Last Victory: Book 6 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 6)

by Kevin Partner

Devon reappeared beside her window and gestured with his shovel to the side of the highway fifty yards or so away. "I'm going to give them a decent burial."

  He stalked off to the place where a pile of bodies lay on the margins of the scrub, crows scattering into the sky as he approached.

  Walking a few yards into the desert, he plunged the blade of his shovel into the soft soil and began digging. Moments later, Marianna appeared alongside him. "We've only got one spade," she said. "I'll … I'll get them ready."

  He paused for a moment to watch her as she sucked in a deep breath and began dragging the nearest corpse toward the pit he was digging. Mercifully, it was too soon for them to smell, but their clothes were drenched in dried blood from the shots that had killed them, their faces and hands ripped to shreds by carrion birds.

  It didn't take as long as he'd expected to dig a trench wide enough for them all and deep enough to keep the birds away. Coyotes might be able to get to them, but … well, he didn't have the energy to go deeper just in case.

  Marianna rolled the first corpse into the trench and he went back for the next. Last was the woman Gert had executed. He'd shot her in the back of the head as she began walking and the bullet had shattered her forehead on its way out.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered as he placed her alongside her colleagues, biting down the bile rising in his throat in disgust.

  Marianna put her hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't shoot her."

  "No, but I should have stayed behind and sent him ahead."

  "You're not responsible for what others do."

  Devon straightened himself, rubbing his back. "Is that what you tell yourself? All those atrocities Mendoza committed?"

  He wished he hadn't said it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "Look, Marianna, I'm sorry. I didn't …"

  "You're right," she said, looking up at him, her sad beauty piercing his soul. "I told myself I had to play along for the greater good, and I had to be so careful around my bodyguards. He appointed them, you know. But it was just an excuse. I should have done more."

  "Come on, let's get back to the car. We've both done things we regret, so the best we can do is to see this mission through and maybe make amends."

  Marianna unfolded the dog-eared route map across her knees as they passed a sign declaring that a side road led to a place called Brown. Devon looked across but could see no sign of any buildings. More than twenty yards from the main highway, even the road vanished. He wondered how long it would be before the only evidence that Brown had ever existed was a rusting sign.

  But it did, at least, help with navigation. "About another twenty miles," Marianna said.

  "We'd better get our story straight, then."

  "It's simple enough. Marshall stationed his troops here and told them to wait until they heard from him."

  "But he's not here."

  She folded the map together and shoved it back in the door pocket. "No, but I've got the passwords."

  "In fact, it's likely enough that you'll be recognized as Mendoza's right-hand woman. If these troops know about his betrayal, that could go badly for you."

  She sighed. "I know. I'll have to rely on my powers of persuasion. And you, of course."

  "Oh, good," Devon said. He felt as though he were in a maze, trying to find an exit but not knowing if it led to freedom or death.

  Devon half-hoped they wouldn't find the contingent at all, but he knew, as soon as they passed the sign to Cherry Gulch, they were here. To the right, a small group of tents clustered around a larger open space that might once have been an open pond, but which was now dried up and brown.

  "Here we go," Marianna muttered as they turned off the highway and headed along the track.

  They drove toward a ruined farmhouse and, as they approached a concrete garage, a group of fighters emerged, guns leveled.

  Devon rolled down the window and nodded at the black-masked figure who looked in at him. He lifted his balaclava up to his forehead. "We're here on the orders of Chairman Scriver with a message for your commander."

  The guard pulled his mask off, eyebrows raised. "Scriver's still alive?"

  "He is."

  "Well, maybe that's so, and maybe it ain't. But either way, he ain't chairman no more. That's the general."

  A second guard muscled into view. "Now you shut your mouth, Reebus. The captain'll decide who these folks are and what he tells them. Hold on a minute," he said, glancing across at the passenger seat. "I know you. You're Leader DeMille. I seen you in Hope."

  Marianna nodded. "Yes. And I have orders for your commander. Are you going to hold me up me or not?"

  She certainly was a hell of an actress, Devon thought. In an instant, the pleasant young woman he believed to be the real DeMille had disappeared, replaced by a functionary of this oppressive regime. And the effect was immediate."

  "Yes, ma'am," the second guard said, leaping up and saluting. "Just follow Reebus here and he'll show you where to leave the car."

  Devon rolled the window up and gently nudged the gas. "Well, you've got us in. I sure hope you can get us out again."

  They found the commander in a small barn next to the farmhouse. Reebus had searched them for weapons, though his check had been so cursory that Devon wished he'd concealed a knife, as the guard certainly wouldn't have found it.

  "What did Reebus whisper while he was searching you?" Devon said just before they went inside.

  "He said things have changed here. Their old commander's gone."

  Devon didn't have a chance to follow up because a man appeared at the door. He wore a camouflage jacket and an olive-green cap. His short brown beard parted in a smile that didn't extend to his eyes.

  "Leader DeMille," he said, gesturing her inside. "I'm glad to see you made it. The name's O'Connell. You can wait out here," he said to Devon dismissively.

  "I would prefer him to remain with me," Marianna said.

  O'Connell gave a small shrug, following Devon as he stepped inside.

  An old kitchen table sat in the middle of the small room, light coming in from wide-open doors on the far side. A revolver sat on the table, straw littered the floor and rusting farm tools hung from the walls. The place stank of stale dung and cigarette smoke.

  Marianna took a seat, but Devon remained standing, as befitted his role of bodyguard. "Where is Commander Travis?"

  "Ah, yeah. He died in a rebel attack on some mine workings."

  "What was he doing there?"

  O'Connell shrugged. "How should I know? He didn't come back and I'm the ranking officer."

  Devon could tell a lie when he saw one, and this man wasn't even trying too hard.

  "That's a pity," Marianna said. "He was a good man. Did he brief you on communication protocols?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  Devon tensed. This was not going well. Not at all.

  Marianna seemed to relax a little. Yes, quite the actress. "Forget it. Tell me, Commander, what is your current mission?"

  "We're holding position here for now. Awaiting further instructions. I've sent some teams out looking for supplies."

  "How are you receiving your orders?"

  O'Connell looked puzzled. "The same way everyone does: dispatch riders. One came this morning about the meeting next week. I guess we'll get to find out what the plan is then. But, anyhow, Reebus told me you've got a message from Scriver?"

  "That's correct."

  "But he ain't chairman no more. Did you know that?"

  "That may be what General Mendoza believes. But tell me, where do your loyalties lie? This unit was pledged to Marshall Scriver, wasn't it?"

  O'Connell nodded. "Sure. We came west with him, but we respect the chain of command. If he ain't chairman no more, then we have to follow whoever is."

  "You know Mendoza murdered several council members in cold blood? I was there when it happened."

  Shaking his head, O'Connell began fiddling with the revolver. "That ain't what I heard
. Chairman Scriver was shot by an assassin in Hope, and the same shooter killed the others."

  "That's partly true. A civilian wounded Scriver, but Mendoza took the opportunity to force the committee to choose between him and Marshall. He shot the ones who made the wrong choice."

  "So, how did you get away if he was shootin' everyone?"

  "This man rescued me."

  O'Connell looked from one to the other. He seemed to suspect they were telling the truth, but it was just ludicrous enough for him to pretend he didn't believe them. "And you escaped out of Hope all on your own?"

  "Enough!" Marianna said, slamming her fist on the table. "We came to remind Travis of his oath of loyalty to Chairman Scriver, but I see we have wasted our time." She got up and turned to Devon. "Let's go."

  Devon heard the chair scrape behind them. "Not so fast." He swung around to see O'Connell pointing his black revolver at them. "I think, maybe, we ought to keep you under guard. Then we can ask the general hisself what he wants to happen to you. You see, Miss DeMille, we are loyal. We're loyal to General Mendoza. Guards! Take them around to the grain store and lock them up."

  Devon caught Marianna's eye as she was led away. She was terrified. Mendoza, he knew, would be delighted to see her, but not nearly so happy as when he recognized the former mayor of Hope.

  Chapter 9: Plot

  The only way to get Jessie Summers to shut up was to walk away from her, so Hick found himself striding across the grass, out toward the field where people moved back and forth tending the first crops.

  He understood why Jessie was angry. She'd quickly worked out that Hickman had been the one to suggest Devon escort Marianna to the meeting with Scriver's allegedly loyal troops. And he had to admit, he was concerned. They'd been gone three days. If the mission had been successful, he'd have expected them to arrive before now or at least send a message. It seemed obvious to him that things hadn't gone according to plan, which meant Marianna and Devon were either captured or dead, and he was getting the blame.

  Others had arrived in the meantime. Contingents of DeMille's Mormons had dribbled into Springs and a tent city of makeshift shelters had sprung up on one of the meadows. Rusty had been kept busy working out sanitation arrangements and as many people as possible were being billeted in both the new houses and those few that remained unoccupied in the city.

  Otis Weppler had placed himself in charge of record keeping, and Hick's day had begun with a meeting involving himself, Rusty, DeMille and the leader of the Springs council. That title had become entirely meaningless, as the local survivors of the firestorm had been overwhelmed by first the Hopers and now the assembling fighters.

  In the days since DeMille had turned up, around two hundred and fifty others had walked, ridden or driven into New Hope. It was an impressive beginning, but they would need ten times that number to face the forces of the Sons on equal terms. And Hick didn't think they'd get anywhere near it. DeMille didn't know how many were still to come, but Hick suspected the Mormon contingent would number fewer than a thousand. The Hopers themselves could muster, perhaps, a couple of hundred capable of holding a weapon.

  And that was the other problem. DeMille had uncovered the promised cache of weapons and Hick had brought back a truck full of small arms, ammunition and a few RPGs and similar. But there was nowhere near enough for everyone. They would be like some sort of ragged citizen army against professional soldiers or, at the very least, fighters with one weapon each.

  Then, once the meeting was over, Jessie had collared him again. When was he going to send someone after Devon and Marianna? He wasn't. Didn't he know it was all his fault? Did she know he didn't care? She would never forgive him. Ditto last answer.

  "Incoming!"

  Hick heard the call from the barrier on 80. He'd wandered so far out of the main settlement area to avoid Jessie that he decided he might as well see who was approaching. Probably another batch of weaponless fighters drawn by the call of Elliot DeMille.

  He jogged up onto the highway, kicking the dirt from his shoes as he looked along the road, past the barricade. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear the throaty roar of an engine—a motorbike if he was any judge.

  "Hey, Kris," he said, moving alongside the tall woman and gazing into the distance.

  "Paul. Avoiding Jessie by any chance?"

  Hick chuckled. "Funny. Ow!" Sharp pain lanced through his ankle just above his shoe.

  "Sorry about that, Hick." Joe Bowie leaned down and scooped up a feathered ball of meanness. "I don't reckon Roger's forgiven you for leavin' him."

  "Yeah, well, Roger had better steer clear of me or he'll have an appointment with my barbeque."

  Roger blinked.

  "How's Martha doin'?"

  Joe shrugged. "She's healin'. She can get around now well enough. Trouble is, she don't think she's got anythin' to live for. Except Roger, here."

  "And you," Hick said.

  "Maybe. But I remind her of Jenson and Pa. Every time she looks at me, she sees them."

  "I'm sorry, Joe."

  Joe Bowie wrapped his hand around the stock of his hunting rifle. "It's okay, Hick. Truth to tell, I'm just waitin' for my chance to take a shot at them there Sons. That's all I want. After that, I don't care none what happens to me."

  The motorcycle was now no more than fifty yards away, and Kris was sighting down the barrel of her assault rifle as she moved out in front of the barrier. Joe covered her as Hick watched.

  Kris put one hand up and the motorbike came to a halt. Raising hands high, the driver flipped the kickstand, followed by a passenger who'd been hidden from view.

  "Keep your hands raised and declare yourself," Kris called.

  The driver's hands went to remove her helmet and then froze.

  "Dad?"

  Hick's insides petrified. Had he misheard? Was she talking to him? He glanced around to see no one behind him.

  "S … Sam?" he whispered.

  The helmet flew off.

  "Halt!" Kris bellowed.

  "Sam!" Hick called out as he ran past the stunned soldier and threw himself at his daughter, only realizing how empty his soul had been now that it was whole again. "Oh, thank God."

  Hick walked back toward the settlement with his arm around his daughter's shoulder, wishing he would never have to let her go again. The strange young man who'd had his arms around Sam's waist followed them silently across the yellowing grass.

  "I didn't want to believe you'd be here," she said. "I didn't want to think about it at all, to be honest. I should have known you'd be at the center of everything. People are coming, Dad. A couple of hundred walking from the West Coast."

  Hick squeezed her to him, but he couldn't put it off any longer. "Look, Sam, there's something you need to know."

  But he didn't have to say another word because just then a figure emerged from the nearest house and hobbled toward them.

  "Oh my God. Jay!" Sam called out, and she ran toward the astonished young man and pulled him to her.

  Hick wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the day with his daughter, but she was totally occupied with Jay. It seemed their time apart had given them the chance to think things through, though he had no doubt that Jay considered the ship to have sailed. It touched his gnarly heart to see them both so happy but, despite that, he was jealous as hell.

  He took Sam and Said into the house he was occupying and left them in the community shower. He and Jay went back and forth filling up the tank and he noticed that the young man's jealousy had evaporated.

  "Just goes to show, you never can tell with women," he said as they brought the last four buckets from the well pump.

  Jay grunted in acknowledgment. "Yeah. Maybe you gotta give something up before you can have it."

  "Sounds like some sort of Buddhist mumbo jumbo to me. But yeah, you've certainly been better company since you accepted things. Not just Sam, but …"

  Gesturing down at his maimed foot, Jay nodded. "Being angry ain't
going to grow my toes back. Funny thing is, it was Brain who helped me see it."

  "Brain? Are you serious?" Hick said. He couldn't imagine how that idiot could possibly act as a therapist.

  They emptied the buckets into the tank and padded through to the living room. The couch was unoccupied, as most people were working in the fields or helping house the newcomers, so Hick slumped into an easy chair and watched as Jay lowered himself carefully.

  "He told me there was nothin' I could do about it. Said something about life being a box of chocolates."

  Of course he did. If any movie was going to make an impression on Brain Sullivan it would be Forrest Gump.

  Said came in and, having been spotted, walked slowly across the floorboards, looking doubtfully at them.

  Hauling himself to his feet, Jay limped over to meet him halfway and stuck out his hand. "Said, I'm sorry. I acted like a complete ass."

  "That is okay, Jay. I think I understand. Sam is quite … unusual."

  "She's not the only one, I reckon," Hick said. "Why don't you come and sit down? Tell us what's been going on."

  Said's face dropped, but just then, Sam came in. She'd wrapped a towel around her, and carried her dusty clothes under one arm. "I don't suppose anyone's got any clean underwear I could use? I reckon mine could get up and walk around on their own and I've just gotten clean."

  "And there you have it, gentleman," Hick said, getting to his feet and heading for the door. "The art of prioritizing."

  #

  Jessie put the spoon down and sighed. "There's nothing else, Dotty. Either eat this or go hungry."

  Dorothy shook her head resolutely and banged the tray of her high chair.

  "Here, let me try," Jade said.

  Jessie handed the plastic spoon over and got up. "I thought you'd never ask. I'm just going for a pee."

  "TMI, Jess," Jade responded, pulling a face. Then she turned to the baby, hovering the spoon in front of her. "Here comes the choo-choo train. Chugga chugga chugga."

  Jessie looked back as she went through the door. The train had arrived at the station and Dorothy was giving every impression she was eating nectar from the gods. Kids.