ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE
Last State
An Apocalyptic Saga – Book 3
A.D. Popovich
ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE
Last State
An Apocalyptic Saga – Book 3
Copyright © June 2019 by A.D. Popovich
All Rights Reserved
First Edition 2019
License Notes
This book or any portion of this publication may not be reproduced or used in any manner without prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my beautiful grandmother, Gladys Kay Shearer.
She loved to write! It seems the writing bug is hereditary.
Grandma, I so wish you were still here.
I cherish your loving and inspiring energies, which often visit me when I’m venturing to la la land whilst typing away at the keyboard.
. . . Miss you . . .
Books by A.D. Popovich
ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE: An Apocalyptic Saga – Book 1
ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE The Hunger’s Howl: An Apocalyptic Saga – Book 2
ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE Last State: An Apocalyptic Saga – Book 3
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 1
Scarlett Lewis stared at the fairgrounds’ commentator in utter disbelief.
“Tired of staring at the back end of livestock? Folks, we’ve saved the best for last,” the annoying commentator squawked into the mic.
Two men shoved Scarlett and Twila into the center of the fairgrounds’ livestock platform.
“Two fine specimens,” the commentator touted. The mic’s feedback could peel the paint off the green concrete stage.
Scarlett’s head spun. Her heart thudded. And her pulse vibrated with a fury she had never known. The auctioneer took over. His drone chanting reverberated into her soul, warning this was not a lucid dream. It was real. She stole a glance at Twila. The poor child had slipped into her usual semi-catatonic defense mode and stood paralyzed.
They were in serious trouble this time. Creepers she could deal with. Bad guys, she could shoot or outwit or outrun. But with bound hands, Scarlett had absolutely no way to defend herself. Or Twila. It took all her internal shielding to tune out the crowd’s lewd remarks; meanwhile, she racked her brain for a plan. She desperately delved into her inner vision, pleading to the Silver Lady for help. A television screen full of scratchy black-and-white static appeared in her mind. What did she expect? She hadn’t heard from the mysterious Silver Lady since her stay at Boom Town.
Scarlett and Twila had spent ninety days quarantined in a high-security, two-room bunker at an undisclosed location in the state formerly known as Texas. They had been stuck in limbo the past week, victims of Last State’s red tape. It seemed like the government didn’t know what to do with an immigrant woman with a child. After they had suffered through those long, boring, and nerve-racking months, Last State had denied her the right to live in her own country as an unmarried woman. Marriage was mandatory.
As she recalled, Zac had said something about ending up on the auction block if she entered Last State without a husband. She assumed Zac had exaggerated to make his point after she had declined his gracious offer to make her one of . . . his wives. She had been disgusted with his brash suggestion. According to her beliefs, marriage was a sacred union for two. Yet, there they were. For sale. She was dressed in a sheer, gauzy gown that stopped at her thighs with her hair teased like an eighties new wave rocker chick. The attendant prodded her to walk the length of the stage; it felt more like walking the plank.
Scarlett willed in silvery-gold strands of calming light. The strands flowed into her veins, swirling through her body and engulfing every cell with calmness. To her surprise, time abruptly slowed. The auctioneer’s de-humanizing chant decelerated from the indiscernible “Bda-bda-bda” to “One hun-erd. Do I have one twenty? Give me one twenty. One fifty from the man in the ten-gallon hat. One sixty, anyone? I’ve got a one eighty. Thank you, kind sir.” The auctioneer pointed to someone in the crowd, the crowd Scarlett refused to look at for their voiceless thoughts bombarded her like an invisible hailstorm.
An ominous black haze threatened to take over her mind. Swoosh! The crack of a bullwhip stunned Scarlett back to reality, rescuing her from slipping into the same withdrawn state Twila often escaped to during times of danger. Her gauze dress ripped at the shoulder and fell to the left side of her waist. The crowd went berserk. Catcalls and shrill whistles thunder-clapped her ears. She shook her long, black hair until it covered the top half of her exposed breast.
Without thinking, she charged the man with the bullwhip. She caught him off-guard while he bowed to the cheering crowd for his cheap shot. She raised her bound fists over his bowing head and knocked him flat onto his smug face.
The crowd cheered on. But the man with the bullwhip was quick to his feet. He whirled the bullwhip, ready to lash back. Three security guards on the sidelines rushed in, saving her from what surely would have been a painful lash based on the sneer of revenge stuck on his face.
“Ooh wee. We’ve got a lively one. Just came in from the Lost States,” the commentator behind the podium screeched into the mic.
The auctioneer took his cue. “Some lucky sonuvabitch is gonna have a helluva time breaking in this wild filly.”
“Three hundred thousand,” a voice bellowed from the crowd.
A flurry of bids erupted from the crowd. Isn’t this flippin’ great? Her only consolation was Twila wasn’t aware of what was happening. Or was she? Scarlett didn’t always know what occurred when Twila blanked out.
Think! Think! There must be a way out of this mess. There always is.
“Seven fifty. The bid’s at seven fifty. Let’s make it eight. There it is. Thank you, kind sir. Lookin’ for eight fifty.”
The auctioneer’s annoying cadence disrupted her concentration. She had the sudden urge to shoot him in the foot. Auctioning off people like cattle. How can he sleep at night? What had happened to civilized society since the Super Summer flu?
“Two for the price of one! Want that promotion? How about a run for senate in your sector? A wife and child ensure prominent citizen status, which puts one lucky S-O-B on the short-list with the Elites,�
�� the commentator squelched into the defective mic.
Maybe I should shoot the commentator first, she considered.
“Yes, sir! Eight fifty. Going once, going twice. S—”
The whup-whup-whup of a helicopter interrupted the auctioneer. The fairgrounds’ sawdust-covered ground pelted the crowd. Everyone ducked for cover. The helicopter landed in the corral next to the huddled crowd. The auctioneer and commentator were finally at a loss for words. Meanwhile, Scarlett’s head cleared. She envisioned their escape. Either it came to her, or it was wishful thinking. Either way, it provided the inspiration she needed.
A man in a black suit jumped off the white, unmarked helicopter. He ran to the commentator. Several men in white suits sauntered to the front of the crowd, eyeing her with envious pride-of-ownership thoughts.
“Folks, sorry for the interruption. What was the bid at?” the commentator asked the auctioneer, conveniently forgetting the auctioneer had been about to announce “Sold.”
“We’re at eight fifty.” The auctioneer’s tiresome cadence resumed. “Lookin’ for nine hun-erd.”
“Two!” a man with a bullhorn shouted.
The crowd hushed. The overly confident auctioneer seemed a bit taken aback. “Sir, the bid’s at eight hun-erd and fifty thousand.”
“Three,” a man in an expensive tailored suit announced.
“Four!”
The auctioneer was a victim of his own game.
“Five million!”
“What?” Scarlett glanced at the auctioneer. Her own disbelief overshadowed by the auctioneer’s. The bewildered bug-eyed and gaped-mouth expression on his face was hysterical. I guess he never announced five million before.
“Going once. Twice . . . Sold to the man in the fancy white suit for five million in Last State gold.”
The crowd’s roar took over, making it impossible for her to think. The security guards who had saved her from the wrath of the bullwhip escorted her and Twila off the platform. Bystanders shoved their way through the rowdy crowd. But, she witnessed the scene in slow-motion. The hilt of a knife in an unsnapped sheath clipped to a man’s belt caught her eye. She bumped into him, blaming the crowd. And she snatched the knife. The security guards rushed them inside an empty horse stall.
“We don’t have enough manpower if this turns into a free-for-all mob,” the tallest of the guards grumbled.
“I told them we needed to beef up the security on wife-auction days,” the Hispanic guard griped.
Sporadic gunfire added to the chaos.
“We’d better secure the stage. Looks like Artie the Auctioneer could use our help,” the tallest of the guards said. The stall’s iron-barred gate latched shut.
“Hernandez, keep your eye on them.” The other two security guards ran back to the stage.
The escalating argument had erupted into a shouting match over bullhorns and microphones. From what she gathered, the man who had won with eight hundred and fifty before the millionaires had crashed the party wasn’t taking his loss too well. She leaned over the stall’s gate to observe their escape options.
Twila just stood there, swaying. “Twila!” Scarlett shouted, hoping to snap Twila out of her nearly catatonic state.
“I’m okay,” Twila whispered.
Scarlett closed her eyes and searched her inner vision for a way out of there. A blue-striped horse trailer came to mind.
“The blue one.” Twila had apparently tuned into the same frequency.
Rapid gunfire took over. The lone security guard spent more time listening and shouting into his handheld radio than watching them. A maintenance man running by stopped long enough to shout, “Someone just shot the auctioneer.”
Finally, someone she shared sentiments with. She should send a thank you letter to the shooter. The lone guard took off for the stage, and the maintenance man ran toward what looked to be the parking lot. The shouting match continued while others fled in droves. It dawned on her. All it would take was one untimely death. The crowd was one heartbeat away from turning into a huge horde of creepers. Scarlett and Twila had to get out of there.
“This is our chance.” Scarlett wiggled her eyebrows to Twila and revealed the pickpocketed knife she had tied into a fold of the ripped gauze dress while pretending to cover her exposed breast. The guards hadn’t noticed the knife; no, they had been sidetracked by her nakedness. It was a small comfort to know some things hadn’t changed. She hugged the knife’s hilt between her knees and hacked and sawed at the zip tie around her wrists.
“Faster!” Twila rasped while she freed Twila.
Scarlett leaned over the stall’s four-foot-high gate. People were either leaving or engrossed in the battle of the bidders. Scarlett reached over and unlatched the iron gate. Simple as that. No one seemed to notice them. Two stalls down they came to a supply room. Her eyes methodically scanned the narrow room. She grabbed a filthy jumpsuit off the hook next to a workbench of tools. She slipped it on. She snatched a weather-beaten straw hat. But how could she disguise Twila?
She eyed a sack of livestock feed. “Sweetie, can you sit in the bag and hug your knees?” Scarlett’s heart raced with anxiety.
“If you want me to,” Twila said listlessly.
A red warning light flashed in Scarlett’s mind. What? What was wrong?
The chips! RFID chips had been implanted to monitor their vital signs. No doubt they also served as GPS trackers. She pinched the webbed-skin between her thumb and forefinger. With a steady hand, she cut into her skin, squeezing out the chip the size of a grain of rice.
“Be brave. This will pinch a bit.” Scarlett reached for Twila’s hand.
Twila didn’t flinch. Scarlett ripped a strip of gauze from the dress and quickly wrapped it around Twila’s cut. Then, she smashed the chips on the workbench with a horseshoe. It would buy them some time. Apparently, everyone in Last State was chipped. Welcome to the new world.
Scarlett dumped the feed from the burlap sack and then opened it for Twila. “Get in. Quickly.”
Twila sat inside the coarse sack with her knees clutched to her chest. Scarlett set the sack on the workbench and then lugged Twila over her back like a bag of potatoes. And they walked out, blending with the crowd.
The blue horse trailer flashed her inner vision again. But where was it? They approached an area where buyers with worried faces scrambled about, loading trailers with their livestock purchases. They must have realized the volatile situation unfolding. She bustled toward the trailers with her head down.
When she came upon the light-blue and silver horse trailer, she eyed the area. A group had gathered around a rather temperamental bull. They weren’t having much luck loading it, which turned out to be the luck she needed. She turned the corner to the trailer’s opened gate to find a horse inside prancing from side to side. He didn’t appear to be happy.
The bag of potatoes came to life, demanding attention. Twila landed on the ground with a thud.
“I’ll calm him,” was all Twila said.
“Careful.”
Twila climbed into the trailer. Scarlett backed in after her, paying more attention to what was going on outside. She turned around to find Twila nuzzling the horse in a loving head-to-head embrace. Twila the horse whisperer, Scarlett mused. Within seconds, Twila had the handsome black stallion eating out of her hand. They huddled to the end closest to the back of the truck. Scarlett draped the burlap sack over them to disguise them as much as possible.
The back of the trailer slammed shut, startling them. Then the truck’s door opened and closed. The engine started.
“Bud, take a cold one for the road,” a man outside said.
“Great idea. Need to deliver the stud to the Stanwyck’s ranch before sunset.”
“Oh, man, you’re going to the Zhetto. Better take two.”
“My best client. They’re the richest cits west of the Zones,” Bud, the truck driver said.
“They couldn’t pay me to get within a hundred miles of Zoat.”
“Hey, it is what it is. It’s tough making a living in the Zhetto. But I prefer it to a life under constant surveillance in one of the Zones ruled by the Elite’s hypocritical Rule of Law.”
“To each his own. I’ll take a cozy, cramped, twentieth-floor apartment any day as long as it’s zombie-free.”
“I wouldn’t buy into their propaganda,” Bud advised.
“You got that right. It’s the same old B-S just like before, only someone else is in charge now.”
“Thanks for the tip. Give me a shout-out if you see another stellar stud. The same finder’s fee as usual,” Bud said as the truck shifted into gear.
Scarlett and Twila jostled about as the truck drove over the rutted, sawdusted lot. They eyed each other questionably. Waiting. Waiting to see if they made it out of the fairgrounds.
The truck lurched to a stop as did her heart. From her view through the trailer’s window, they had stopped at a gated-off exit. The sign from the overhang was already fading. WARNING: Y-ZONE had been painted over THANK YOU FOR VISITING AMARILLO TRI-STATE FAIRGROUNDS. It gave her the shivers.
“Hey, Bud. You didn’t happen to blow five million on a wife and kid for old man Stanwyck?” an armed soldier wearing military fatigues questioned lightheartedly.
Automatic gunfire interrupted them.
The guard’s radio blasted, “All units RedDead Alert. I repeat, RedDead Alert.”
“Damn, we’re in lockdown. All exits are officially closed,” the armed soldier said.
“What about un-officially?” Bud drawled thick with southern charm. “I’m obviously not an Infected.” There was a long break in the conversation. “I’m on contract to deliver the stud before sunset. Here’s a little something for your trouble.”
“Wouldn’t want to mess with the Stanwycks,” the armed soldier finally responded. “Might get reassigned to Zoat patrol.”
“Thank you much, Sergeant Clemmons. Until next time,” Bud said with finality. The truck’s wheels spun for a moment before they caught traction.
Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 3): Last State Page 1
