Last Freedom

by Kevin Partner

  He was aware that the joy he felt when he saw fear in the eyes of his servant was a sin, but it was surely a small matter to set against what he was achieving here. When the members of the board visited, they would find Ezra to be a thriving example of a small former city of the old days transformed into a model for the future. Crime was almost non-existent and the people—those who survived—were making the transition to the simpler, agrarian life prescribed in the green book. He could clearly see in his mind's eye a civilization free of proscribed technology, free of greed and at one with the planet that had given it birth. It would be a world fit for his children to inherit. He smiled in anticipation as he tried to recall which woman would share his bed tonight.

  Hope was the only stain on his record. And that would soon be amended. Then they would also experience the benefits of this new way of life under a benevolent regime.

  In the meantime, there were still those who, sadly, resisted.

  He glanced up at the tall wooden post that stood outside the hall, and his eyes passed over the ragged corpse that was hanging from it. He was grateful that the warm summer breeze was blowing the stench away.

  He considered himself a fair man. He had warned the daughter what would happen to her mother if she did not hand herself in.

  John Crawford gave a brief shrug as he left the lifeless body of Crystal Hawkins to hang.

  As he passed inside the building, he heard the cawing of crows as they flapped down to continue their feast.

  Chapter 4: Going West

  Sam Hickman looked back from the shoreline to the cottage sitting on a small platform of rock. It always reminded her of Bill and Fleur's cottage from the Harry Potter movies, though she was certainly no Fleur Delacour and Jay no Bill. Perhaps the more appropriate question was which of them was Dobby and which Griphook?

  She smiled to herself, and then swung around to see Margie wading out of the water toward her, pants rolled up to the knees.

  "Are you coming in?" she called. "It's not so cold once you get used to it."

  Sam shook her head, feeling her long brown hair flicking her shoulders. She would have to make a choice soon: let Amanda cut it to its accustomed length or continue her inexorable path toward pioneer farmer's daughter. "Not today. Anyway, you'll only splash me. You always do!"

  Margie's round face broke into a smile. "I'm going back. I bet Mommy's made dinner."

  Sam watched as Margie ran past her, kicking out sideways with her foot to "accidentally" cover the bottom of Sam's jeans with seawater. She envied her friend's ability to inhabit the moment. Right here, right now, she was happy.

  And it was a lovely place. Spaniard's Bay was a small headland on the Pacific Coast and thousands of years of relentless waves had carved the beach out of the leeward side of the limestone cliffs. Their presence here was an instant in geological time and yet she knew they would have to leave soon enough.

  As she left the shore accompanied by the crunching of her boots on gravel, the rhythmic whoosh of the ocean behind her and the wailing gulls above, she gazed at the cottage they'd made their home for the past week.

  Cottage? Shack would be more like it. One of three built on terraces cut along the cliffs, theirs was the only one to survive the night of fire. Peeling duck-egg blue paint revealed graying wood beneath and one of the windows had been smashed at some point. They weren't the first to have lived there, and the previous tenants had stripped the place of supplies, but the interior had been habitable and the view was to die for. Though not literally.

  She followed Margie's sandy footprints up the rock-carved steps and prepared herself to find out which Jay was waiting for her inside.

  He was sitting in the porch and had evidently watched her progress across the beach. His wound had now healed entirely and the only evidence of it was the walking stick and limp. And the fact that his mood could turn on a dime.

  "Hey," he said. "Nice walk?"

  The cane chair creaked as she settled beside him. "Yeah. You should have come."

  His face darkened, and she knew the quarter had landed Washington down.

  "I don't reckon you wanted me slowing you down."

  "Come on, Jay. It's lovely out there and I don't mind going as slow as you like."

  She knew that was the wrong thing to say the instant the words left her mouth.

  He hauled himself out of the chair, wincing as he put weight on his maimed foot and barged past her into the house.

  "You're back then."

  Sam didn't bother looking up, but merely continued scowling at the view of the beach that had offended Jay so much. "I can't say anything without triggering him."

  Amanda slipped into the chair Jay had vacated. "It's been tough for Jay."

  "You don't say?"

  "I'm just suggesting that we all need to be patient."

  Sam sat and stewed.

  It was Amanda who broke the silence. "This reminds me of Long Beach Island. Do you remember? Where we met?"

  "How far away d'you think it is from here?"

  "Three thousand miles, give or take. I've flown from coast to coast many times, though I don't suppose I'll ever do it again, but I never really understood how vast the country is until I was forced to cross it by road."

  Sam leaned back and sighed. "Richie would have loved it here. He'd have taken one of those boats we found and gone fishing."

  "He was a good young man, though I only knew him for a few hours."

  "Yeah." Not for the first time, Sam wondered whether she'd given her heart to the wrong friend. But then, at least Jay was still alive, which was an advantage in a boyfriend.

  "But talking of fishing, I don't think we can put off a supplies run much longer. We're down to our emergency cans and I don't think any of us wants to resort to dog food, do we?"

  Suddenly, Sam was hungry and her face betrayed her.

  "Don't worry," Amanda said, "I've scraped together enough for tonight. Fried cannellini beans on rice. Not exactly haute cuisine, but filling enough. Just don't go lighting any matches in your bedroom tonight."

  Chuckling, Sam went to get up, but stopped as Amanda laid a hand on her knee. "Try to be patient. The old Jay is in there still, I know it. But the injury has made him feel less of a man in every way, and that's tough for him to deal with."

  Sam nodded and followed Amanda into the little kitchen where Margie was stirring the beans.

  "I give it six months and this place will be swallowed up," Jay said as they made their way along a small road on the outskirts of Sebastopol, California. Hedges lined the track and an explosion of midsummer growth was encroaching on both sides.

  "What's that?" Sam said, pointing off to the right as they passed the blackened ruins of a farmhouse. "Orchard or vineyard?"

  Jay shrugged. "Who cares? Apples ain't ready and we can't eat wine grapes, can we?"

  "I tried. They're sour," Sam said. "Slow down, what's that?"

  They passed the rotting remains of a ranch house set back from the road and behind a gate that had trailing vines running along its entire length.

  Jay pulled the car in front of the gates and put it into park. "House is burned."

  "Yeah, but there may be more buildings. It's a big plot. C'mon." And she jumped out before he could protest.

  She ran around the front of the car, then deliberately slowed down in case her speed annoyed Jay, and held the driver's door open so he could clamber out.

  "I can't climb over the gate," he said.

  She let go of his arm. "Firstly, sure you could." She grabbed a handful of bindweed and pulled it away to reveal the latch which she lifted before pushing the gate open. "And secondly, you're lucky you've got a girlfriend with brains."

  He smiled at her and she noticed the moisture in the corners of his eyes before he blinked and wiped them away and limped toward her.

  "Got your gun?" she asked.

  He fished in his pocket, pulled out a small revolver and nodded. "But there's no one here. You can see tha
t."

  "Pays to be careful," she said, and she led him toward the side of the house, boots crunching on the weed-punctured gravel.

  The ranch house was a tangle of blackened timbers and shattered glass. Little charcoal rivers spread out from the foundation where rainfall had begun wiping clean this stain on the landscape. As Jay had said, soon enough you wouldn't be able to tell that the house, with all its memories and significance, had ever been here.

  A field of apple trees formed one side of the house. Some were still in blossom; delicate white blooms that stood in pristine contrast to the ruin that decayed within yards of them.

  "Over there," Sam said, pointing at a small, white building of brick and iron sheet. A tractor stood rusting outside it. She ran toward it, pausing only for a moment to check that she wasn't being watched as she ripped open the door. She could smell it before she saw it. Diesel.

  Jay caught up with her, red faced and puffing, and shone the flashlight into the dark space. There, a barrel with dark blue paint over a rusting surface. He limped over and pushed at the top. "At least half full. How big is this, d'you think?"

  She shrugged. "Dunno, but about as big as the gas tank in the car, so probably enough to fill it."

  Jay felt around the front of the barrel. "There's a tap on the front."

  "Looks like they use this thing," Sam said, holding up a watering can. She cursed. "Got it on my hands. I stink!"

  "I'll go get the car. You check around here in case there's anything else we can use."

  Sam nodded, smiling at him as he limped away.

  She found some tins of sweetcorn and a half-bottle of bourbon in one corner of the hut and was just coming back out into the sunshine when a single gunshot shattered the peace. And then another, and another. "Jay!" she hissed.

  He came into view, limping as quickly as he could. "Run!" he called. "Sam! Run!"

  For a moment she hesitated, drawing the pistol from her pocket. But he wouldn't be running if there was any chance. He must have faced overwhelming numbers and was trying to give her enough warning so she might get away.

  She looked at his reddening face, his eyes wide and his cheeks inflating like balloons. And she ran.

  She darted behind the hut and headed into the field, trying to keep the little building between her and the direction she thought her hunters were coming from.

  Gunfire ripped the air again, then shouts went up. Had they spotted her? She ran into the apple trees, though there was little enough cover among their narrow, gnarly trunks as their branches arched over her head.

  Sam kept running, glancing back every now and again, looking for any sign of movement in the trees behind her. Where was she heading? Out of the field? And then what? The only way out of here was to get back to the car and drive it away, but they'd be watching it, surely? And she'd be abandoning Jay. They'd surely captured or killed him by now.

  She came to a dead halt, her chest heaving as she panted, hands on her knees. But, though her body had stopped, her mind was still scrabbling around the inside of her head like a family of panicking mice. And then it was as if it finally found the true path out of the maze. Sam Hickman straightened up, gripped the revolver with both hands, and turned around, walking toward pursuit rather than away from it.

  Sam caught a glimpse of a black-masked figure as it darted between the trees. Then another. More movement in every direction. They were outflanking her.

  She kneeled at the base of an apple tree and peered around it. Her hands swung around, pulled the trigger and a cry of pain went up. She ran toward it as other voices called. There, lying in the coarse grass that skirted the base of a tree, he squirmed, hand against his shoulder.

  Ripping the mask off, she pressed the revolver against the temple of a young black man whose face was contorted with pain.

  "Get up," she hissed, grabbing him by the shirt as he tried to pull himself to his feet. "You do as I say or I'll blow your head off."

  He nodded, seeing the determination and hatred in her eyes. "Yeah. I will."

  She prodded him back toward the farmhouse. They emerged from the trees and began walking toward the car as she looked left and right for any sign of Jay.

  "Stop!"

  It was a deep, rich voice that was used to obedience. She ignored it and kept moving.

  "Sam Hickman, stop!"

  That halted her. She wrenched her prisoner around, digging her gun into the nape of his neck. There, standing on the edge of the field of apple trees, stood a tall, powerful man wearing a black mask. He held a knife to Jay's throat. Sam could see her boyfriend's face swelling and the blood running down the sides of his mouth as he stood trembling in the grip of his captor.

  But she still had one card to play. "Let Jay go, or I blow his head off!"

  The tall man pulled off his mask one handed and dropped it onto the grass. He was bald, chestnut brown in color and wore a short beard peppered with silver. "Go ahead, kill him."

  She thought she heard her young hostage whisper something. Could it have been "Father"?

  "I am Section Leader Azari. You have ten seconds before I remove this punk's head from his shoulders." He held the serrated blade of the knife to Jay's throat, pulling his head back by the hair. She could hear Jay's panicked breathing as he stood on tiptoes trying to move himself away from the knife.

  "Five, four, three, two …" The blade moved, Jay shrieked and Sam pushed her captive away and dropped her revolver.

  A smile spread across Azari's face and, for a moment, Sam thought he might kill Jay regardless, but he seemed to consider it for a moment before letting go of Jay's hair and pushing him into the arms of another black-masked figure who'd emerged from the trees.

  "That's better," he said. "Now, perhaps we can be a little more civilized. Welcome to the community of Sebastopol. We have need of the young and the strong. You are now under the authority of the Sons of Solomon. Take them away."

  Two soldiers appeared at her shoulder as another shoved Jay toward her. Together, they were bundled into the back of a truck and the last thing Sam saw before the door swung shut was the car they'd arrived in, which had been moved to one side of the gate. And she thought of Margie, paddling in the sea and awaiting her return.

  Chapter 5: The Resistance

  Devon barely recognized Libby Hawkins when he was escorted into the basement currently being used as her headquarters. He and Gert had walked weaponless through an area the Dutchman knew to be watched by her guerillas and they'd been efficiently captured, blindfolded and brought in front of their leader.

  Devon heard her say, "Couldn't stay away, then?" as his mask was removed. She was smiling at Gert as he rubbed his eyes and looked around.

  "Mijn God this place is even worse than the last one. Don't you have any standards?"

  She laughed at that, and the old Libby Hawkins could be glimpsed beneath the grief and grime. Dismissing the man she'd been talking to before they'd arrived, she strode over to Bekmann, put her hand on the back of his neck and tilted his head down so that their mouths met.

  "You have got to be kidding me!" Devon said, as the two of them intertwined, ignoring every other living soul.

  When they finally disentangled, Bekmann glanced at Devon with a sheepish expression. "It isn't quite what it looks like."

  "You utter b—"

  "My friend…"

  Devon jabbed a finger at Bekmann. "No! You don't get to call me a friend. I gave up my only shot at happiness, so you could be reunited with her? Well, you're welcome to each other, but I'm leaving. Maybe I won't be too late."

  "You're not going anywhere," Libby said, nodding to a guard who moved across to block the doorway. She turned to Bekmann. "What's he talking about?"

  The Dutchman shook his head sadly. "He thinks I only came back to see you."

  "And didn't you?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

  "You know why I'm here. I said I would be back with help."

  She nodded in Devon's direction. "An
d he's all you could find?"

  Devon swore under his breath as he seethed.

  "He's trained in counter-terrorism. British police."

  She looked across at him. "Really? You don't sound English."

  "I was born here. Grew up over there. Army brat," he said, rolling his eyes.

  Libby detached herself from Bekmann, walked over to Devon and held out her hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's sometimes difficult to remember that manners and appreciation still matter. You're very welcome here."

  "Though not as welcome as Gert," Devon said, only half joking.

  "Men," she sighed, as if in one word she was summarizing all that was wrong with her universe. "Come."

  She led them into a small room off the main basement that was lit by gas lanterns hanging from the ceiling. It looked as though it had once been a workshop or project room, and Devon imagined an old man bent over the bench fixing a bike or repairing a garden tool. Now, however, it belonged to a young blonde woman who looked as though she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  Libby slumped into an ancient typist's chair which groaned under her. "Pull up a stool," she said.

  "So, what's the latest?" Gert said once they'd settled themselves.

  "Well, we've made a nuisance of ourselves. We lost Beckett last week and Rodriguez two days ago. He got careless on his way back from a raid on one of their patrols. We were lucky they didn't follow him right back here."

  Gert shook his head. "I'm sorry, they were good people. Beckett was a doctor, wasn't she?"

  "Yeah. Worked in the hospital after the firestorm with mother."

  Devon's jaw dropped. "Good grief—tall, short hair? I think I met her."

  Libby nodded. "Not sure what we're going to do without a medic. Oh, and Mom's dead."

  "What? Oh my God." Gert reached out to her, but she shrank away.

  "Crawford said he'd kill her if we didn't surrender. She's hanging from a post outside the old Kingdom Hall. He hanged her slowly, I'm told. Let her choke to death." Libby spoke with a lifeless voice as she slowly shook her head.