The Last City: A Zombie Dystopian Novel (The Last City Series Book 1)

by Logan Keys

  Sergeant Nolan continues, “You two retards used your voodoo magic bull on my live-fire training mission.”

  We don’t answer. It’s not a question.

  A laugh jumps from Sergeant Nolan’s mouth. It’s almost obscene to witness the man find anything humorous. “Leaders running around like crack pots. I’ve got magneto, here, and some kind of giant, fighting like children, when they’re supposed to be training for war.” He spits into his cup. “Then, the magic hands-with-boobs talks fathead out of going boom-boom-kachue on all of my entry squad. One poor dead idiot, because you two needed to measure your wieners, is that it?”

  Sergeant Nolan doesn’t want to hear anyone’s version of events. Around here, Murphy’s death won’t rank high on the scale of “what the hell,” and UG has already written it off as a casualty of war. They’re not interested in trials, or punishment, or locking up nutty soldiers like Cory.

  “We die a lot nowadays,” Sergeant Nolan says. “And it ain’t pretty.”

  The sergeant grabs his Mountain Dew and chugs, then he tiredly wipes his eyes, and when he looks across the desk again, it’s like he’s another person. “You know, boys . . . I wish I could say this war is gonna be the last, or even that there’ll be a reprieve after we get back to that ol’ hunk of dirt that used to be ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave.’ But the Authority, or the UG, or even stiffies can’t bring back what was ours—not fully. No pressin’ rewind and livin’ like we did. Ain’t no amount of winning here to be had, you get me? Only just not dying.

  “The UG came in with this idea to do more screwing with your bodies, and I don’t understand it—a fightin’ man is what I am. It’s no good that you”—he points at Cory—“can get into people’s heads like they scraped out their brains and fed ‘em to ya with a spoon. Or that you”—he points to me—“turn into something out of a circus freak show. I think you two are no better than the stiffies, if you ask me. I should put a bullet in you both right now.” He pulls out his pistol, closing one eye to sight it on us. “I think if the Man upstairs wanted weirdos like you, he woulda made ‘em.”

  Sergeant Nolan puts his gun down with a sigh, then gets up and walks past his medals and inspirational posters to tip his head at three urns sitting on a shelf. “The scientists was so busy tryna keep everybody alive, like death was the worst thing that could happen, and now look. My healthy wife.” And he flicks the first black urn with a ping, before flicking the other two in kind. “Daughter, and her son—my grandson—Kyle. That boy didn’t know a Sergeant Nolan, he only knew Papa, and he only knew smilin’. That loser boyfriend of hers? . . . well, he’s as stiffie as they come, still wanderin’ around since he cut out on my baby and my baby’s baby. I didn’t even put him out of his misery when I seen him all zombie’d up. Not too long ago, I found him on the same block, up and back again.”

  Sergeant Nolan looks at us suspiciously. “He’d even stopped at his own car to stare through the window like he recognized what’s in there. What do you two smart asses think of that? You think them stiffies are wanderin’ around the same places, like they remember? Like some of us is left in them rotten brains? Sure as hell ain’t gonna be me. You see me stiff up, you put a bullet right here.” He taps his forehead.

  After he moves back to his desk, his face returns to its familiar sneer. “Nah, it’s the scientists who made more death. And here you two are, given these gifts. If you can call ‘em that. And ya squander it, fight each other like two high schoolers. And I suppose that ya are. We’ve had boys before in war, eighteen to nineteen. Now we got thirteen-year-olds who suck blood.” He glares at us. “And if you two want to kick the bucket, then by all means, go ahead and leave the facility. Let the stiffies gnaw your idiot faces off, for all I care. It ain’t right, if you ask me. None of it. Let the stiffies have us, if that’s what they want.”

  “Then why do it? Why train us?” Cory asks, wiping blood from his mouth.

  Sergeant Nolan pushes his tongue into one cheek and eyeballs Cory, making it obvious who he answers to. We don’t rank high enough to get his patronization. “I heard biggie here kicked your ass. That true?”

  Cory swallows with an icy glare.

  I try not to smile. Try.

  Sergeant Nolan puts his hands out to encompass it all—the situation, the place. “Let’s just say I do this out of morbid curiosity, gentleman.”

  — 42 —

  When I get back, I check on Joelle. It’s so tempting to pull her out and hug her, to make sure she’s as alive as when I left. That head game had felt so real, and the charred remains of my dear Jo-Jo keep flashing through my brain. I’m mourning her already, like a piece is missing, when it really isn’t. The heart is a different set of mind.

  It makes me want to try to kill Cory all over again.

  Then, I think of Murphy, and my spine sags.

  Blood on my hands; I’m sticky with it. Killed a brother like Cain, my dad would have said. And same as him, from anger, it controls me ever since they fed it, changed it into an actual thing inside.

  My dad’s voice is crystal clear.

  “You get heated too easy, Tommy. Don’t know how, but it’s gonna bite you back some day. Slow to anger, boy. The Good Book—”

  “I don’t care about the Good Book, Dad! I don’t need a Bible lesson every day of the week! Jeffrey took a shot at me on the field yesterday—it was cheap! I made him pay for it. So what?”

  “You’re bigger than him. Smarter, too. If beating up on Jeffrey no matter how he deserved it don’t make you a bully, I don’t know what will. Son, I know someday this rage you got . . . it’s gonna come alive. Its gonna eat you from the inside out.”

  My face heats as the words cut through the madness like a knife, just like my old man’s always did.

  Funny thing is, though, it was the monster that always made me feel cornered. Because of him, I knew I’d eventually hurt someone without meaning to. I’ve lived with that fear ever since the first experiment. And here, I’ve killed an innocent someone while completely normal and myself, and not the beast. It’s like he’s laughing in my head, hating me, yet loving the taste of epic failure. He likes when I’m off balance, and there are times an echo of thoughts not unlike my own but slightly twisted enter my head even when I’m not transitioned.

  He’s getting smarter.

  I’m tempted to wake Joelle and ask her to watch TV with me. I’d cover the windows for her, maybe pull out my old black-and-white movies that’ll take me back to better times; good old days when guys and gals went on car rides.

  Instead, I decide to try to sleep. She’d just freak if I woke her midday. It screws up her cycle. Afterwards, it takes weeks of day-terrors, with her trapped in there and myself out in the field, unable to help her.

  In the end, I simply crash on my bunk, fully dressed.

  “You must have gotten home early, Tommy. The sun’s down.”

  I wake to find a small, sweet face peering underneath my arm. She looks paler than usual.

  “Go eat, Jo. Wake me up after.”

  I grin into my pillow at the muffled growl she returns, and her quiet movement around the barracks is like a balm to my torn soul, because it means she’s okay.

  When I wake again, it’s to music.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake.” Joelle stands up and yells at the screen, “Sound up!”

  It blares, and I cringe before moving over to the small kitchen, which is really just a coffee pot on milk crates.

  As “Bohemian Rhapsody” echoes through the barracks, I wonder what on earth made her pick Queen.

  Jo-Jo’s jumping on the couch. She’s at her cutest like this. Rarely does she get to leave, so she’ll sometimes turn into an energizer bunny, which is both annoying and sweet. She’s got braids in her hair, and they swing from her crown like black licorice. Pink bubble gum pops between her razor teeth, and her glasses
sit on the very edge of her nose, almost falling off when she leaps and mouths words, pretending to know the song.

  She hates the taste of blood, so gum or mints are never far from our kitchen. But if she doesn’t eat, she gets very “movie vampire.” Ferocious doesn’t even begin to explain it. That’s why she can’t room with anyone else. It scares the other soldiers. Plus, we can’t chance anyone messing with her while she sleeps, or forgets and lets daylight in.

  “Pause!” she yells, and the music cuts out. “Whassup, Tom-Tom?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her pert head tilt begs to differ. “You’re acting stranger than usual. Got that parental face on. Something happened in the field.”

  I open my mouth, but her eyes grow wide. The vampiness gives her some type of third sight, which sometimes makes her far too perceptive, and she’s seeing something on me.

  “Bad,” she says softly, falling down onto the couch to sit. “Real bad.”

  “Nah,” I reply, and swallow the urge to grab her and make sure she’s actually here, not all burned away.

  My eyes sting, while hers do that thing where the black dots narrow until she looks twice her age.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say.

  “Come sit.” She smiles softly, patting the cushion. “We’ll put on one of those stupid shows you like so much, the one where they used to build bikes.”

  I smile, then do as she says.

  She leans against me, and we find a build-a-thon.

  “Did you have a bike?” she asks.

  “Yep. Built a couple, even.”

  “So, then, how come your tattoos aren’t bikes?”

  “You want some popcorn?” I don’t want to talk about anything but the basics tonight. I’m drained.

  “Sure,” she says, dipping her hand in and out of the bucket.

  Munching on cheddar-dusted kernels, I sigh. Tastes like sawdust. I miss the days when my family would make their own kettle corn. I can imagine it now—the smell, and my mom . . .

  Then, I picture Murphy with his blown up head.

  Joelle peers up at me, mouth twisting. “I might not have a heartbeat,” she says, “but I can still have a heart-to-heart, you know.”

  I cringe at the thought. Just with so much death today.

  “I thought you had a heartbeat,” I say, feeling sort of creeped out, though trying not to let it show.

  “No,” she says, looking worried I’ll actually be creeped out.

  “Whoa, it is like you’re dead, then. Can you not be killed?” I ask hopefully.

  “What!” she shouts, and I realize too late I’ve said a terrible thing.

  All after the fact, I see how it sounds.

  “You’re not dead just because of that,” she screeches. “Feel me, Tommy. I’m not even cold! And I walk just like you. I’m not even pale, like the ones on TV.”

  She is, though, pale as a lily in the night, and cold to the touch. But I’m rarely stupid twice.

  Her black eyes blaze, daring me to argue.

  “I know,” I finally reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I was just hoping she’d say she was indestructible. But how to explain it to her, without revealing what happened?

  Joelle’s still miffed. “If that’s all it takes, then you’re dead in the time between your heartbeats, too, you know.”

  She’s caught me off guard with that one, and I laugh.

  She giggles in return at my surprise, then we both crack up at the oddness of the argument.

  But I’m serious again when I ask, “What if I told you that you being dead turns out to be my worst nightmare?”

  Joelle softens with a shrug, though I can tell the question makes things better. She looks back to the show and over the clank of metal, faintly replies, “I’d say ditto.”

  — 43 —

  Kiniva’s not the same self-assured ring leader I’d first met. Instead, this man is anxious, pacing, and without his two dogs or a cigar. “So, have you come to see what’s left of this place?” he asks me.

  “What?”

  I’d talked myself through his guards tonight to ask about using the ring for Jeremy. But now that I’m here, my bravery’s gone missing.

  “The people,” Kiniva says. “They’ve become too afraid. The fights got raided last time, and everyone’s run back into their tidy little holes. What do you want? I don’t have time for girls, or even spirits.”

  “Jeremy Writer needs to speak to the black market. Rumor has it your army’s here now.”

  Kiniva shakes his head. “Those purged ones are psychos. Blowing things up and stealing trains is nice, but they’ve been poisoned. And don’t you think the Authority knew some would get away? They’re waiting for the big bang . . .” He smiles at my surprise. “You thought I didn’t know? And once it goes down, they’ll call their little spiders back to them to turn on everyone who thought they had a chance. Even you.”

  My jaw clenches against the laced truth to his words. “Let him speak, Kiniva. The people can decide for themselves.”

  But he wipes his mouth. “Brave of you to come to me with questions like this, wants. You would have been a great general, you know? If I was to admit my army was here and they’d come to listen, to decide . . . you know they’d never listen to a woman, but you’ve proven to be quite a strategist in the hidden war.”

  “Hidden war?” I’m sure I know what he means, but keeping him talking seems my best bet.

  “People want change, but they don’t see how to make it happen. They tire of being dogs; they’ve obeyed for so long. . . . We leave soon. I’d rather be in the wilds than this fake civilization built on the backs of good people.”

  His easy dismissal of Anthem, of us . . . it triggers something inside of me. “So you and your guns would leave the people here to fend for themselves? They don’t sponsor your entertainment anymore, so you’re no longer interested in a revolution, is that it?”

  I’m surprised by my own vehemence, but not half as much as Kiniva.

  He steps toward me. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “A coward!” I say, and then cover my mouth.

  Kiniva rears back slightly. My voice is shaking, but so is my body. It trembles violently.

  He regains his offense. “I’ll show you a coward!” And he charges forward.

  But even before he reaches me, his eyes blossom with fear. Kiniva’s afraid, I realize. Something has changed his mind. What could a man such as he be so afraid of?

  My words are soft and tinged with worry. “What is it, Señor Kiniva? Tell me.”

  And for some reason, he does. “He wants to purge them all.”

  “Who . . . all?”

  Kiniva turns his back to me. “Everyone.”

  “Reginald? He wants to purge all of the citizens? Why?”

  He gives a sharp nod. Kiniva’s afraid of being drafted for the purge. That’s understandable—and then some.

  “Then let Jeremy speak.”

  “No.” He chops a hand in the air. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  I know I sound desperate, but the cause needs this. “At least hear what he has to say!”

  Kiniva’s already dismissing me.

  My measures go beyond rational. “Do you still have zombies?”

  That makes Kiniva pause. “Yeah. So what?”

  My hand has developed a mind of its own; it falls desperately onto his shoulder. “Another fight,” I say. “Something new to draw in the people. One final hurrah.”

  He doesn’t pull away. “No one cares about the dogs anymore.”

  “No, not the dogs. Between a zombie . . . and a Skull.”

  Kiniva spins back and stares at me for so long without blinking, I’m fidgeting by the time he answers, “Done.” He gr
abs my hand in a shake. “Bring them at the end of the week. You give me a fight on Friday night, and on Saturday the arena is yours. Then everyone will remember that Kiniva left on a high note.”

  The warehouse is almost empty when I leave the room; Kiniva’s last few vendors are packing up.

  I’d just made a bad-bad promise. What was I thinking?

  Across the empty room is just the person I’m looking for: Crystal.

  The man she’s with is facing away, yet somehow his familiarity tingles my memory. Together, they speak quickly and quietly. Then, she eyes me for a moment before saying something that seems to make the man leave. He glances over his shoulder and my heart stutters.

  Pretend Man. I’m almost sure of it.

  But he’s already gliding off.

  “Hey, wait!”

  Crystal steps in front of me when I get to that side of the warehouse. “What are you doing here?” she demands.

  “Wait!” But she blocks me. “How do you know that doctor?” I ask after we do a two-step, back and forth.

  Crystal watches me carefully. “What are you talking about? What doctor?”

  “The man who was just with you. That man over—”

  She moves to the side, and no one but the tattoo artist is there in his booth.

  Crystal crosses her arms, arches a black eyebrow. “You strung out on something?”

  “No. No. I just . . . I need to talk to you anyway. I told Kiniva a Skull would fight a zombie this Friday.”

  “You what!” She laughs, grabbing my arm to steer me away from anyone who might listen. “That’s not going to happen,” she says under her breath.

  “I don’t need an actual Skull to do it.”

  Once we’re alone she says, “Explain.”

  “I just need a mask and maybe some body armor. You guys have guard suits, right?”

  Her eyebrows almost touch her hairline. “For who?”

  “Me.”

  She sniffs. “So you are strung out. Come on, let’s get you some help.”