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

by Logan Keys

  I give in and open them to find her watching me with humor.

  “No,” I say, “I really don’t.”

  “You said, ‘Daisy, home isn’t just a place. It’s not even just people. It’s where you want to be when all is said and done.’”

  My throat tightens. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Daisy reaches forward and touches me—really touches me—her cold, grey hand resting on my forehead. “And you said, ‘All ain’t said and done, Daisy.’”

  “I thought you said I made you up to get good advice.”

  “Shh, handsome. It all ain’t said and done.”

  “But—” When next I look, there’s no one there, just the empty barracks again. “You forget,” I say now to thin air, “that I’m the reason you’re dead.”

  “Time to go, Hatter.”

  Snapping out of my memories, I turn to find Sergeant Nolan staring at me strangely.

  “You ready, hero?”

  I nod and shoulder my pack.

  He walks up, a strange gleam in his eye. “Seems you made quite an impression on Simon.” Nolan holds out his hand with the Sergeant’s rank in his palm.

  I frown as he lifts it and pins it to my jacket.

  Quickly, I snap to a salute, but Nolan shakes his head. “No, Sergent Hatter. On your way. You’ll not miss me when you go, but you’ll at least know you’ve earned my respect.”

  With a half-smile, I pass by him and walk straight out of the last place I’ve called home. Other than Joelle, I’ll miss nothing in Gothenburg. Here, I’m a stranger in a stranger’s land.

  — 59 —

  Doesn’t take long to feel the part of my heart that’s missing. Jeremy Writer’s gone, and he’s taken a piece of me with him.

  A week passes, and it’s hard to tell who’s become more of a wraith: me or Serena. We barely eat, hardly speak, and my piano’s gathering dust.

  To me, everything’s like ash here in Ash City.

  It’s fully understood now, that name.

  Tonight, I’ve tried to cry myself to sleep, but there’s no end to this long day, to myself, and the wondering. It’s clear why he’s doing this, why he thinks he is. Yet I’ve never felt so alone in all my life. Worse, even, than at Bodega.

  With Journee locked up, the twins are my only companions, and both of them are grieving like widows over their men and the loss of a child. And with me doing the same, it’s as if someone has sucked the life out of us, like they’ve scooped out our spirits. All of this talk about Anthem giving up hope, and we’re no different.

  The Authority’s won.

  Only when I’ve given up on sleep for the night does my gaze land on the box of my parents’ last items. I’ve never even opened it. I’ve been too much of a coward to look at them.

  I approach on tiptoe, as if I’m afraid it knows I’m coming and will somehow try to run. It takes a sharp knife to cut through a seal that makes an air-tight pop. Beneath that is a metal box with a latch. The items inside clink around while my shaky fingers find the clasp.

  Silly thought, but this stale air wafting out was closest to my father before the box was sealed. Closing my eyes, I lift the lid ever so slowly.

  After three counts, I open them again. Inside sits a single letter, small and fragile, next to its only companion: my music box. With the top open, the tiny dancer waits, poised and ready. I lift her from her prison with pure amazement at seeing her again and set her down onto the table.

  Then stare at her until she blurs.

  My knuckle brushes the winder before I leave it be, unwound.

  On the envelope, my father’s gorgeous handwriting catches my eye. A solitary word: Liza. His marks are so precise, as if done by surgeon’s hands, and the feel of them returns in a rush—his hugs, his hand holding onto mine; gentle, yet firm enough to send a message: I am here.

  Finally, I find my backbone to open the letter . . .

  Liza,

  My darling daughter . . .

  Then, I set it to the side, unread.

  My nerve leaves in a rush. Pacing doesn’t help; just makes it worse. The dancer stares at me, too, daring me to wind her.

  Letter tucked inside my jacket, I sneak out despite the hour and find my way back to the church, which is locked for the evening.

  I knock a couple of times, but no answer.

  Frustration grips me and, with a muffled yell, I pull on the handle with everything that’s in me. Dots fill my vision, the door groans and gives, peeling from its hinges.

  The hunk of metal twice my height pops off to knock me in the head before toppling me over with a near-crushing force. My energy waned now, I’m pinned beneath it.

  Lying there, I’m dazed by what I’ve done.

  “Are you all right! Liza?”

  The door lifts slowly to reveal Nate, who’s staring down in surprise.

  He gives me a hand up before struggling with the door again, and when he finally gets it propped, he turns to face me with an expression of shock and fear. “How . . . what. . . ?”

  “I’m not sure.” I look down at my feet. “It’s happened a few times since I was at the Island.”

  Nate checks the street. “Come inside before the guards notice.”

  Once through, he wedges the door back in until it closes and locks behind us.

  “I’m so-so sorry.” My voice shakes.

  “Shhh,” he says and flips on the lights, motioning toward the chairs. “Don’t even worry about it. That’s the most exciting thing I’ve seen all year. The hinges are bent clean sideways! How’d you manage that?”

  His scientific side’s become apparent while he tries to come up with an explanation.

  “I think they did something to me at the Island.” I hesitate to go on.

  Nate sits next to me. “If you’ve got something to say, best be saying it now. Tomorrow is no promise.”

  “I died.” The words fall limply out of my mouth, leading to a hoarse laugh and a sick feeling. “They said I was in a coma for three days, but I felt . . . like I left, you know?”

  Nate rubs his beard. “That must have been quite an experience.”

  “That’s the thing—it wasn’t. I was just sort of gone. There was nothing there—no tunnel, no lights, nothing. What do you think it means?”

  “Well, I’m no preacher, but I don’t think it has to mean anything.” His mouth quirks. “You ask my mother, and she’d say you were goin’ straight to Hell, and bring out the holy water.”

  My giggle’s unexpected. “That’s not funny.”

  Nate scratches his chin in thought. “My brother, he’d probably say you’d been given another chance in coming back, is all.”

  “And you?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Me. . . ?”

  “Yes. What do you think, Nate?”

  “I’d say you probably weren’t dead enough.”

  A surprised snort escapes me, then we both laugh loudly.

  “I was dead, though.” I flatten my smile with force. “I know that now.”

  “Tell me this: if you knew you were gone, then how were you . . . gone?”

  I lift a hand to my brow. “That’s what I’ve been wondering. It should have been a sleep I woke up from, but it wasn’t. I was aware of time passing, at least. Strange, huh?”

  “It is strange,” Nate says, drawing out the word. “And these things done to you at the Island . . . like the projects. I’ve seen one other who was like this.”

  “Projects?”

  “I’ve not said this to anyone, and appreciate your discretion, but I’d been with the Underground.”

  My gasp is loud enough to echo.

  He colors above his beard. “You can see why it might be a problem if anyone knew. So keep this between you and me.”

  “Of course.”

 
“They’d started their experimenting overseas; the people suffered and nothing changed. It all seemed so barbaric. Most died, or turned into zombies. I’d only heard of it mostly but they needed me to do work on a molecular level, you see? I went to the labs, alone, until one day there was a boy there, about your age—a tad older, maybe, but this was over a year ago—anyway, he was being . . . restructured.”

  Nate’s face shows clear distaste.

  “Restructured?”

  “From the inside, like. And he’d been able to do things, become stronger, become larger at will. Well . . . not precisely. More likely from pressure.”

  “That sounds impossible.”

  “What, like the door coming free of the hinges?”

  I frown. “I don’t change.”

  “I know that, but I meant to say . . . well, it was like that in a sense: being capable of more than a regular human.”

  This conversation is making me uncomfortable, but I’m too curious to leave it alone. “What did they do to this boy?”

  “Anything. Everything. To make him something ‘special.’ Along with others.” His sorrow is apparent. “I left—fled, more like. It was monstrous to see the lengths they’d go, and I couldn’t abide it. From there, I’d gone back to our island, in secret, and then luckily found my way here, because my homeland is . . .” Nate trails off.

  I understand his sadness, thinking of all that’s lost. We give a moment of silence for the places that’ll never be again, before I ask, “You think they did something like that? Restructured me?”

  “While you were asleep, maybe. If you don’t remember any pain. The Authority must be trying to develop a few of their own, too.” Nate shakes his head. “I do feel that those being purged are similar; the Authority’s been trying things out on those poor souls for years.”

  “Their track record isn’t so great.”

  He nods. “Zombies aren’t exactly a leap forward in biogenetics.”

  “I don’t remember anything but shots. Could a shot do this?”

  His eyes widen again at the thought. “Not that I know of.”

  I regard the crucifix with a grimace. “I’m just glad you didn’t call me a demon and throw holy water on me.”

  Nate laughs. “We only burn witches on Wednesdays, Liza.” He clears his throat. “Was there something you wanted?”

  Sweat dampens my hairline as I remember why I’d come. “I just wondered if you’d . . .” I pull out the crumpled paper like I’m carrying a bomb. “This is a letter, from my father. I can’t seem to . . .”

  He holds out a hand. “I see that it is. Would you like me to read it?”

  “I think so.”

  We trade—he takes the letter and I take a shaky breath.

  “My dearest daughter,” he begins.

  Eyes clenched, I grip the seat like this is the worst train ride ever.

  Nate clears his throat and continues, “If you’re reading this, little one, then I’ve left you alone in this place, this hellish last stand against sickness and the undead.

  “It’s no surprise that you, out of all of us, would live on. As a little girl, you came into this world screaming at the injustice of simply being, and ever since then, you’ve held such a sense of right and wrong.

  “I wish I could say I’ve instilled such levelness about you, or that your mother had, but in truth, you were born into a time that demanded you, and you answered that call.

  “I’ll never forget the day you’d threatened to run away, but had decided it was unfair to steal money to do it. So you worked all summer long, saving for your plane ticket to leave.

  “Liza, I hope you always stay that same little girl—or woman now, I suppose—who clearly saw good and worked for it, no matter the patience or endurance needed. Never change, sweetheart. Can you promise your old man that your flame won’t die out in the great wind of life?

  “When I wrote the lullaby in your music box, you always said it was a sonnet about the dying world. Please, listen to it again.

  “It’s about the heart of a girl so strong and true who, even though she’d been given a mother too selfish to notice her and a father too busy to relish the time he had with such a wonder, still blossomed through the torrents. Like a flower out of the scorched earth, you rose, darling.

  “We were never worthy, daughter, know that. We never deserved, for our own ambitions and passions, to have something so precious and special waiting in the halls while we practiced, and played, and passed away, and who still misses us, despite our neglect.

  “Know that I love you more than the entirety of this world. Too late did I realize what you really were for us: proof of our love, in the flesh. A living piece of art greater than all others.

  “At one point, the world knew my name, and it was for a simple composition. But you, Liza, were my greatest piece, and my secret one.

  “Let your life be a song. Let music be the background of whatever human things you will do for this blazing, spinning planet, and never let go of the good, never let go of the kindness.

  “They need you. More than ever, that inferno needs the balm you give so openly. Always strong, always patient, and always willing to fight for the undeserving.

  “And now I ask you to fight, Liza.

  “Fight.

  “Because others will give up on you, but you never give up on anyone.

  “I love you, princess.

  Your father.”

  The Irish lilt in Nate’s voice had gone dry and brittle toward the end, and I’d snatched the letter from his hands before the echo of his last words had died away. He quieted while tears ran unchecked down my cheeks.

  Somehow, through the accent of another man’s voice, I’d heard my father all over again: his wisdom; his regret at the end; but most importantly, his unconditional love.

  I held the letter to my chest and cried, while Nate tried to calm the storm inside of me with a hand at my back. But soon, he left me there all alone, because it was all I could do just to breathe.

  No time was spent to care about my father’s great commission for me to fight. My loving and wonderful parent is gone . . . he’d left me behind.

  It took great effort to accept the grief, truly allow it for once.

  And though I was alone, sitting there on the church floor in the candlelight with the crucifix hanging over me, it sort of felt like this person, this savior of Nate’s family, was there to comfort me, as strange as it seems.

  — 60 —

  My tiny dancer spins all day long. With fingers sore from winding the piece of metal designed for small hands, I turn the key again to listen to the song for what feels like the millionth time.

  It sings to me. And this time the tune makes sense.

  The song is about love.

  And loving love.

  My father had keenly written in the loss, true, but you have to have in order to lose.

  Inside, my dull aching eases. Still there, but lessening with each round she spins. My father’s here. With me.

  It’s almost nighttime when I finally force myself away from the music box, and curiosity moves me outside. The twins haven’t checked on me since my disappearance to the church yesterday.

  Yet something else tickles the back of my mind when I realize there is a certain stillness to the city. It’s quiet—too quiet.

  Although curfew creeps closer, I walk through the streets trying to decide what’s changed. Is it me? Because of my letter?

  It’s nothing as simple as that, though. Citizens move through Anthem with a new impatience. And people pause strangely as if they’d forgotten what they were doing before continuing on.

  Curfew comes and goes, and still a steady stream of people flow despite the bells.

  The last warning chimes for us to return inside.

  But no one does.
/>   Night descends like a coin flipped in the air, and when it lands, it doesn’t matter if it’s heads or tails, all that counts is something’s been decided.

  I see a familiar face in the crowd. He sees me, too, and comes toward me with purpose.

  His prisoner’s smock is still on, with its numbers on the breast.

  “Journee. . . ?”

  His face is worse for wear, and he’s squinting without glasses.

  I press through, now seeing the bump on his head, fresh and oozing.

  Journee looks half-dazed. “Liza?”

  “Yes, Journee, are you all right? When did they let you out?” When we draw close, I’m searching him for more injuries.

  “Out?” He’s gazing off into the distance.

  When he doesn’t answer me, I grab him by the arm and steer us for home. My touch seems to snap him out of his trance.

  “There was an uprising at the prison,” he whispers, matching my quick stride.

  “What!”

  “The Skulls tore down a wall, and everyone went crazy. We have to get off of the streets—now.”

  We jog the rest of the way until we get to his door, where Journee stops to look at me with tears in his eyes. “Desi . . . he didn’t make it. The guards fought back with lethal force. He . . . I . . .”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He nods and sucks in a breath. “I just want to see the girls.”

  After helping Journee find his extra pair of glasses and cleaning the cut on his head, we both separate to search for Serena and Manda.

  Being out after dark usually feels wrong, but even more so tonight. With the chaos of so many still outside, the going’s slow.

  I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems, the subtle shift of Anthem City’s spirit has gone unnoticed. But it’s easy to understand what it means when guards show up and no one scurries back into their respective holes. My neighbors: survivors—people who’d escaped the zombies, the cancers, and the Authority . . . they’re tougher than we give them credit for.

  Everything Jeremy has been working for is coming to fruition. With stiff spines and steely resolves, they’ve hardened, these citizens of Anthem.