La La Land: A Zombie Dystopian Novel (The Last City Series Book 2)

by Logan Keys

  When they’re gone, I scramble over to the hole to scrape away the dirt. “Thomas! Are you okay!”

  He coughs. “Yeah.”

  “How are we going to get you out?”

  “Good question.”

  After I rip the rest of the mesh loose from the trap, we end up tying my scarf to it, then the mesh to a backpack strap, and that strap to another, and another, until finally Thomas has to remove his pants and his shirt and tie those together.

  He tells me to wet it all down so it’s stronger, more able to withstand the weight. I do this, and slowly we get him out with our “rope.”

  Thomas checks the area, seemingly more than happy to be free.

  “Who were they?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” he replies, “but the Authority doesn’t work like this.”

  “They said they were going to attack a town. Something about a girl, and stock.”

  “Yeah.” Thomas makes a face at the pit. “Seemed like nice fellas. Must be great being one of their ‘girls.’”

  I get his meaning, and I swallow, thinking of how close I was to becoming one.

  “I know another way. Let’s get off this road. It was stupid of me to follow the main highway. What was I thinking?”

  “That zombies don’t know how to read a map, maybe?”

  “Yeah, but there aren’t only zombies in the Wilds. Not anymore.”

  As we approach another city, Thomas says this marks the last leg to our destination. We’re still in the desert, but at least it’s progress. He has us post up at the nearest bridge until we’re sure no zombie hordes or people wander nearby. A stream of old vehicles sits below, abandoned now in decayed traffic, like they’ve been forever forced bumper-to-bumper as punishment.

  This place is piled high with rubble; buildings remain purely as concrete hills, shading one side of the street at a time.

  “What happened here?”

  Thomas glances at me strangely before he hops the railing and climbs down the embankment.

  I follow with a sigh. I meant, why are the cars abandoned? What could have possibly happened so quickly?

  Once we’re on the road, he points up ahead to what looks like an ages-old military checkpoint. “The Authority,” he says, “had been getting out the healthy people who wanted to join, all over the country. But so many times people turned, and they were shot, or the Authority simply closed the passage and let nature take its course.”

  “Nature?”

  Then I notice the checkpoint hadn’t been a checkpoint for long — they’d blocked it off, barricaded this road. If they were infected, then “Nature” ended up as people being eaten, or changing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as Thomas lifts a crowbar from a truck bed before wandering around the vehicles to read their bumper stickers.

  “We need guns. Lots and lots of guns.”

  “I remember we couldn’t have guns in Anthem.” This flicker of memory cheers me.

  “You remember Anthem?”

  “Kind of. Not me in Anthem, but like I’ve read a book on it. So many rules: no guns, no color, curfew … that part I recall.”

  “Well, we aren’t in Anthem,” he says, pulling on the lid of the nearest car trunk with the angled end of the crowbar hooked neatly under the metal. “We’re in the Wilds of America now.”

  After it squeals open, Tommy motions me over, and I comply, albeit with my nose in the air, afraid of what he’s found.

  My mouth drops open when I get close. Firepower doesn’t begin to describe the array of weaponry hidden in there. Is that a grenade?

  Thomas cradles the automatic rifle, pets it like a long-lost friend. “God Bless America,” he mutters with reverence.

  -14-

  His perfunctory way of coping with our oblong tent when the storm strikes is more proof that he’s military, or was. The scrap of canvas shielding us from the weather — a freak storm that blew in with a vengeance — is ancient and I expect it to rip clean through. But Thomas anchors it into the earth efficiently and without pride. In mere minutes, he provides us a temporary home like it’s an everyday occurrence despite the howling dust storm.

  “Were you an officer?” I ask over the din before following him inside.

  “No.” Thomas smiles to himself and, pulling out the sleeping bags, adds, “Nor a gentleman.” He laughs, and I don’t get the joke, so he shrugs. “I was a soldier.”

  “That’s what I meant.” I take my sleeping bag from him, my acerbic reply based more upon my own ignorance.

  “Well, an officer is something else,” Thomas says. “Decorated for different reasons. I’m just regular enlisted―or was — and now … I’m boring you.”

  No doubt the light has left my eyes; I’m already starting to sway with drowsiness, my sleeping bag soft beneath my backside, before I revive enough to ask, “So there’s an actual army still?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we will find them if we get to the UG — the Underground?”

  He laughs, and again, I’m missing something. This time, he shakes his head, cutting off the momentary “Ha, ha, Marilyn doesn’t know anything” moment. “Our goal is to stay free, remember?”

  “And starve.” I’m ready to sleep, or eat, or to dream about eating.

  Thomas digs out a can of beans to share, yet I’m barely able to stay awake; tiredness has struck me like never before. After several bites I feel better. Less ignorant and more full. “I don’t mean to complain, I’m sorry.”

  I’m forever making this man smile tonight. He’s lying on his side, facing me, one arm propped up under his dirty cheek, his other hand scratching at his nose.

  “Don’t be,” he says.

  It’s my turn to laugh, until I sigh. “What?” I say. “Don’t be sorry that I’m being rude? Or thankful that you are helping me? No thanks needed, right? Just a soldier’s constitution to take along a straggler with no memory. Some code of honor?”

  I expect another grin, but he grows serious instead, brown eyes hardening to a sharpness I’ve come to recognize. Seems I struck very close to the bone of truth.

  “Listen, Marilyn, the fact that you’re awake and talking is a huge improvement. Back in the bubble, I started to lose which way was up.” He softens again, lines bracketing his mouth. “Plus, I want you by my side. It makes me feel less alone.”

  Even if he’s cautiously holding something back, in this way, he’s giving me the full deck of cards — like an apology.

  And it’s as close to a touching moment as we can get, because we both know guarded will do us one better. Zombies search for people who spend time with niceties. So do humans who trap and collect other humans. The world’s a chainsaw ready to cut us into ribbons, and we can’t be soft.

  -15-

  How Lotte knew I lied about my name is a mystery, but “mystery” and “Lotte” are synonymous.

  If she throws me out, I’ll have to face the Wilds alone. She doesn’t know about Toby and his crew, and neither does she know about the brutal youths, at least not the way I do. Only one other person knows what it was like to be more afraid of the living than of undead.

  I get back to my rooms, back to the one other person, Cara, who stands there, red-eyed and nose running.

  “You look silly for a grown woman,” I say, immediately angered by her terrible sadness. I know what she’ll say, and she’s tried plenty of times. But I’m tired of hearing it. Since when is Cara or Lotte, or even Sara, so perfect?

  “Dallas” — Cara’s voice cracks — “you can’t do this anymore. You know what’ll happen. I don’t want you to have to leave.”

  Part of me wants to hug Cara, my best friend, a girl who’d fought her way deep into my heart. Both of us broken doves, we’d flown into the same window and have been inseparable since. She got to Ironwood the same time as I did. Cara’s tough on the outside, but inside, she’s jello. Her hair’s in a buzz cut, and she chews with her mouth open, but under the dark circles round her eyes and the sm
udges of dirt hides a softly sweet girl.

  “Listen — ”

  She slaps my hand away.

  “Don’t you ‘listen’ me, Dallas. It’s gotta stop. Lotte won’t kick him out, and you know it! She’s far too blind to see Joe’s to blame, and he was here before us. He helped put that stupid sign out front, and he’s her dog who hunts the creeps who get in here. She can’t hold this place together without him. But you — us — we’re dispensable, so just stop, all right? Please. For me?”

  I shove her back, and her shorter, muscular frame trips away from me. I keep on coming like a freight train. “That’s not your right, Cara! It’s not yours to be telling me how to live! It’s none of your damned — ”

  But the words die in my throat. Instead of fighting back, Cara swipes at her face, at her tears, and mumbles sadly, “To keep making me feel like I’m gonna lose you every day … I can’t go on like this.”

  My walls crumble. “Are you crazy? Come on, carebear.” And I hug her tightly. “You won’t ever-ever-ever lose me.”

  Cara halfheartedly shrugs out of my arms. “Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”

  “Listen, I promise, I’ll always be around to call you that, and worse.”

  She doesn’t seem convinced. “Then you’re staying?”

  “Well, no,” I say, but to stop her from arguing, I add, “I’m just going to get some bathwater. I’m glad we wait until we’re ripe and all, but girl, I don’t want to sleep in this house with either of us.”

  Cara giggles, smells under her arms.

  “Exactly,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  I work the pump vigorously. Well water fills my bucket, while a deep timbre fills my soul. “I love seeing you all domestic.”

  That voice melts me, dooms my resolve. I hesitate before I stiffen my spine. “Joe, we gotta talk.”

  I focus on my work, and he curses under his breath. “Dallas, I know about Lotte. You don’t have to worry. Soon enough, we’ll get another group coming in and she’ll need you.”

  “You know what I’m going to say,” I reply. “And she don’t need me; she needs you. She’s made her choice. And” — I look up at him — “so have I.”

  Rejection blossoms in his handsome face. Joe’s not the bad guy, he’s just been hurt more times in his life than most, and being around me, he says, patches up all of those holes. Truth is, though, my holes need patchin’, too.

  Joe reaches for the bucket. “Here, let me carry that.”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  “Come on, don’t be stubborn. I know you’re tough, but let me do something gentlemanly for once.”

  He grabs the bucket and starts walking toward my place.

  “Joe! Give it back. Cara doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Too bad.”

  He turns around with a mischievous look at my growl of frustration. “You want this bucket?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  I cross my arms with a nod.

  He tilts it, splashing some water onto the ground, and I dive for the rest before he can spill it all.

  With a bellowing laugh, he pours more, spinning away from me, this time hitting me on the chest, and I gasp at the freezing liquid that splatters my hot skin.

  “Joe!”

  He laughs harder, joy lighting up his face, making me feel happier than I’ve felt in … forever.

  While I’m distracted, he pours some water over his own head, then shakes the droplets from his dark hair.

  He blinks at me between wet lashes, and my heart turns over. God, why did Joseph Windsor have to belong to someone else? Joe was already striking to say the least. Dripping wet, he’s a girl’s dream come true in this nightmare.

  Entranced, I walk closer, only to be doused with the last of the water.

  Laughing, I yank the bucket away to refill it, and Joe follows me, our play-fighting descending into an awkward silence. I imagine his eyes flashing from joy to narrowed, covetous.

  We stop at the well, when I accidentally bump into him.

  Inches apart, we pause, breathing hard.

  “Joseph?” someone says.

  Together, we pivot to find the angry, blue eyes of his wife, and Cara’s right next to her.

  -16-

  Today, I find us a dirt bike.

  Marilyn eyes it dubiously, and I give her a helmet.

  “Really?” she says.

  “Really.” I nod.

  “We could die, pretty much at any point in time. Safety precautions seem moot.”

  I stand taller, tilt my non-helmeted head. “But if you lived through the accident, you’re already forgetful enough.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  She slaps hers onto her head, while I sit and face forward with a grin.

  I like riding like this, with her on the back, eyes covered by giant sunglasses we’d found … because those trusting eyes are just too much.

  Not because of the zombies.

  Not because maybe LA doesn’t exist.

  But because she expects me to answer all of her questions. And I can’t.

  Since we started this trip, I’ve not seen Daisy, which always means one thing: I’m going to transition. If I do, I’ll hurt Marilyn without even knowing it.

  Or I’ll leave her behind for the zombies, the traps, the crazed humans running amok across the desert.

  I want to tell her, but … I grind my back teeth. Coward.

  Too afraid to reveal what I am, to a girl who’s barely holding together the threads of herself because, what if — What if she realizes I’m a fraud? That I had no business bringing her?

  And what would I say? “Well, the doctor said to protect you, but here’s the thing: I might actually attack you at any given time.”

  I haven’t yet told her what she is. Every time I think about explaining, I push on instead, hoping we get to LA soon so I can make someone else do the hard part. Marilyn’s lucid, but hungry; bright, but missing her identity. And she starves like only one other person I’ve seen. Like she has to eat, or else.

  I’ve known paleness from not eating, and I don’t like it.

  When she grabs the meat pouches over the other types in our packs, my concern grows. But those thoughts I tuck away for later. One thing at a time, Tommy.

  We had to ditch the bike far sooner than I liked. Rust finally loosened into the gasoline after use.

  Marilyn walks straight, and at a good pace, despite the soreness she must feel. Something tells me she has more fight in her than she lets on. She finds an easy stride, lower face covered by a handkerchief, shades on, which are too big and yellow, though her determination is their opposite.

  She stops to struggle with her wild mane for a while before I walk over with a sigh. “Here, let me.”

  Her hands still on the chaos, and after I gently push them aside she patiently accepts my ministrations. I don’t bother with the big knots, just wind the hair into a giant braid down her back.

  She checks my work, feeling with her fingers. “Hmm …”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You must have sisters.”

  “Once upon a time.”

  I back away and smile. Having her hair up accentuates her pointed cheekbones, sharp and high enough to cut, changing her from wildling to girl.

  But the most telling thing about her Special is her eyes. There’s fire inside them. She’s an old soul. Her eyes have seen the other side, have seen blood run.

  “Let’s go. You lead again.”

  I tell myself she can go on, that she’ll be fine.

  I pull on my wraparound glasses, fix my hanky.

  Soon I’ll have to make a decision.

  That’s the bitter end right now … I can’t stay with her.

  -17-

  “A house.” Marilyn points into the distance.

  Like a mirage, a home stands neatly in the sand.

  She wants to stay. I want to stay. We’re close to the Arizona border, and the day
has turned frozen. A frigid desert and tundra. By midnight, snow will fall; it’s promised by the ice glittering the edges of anything wet, and we have no winter clothing. I’ll have to find jackets for us both. And this house … it’s lovely.

  When Marilyn tries the door, it’s locked. She backs away, giving me space to enter first. “Empty, I hope,” I say and pick up a wooden handle by the door before giving it an expert crack.

  “What is that?” she asks.

  “A scythe.”

  “Like the grim reaper?”

  “Yes.”

  “You look handy with it,” she says.

  “I was a farmer. For a time.”

  “You said that. A handy one, then.”

  Her lingo makes me smile. Handy is the word, folks. I settle our things onto the ground, then use the scythe against the door lock. It busts, and we step inside.

  Lying next to the door are more items.

  Marilyn points. “Look!”

  The kitchen’s stockpiled with everything one can think of. They must have been prepared, but had to leave in a hurry. Honestly, this reeks of the Authority, and their helmeted guards showing up to drag the people away. I’d seen it enough. Someone had even locked the door behind them.

  We investigate the area, always listening for shuffled steps in other rooms. So far, it’s silent.

  Marilyn lifts a book. “Philosophy, post-war.”

  I gently touch the desk and the journal that’s been laid open there, avoiding the writing. Privacy: it’s a small gift I can still give. I move on to the photos in frames.

  Marilyn blows off dust from the cover as if she intends to plop down, cross-legged, and read, then decides it can wait when we find more.

  “Their ‘philosophy’ seems to have been weaponry and food,” she says. “Too bad it didn’t save them.”

  “There’s more in Heaven and Earth, than is found in your philosophy.”

  “Huh?”

  “A quote.”

  “Is that the Bible?” Marilyn asks.

  “Hamlet.”

  She cocks her head as if it’s strange I’ve quoted a book, and murmurs, “Feels like I should know that.”

  “Probably did at one point.”