The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  Gabriel hesitated, then thrust the instrument toward him. “You should give it to her.”

  “Why? You found it.”

  “She wouldn’t want it from me.”

  Micah just stared at him.

  A pained expression crossed Gabriel’s face. “I don’t want this tainted for her in any way, you know? It’s the one thing she loves. It’ll be better if you do it.”

  Micah took the violin, wrapped it in an extra sweater, and tucked it gently into his pack. “Thanks.”

  Before he zipped his pack, he took out his copy of Jack London’s The Call of the Wild. He felt like the dog, Buck, thrust from the life he knew and hurled into a harsh, brutal world where danger lurked everywhere, every moment filled with peril. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang. Was that the world they lived in now, where morality was a handicap? Where the struggle to survive meant only the ruthless survived, the ones willing to kill before they were killed first?

  “What’s that for?” Gabriel asked.

  Micah smoothed the pages and placed it on top of the sleeping bag. He didn’t believe that. He wouldn’t. They were humans, not animals. “We took something. In case anyone comes back, we should leave something in return. Otherwise, it feels like stealing.”

  “You and your books,” Gabriel said, his voice suddenly gruff. He cleared his throat. “This store is cleared. Let’s go check the next one.”

  They moved carefully, always alert, clearing each store, checking each new section of clothing racks, shoe, purse, SmartFlex displays, and jewelry counters. In one department store, dozens of mannequins had been knocked down, their molded heads bashed in.

  When they were finished, Jericho gestured to them from the first-floor atrium. In the center of the mall was a tall open area featuring a zero-grav zone play area for kids. Three stories of balconies were connected by slim escalators crisscrossing each other.

  “We’re sleeping in the furniture store called Fieldwell’s,” he called up to them. “Enough sofas for everyone. I’ve already instructed everyone else, but if things go sideways, first rally point is Peachtree Suites, a smaller hotel located ten blocks behind the Westin Peachtree Plaza.”

  Micah nodded. He remembered passing the glittering, cylindrical skyscraper. Every time they bunked down for the night, Jericho always gave them an emergency rendezvous point, just in case.

  By the time they reached the furniture store, the sky had darkened. The drizzling rain had turned into a downpour, battering the roof above them with a steady roar. Outside, the wind howled.

  Celeste sauntered in at the same time, her face contorting in disgust as she took in their surroundings. She smoothed her hair as she jutted her lower lip. “We’re staying here? The decor is so…common.”

  Silas shot her a withering stare. “I apologize if the accommodations aren’t up to your standards. Would you rather have the presidential suite? How else may we serve you? Turn-down service? A chocolate on your pillow, m’lady?”

  Celeste snorted. “Oh, go to hell.”

  “I think we’re already there, princess,” Silas drawled, smirking.

  Celeste sighed extravagantly and flopped onto the closest leather sofa, her arm over her face. “I just want one night in a real sleep pod. Is that too much to ask?”

  Micah ignored their squabbling and moved further into the room. Fieldwell’s was an enormous, rectangular building with an airy, three-story ceiling. Clusters of fancy furniture formed sections with narrow marble pathways snaking between them. The entire back wall featured retrofit SmartHome features.

  He picked up a digital brochure, somehow still working after all this time. It hadn’t even been four months, he realized with a jolt.

  He turned the brochure over in his hands. The words ‘Imagine Yourself Home’ glittered across the front flap. There was a scanner to scan customers’ SmartFlexes so the giant holo ports on either side of the display table could project your own avatar—pulled from your own stored photos—maybe of you waking up and stretching to a refreshing sunrise over a glittering ocean, or of you lounging with smart, sophisticated friends, a cocktail in your hand, a beatific smile on your flawless face.

  In newer buildings designed within the last few decades, every aspect—floors, walls, ceilings, appliances, entertainment systems—was carefully calibrated to the homeowner’s preference. Visual, auditory, and sensory entertainment in every room of the house, at your fingertips or voice command. The shades raised automatically when the user sat up in bed, the coffee already percolating, the food printer hidden discreetly within the fridge busy scrambling reconstituted eggs and spitting out perfectly browned toast.

  The SmartHome ordered groceries before you needed it, automated its own maintenance, self-cleaned, scheduled transports for morning and evening pick-up and drop-off, and coordinated your outfits with the SmartCloset add-on.

  What the SmartHome couldn’t do, the included service bot could, also customized to any preference—blonde or brunette, male or female, black or Asian or Latino. All of which so disturbed him, he threw the brochure on the floor like it were on fire.

  Only the wealthy elites could afford any of this. The studio apartment Micah had shared with a friend before joining Gabriel on the Grand Voyager was dull and dingy, no matter how many times he’d scrubbed everything until his fingers were raw. The ceiling leaked. The power sputtered on and off, and in the summers the heat was overwhelming, the ancient, groaning air conditioner unable to keep up.

  He wandered through the maze of furniture. The sofas boasted discreet fingerprint identifier pads, the posh cushions calibrated to individual comfort preferences—thick or thin, dense or feather-bed soft. He couldn’t help thinking of Goldilocks.

  But this world of glitz and glamour was over now. The Hydra virus didn’t care how rich you were or who your parents were. It didn’t care whether you were barely scraping by, half-starved, or the owner of three private jets. It destroyed everything and everyone in its path.

  Well, not everyone. They were still here. He felt the weight of the violin in his pack and smiled to himself. Someway, somehow, they would create the world anew. They would start with people, not things. And they would do a better job this time.

  Micah found Amelia heating pouches of pasta over a small gas stove they’d found in their scavenging a few days ago. She’d placed the stove on top of a cut-crystal coffee table worth more than a year’s wages on the Grand Voyager. It seemed fitting, somehow.

  She tucked a short, ragged tendril of hair behind her ear as she looked up at him. Shadows smudged the fragile skin beneath her eyes. “Hey.”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  She hesitated, as if debating whether to tell him the truth. She pressed her fingers over the bridge of her nose and winced. “Headache. I’m hoping it won’t turn into a migraine. I’d be pretty useless for a while.”

  He swung the pack from his back and squatted next to her. He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat nervously. “I can’t make it go away, but I do have this.”

  She gasped when he pulled out the violin. She tugged her mask down and grinned at him in delight. “Where in the world did you get it?”

  For half a second, he debated whether to tell her that he’d found it. The way she was looking at him, her tired eyes shining, her face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy—it did something to his insides.

  His heart beat a little harder in his chest. He wanted her to keep looking at him. He could gaze at her forever.

  But he couldn’t lie. And she was stronger than Gabriel gave her credit for. She didn’t need protecting, not like that. He bit the inside of his cheeks. “Gabriel found it and thought of you.”

  Her smile dimmed, but only slightly. “He asked you to give it to me instead.”

  He nodded.

  She ran her hands along the delicate neck, the curved body, each individual string. She sighed and held it against her chest, her eyes cl
osing in pleasure. “When I was sick, I thought I’d never get to play again. Thank you.”

  “Thank Gabriel.”

  She opened her eyes. “I will. But I can thank you if I want to.”

  He flushed, his cheeks warming. “Will you play for us?”

  Around them, people were setting up their sleeping quarters, cleaning and checking weapons, and scrounging up cans, pouches, and tins for dinner.

  “What about noise?”

  Micah pointed up. The rain pounded the roof. The wind shrieked and moaned. “No one will be out in this. The rain will drown out the sound. You should play.”

  A slow, delighted grin spread across her face. “Okay, I will.”

  Amelia drew the bow across the strings. The first exquisite notes floated through the air, flowing over him, around him, through him. The song was sensuous, dark, and soulful. He recognized it but didn't know the composer—Dvorak or Tchaikovsky?

  The tension in Amelia’s jaw and around her eyes faded as she played. She closed her eyes, lost in the concentration of her art, her fingers moving with a beautiful fluidity and grace.

  He couldn’t take his gaze off her. His heart filled with a contentment like he hadn’t felt since before the Grand Voyager. This was peace. This was everything right and beautiful and good.

  The music swelled through the room, deep and sonorous and lilting. It was a song full of hope and dreams and love and every good thing that inspired people to feel, that made them human.

  It was a song to break the world. It was a song to remake it again.

  9

  Amelia

  For the next two hours, Amelia played movements from Brahms’ Sonata Number 3, Bartok’s Concerto Number 2, and Shostakovich’s Concerto No. 1 in A Minor. Her fingers trailed the violin’s delicate stem, the chipped and battered wood.

  The greatest violins were temperamental, moody and high strung as a human being. This one was old and cheap. It wasn’t her 18th-century Guarneri, but she didn’t care. She coaxed out the notes, the sound sliding from the strings bright and vibrant and full and more beautiful than she could stand.

  The headache was building behind her eyes, but she refused to let it steal her pleasure. She refused to worry about migraines and seizures. For the first time in months, she was doing what she was meant to, what she was born for.

  She switched to Bach's Chaconne from Partita No. 2 in D Minor, her favorite piece. She swept the bow across the strings and focused on the music until it flowed through every inch of her, filling her up, thrumming through her fingertips. Until there was nothing else. Her music filled the room, trembling in sweet and bitter tones.

  It was too easy to forget that there was anything but chaos and violence and fear and death. They were all survivors, though they were dirty and exhausted and traumatized. But there was more, so much more. Life was more.

  They could find it again. They would reach the Sanctuary. They would reach safety. They would find a place for music and beauty and love.

  It existed. She knew it in her heart and soul.

  Amelia opened her eyes as the last haunting note faded. It was completely dark except for the glow emanating from the SmartFlex Micah had set up for her. The rest of the group had fallen into exhausted sleep as soon as their bodies hit the cushioned sofas.

  Willow and Finn had pulled two sofas together, sharing the cushions with Benjie nestled between them. Celeste had a leather couch as far from Horne as she could get. Micah was still reading by flashlight.

  Jericho took first watch at the main mall entrance. Silas took the west exit, which opened up to another shopping plaza, the one with the sporting goods store and the dead, burning bodies.

  Gabriel guarded the south exit leading to a massive parking lot. To the left of the south exit were the bathrooms, a suite of administrative offices, and a steel door connecting the store to a large storage warehouse full of plastic-wrapped furniture waiting to be delivered.

  Amelia tucked the violin inside a cashmere sweater she’d found in one of the designer boutiques. She should sleep. She was bone-weary, but her dreams were still capricious, treacherous things. There were nights that Kane still haunted her—his awful hands scrabbling over her skin, his beady eyes and bristling, leering grin. She’d wake thrashing and moaning, horror-stricken, weak and terrified all over again.

  It wasn’t every night, or even every other night anymore. Slowly, inexorably, she was ridding herself of him. He held no power over her anymore, dead or alive. Soon, she wouldn’t dream of him at all.

  She sighed and made her way to the bathrooms in the darkness, using the blue glow from her SmartFlex for light. It had rained so much, Jericho’s solar charger was nearly useless. Her SmartFlex battery would be drained by tomorrow.

  She tried to tell herself she didn’t care. But still, there was something comforting about the blue glow of the interface, the time and date features that still worked even though little else did. It was 10:15 p.m. on Wednesday, December 13th. As if that made a difference. But somehow, it still mattered.

  “Watch your step.” Gabriel’s voice came out of the darkness, just as she narrowly avoided scraping her shin against an end table jutting awkwardly into the walkway between furniture groupings.

  Gabriel flicked on his battery-operated flashlight and lit her way. She paused outside the bathroom doors. The storm had stopped, though only the faintest light filtered through the south exit’s glass doors on her right.

  Thick clouds covered the stars. The empty parking lot and a few barren trees glimmered wetly. “Do you think it will freeze tonight?”

  “It will soon enough.”

  Pain pressed against the backs of her eyelids. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, willing it to go away. She hoped it wasn’t a migraine, but at least they were in a safe place, for now. But a migraine wasn’t the worst thing.

  When would the next seizure come? Would she feel a warning, or would it bear down on her like a roaring train? How much damage would it do? What parts of herself would it steal? Her memories? Her ability to walk and run? Her music?

  “Is something wrong?” The kindness in his voice brought another kind of pain, a sharp twist deep in her soul.

  “I’m fine.” She could barely see his face, only the outline of his features, his eyes a pale glisten in the dark. Her stomach tightened against her will. “Thank you for the violin,” she said quietly.

  Gabriel sighed. “My brother, the truth-teller. I should have known.”

  Amelia smiled tightly, though he couldn’t see it. “He’s consistent, you have to give him that.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  They fell into an uneasy silence. Could he hear the rapid, unsteady beat of her heart? This was the first time they’d really been alone since the Grand Voyager. A rush of memories flooded her. She nearly staggered beneath their weight.

  A flicker of pain pulsed beneath her eyes. She sucked in her breath, her vision wavering. She swayed slightly.

  “Hey. You okay?” He reached out and steadied her.

  His hand brushed the bare skin of her wrist, sending a cascade of sparks through her. She sucked in her breath and pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, taking a step back. He sounded earnest, his voice full of remorse. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  She rubbed her arm. “It’s—it’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry, you know,” he said suddenly. His words came out in a rush. “I’m sorry for everything. I know you probably don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me. But every second of every day, I think about what I did to you. It must be hard for you to be near me, after what I did…”

  She stiffened. She hadn’t planned to have this conversation now. She wasn’t prepared. She felt exposed, vulnerable. “What do you expect me to say?”

  “You don’t have to say anything. This isn’t easy for me…” He cleared his throat. “I’m probably saying it all wrong.”<
br />
  A flare of anger flashed through her. It made no sense, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t wanted to speak to him, so why did she suddenly feel such ire that it had taken him so long to speak to her? “It’s been months. You could’ve said something earlier.”

  She felt his shrug. “I was a prisoner in handcuffs. You were dying of the Hydra virus. It wasn’t a good time.”

  She laughed. It was sharp-edged and painful, but it was still a laugh. The darkness surrounding them felt freeing somehow. Like they were in a world apart. Like she could say anything, finally speak the words she’d been thinking for months. “I forgave you for being a terrorist, you know. But once you knew the truth…”

  “I know,” he said, his voice thick.

  “You betrayed me.”

  She waited for him to make an excuse, to claim brainwashing or that Simeon had forced him to give her up, to diminish what he’d done in some way. It was Kane and Simeon who did the real damage, who were the real monsters…but he’d said none of those things.

  “You took a chance on me,” he said instead. “You trusted me. We—we had a moment. More than that. What I felt for you, that was real. That’s what I need you to know. I didn’t fake it. Not—not any of it.”

  Emotions roiled inside her. Tears sparked the backs of her eyelids. It was a good thing, hearing him say it. He knew what he’d done. How much he’d hurt her. Her heart still felt like a ball of fire inside her chest. “Okay,” she managed.

  Her eye adjusted to the darkness. She could make out his arms flexing as he curled his hands into fists at his sides. “It’s not okay. It wasn’t then and it never will be. I took your trust and shattered it into a thousand pieces.”

  “You did.” She lifted her chin. She held the words on her tongue carefully, like they might break in her mouth. “You broke my trust, but you didn’t break me.”

  He was so close she could hear his breathing, the hitch in his chest. Heat radiated from his skin. Her heart beat faster.