. She’s wearing a dress and has both light and vibrancy in her eyes. Seeing her, it’s almost sad. I don’t think I’ll see the light in anyone else’s eyes for a long time. Maybe never again.

  “Abigail, you are not to answer the door!” comes the sounds of a younger woman rushing to the door. The woman is frazzled, scared, looking between the two of us and realizing we are going to be a problem.

  Marcus puts a hand up and says, “We didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “What do you want?” she asks. I can se
e it in her eyes, how she wants to shut the front door, but to do so means she’ll have to come toward us and she isn’t terribly anxious to do that by the look of her. She’s waving Abigail over, but the girl isn’t budging.

  “Just going door to door,” he says.

  “Abigail come over her, honey,” she says, panic in her voice.

  “We’re not going to hurt you, or Abigail. We’re as lost in this thing as anyone right now.”

  “You’re the guys with the big truck, right?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “That’s Chester Spoon’s house,” she says. Abigail finally walks over to her. “Go upstairs pumpkin, wait for mommy.”

  We watch the little girl leaving. She turns and waves; Marcus and I wave back. It’s all very civilized.

  “Chester hasn’t come back, ma’am. A lot of people haven’t come back home and we don’t expect them to.”

  “Chester worked in the city. Some kind of lawyer or something. Real uptight, you know?”

  “I know the type,” Marcus says.

  “What can I do for you then? I mean, if you’re not here to rob me or tell me what’s going on…do you know what’s going on?”

  “Drone strikes all along the coast. Not sure why.”

  She looks over at me and says, “Who’s he?”

  “The eye candy,” Marcus grumbles, not an ounce of humor in his voice.

  At first I almost laugh, but then I think about it. How guys like Marcus must absolutely hate guys like me. I have a skater’s frame, uncut hair, a “whatever, bro” type of attitude. Oh, and apparently I get the girls with my good looks. Marcus isn’t unattractive, for a guy; he’s just got a steep air of “go F yourself” he carries around with him 24/7. Except for when I saw him with Corinne. With her, it’s like that hard veil is slipping. Maybe he really is a soft-hearted warrior. Never destined to be a romantic, but a good friend and a protector. The kind of guy you can just crack a cold one and chill with. Am I making a mistake trying to be friends with him? Maybe he’s just a battle axe, a battering ram, a human time bomb. Maybe I’m wanting him to be something he’s not. Maybe he’s not someone anyone wants to be friends with.

  “I haven’t got anything of value,” she says, more confident now.

  “You have Abigail, ma’am. And in case you haven’t figured it out, people without bad intentions like yourself, they stay inside while the cretins and the monsters run the streets. You want to keep the one thing of value to you safe. I suggest you never let her open this front door again. And if you need food or help, just come over to the Spoons and we’ll help you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Is this your house?” I ask.

  “It’s my father’s home. We’re staying with him, but he hasn’t come back yet.”

  “Is he overdue?”

  “Yes.”

  “By how long?” I ask.

  Now her eyes get a bit glossy with tears, like she’s been avoiding this answer. Like she’s been putting it off in her own mind for days and now that she’s having to answer it, reality is setting in hard and fast.

  “A few days,” she admits. “Maybe more.”

  “Did you see him before the city was attacked?”

  “He went down south to visit a girlfriend. My mom passed a few years back. Me and my brother finally convinced him to…see other people. He wasn’t the romantic kind, but he did make some friends.”

  “My mother passed, too,” Marcus says in an unusually sensitive moment.

  “How’d she die?” she asks, wiping her eyes, Nick the eye candy all but forgotten.

  “My father wore her down, broke her soul, and I disappointed her by following close enough to my father’s footsteps to crush the last of her will to live. So maybe we killed her. Maybe she died because there was nothing good for her in this life. That’s what my father told me. I guess I didn’t start to believe it, but now, maybe now I think I’m starting to believe him.”

  The woman who was terrified of us only moments ago goes to Marcus and gives him a hug. He doesn’t ask for it, or really open up to it at first, but she hugs him anyway. Looking on, I can’t help thinking this is either the saddest moment ever or the most uncomfortable.

  “She loved you enough to go,” the woman says. “But she loved herself enough to go, too.”

  I don’t know what that means, or if she’s right. All I know is that Marcus is carrying around some pretty serious demons. If his father really was that bad, and he did truly hate everything and everyone, then Marcus being the way he is makes sense. This has me wondering if maybe I’ve been poking a bear thinking it’s a pup.

  Not smart, Nick.

  When she pulls back, he says, “Thank you for…”

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  “I hope your father comes back,” he offers.

  “He’s gone. I’m sure of it, I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

  “Does he happen to have a boat down at the Marina?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “We’re trying to get off the island,” he says, being truthful.

  “Why?” she asks, her concern shifting.

  “Because of the drones. There’s a good chance they could come back. Or worse. I think it’s not a really good time to be on land.”

  “So you want my dad’s boat?”

  “We want a boat.”

  “Should I get out of here, too?” she asks.

  Shifting his weight on his feet, swallowing hard, he says, “If it’s your boat and you want to get out of here, we could work together. Maybe find a way to help each other, keep you and Abigail safe.”

  She smiles an uncomfortable smile, then says, “Have you been to town? I mean, you said the coast is on fire. Have you seen…other towns and stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  Now she’s hanging on for that miracle we can’t give her, that miracle we won’t give her. In times like this, people need to stick together, but they need to be honest, too. Whatever measures of hope they have for a better future, Marcus taught me these hopes are pretty much futile as long as the drones are still flying.

  Just then one zips overhead. Not a big one, but one that’s moving fast enough we can hear it whirring past.

  “Uh, Marcus?” I say.

  “I heard,” he says turning to me, his expression unchanged.

  “Was that…?” she asks, her expression betraying her.

  This was not a woman who would’ve been able to withstand the kinds of hell we’ve been through. Would she have survived the attack on the conference center? The collapsing hotel? Would she have survived The Warden? Corrine’s ruthless gang of opportunists?

  Probably not.

  She would’ve been a liability. And Marcus made it clear: we’re not taking on liabilities. He didn’t want someone else to care for, someone else to complicate matters or slow him down in the event that he/we needed to run for our lives. Another drone zips by, this one flying lower, slower.

  “Marcus,” I say gently, “I think we have a problem.”

  “We do.”

  Just then four or five drones hover over, strafing the houses with gunfire.

  “Get inside,” Marcus barks at me. “Get them to safety!”

  With that I move inside and close the door, thinking I want to get back to Bailey instead. Marcus is a man of war, though, so I follow his lead. Still, as I’m telling this woman to get her child down with all of us, I’m starting to get pissed off. I don’t know this lady. I don’t know her child.

  But Bailey…

  There’s something between us. She’s right. Maybe it’s because she needs someone like me, and I need someone like her. Maybe we’re destined to be each other’s lifeline.

  “We need to get you somewhere safe,” I say, my mind scrambling because when it comes to the drones, maybe we can survive gunfire, but if they start launching missiles, you can pretty much stick a fork in us because we’d be done.

  When she rushes upstairs after Ab
igail, I pop back out front and search the skies. Down the street a good block, I see the Mack truck. The door’s open; I see Marcus’s legs hanging out. Then he’s running across the street with a long rifle. Jesus in heaven, is he going to try to shoot at them?

  Overhead, the drone activity is increasing. I see a half dozen of them buzzing around. Are there more on the horizon? Dammit, there are!

  Just then, further back on the island, an explosion blows a hole in the early morning silence. The woman is rushing down the stairs with wide, terrified eyes.

  “Get the keys to the boat!” I yell.

  She hustles back into the kitchen, returns with them and that’s when we hear more gunfire coming from outside. But not drone gunfire. This time it’s Marcus doing the shooting.

  I scramble out front, thinking only of getting these two to Bailey. Bailey has her head out front, watching Marcus. Corrine isn’t with her.

  “C’mon,” I say, eyes half focused on the sky and half focused on the distance between myself and Bailey. The woman and her daughter follow on my heels. “Keep up!”

  Marcus’s rifle is bucking now. He’s across the street, on someone’s porch with a big satchel of what looks like beans or rice on a porch rail holding the stock of the rifle. He’s got the weapon pulled in tight, his face close to the rear sight, but not so close that every time he reciprocates the bolt the spent shell catches him in the cheek.

  The gun remains steady through the firing of each round. He doesn’t lower the black rifle, he simply keeps the weapon tucked into his shoulder, throwing the bolt, chambering a new round, lining up the sights and shooting.

  The way he works this weapon stops me for a second.

  I slow in awe, knowing I’m seeing something rare. Something unusual. Marcus is practically robotic as he fires, steady under pressure, a pro. Honestly, the way he’s firing, it’s a thing of beauty. Two drones go down. The woman, her child and I head for the house, but stop when a drone appears from behind us and open fires. A line of sidewalk is ripped up right in front of us. I dive over a short concrete wall into a loose hedge, tucking my body up against the divide. The woman and Abigail barely get behind a grey Jeep Cherokee as the line of fire spits shards of concrete everywhere.