The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  The blond and the old man exchanged a glance. Councilwoman Pierre tightened her jaw.

  “Even if most people don’t know for sure, there are rumors of what you have here—an armada of airjets and hovercraft. You may be well-defended and protected, but there will come a time when the Sanctuary will be strong enough to take what you have, slaughtering your men, women, and children in the process.

  “You think you’re hidden, but you’re mistaken.” Finn pointed to a red scar on the inside of the wrist of an Asian man in a navy suit jacket, who’d raised his arm to run his fingers through his slicked-back hair. “Some of you have chips. Which means the Sanctuary can track you within a yard of your location. They know exactly where you are. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you, too. And if they don’t, the Hydra virus will. You can only hide for so long, while you lose more and more people you love.”

  There was a murmuring rustle of unease behind them. Senator López folded his hands in front of him on the table, never taking his eyes from Finn, studying him, analyzing him, his expression impassive.

  Councilwoman Pierre held up her hand. The auditorium quieted.

  “Yes, there will be risk. But the risk is worth it.” Finn gazed at each Council member, his face shining, his eyes earnest and filled with warm intensity. “I was shot. We’ve lost people. Good people. But if we do this, I believe it will be worth it. This is a chance to change everything.”

  Willow stared at him, awestruck. She’d never seen him like this, so confident and impassioned.

  “We didn’t come here to bring fear,” Finn said. “We came to bring hope. Our friend Amelia is the cure. She’s with the Sanctuary scientists now. We can stop hiding and start building something worthwhile. The world we want to make for our children and our children’s children.”

  “And the Sanctuary won’t share this cure?” Councilwoman Pierre asked.

  “What do you think?” Willow asked. “You already know they won’t.”

  Finn shifted beside her. “If we’re going to bring the cure to the survivors, if we’re going to save the remnants of humanity, we’re going to have to do it ourselves.”

  “It doesn’t even matter,” said a thin woman in her forties wearing a leather jacket. Diamond studs glinted in her nose. “Even if what you say is true, the Sanctuary missiles will take out our airjets before we get anywhere near their airspace.”

  “The Patriots have a weapon called a Phantom,” Willow said, hoping with all her heart that they’d succeeded. “It’s like a super-strong EMP. They will take the cannons down.”

  Three of the council members bent their heads together and spoke in hushed voices. A bulky, gray-haired man gestured toward Willow. She longed to know what they were saying. Or at least which way they might be leaning. But their expressions were closed, their eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t think you understand,” López said, still skeptical. “We’re not interested in starting a war.”

  “We’re not asking you to start a war,” Finn said. “We’re asking you to help us end it.”

  López leaned in and whispered something in the ear of the woman seated next to him. Then he turned to Councilwoman Pierre. She nodded, her mouth grim.

  “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us,” López said. “The Council will now retire to a private session to consider your words. I cannot give you an answer now, but I can promise you that we will give this proposal the weight and seriousness it deserves. We will speak with each other and the community and get back to you.”

  Willow tried to imitate Amelia’s elegant poise. “Thank you, Council, for your time and consideration.”

  It was out of their hands now, but they’d done their best. Finn had done his best. It had to work.

  As they turned to walk out, Finn flashed her his most endearingly crooked grin. It was all she could do not to grab him and kiss him then and there. Heck, if she weren’t being stared at by hundreds of strangers two hundred feet below the earth’s surface, she would have.

  17

  Gabriel

  Inside the barrel, every sound was stifled, muffled. Gabriel could hear only his own pulse roaring in his ears, his own shallow breathing. His head was folded into his chest, the crick in his neck already aching. His knees were pulled up to his chest.

  It could have been ten minutes or a hundred—he couldn’t have said which. Every second was spent calming himself, preparing for the storm ahead.

  When the truck finally halted and the barrel lid was pried open, Jamal yanked Gabriel to his feet with an undignified grunt. He unfolded his stiff legs even as he went for his gun, already searching for possible threats.

  “Hell of a ride,” Cerberus grumbled, rising clumsily from his own barrel.

  Gabriel ignored him. Adrenaline spiked through his veins. His senses were sharpened, every scent, every color, every movement vivid and vibrant. He jumped out of the truck, stretched his protesting muscles, and scanned his surroundings. They were inside a tunnel hewn out of the mountain on the eastern perimeter of the Sanctuary.

  Eight Coalition soldiers were sprawled on the asphalt in front of the truck, knocked unconscious, but not dead. Their chips would send automatic alerts to Sanctuary command if their vital signals cut out. Two New Patriots wearing Coalition uniforms stood over them.

  “They doubled the guards after our first attack,” Jamal said, “but we had our own men planted. They did their job.”

  Gabriel shifted his gaze down the tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, a line of warehouses and storage facilities blocked his view of the rest of the Sanctuary to the north. Beyond them were various manufacturing plants, and beyond that, acres of greenhouses and solar fields.

  “We go through each of the sectors—they’re spread out like giant rings,” explained Jamal. He lowered the ramp, and two other Patriots released the Phantom from its straps. “Residential is the largest, then business and government. Most of the citizens are attending a mandatory presidential address at Unity Square. General Reid is prepared to attack the southern perimeter within the next few minutes. Coalition soldiers are deployed to defend against our attacks south of the main entrance. The rest are busy securing the square and protecting the president.”

  “This is the best opportunity we’re going to get,” General Reaver said into their comms, her voice deep and throaty. “We’re depending on you.” She paused to cough violently. “The rest of our forces are ready to attack the southern perimeter. Colonel Willis and I are en route in the chopper. As soon as the cannons are neutralized, we’ll be there to provide air assault coverage.”

  “Copy,” Cleo said with a frown. Gabriel could tell she didn’t want her mother anywhere near this battle, especially not while infected, hazmat suit or not. But she would follow her mother’s orders.

  Something dark and swiftly moving snagged the corner of his eye. He crouched, drawing and raising his gun in one fluid movement. “Hostiles to your six!”

  Ten armored drones soared in through the tunnel, their large, metallic bodies bristling with weaponry. Their lifting rotors whirred, red lasers scanning the Patriots, their gun turrets swiveling toward them.

  His heart jolted. A single drone could wipe them out in a spray of bullets or pulse blasts. Their little rebellion would be dead before it even got started.

  Everyone froze.

  Only Cleo seemed unperturbed. She checked the mag on her semiautomatic and popped it back in place. “Baby brother, please tell me that’s you.”

  At the end of the tunnel, a figure in a wheelchair rolled into view. Four others strode beside him—a voluptuous redhead, a gangly, skinny Asian guy in a brown fedora and lime-green coat, and Silas and Micah.

  Gabriel leapt to his feet. Joy, pure and effervescent, burst inside his chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dashed beneath the spinning blades of the drones. He ran to Micah and gathered his brother in a crushing embrace. “Glad to see you’re safe.”

  Micah hugged him fiercely before
stepping back, adjusting his skewed glasses, a boyish grin splitting his face. “You, too.”

  “I missed you,” Gabriel said, meaning so much more than the last few weeks. Micah just smiled, his eyes bright with happiness. Gabriel’s gut tightened. He would give anything to keep his brother this way, kind and loyal and brave—and alive.

  “These are under your control?” Cerberus gestured at the drones, impressed.

  “Under my control, yes,” said the guy in the wheelchair.

  Cleo grinned. “This is Theo, my little brother. Genius hacker extraordinaire.”

  Like Cleo, Theo’s skin was a rich, golden brown. He was broad-chested, with strong muscles bulging through his shoulders and arms, a square jaw, straight nose, and Cleo’s expressive, intelligent eyes. But where Cleo’s face was sharp, suspicious, and cunning, his was open and friendly.

  “I’m only younger by two minutes and thirty-three seconds,” Theo groused, but he was smiling.

  “Every second counts.” Cleo shrugged. “I see you came through with the drones.”

  “I managed to get twelve nighthawks. I know you wanted more, but—”

  “We’ll make do.” She squeezed her brother’s shoulder, her expression softening for the briefest moment. She clearly loved her twin, and from the relieved grin he flashed her, the feeling was mutual.

  Jamal glanced pointedly at his Smartflex. “We need to move to make our reservation.”

  “Is everything good to go on your end?” Cleo asked Theo.

  The skinny guy answered instead. “The platform is rigged and ready.”

  The redheaded girl unzipped the duffle bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a neat pile of gray Coalition uniforms. She handed them out to the Patriots. “I apologize for size discrepancies. It was quite the feat stealing these.” She flashed an impish grin. “But I pulled it off.”

  Cerberus grabbed his with a grunt and disrobed where he stood. So did Jamal and Cleo. One of the Patriots dared to catcall her. She shot him a ferocious glare as she finished buttoning her uniform and strapped her knife sheath around her waist. “Don’t make me cut out your tongue.”

  That quieted him.

  Cleo tilted her head as she listened to someone speaking into her earpiece on a private channel. Her holopad chirped. She looked at it for a moment before shoving it at Gabriel. “Here. Watch this.”

  Like before, a drone floated high above the hills surrounding the Sanctuary. Its feed revealed a squad of Patriots fleeing before the Sanctuary’s battalions. The Patriots’ Humvees raced up the hill, the Sanctuary’s tanks and armored vehicles rampaging up the hill after them. The Patriots crested the hill and fled down the other side, the Sanctuary hot on their heels.

  Gabriel’s gut twisted. “The Sanctuary has the high ground.”

  “And we’ll use that high ground against them,” Cleo said with a wicked smile. “It’s only an advantage until they begin the descent down the other side. Then it becomes their weakness. The hill blocks their scanners. They have no idea we’re well prepared for them. They’re so arrogant they won’t recognize the noose until it tightens around their throats.”

  As they watched, the Sanctuary’s armored vehicles topped the hill and barreled down the other side, jolting over rocks and holes and fallen branches. They were forced to slam on their brakes and swerve around several freshly felled trees.

  Abruptly, the lead Sanctuary Humvee exploded. A second Humvee tilted dangerously to one side, riding up on two wheels, trying unsuccessfully to avoid a direct hit. It smashed into the lead vehicle, crushing them both. Another explosion blew an armored vehicle to pieces. Land mines.

  At the bottom of the hill, several Patriots’ squads hid behind trees and makeshift concrete barriers. They fired RPGs from shoulder-fired rocket launchers up at the oncoming assault.

  The Sanctuary’s soldiers had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They were completely exposed as they hurtled down the hill.

  Two fireballs struck an armored vehicle. Three Coalition soldiers clambered out, hiding behind the opened doors of their smoking vehicles as they returned fire. A rocket launcher shot from the tree line made short work of them.

  Gunfire exploded through the trees, splintering bark and sheering branches from their trunks. Three more enemy tanks went up in billowing clouds of black smoke. The Patriots took out over twenty vehicles in under three minutes.

  “Do you see now why we had to sacrifice ourselves in the first attack?” Cleo asked as she put away the holopad. “The Sanctuary is overconfident. They’re throwing caution to the wind in their eagerness to destroy us. We’re nothing more than cockroaches to stamp out. Well, we just showed them cockroaches can fight back.”

  “Now it’s our turn,” Jamal said.

  “What will you do when the battle starts?” Gabriel asked Theo.

  “We’re not fighters,” Theo said. “There’s an empty apartment complex just off the main strip in Sector 4C. There’s a sixth-floor eastside terrace with a clear line of sight to both Unity Square and the front gates. We’ve set up shop there. We’ll man the nighthawks and offer whatever services we can from a distance. But we’re staying out of the line of fire.” Theo turned to Micah and Silas. “You should too.”

  “We can fight,” Micah said. “I know my way around a gun.”

  “He’s serviceable.” Silas smirked. “I, on the other hand, am excellent.”

  Cleo eyed him. “If your skill set is half as big as your ego—”

  Micah rolled his eyes. “He actually is that good.”

  Jamal finished buttoning his uniform. He gestured at the nighthawks gliding in lazy circles over their heads. “With the uniforms and these puppies, we might just get lucky and keep our cover until we’re near enough to the plasma wall to open fire.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it,” Cleo snapped, striding past. “What are you losers still doing back there?”

  Jamal lifted out the rabbit’s foot attached to his dog tags. He kissed the white fur and slipped it back beneath his Coalition uniform. “You can never have too much luck.”

  “Is there anyone else with you?” Gabriel asked Micah. “Anyone else willing to fight?”

  “We have sixty-seven of our people embedded in the crowd in the square,” Micah said. “That’s where Silas and I will be. With Amelia.”

  “Everyone comes back alive.” Gabriel gripped his brother’s shoulder, wishing he could pull him into one last hug. If he did, he might not be able to let go. “Just us.”

  Micah nodded. The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment. His mouth pressed into a resolute line. “Always.”

  18

  Amelia

  Billowing clouds loomed in the distance, dark and menacing. The sky was stained the dull, colorless gray of ashes. Fat snowflakes swirled in the cold air. The wind whipped Amelia’s hair in her face.

  She’d chosen her own gown for today. It was a simple silk shift of the richest, deepest scarlet. Blood red, for the blood her father had spilled, for the blood he would soon shed. In only a few moments, he would be executed.

  Before her, thousands of people crowded Unity Square, bundled in coats and scarves, hunched against the cold. The people raised their faces, tense, apprehensive, worried. Expectant.

  The capitol loomed behind her, the BioGen complex soaring on its left, city hall on the right. Next to the American flag, the Coalition’s navy-and-silver flag snapped in the wind.

  Amelia stood on an enormous platform raised six feet off the ground, twenty yards in front of the marble steps of the capitol. Government officials, Coalition leaders, advisers, and guards crowded the platform behind her. Four guards flanked her: Harper, Hogan, and two others she didn’t recognize. They were older, grizzled and bearded, with stiff posture and cold eyes.

  Sentries were posted on rooftops surrounding the square. Dozens of soldiers dotted the crowd, concentrated along the perimeter. Drones zoomed silent and menacing overhead.

  To Amelia’s left stood President Slo
ane, flanked by Vera and several security agents, Bale an imposing mountain directly behind her. General Daugherty and General Jeong stood on the president’s left; Perez and Senator Steelman on her right.

  On the far right of the platform, Declan Black knelt between a dozen soldiers, his shoulders slumped, his hands cuffed behind his back. They’d made sure to clean him up. Amelia could barely make out the brutal cuts and bruises that had marred his face only two days ago.

  Amelia dragged her gaze from her father. Not now. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t think about what was coming.

  First, she had to get through the next part. This was too important.

  “It’s time,” Vera mouthed breathlessly, her holopad in one hand as she made a futile attempt to tidy her bun against the wind with her other hand. She smiled, showing all her white teeth. “I’m sure you’ll do great!”

  A hovercam floated in midair. It sank to Amelia’s eye level and hovered a foot in front of her face. The blinking light in the center of its spherical belly indicated it was recording.

  She looked just beyond the hovercam at a hovering teleprompter. The words she was supposed to say had already been prepared for her.

  Her mouth was impossibly dry. Her first word came out like a croak. She cleared her throat, rubbed her palms on the red silk of her dress, and began again. “My name is Amelia Black. I am the first and only known survivor of the Hydra virus.”

  Her voice echoed as invisible speakers amplified the sound until it boomed across the entire square. Her image was echoed a hundred times on every holoscreen within sight. “Together with the Sanctuary’s expert scientists, I am thrilled to announce that we have synthesized both the vaccine and the cure for the Hydra virus.”