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

by Logan Keys

  “Nolan’s sending us out. Tomorrow.”

  I scan the document in confusion. “Where?”

  “America.”

  I blink up at him, then search the paper again to see he’s correct. “No way.”

  “Yep. It’s time to take it back. We move out at zero six hundred to do a go-see mission for the bigger forces. It’s now or never, bro.”

  I chug my drink in a daze, and the fiery liquid burns a hole in my gut. “How long are we staying?” I ask, wiping a hand across my mouth, forgetting just how much I hate the guy sitting next to me.

  Cory’s gone pale. He drinks his beer before looking at me with a flash of fear. “For good,” he says. “We don’t come back. We win, or die trying.”

  For a moment, I chew on my cheek, considering this, then pull out my money. On my way out, I tuck it into the waitress’s apron, numbly ignoring Cory’s calls at my back. My emotions are a swirl of alcohol and excitement mixed with dread.

  I don my hat and stumble out into the rain. The sky’s a dark purple. Sweden: purple, and not America’s orange. My dream had somehow heralded this news.

  Strange, but that’s how it feels.

  For the last two years, I’ve only been able to imagine the big orange sky.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  I’m going home.

  — 48 —

  Jeremy’s in the alleyway outside of Kiniva’s ring where we met that first night. For twenty long minutes, he’s paced and mumbled his speech in practice.

  “It’s great that Kiniva’s letting me do this,” he’d said, and I’d acted surprised.

  Crystal hadn’t given me away, not even then.

  She’s watched me carefully tonight, but after throwing me out of a side door after I’d won the match, she’d not mentioned it again.

  Tonight’s it. Our last chance to get reinforcements for the Skulls and their big plan. Kiniva’s army is here, too. I’ve seen them with their guns and berets standing along one wall while the Skulls are lined up against the opposite. There are too many of them to count, and the place is full to its limit with people from all walks of life. Even a few plastics from the Upper Side are in there, frozen faces watching the ring as eagerly as their fake skin will allow.

  Some scoff at the idea of them being here. To me, it’s the biggest sign of hope for change.

  Pretend Man is nowhere to be seen and I haven’t had time to ask Crystal about him again.

  Jeremy’s got both of my hands in his, now. The dark alleyway makes things intimate, but my throat’s too dry to even wish him luck. Hard to concentrate with him rubbing the insides of my wrists with his thumbs.

  In this cramped, hot space, with barely inches between us, I’m trying to see the voice of the revolution standing across from me. What I’m not doing is imagining. He likes me, sure, but it’s a “passing fancy,” as my mother would say.

  I have no thoughts of what it would be like if I were just a girl and Jeremy were just a boy who didn’t have the weight of the world on their shoulders. We could run away, and he wouldn’t have to save everyone.

  Just me.

  And then, Jeremy kisses me.

  Though it’s not the shock to my system as I’d dreamed, more like slipping into a warm bath—subtle and slow at first, like a handshake—and I wait for him to return to his sanity.

  But he doesn’t.

  So I eagerly kiss him back. And the spark grows from its place where I’d all but stamped it out; it bursts into flames—a brush fire in the middle of the Sahara, a volcano erupting to burn away every idea of love I’ve ever known.

  This . . . could not be imagined. It alters fundamental thoughts I’d had about this type of connection. No rationalizing it, this insane sensation of complete chaos. You happily throw yourself into it, even if it’s the most idiotic and unreasonable feeling in the world.

  Love being just . . . love.

  Just me.

  Just him.

  And he’s kissing me harder and faster with his hands on my neck and back and face. . . . Earnest, meaningful kisses that, by the quickened breaths in between, are surprising to him as much as to me.

  And when he finally pulls away, I still cling to his hoodie to keep from losing my knees.

  Doubt follows.

  “Liza,” he whispers, and I brace myself.

  “Yes?”

  “How will I be brave?”

  My shoulders sag, and my heart breaks a little to hear the terror in his voice. I come to my senses. “Jeremy, you don’t know any other way to be.” Then, I whisper against his mouth in a new boldness, “And I’m right here. Always.”

  His smile and mine, they slowly bend together, fused at the lips.

  He turns to leave, yet pauses. Jeremy Writer is conflicted. Over me. My heart leaps. Selfish to notice, but oh-so-good to feel. His insane quest is momentarily on hold for this girl, right here.

  He snags my arm, pulling me to his ropy, muscular body. And Jeremy brands me again, this time so hard my toes curl and my skin prickles. He marks me in ways that won’t soon be forgotten, if ever.

  Very few people ever get kissed like this.

  That much must be true.

  A throat clears behind us, and we break away guiltily, though still smiling.

  Crystal stands in the doorway, and my smile falls to realize. But she doesn’t look angry, or jealous . . . well, maybe a tad jealous, but mostly happy for Jeremy.

  “It’s time,” she says, and the way she regards me, the strangeness since the zombie fight, is felt only momentarily before she masks her face.

  It’s like she can’t figure me out, but at the same time, she’s amazed at what I’d managed. It feels good.

  Jeremy nods, then leads the way, shoulders set, chin up.

  Following, I try to ignore the wisdom in the meaningful look Crystal gives me. She knows Jeremy better than us all, it would seem.

  Careful, her eyes say. Careful.

  Jeremy’s voice echoes across the sea of people. With a clear thunk, he adjusts the microphone, then stares out at what must be quite a sight. People—all kinds, colors, beliefs, ideals—stand outside the velvet ropes of the Authority, ready for him to say what’s next.

  One night, Jeremy ranted on the roof for hours before turning to me, looking utterly terrified. “I won’t be made useless!” he’d said.

  And he meant it.

  Now, at the podium, a kind of sureness overtakes him. Maybe it’s the effect of his view, or maybe it’s just normal for a man on a mission, but his face transforms into a thing of beauty.

  “Peasants of the Authority,” he calls into the dead of their silence, “we beseech each and every one of you, in this war, this united fight—and it is just that: a war. When I look around, I see allies, families born into oppression, brothers related to me by more than blood . . . because we are chained by poverty now—poverty of the mind, and worse, poverty of the spirit. Robbed daily, though not simply of our wares. It is a mental holocaust we must fight, and together, I tell you, we can win.”

  Some murmuring of agreement begins, but is quickly settled back into quiet.

  “Silence. . . ?” he says. “It is silence that imprisons us. When nothing is said, everything is agreed to, falsely. But I tell you, a man, a woman, with no voice is despair, a sister with no influence is asleep, and a brother with no honor is already dead. Slavery has no gender, no race, no class.” Jeremy sends me a sidelong glance. “We are no greater than the zombies outside of our walls, and it is time to wake up!”

  The crowd cheers.

  “The Authority has said: Dream! But in truth, they mete out our destinies in tiny rations; they’ve said how far we can go, how long, and where. Aspirations are useless, because to aspire, is to reach. Dream, they say, but not too big. Laugh, they say, but not too loudly. Love, they
say, but not too hard.”

  Now, Jeremy’s looking right at me. Avoiding Crystal, I stare straight ahead, cheeks heating.

  Jeremy closes his eyes for a moment, waiting for quiet before he turns his back to the audience. In one smooth movement he pulls his shirt over his head to show three long scars from neck to rump. Lines are revealed, each several inches wide, as if someone had stripped off the skin so deeply they could never have healed without thousands of sutures.

  A gasp ripples through, and some of the men nod as if they’ve seen this before. The Authority must have done this to Jeremy during his purging. A tarantula tattoo sits on his right shoulder blade.

  He returns to the microphone, purple eyes somber.

  “When you find you cannot contain yourself any longer and you imagine things beyond the walls they’ve built for you, constructed to imprison your desires, and when your heart is filled with impossible things, then, I say, you have achieved true independence. Our Anarchy is not simply a battle of flesh and blood; it is a war of the mind. The time is always now to declare your freedom!”

  Again the crowd cheers, making the rafters shake.

  “The Authority says that Anarchy is the devil. But I say that a man who’s both an anarchist and a patriot has been ordained by God himself!”

  The roar is deafening. People stomp so hard, I worry they’ll send out guards.

  “To talk of history, of how it was,” Jeremy goes on, “is the lament of the poor man, of those who cannot see the riches deep within. Inside the child’s mind, what we beat away, and on these dark streets, the urchins have more gold than all of you. Why? Because they go out at night, while you are in at curfew, hiding. If we seek the truth, we are never broken!

  “These!” He lifts his hands. “These are your liberators! Against all Authority!”

  “Against all Authority!” the Skulls yell back.

  And Jeremy pounds on the microphone. “Against all Authority! Against all Authority!”

  Then, the crowd begins to chant it, over and over again, each time a little bit louder, until the lights flicker high above.

  — 49 —

  Jeremy walks me home in silence. Together, we’re lost in our thoughts. For me, I’m memorizing every nuance of our kiss. For him, this is the wake of his new treaty. The Skulls and the rogue army, side by side. Kiniva has agreed—more than agreed—they’re friends, and he’s promised, if the citizens rise, he will, too.

  This is a small victory, but well won.

  Crystal had even squeezed my shoulder and looked me deep in the eye with a “thank you” written across her sharp features and a hint of surprise that I’d enjoyed.

  When Jeremy walks me to my door, I turn suddenly shy again. “You were wonderful,” I tell him.

  “I was okay.”

  “Okay? You single-handedly made the uprising international. And you gave people something they haven’t had in such a long time.”

  “Pretty words?” he says.

  “No.” My hand finds his cheek. “Hope, Jeremy Writer. You gave them hope.”

  He lays his hand over mine. “I was greatly inspired.”

  “How so?”

  Jeremy tugs me into his arms and places his head on top of mine. “Because you still see the good in people. After everything you’ve been through, you give people more chances. You find the parts of them they most want to be and you bring that out. If I was great at all tonight . . . if I was able to make some change . . . it was because you believed I could.”

  I’d stay like this forever, but he pulls away and says, “Will you play something for me?” And he touches my chin when I tuck it in, and smiles down. “I’ve resisted up until now, because I worried that if I watched you make music, I’d never want to risk anything ever again; that I’d want to just leave this place and find somewhere where you could play and I could write.”

  My smile is soft; it feels like the smile of a woman on the verge of more than a simple crush. “So why did you change your mind?”

  Jeremy grins. “Because life’s too short to give a damn all the time.”

  Out of all of my musical works, one’s already on my mind for Jeremy. A romantic thing of medium tempo, but when I play it, it comes to life and sparkles like dew on the morning grass of the old world.

  This, I play on the piano gifted to me by the very voice of the uprising, and the boy that I’m feeling the edge of love for.

  I’ve played it before, just in practice. But tonight, for him, I’m a spirit. Anything else is too tangible.

  Jeremy watches me a breath away, and we share the space like two people telling secrets while I squeeze the sweet music from my fingertips. My mind slips open to him like a flower, though only through the music, leaving my mystery intact.

  It’s only fair, since he’s really the mysterious one.

  Finishing slowly, and reluctantly, I float back down to earth until I’m human again and turn to gaze at purple eyes filled with so many emotions.

  Jeremy sits enraptured, face alight with interest and something too bright to recognize. “Music is your life, your love,” he says.

  Not completely. “Music is freedom,” I tell him.

  That makes him smile. “From?”

  He knows, but he wants to hear it.

  “Pain,” I say. “The end of the world. . . .” Then, more softly, “Myself.”

  His brown hair falls in front of his eyes when he nods in complete understanding. And that is what we have. An understanding.

  Speaking keeps me tethered. Otherwise I feel I might float away. “My father said the universe has its own song older than time itself,” I explain. “We merely play a small part. It’s not like it’s the music that speaks, he said, but the pauses in between . . . like . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “A heartbeat?”

  “Yes. The stops and starts.”

  “Sort of like how we yearn for those most in their absence.”

  I focus on the piano keys to keep from asking: Do you yearn for me, Jeremy?

  “My mother argued, though,” I add. “She said music is wasted if there’s no one to dance to it.”

  He sighs, content. “I love hearing you talk like this, about your past. It’s a side of you I’ve not seen.”

  One that no one sees. . . .

  His renewed smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. “What would you have done, Liza? I mean, with your playing, before the flood.”

  “Orchestra, maybe. A band. Or the greatest of goals: concerto.”

  Jeremy raises his brows in question.

  “Concertos are solos with a backup orchestra,” I explain. “Usually three movements long: the first movement is fast and in sonata form, the second movement is slow and in ternary form, and the third movement is fast again and in rondo form.”

  His fingers push back loose strands of my hair, and his voice is warm. “I could listen to you talk like this all day.”

  I could say the same when he talks about writing.

  I become lost in the purple, and a corner of his mouth quirks up in confidence. This close, he’s pure menace to my senses. Jeremy’s still high off of his victory—battle-buzzed. His speech in the warehouse struck home, and this is how he’s chosen to celebrate with me.

  Maybe I’m much more than simply a passing fancy.

  The thought jacks up my heart rate; I’m a prize for the awesomeness that Jeremy Writer lives and breathes each and every day.

  His lips are an inch from mine. “Say something musical.”

  “Largo—” But the “g” and the “o” are captured by his mouth before his lips make their way to my chin. “Gusto, forte, Baroque . . .”

  Muffled warmth caresses my throat so the word is almost missed.

  “More,” Jeremy whispers.

  Nearly breathless and with blood heati
ng my voice, I whisper back, “Allegro . . . andante . . . a . . . ada . . . adagio . . . mmm. . . .”

  Love being love.

  — 50 —

  The weeks after Jeremy’s speech in Kiniva’s arena hasn’t shown the change we’d expected. If we thought the citizens would have some grand reaction, then, sadly, we were wrong.

  And without them, we’ll lose. We’re still a drop in the bucket compared to the Authority’s army of guards. Kiniva, too, had offered with his own men, if only they chose to strike the first match, but he’s gone for now, until when, none of us know.

  Regretfully, in light of this unexpected sameness, I’ve returned to the courthouse, and Jeremy’s returned to ranting on the roof each night. I’ve been in a selfish mood these last few visits, having tired of his incessant, desperate monologues and restless with our small touches here and there.

  Clearly, the honeymoon is over.

  The night before last, I mentioned needing a night to myself. He agreed, and said I looked tired. I fought the urge to slap him and instead had graciously replied, “Yes, we’re all quite exhausted.”

  He’s wrong, though. Each day, it’s like I gain more energy. Since having chemo, I should be slowly returning to health, but I’m beyond that. Some days, I just want to run a marathon.

  “We need something more!” he yells, arms thrust out as he paces. His palms flip as if he can’t decide whether he should slap his thighs or his cheeks. “We need to find the rest of the population who’d do something, but can’t. We need to make a statement. They know our position, but they need something to wake them up!”

  “That sounds risky,” I say.

  My last stunt almost made me zombie bait, and I’m fresh out of suicidal antics as of late. Hopelessness about the “cause” clings to everyone. Even Crystal’s been talking about making demands and finding common ground with Reginald Cromwell himself.

  Jeremy went insane when he first heard this. “She wouldn’t!” he cried. “Has she lost her mind?” And he’d rounded on me with wide eyes. “Have they all lost their minds?”