The Last City (Book 1): Last City

by Partner, Kevin

  Hick raised his hands above the truck's hood and called out, "I want to talk! I'm not armed!" Very slowly he appeared from around the front of the truck and scanned the loading dock for any sign of their attacker.

  "Just you get right back in that there truck and head on outta here!"

  It was the voice of an old man, Hick was sure of it. A frightened old man holding a shotgun if he was any judge. His heart was hammering on the inside of his chest.

  "We'll pay for anything we take!" he called.

  "With what? Money ain't worth squat no more."

  Every time the man spoke, Hick was able to triangulate his position a little more accurately. He was hiding in the shadows behind one of the burned-out trucks.

  "We've got people to feed. Are you going to let them starve?" Hick spotted movement in the shadows. He hoped he knew what it was.

  "This food don't belong to you, it belongs to Walmart. Now, you got ten seconds to get outta here before me and my boys start shootin'."

  Hick was as sure as sure that the old man didn't have any accomplices. He guessed the poor devil was the only security guard to survive the night everything went to hell. Since then, he'd stuck to his post. A romantic gesture, but Hick had no time for romance.

  "Five, four, three, two—ah!!"

  Hick dropped his hands and smiled. Seconds later, Marlin Cook led a fat old man into the sunlight and down the steps of the loading bay.

  "It ain't yours, I tell you. You can't take it!"

  Hick walked towards the old man, keeping a few steps ahead of Birkett and Brain Sullivan.

  "Now then, my name's Paul Hickman and I'm a councilman from Hope. We got a need for any supplies we can get our hands on and the fact you're so keen to shoot up anyone who comes calling makes me think that you're protecting something. Well, congratulations, you win employee of the month, but I wouldn't count on getting a bonus."

  "This place belongs to Walmart. It ain't yours!"

  Hickman sighed. He could sense the nervous curiosity of his three henchmen. Why was he bothering to talk to the old man? "What's your name, sir?"

  "Stamford Cribbins."

  "And am I addressing a veteran?"

  He stiffened to attention. "Retired sergeant. Three years serving in 'Nam."

  "Then I commend you on your sense of duty. But I have a responsibility to the people of my town. They need feeding. Why not help us? In fact, you could come back and join our community rather than being out here on your own."

  Hickman sensed the loneliness in the man's eyes as he contemplated company. It was a loneliness that stretched back long years before the inferno of a few nights ago.

  "How about it? Show us where the surviving supplies are and you're welcome to join us."

  Cribbins locked eyes with Hickman and saw altogether too much there for his comfort. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hickman, but you ain't got no right to be here, and certainly no business stealin' what don't belong to you."

  Hickman sighed theatrically. "So, you're not going to help us?"

  "Not until I hear word from my superiors. No."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." Hickman raised the shotgun and pumped a 12-gauge slug into the old man's chest. He fell like a stone.

  But Paul Hickman wasn't watching the victim, his eyes were on Marlin Cook.

  After a stunned couple of seconds, Brain Sullivan erupted. "Wowee, boss! You done cut him down like a rat catcher with a baseball bat. Wowee, did you see him fall?"

  Birkett had turned away and gone back to the lead truck so he could pretend he hadn't seen what happened. But Marlin Cook simply looked back at Hickman with a puzzled expression on his face. He'd recovered his composure quickly and seemed to be trying to work out why Hickman had killed the old man. Good, he wasn't letting morality or shock cloud his thinking. Yes, Hickman could mold him. He had true potential. Not like the idiot capering and hollering behind him, or the coward hiding in the truck.

  "I'll bury him," Cook said.

  Hickman nodded, though he noticed that Cook hadn't actually asked him anything. For a brief moment, Paul Hickman felt a little chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

  10: Margie

  Sam watched Richie as he turned to look at where they'd hidden his father's boat. Despite taking their time and riding the incoming tide, the rust bucket had chugged its last chug as a chill early evening swept in from the Atlantic. They'd heaved it ashore and into the space between low, windswept bushes set into a landscape of loose grass and light sand. Frankly, she was glad to be ashore. They'd spent most of the day bobbing up and down in the bay waiting for the tide to turn so they could ride the current south and west until Richie diverted the boat inshore as the fuel tank emptied and the engine began to misfire on the dregs.

  "Well, she did us proud," Sam said, patting her friend on the shoulder as they came out the other side of the bushes and the boat's hiding place vanished. Receiving nothing more than a nod, she continued, "So, where are we?"

  Richie sighed, looked out across the sand, grass and gorse and then pulled the battered atlas out from under his armpit. He carefully turned the wire-bound pages until he found the one he was looking for. "Here's Long Beach Island," he said. "I guess your grandparents' house is somewhere here, and we're here, at the north end."

  "Barnegat Lighthouse?" She said, looking down at the greasy, dog-eared page and then up again at the landscape around them. "I don't see it."

  He swung around, looking to the north. "There it is." A tower of red and white sat on the horizon, pointing back toward New York.

  "How far have we got to walk?"

  He shook his head. "It is a fair way. Ten miles, maybe."

  She breathed out. "Oh, that's not so bad."

  "That's if we can find the house."

  She said nothing. This was her great fear. She hadn't paid much attention when she'd been brought here by her grandparents. And there was the stab of guilt again. She'd barely given them a thought in the days since New York had burned down and yet, standing here, it was easy to imagine that nothing had happened at all.

  Soon enough she could pretend no longer. They'd emerged onto a street lined on both sides with two-story houses—or maybe they were apartments—many of which had once been blue. She could tell this because among the blackened ruins was the occasional scrap of untouched duck-egg paint. Some of the buildings had collapsed into a twisted mess of wood and roof tile, others had lost their upper story and stood like stylized skulls with the dimming sky shining through the gaps where windows had once been.

  Electricity poles lined the street, the melted remains of cables hanging from them like maypole ribbons. The tang of the sea couldn't hide an underlying rotten smell that Sam didn't want to think about too much, and the only movement was in the leaves of the trees and the bits of trash that spun across the road.

  Just about every house had cars outside, all of which had been consumed by the fires that had destroyed their owners. Vehicles littered the road—some neatly lined up in the parking spaces, others strewn at odd angles, as if their owners had been in the act of trying to get away when the flames had overtaken them.

  They were passing the carcass of a Mitsubishi minivan when a voice called out, "Wait, please!"

  Richie swung his baseball as he twisted around.

  "Hey, be careful!" Sam hissed. "You almost took my head off. Look, it's only an old lady."

  The woman halted ten yards from them. "I don't mean any harm. I haven't seen any young people in so long. I began to think that only the … mature had survived." She had a refined Long Island accent and was dressed in an outfit that would have been pretty sophisticated in a Samantha Jones/Sex and the City kind of a way when it had been clean. "Will you come in? Keep your weapon if you wish. I'd like to hear your news."

  Richie looked across at Sam, but she'd already made up her mind and was walking toward the woman. "Sorry I called you an old lady," she said as the woman took her arm. "I'm Sam and this is Richie."

  "Oh,
it's quite alright. I’m not exactly a spring chicken. My name is Amanda. But is your friend coming?"

  Richie remained beside the Mitsubishi, his hands firmly grasping the baseball bat.

  "What are you waiting for?" Sam called back, but he merely stood there and made weird gestures with his head which she finally decoded. She turned to Amanda and with a quick "Excuse me" strode over to Richie.

  "Are you serious?" he said. "After what you just been through with that perv? You wanna go with her? You don't know nothin' about her."

  He was right, of course. Going with Amanda was not the logical choice. "I get it. I can't say why, but I trust her. I got a good feeling. Besides, it's getting dark and maybe she's got somewhere we can stay the night."

  "Yeah, a locked basement. Hey, look out!"

  Sam spun around to see Amanda approaching. She held a snub-nosed revolver in her outstretched hand and Sam stepped back until she was behind Richie, heart racing. Amanda very deliberately flipped the gun and presented the grip to him. "Here, take it."

  "I thought you said you didn't have a weapon," Sam said as her heart steadied.

  "I'm sorry, but I didn't know if I could trust you."

  Richie took the revolver and fumbled until he could open the cylinder. Six bullets. "What made your mind up?"

  "Gut feeling, just like your friend here. I'm a good judge of character and I don't believe you'll do me any harm. But, frankly, I really couldn't care less. As far as I know, I've lost everyone I gave a hoot about and I just want to hear some young voices and have a little youthful company. I can't make you join me, but I can offer you supper and somewhere safe to sleep—or at least as safe as anywhere is now. You can keep the gun either way; you're going to need it wherever you're going."

  Richie regarded her for a moment, puzzled. Then, he shrugged. What the hell. "Thanks."

  They followed Amanda between two singed conifers and along a white gravel drive to a low ranch house set back from the road. "This isn't my house; or, it wasn't. I was out that night, on the beach. Saw and heard everything go to hell up here but decided to watch it from the shore. Smartest thing I ever did. When I came back, my apartment had burned to the ground. Everything I owned, gone. Except for what I was carrying. " Her eyes moistened as she seemed to be seeing her home again, experiencing its loss for a second time. After a moment, she shook her head. "Anyway, then I remembered this place. Been boarded up for a couple of years; something to do with a will. Don't know how, but it escaped, so I've lived here ever since."

  As she opened the door, she called out, "It's okay, Jerry. Just a couple of kids looking for somewhere to stay the night."

  Richie gripped the revolver tight. "I thought you said you were on your own!"

  "No, I didn't. But don't worry—it's only Jerry and Margie. I spotted them just like I spotted you and we stick together. Safer that way."

  Sam glanced across at Richie and shrugged. She wondered if she were still in shock after escaping from that lunatic—or maybe it was the world coming to an end all around her…

  It was dark inside, and the place had a musty smell. Sam sensed movement and, as her eyes adjusted, she saw a thin man with a bald head and tiny, round-rimmed spectacles standing in the kitchen doorway holding a long knife in front of him like a sword.

  "I said it's okay, Jerry. What d'you think you'd be able to do with that knife anyway?"

  The old man mumbled something and shuffled back out of sight.

  Amanda led them into a sitting room at the back of the house. Another woman was lighting candles with a taper. She was much younger and rounder than Amanda and seemed to be handling the little flame as if she were conducting a religious ritual. "Now then, Margie. What did I say about striking matches on your own?"

  "Jerry was here when I started. Then he went."

  Amanda gave a little grunt. "Oh, he went a long time ago, my dear. That's enough now—I think we can all see, and I don't want to have to go foraging for candles any time soon. Or burning the house down. There's been enough of that just lately."

  Sam sat on the lumpy couch and immediately sneezed as she was enveloped in a cloud of dust.

  "I don't think anyone used this house for a long time," Amanda said. "We keep the windows open during the day if it isn't too cold, but we have to shut them about now or freeze to death."

  "Where are you from?" Margie asked.

  Amanda leaned forward and touched her on the knee, but looked at Sam. "This is Margie. She's …"

  "I'm special," Margie said. "That's what Momma says. But she's dead now, and I got a new Momma."

  Sam shifted herself uncomfortably on the couch, unsure what to say. Eventually, she managed, "I'm sorry about your momma."

  "It's okay. I got a new one now. Where are you from?"

  "New York City, Brooklyn."

  That seemed to satisfy Margie because she dug a rag doll from beneath a cushion and began to examine it closely.

  Jerry appeared from the door to the kitchen. "Not much justice in the world if only the old and weak-minded survive, is it?"

  "You shut your mouth," Amanda snapped. "It wasn't gentle souls like Margie that caused all those fires, you can be sure of that."

  The old man mumbled something and then deposited a fine porcelain serving bowl onto the coffee table between them. "Best I could do in a rush. I've only got a twin burner camping stove to cook on." He lifted the lid off and the room filled with a meaty aroma.

  "He's worth keeping around for his cooking alone," Amanda said in a theatrical aside. "Just as well as he's lousy company."

  Jerry sat down between Sam and Margie and began ladling the stew into bowls and handing them around. "Twenty years on a trawler and you soon learn how to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

  Amanda took her bowl and sniffed it. "Although, in this case, I suspect Mr. Heinz had a hand."

  To Sam's astonishment, Jerry roared with laughter. "You got me!"

  "Twenty years on a trawler, my foot," Amanda chuckled.

  Sam wondered whether they'd wandered into a lunatic asylum. But she kind of liked it. Whatever he'd used to cook up the stew, it was delicious. The first decent meal—the first hot food—she'd tasted since the night of the fire.

  Moaning with delight, Richie managed, "Thish tashtes amajing," between mouthfuls.

  "Don't speak with your mouth full," Jerry snapped.

  Richie froze for a moment, but Amanda said, "Don't pay any attention to him. Jerry likes to play the mean old man, but he's a sweetheart, really."

  This was perhaps stretching the point a little too far for Sam, but Richie relaxed, and they all finished their meals without another word.

  As the darkness deepened outside, Sam, Richie, Amanda and Jerry swapped stories, each drawing comfort from their shared nightmare. Margie sat on the floor between the two sofas and played with her dolly in the flickering light of the candle.

  Once they'd exhausted the past, Amanda turned the conversation to the future. "Where are you two heading?"

  Sam, who'd been half dozing, snapped back to consciousness. "Oh, my grandparents had a house in West Creek. My dad will come looking for me there."

  Jerry pounced like a polecat on a vole. "What makes you think the house is still there and not burned to the ground?"

  "Grandpa always disconnected the electrics before locking it up for the winter."

  "So?"

  Sam felt a rush of perverse pleasure. "You haven't worked it out? They attacked the electrical system. Everything connected to the grid exploded."

  Jerry's expression froze, his mouth half open.

  "I told you, you old fool," Amanda said.

  "But … what about the planes? We watched them fall out of the sky. They weren't connected to nothing."

  Sam shook her head. "I don't pretend to have all the answers, but it seems to me anything with a chip in got fried as well. Richie's boat didn't blow up because it's so old. My phone ran out of juice."

  "I threw mine in the bay,"
Richie said. "It was burning my hand."

  Sighing, Jerry's face loosened, his jowls renewing their acquaintance with gravity. He got up and padded over to the other side of the room, returning with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. "Anyone joining me in a toast to the end of the world? Not you, Margie. It's way past Elsa's bedtime."

  Margie kissed her doll, got sleepily to her feet and, after pecking Amanda and Jerry on the cheek, disappeared with a candle into the darkness.

  "Shouldn't someone go with her?" Sam asked, glancing at the guttering candle flame. She'd seen enough fire to last a lifetime.

  "She's perfectly capable, Sam," Amanda said with a touch of warmth. "Margie has Down's Syndrome, she's not a lunatic or a child."

  Sam flushed. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean …"

  "No, I should apologize, not you. I guess I'm overprotective. Strange, really. I've only known Margie for less than a week, but she gets under your skin, you know? And we're all tired, I guess. Perhaps we should get some sleep."

  Richie yawned. "Yeah, I'm fried."

  "Well, you'll have to sleep on the couch, I'm afraid. Jerry, me and Margie all have rooms and there's one for Sam. That is, unless you're a couple?"

  "No!" Richie and Sam shouted simultaneously.

  With a smile, Amanda got to her feet, using Sam's shoulder to steady herself. "In that case, let's be getting you tucked in."

  Clack. Clunk.

  A drawling voice. "Lookie here, Bobby Joe, we got ourselves a genuine family."

  "Well, ain't that the cutest thing you ever did see? It's like they ain't even noticed the end of the world and all. No, old man—don't you go gettin' any ideas. There ain't no polis to call no more."

  Jerry froze as a huge man in a filthy orange prison uniform shambled into the flickering candlelight. He had a shotgun in one hand and hunger in his eyes.

  "Now everyone sit still, 'cept you." He waved the barrel of the gun at Amanda. "You can go with Lem and fix us some food. We's eaten nothin' but pickin's since we got away."