The Last Shot

by Michael Adams

  Dirt balls dance and the weeds bend down around me as a black shadow descends over the field. The roar is all-encompassing. I can’t hear myself think now. But I don’t need to. I just need to stay cool.

  I rest my finger outside the trigger guard. Around the gun’s front sight, I glimpse chopper undercarriage and fat tyres and then legs and boots dropping into the grass. The engine’s pitch increases as the helicopter and its shadow lift from the earth.

  Six heavily armed Minions have landed safely and are walking casually across the vacant lot in the direction of the Courthouse. A second shadow descends noisily. Undercarriage and tyres come into view. This is it. Game on. Game over in a few seconds. One way or the other.

  I squeeze the trigger and the rifle thumps against my shoulder.

  Pfffmtt!

  I barely hear the gunshot over the blades and engines. I think I scored a direct hit but I can’t see if the bullet punched into the long gas cylinder from the Courthouse. That’s because it’s half buried in the middle of the empty block of land and covered with iron nails and lead sinkers and barbed fishing hooks. The Minions don’t scatter. They didn’t hear or see anything either. The cylinder won’t explode. Nathan said it wouldn’t. He remembered a TV show that busted the movie myth about gas tanks exploding simply under the impact of bullets. But it’ll leak gas.

  I fire again—pffft—as the next wave of soldiers jump from the second chopper.

  By now Nathan should’ve climbed through the back of the shed. He should be about to throw his first petrol tin up and over—

  Thwacka!

  The metal container shreds through the blades and rains down as a spray of green metal and rainbow mist. The Minions stop in their tracks. I peer up for a moment and see them staring up into the blades.

  Nathan’s second petrol tin—this one stoppered with a burning rag—makes impact above them and ignites the fuel-air cloud.

  Whooompf!

  I shoot again and it’s like the world is on fire as the gas cylinder explodes.

  Inside the inferno there’s the desperate thu-thu-thu of the chopper failing and then the frr-frr-frr as it spins into the ground and comes apart. For a second I think it’s hit the caravan. Face in the dirt, I feel the old RV lift and buckle above me, walls shredding in a hail of shrieking shrapnel. There’s a blast of heat above me as the caravan catches fire and I scramble out the back side, coughing in the churning smoke and dirt.

  I stumble around the caravan. It’s twisted open like a can. Plywood and vinyl innards blaze inside jagged metal edges. The field’s weeds are burned back to black stubble. There’s a crater the size of a spa pool where the gas cylinder blew up. Through the smoke and flames the helicopter’s carcass rests on its side, shorn of blades and tail section. I’m surrounded by smouldering bodies and body parts.

  ‘Nathan?’ I call, stumbling towards the flattened wreckage of the shed.

  From out of the smoke, a man staggers towards me with gun raised.

  Crack!

  He goes down—and Nathan stands up from behind the scorched pile of tin.

  He shouts and points. I can’t hear him over my ringing ears. But I turn to see the second chopper spinning away from the Courthouse. Smoke trails from its cockpit as it flees down the valley. Whatever Tajik has done, he’s crippled the machine.

  I look back at Nathan as his expression changes.

  ‘Down!’ he screams over the shrieking in my ears.

  Without thinking I drop to the hot earth as he opens fire on whoever was behind me.

  I tumble around, bring up my rifle and shoot at two Minions coming across the field at us. I’m not sure who gets them but the men stumble and fall down and don’t move.

  Nathan throws himself to the dirt beside me.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he mouths.

  I nod. I think I am.

  Nathan says something.

  Helmet? Hepcat?

  I frown. It’s not until I reach up that I realise he said haircut.

  My fringe is gone—along with my eyebrows and eyelashes. Singed away by the blast wave. It could be much worse. Across this patch of scorched earth are a dozen people we’ve shot or blown up.

  They’re dying and dead because of us. Because of me. I know they’re helpless victims but I don’t feel sorry at all. I just want to make sure that Jack’s among them. Without him dead, all of these people have died for nothing. Their deaths don’t avenge Mum. Don’t free Evan. Don’t free me.

  Nathan and I nod. Get to our feet, guns trained on the bodies sprawled between ripped metal and spot fires.

  My foot kicks something. I look down. Nick’s head rolls away and comes to rest in a charred pockmark of earth. A few feet away a blond guy is cut in half. I flip over a black-haired body. There’s enough face for me to know it’s not Jack. I train my rifle on another guy. He’s half under a length of blade. I push the wreckage off him. Not Jack. He wriggles around despite looking scooped out from groin to chest. He should be out of his misery. I put the muzzle of my gun to his head.

  Click.

  I look back and squeeze the trigger again.

  Click.

  I’m out of ammo.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  He doesn’t hear me. He’s dead.

  ‘Danby?’ I hear Nathan faintly. ‘Danby?’

  I turn. He raises his eyebrows. I shake my head. Nathan does the same.

  All these bodies. None of them is Jack.

  THIRTY-TWO

  We walk dazed from the death zone, crunch along the road past Antique Antics and Chaistyle towards the Rainbow Arms beer garden.

  ‘Think he stayed in the other chopper?’ Nathan says.

  ‘Must have.’

  What I’m thinking is I got it all wrong. He didn’t come at all. He just sent his Minions to kill me—or to draw us out.

  I cough out smoke and dirt and disgust. Our plan was good. But not good enough. Jack was a step ahead. Now he’ll come with overwhelming force—and we’ve lost the element of surprise. With Evan awake we can’t hide—not unless we leave him.

  ‘Tajik got the chopper pretty good,’ Nathan says. ‘It’ll be a while at least before any bikes—’

  But I’m not listening.

  That’s because there’s a shadow standing in the doorway of the Rainbow Arms Hotel.

  I let the assault rifle slide from my shoulder. Pull the .38 from my waistband. Step over the low wooden fence. Walk across the beer garden.

  ‘Danby,’ Jack says. ‘How’re you going?’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Better than you.’

  Jack smiles. His face is grey, eye patch gone to reveal a stitched slit, clothes burned off and into him horribly. His left hand clasps his right elbow, supporting the weight of the arm connected to its shoulder only by a ragged cord of muscle. The wound’s seared but still bubbling blood. Jack’s life is draining away.

  ‘Danby?’ Nathan says at my side.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say.

  I raise the revolver. Marv fired four on the bridge. Alex put one in Oscar. One bullet left. All I need.

  Jack grins. Blood drips from his lips. He uses his left hand to wave his right arm at us. Bastard’s got my Wonder Woman bracelet on his bloody wrist.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you both,’ he says. ‘You’ve disarmed me.’

  I don’t react.

  ‘What?’ Jack says with a laugh. ‘I thought you loved your dad jokes. That’s what Evan thinks: Danbylovefunnydaddy! Stupid little shit.’

  Jack can’t get to me now. His power’s gone. He’s just too crazy to see he’s finished.

  ‘We could’ve done great things together,’ he says with a wistful smile. ‘If you’d just been able to see the bigger picture.’

  He flicks a dismissive glance at Nathan. ‘But you think too small.’

  I step closer to Jack. I’ve heard enough.

  Jack ducks his head to look at his bleeding wound. He leers up at me. Ghost-faced. ‘If you’re going to kill me, Danby, y
ou better hurry up about it.’

  My finger curls around the trigger.

  A few feet away.

  I can’t miss.

  ‘But you won’t kill me, Danby,’ Jack says. ‘You can’t kill me.’

  He’s so wrong about that.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  The gun bucks in my hand.

  Jack’s right eye becomes a black hole.

  The smile eases from his lips.

  His legs go.

  He drops.

  Dead.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I want to run to Evan. But I have to be sure Jack’s really dead. All my life I’ve hated horror-movie heroines who don’t make sure the monster’s really finished off.

  Crouching beside Jack, I stare silently into his gaping eye socket as I check for breath and pulse. For once I hope to find no signs of life. That doesn’t feel strange. Any stranger than it feels to laugh when I confirm he has no breath or heartbeat. Blood wells up in the bullet hole like oil and spills down the side of his face. Bright pink flecks float in the dark stream: brain cells from which one thousand people have been freed. Countless thousands more saved. I hope.

  I pull my Wonder Woman bracelet off his arm. Wipe his blood off on what’s left of his flight suit. Slip Mum’s present back on my wrist.

  Nathan hunkers down beside me.

  Looks at me. I blink back.

  ‘Is it wrong to feel good about this?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head, peers at Jack’s ruined face and body.

  ‘Both his eyes,’ Nathan says. ‘Native Americans believe you can’t enter the afterlife without them. I think you killed his soul.’

  I look at him. ‘More of your religious reading?’

  ‘John Wayne movie,’ he says, standing up, offering me his hand. ‘Let’s go get your brother and get the f—’

  The air around us is torn apart by an agonised scream.

  I jump to my feet. ‘Evan!’

  We sprint across the beer garden, leap the fence, race around the booby-trapped hatchback as we cross the bridge.

  ‘No, no, no.’ I pant up the driveway. ‘No, please, no.’

  No to my brother having been hit by a stray round from the chopper.

  No to Tajik having been shot by someone in the chopper.

  No to some straggler Minion killing them both while I let Jack talk.

  I run onto the lawn and slow to a panting stop.

  Tajik sits cross-legged by the low stone wall, back to me, rifle aimed at the valley below.

  ‘Tajik!’

  He doesn’t turn around.

  ‘Tajik!’

  When I grab his shoulder, he slumps along the wall, eyes staring blank and mouth open in surprise. My hand comes away red with the blood that’s soaked through the wounds in the back of his black sweater.

  I reel, stagger. ‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘Oh my God.’

  Nathan catches me. ‘What happened?’

  I stand. We lean on each other. Stare at Tajik’s body. ‘I don’t know.’

  What I want to think is that Tajik was hit by someone in the helicopter and the bullets passed straight through him and came out his back.

  But the chopper fled minutes before we heard his death scream.

  If some straggling Minion had just blasted him repeatedly we would’ve heard the shots.

  Nathan crouches by Tajik. ‘These are stab wounds,’ he says. ‘Some of them must’ve gotten away from the chopper.’

  But if they did, me killing Jack should’ve set them free.

  ‘Evan!’ I shout as I spin around. ‘Evan!’

  My little brother’s in the shadows of the barbecue area. He’s not in the clutches of a Minion. ‘Evan,’ I say. ‘Thank God.’ I take a step towards my little brother. Nathan grabs my arm. Shakes his head.

  ‘Hey, Danby,’ Evan says, padding out onto the lawn. ‘Snots ’N’ Bots! Chocopops!’

  His little mouth curls into a horrible smile as a kitchen knife drops from his blood-stained hand.

  My world falls away.

  ‘Evan . . . Oh . . . No . . . What did you do?’ I say.

  Evan shrugs. Grins.

  Jack’s grin.

  Jack’s glint in his eyes.

  ‘No,’ I moan. ‘It’s not possible. I killed Jack. Evan, you’re free now he’s—’

  My little brother’s head shakes slowly from side to side.

  ‘I told you,’ he says. ‘You didn’t listen. You can’t kill me.’

  I don’t want to believe. But I have to. Poor Tajik is right there dead. Evan is the only one here. Except he’s not my little brother. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’

  I hear a tortured animal scream. Realise it’s coming from me. Like my soul’s burning up. Whooshing out of me. Leaving only ash inside.

  ‘Waaaaaah,’ Jack taunts, Evan’s balled fists mock-rubbing his eyes. ‘That’s it, let it out, Danby.’

  Nathan’s fingers dig into my wrist.

  The meat puppet that used to be my little brother twists its mouth into a vicious grin. The dark glimmer in its eyes is all Jack now. ‘That sound you just made?’ he says. ‘It’s nothing compared to the screams I’ll get from you both.’ He pulls the Talkbook from his pocket. ‘Maybe I’ll even record it.’

  Our plan worked. But somehow Evan got out of the bedroom. Somehow Jack stayed inside him. If he’s inside Evan still then—

  Evan raises a hand to his ear.

  ‘Can’t hear the bikes yet,’ he says. ‘There’s still time. We’ll have a bit more fun. Go on. Run.’

  I yank my arm free of Nathan’s grip.

  ‘Your gun,’ I say. ‘Give it to me.’

  Nathan doesn’t move. I wrench the rifle from his hands and point it at what was once Evan. Jack shapes his mouth into a mocking smile.

  ‘That won’t stop me but if it makes you feel better, then go for it.’

  ‘Turn around,’ I say.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ Evan raises both hands and faces away from me. ‘Goof! Goof! Goof!’

  Nathan touches my shoulder.

  I shrug him off. Stalk to where Evan stands. Lower the assault rifle’s muzzle. To the back of my little brother’s head.

  Evan’s been dead since Beautopia Point. It’s time to set him free.

  Point blank range. He won’t feel it.

  Nathan’s in the corner of my vision, hands up to calm me.

  ‘Danby,’ he says, edging closer. ‘Don’t do this.’

  But I have to do this.

  My finger curls around the trigger.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks are owed to . . .

  Clare and Ava for having my back and making me laugh. My dad Noel for reading The Last Girl so enthusiastically even though he’s a little out of the YA range. Melanie Ostell for her friendship and most excellent agenting on this odd author-y journey. Cat McCredie for her good cheer and brilliant copyedits that so often suggest awesome new directions. Again, to the Allen & Unwin team, Anna McFarlane, Rachael Donovan, Liz Bray, Jyy-Wei Ip, Lara Wallace and Angela Namoi, for their belief in and hard work on behalf of The Last Trilogy. Melanie Fedderson for her amazing cover and interior designs and Marika Järv for her spiral-tastic thought-swirl graphic designs. Belated thanks also to Julia Gregg for being the first to read The Last Girl and say, ‘Hey, this ain’t bad.’

  Lachlan Huddy and Renée for their tireless and brilliant work on The Last Girl trailer (do check it out on YouTube). Mic Looby and Rachel Carbonell for their friendship and horse-sense editorial excellence. Karen Richards for showing us a good time in Port Macquarie. Chris, Daz, Luke, Dan, Amanda, Annie, Linda, Huw, Eva, Matt, Chris G., Hali, Michelle, Guy, Matt C., Emma, Danny, Rod, Erin, Sophie, Amanda D., Jess, Sabina, Kate, Vanessa, JoCo, Melissa, Oscar and Shaheeda for friendship and support. David and Tina, Ray and Denzil, the Lanes and Joyce Thomsons for being terrifically supportive families.

  Ellie Marney, author of
Every Breath, and Kirsten Krauth, author of just_a_girl, for their inspiring debuts (do check them out) and for making life fun on the Twitters. The YA blogging community for taking the time to do Q&As about The Last Girl and reviews that pointed up its strengths (and weaknesses). Final thank you to readers for reading and posting reviews on Goodreads or tweeting their thoughts.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Adams has been a restaurant dishwasher, television host, ice-cream scooper, toilet scrubber, magazine journalist, ecohouse lab rat, film reviewer, social media curator, telemarketing jerk, reality TV scribe and B-movie zombie. This one time he watched bad movies at the rate of one per day for an entire year and wrote a book about the traumatic experience, which is called Showgirls, Teen Wolves and Astro Zombies. Michael lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner, daughter, one dog, two cats and an average of three super-sized spiders. The Last Trilogy began with The Last Girl and concludes with Michael’s upcoming book, The Last Place. Find Michael on Twitter @wordymofo.