"No. Let her sleep." He was lying. He desperately wanted to cradle her in his arms, as if she could ground him, help him do the right thing.
He glanced up at Gert. "What can I do to help?"
"You can go back and act as if this meeting never happened; as if you slept like a baby all night rather than being woken by Ricky there. You can be our eyes and ears."
Good grief, he really was a dead man walking. If Marianna discovered he was working with—well, the resistance was as good a name as any—then he'd be swinging from a streetlamp within minutes. But the longer he stayed there undiscovered, the greater the chance a Hoper would stick a knife in him, or Mendoza would return and Marianna would use Devon as a scapegoat for any complaints the General had.
Or, he could simply run.
Except he couldn't. Who was he kidding?
"Okay, but Jade stays here."
"No frickin' way!" Jade, who'd been nodding as she squatted on a crate, jumped up and jabbed a finger at Devon.
Gert shook his head. "She can't. If she disappears, then this Marianna woman will suspect something. She'll be watching you closely, at least at first, and you've got to give every impression you think she's got Jessie so you're toeing the line."
"I ain't no baby, Devon. I'm a grown woman," Jade said. "Well, not very grown, like …"
Devon sighed. The late hour and excitement had finally caught up with him and all he really wanted was to be back in bed with Jessie. Well, one out of two would have to do.
"And you can keep Jessie and Dorothy safe?" Devon said, looking up at Gert.
"I'll do my best, though you don't know your woman well if you think she needs me to look after her. So far, it's been the other way around. Now, I'll get Ricky to take you back into town. He'll explain how we'll keep in touch. We're gonna strike soon, and we'll need your help."
"You're not going to take me to the farmhouse?"
Gert shook his head. "It's safest if you don't know where it is exactly. What you don't know can't be extracted under torture."
"Charming."
"I'm sorry, my friend."
Jessie got up. "Come on, Dev, let's say our goodbyes somewhere private." She took him into a second room while the others filed out to the cars and, when they were alone, they had a few moments of happiness.
#
Rusty Kaminski took a deep drink and stepped back to admire their handiwork. He and a few others—some from Hope, most from Springs—were rebuilding another of the ranch houses that lined a small circular road. This was the fourth, and one glance at the first place showed how much their skills had improved as they went. They'd gone from the house that Jack built to frontier log cabin in four steps.
Rusty had once been an engineer, but building these houses was a whole new challenge. They had enough generators and gas to power and recharge their electric tools, but the infrastructure that produced perfectly straight timbers and ready-made components had vanished overnight.
In a way, Springs was lucky. A series of small streams emerged from beneath the nearby mountains and trees grew in a narrow strip along their banks until they disappeared beneath the sand. They'd argued and argued about the wisdom of cutting down trees when the firestorm had been triggered by humanity's poor stewardship of the planet, but winter would arrive soon enough and people needed accommodation. They were building communal dwellings that could house up to twenty people each as that made the best use of the scarce wood.
It broke Rusty's gnarled old heart to see people forming new families from the fragments of the old. Especially the kids. He couldn't stand to see children cry, and not just because it ought to affect anyone. No, Rusty had his own reasons. Two of them, called Jaden and Marsha. In his mind, he pictured his grandchildren playing at their parents' house in Colorado. They'd be running around the yard on a sunny day like this, laughing and playing hide and seek. Except that they wouldn't.
The grandchildren he remembered were at least five years out of date and he bitterly regretted the harsh words he'd spoken to his daughter about her good-for-nothing husband. That had broken their relationship of trust, a bond he had fostered over many years by staying out of her private life. He knew her mother would have taken that crack and driven a big, fat wedge into it to exact her final revenge on him for all those years he spent on projects, earning money to keep her living in the style she'd grown accustomed to. A style that got more expensive as each year went by. So, he'd taken the more lucrative projects farther afield, and when he arrived home one day, he found she'd left. She'd sold the house from under him and cleaned out the bank account, before moving to Colorado with their daughter.
They were all dead now; he had to accept that. He couldn't bring himself to care about his ex-wife, but the loss of his daughter and her darling kids was a bitter pill to swallow.
"Hey, why the long face?"
He snapped out of the darkness as a thick hand slapped his shoulders.
"Ah, nothin', Duck."
"I know that look. Thinkin' about the past. Don't do you no good, Rusty. It certainly don't do me no good. I try to look on the bright side."
Rusty grunted. "What bright side is that?"
"Well, this place is lookin' mighty impressive, and that's a fact."
"Yeah. I do believe we're gettin' the hang of it."
They stood silently examining the partially finished house. They'd built the walls to their final height and a team of carpenters—a former accountant, retail worker, and insurance salesman, Rusty seemed to remember—were lifting the first joists into place. Another few days and they'd be knocking in the roof tiles they'd scavenged from the wreckage of the nearby houses. Judging by the one they'd helped finish last week, the building would look pretty good, though the acid test would be when winter fell.
"Ah, Mr. Kaminski."
Rusty's mood, which had lightened a little when Duck had arrived, dropped into his boots again.
Otis Weppler approached from behind and stood beside the former sheriff of Hope. "Progress seems to be satisfactory, though I might have hoped for a greater increase in productivity after your people arrived."
Doing his best to keep the groan silent, Rusty said, "We're doing our best, Mr. Mayor."
Mr. Mayor? Poor old Gil Summers and his sidekick Gert had not made a good choice in encouraging the survivors of Springs to elect Otis Weppler. Perhaps Gil had recognized a little of himself in Weppler, but whereas Summers was occasionally a little pompous, the new mayor of Springs—a town far too small now to qualify for that honorific—was nothing more than a self-important control freak whose only purpose, it seemed, was to complain. And most of his complaints were aimed squarely at the incomers from Hope.
"You do, of course, outnumber us with your latest influx, Mr. Kaminski. It's just a pity that you sent us your old and sick."
"You know why that is, Otis," Kaminski said, enjoying the flicker of annoyance his use of the weasel's first name caused. "And besides, a squad of our young people are keeping this place secure."
Weppler fidgeted uncomfortably. "Yes, I'm sure we all appreciate the role Sergeant Gruman has played, though we, that is to say the city council, believe it is time for her unit to come under civil jurisdiction."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You are the most senior elected official …"
"Well, I wasn't exactly elected …"
"Nonetheless, you represent the civil government of Hope and, as such, are party to our agreement."
Rusty sighed. "Have you asked Mara?"
"She told me she is under the command of Captain Bekmann—even though we all know he is dead—and she awaits orders from a senior."
"Hey, Rusty, who's that?" Duck pointed past Weppler's shoulder at a figure running across the field from the direction of the brothel.
"I guess we'll find out soon enough," he said, as he watched the uniformed young man who was clearly on a collision course.
"Hey, son, you here to see me or the mayor?"
/> "I was told to find you, Sheriff, but I guess Mr. Weppler can come along too," said the red-haired soldier as he snapped an acceptable salute. "Simmons, sir, Tom Simmons. Private."
Rusty smiled. "At ease, Private. So, who sent you?"
"Sergeant Gruman. She said for you to come right away, we got trouble at the barricade."
Rusty's smile disappeared. "Why didn't you say that in the first place? Come on, I got a pickup parked around back."
#
Mara Gruman turned to see Rusty approach in the pickup, the relief obvious on her face. Three of her squad covered the small party gathered around a Land Rover.
Gruman stepped back and gestured at the well-built black man dressed in fatigues who stood beside the open passenger door. As he spotted Kaminski, he moved forward and two others followed him, black masks pulled down over their faces.
"My name is Leader Azari. I am told you command here."
Before Rusty could say a word, he heard footsteps behind him as Weppler scurried past. "You were misinformed. I am the mayor of this city."
The black man's mouth creased into a sneer. "I do not think so. I wish to talk to the puppeteer, not his doll."
"Now there's no need for that," Kaminski said, though Weppler's gasp was almost too funny to resist laughing out loud. "Mayor Weppler speaks for the civilian government and Sergeant Gruman here commands the military forces."
Azari glanced at Gruman, who remained perfectly still, looking into the middle distance as if there wasn't a large brown head between her and the highway. "She is a junior female, and she tells me she answers to you."
Gruman treated Rusty to the tiniest of shrugs as she side-eyed him. "Well then, I guess you'd better speak your piece to me. Me and the mayor, that is."
Weppler moved alongside the sheriff, puffing his chest out—though all that achieved was to emphasize his large belly.
"Very well," Azari said, making little effort to hide a catlike smirk. "I lead the contingent of Sebastopol, some five hundred miles west of here."
"You're a long way from home," Rusty said. As soon as he'd seen the black masks and the Land Rover, he'd known who they were dealing with, but he'd expected these to be local members of the collective, not West Coasters. Very odd.
"A man will go to the ends of the Earth to right a wrong. Do you know of Jason Kelly?"
The name was somehow familiar, but Rusty couldn't work out where he'd heard it.
"Or Samantha Hickman?"
Bulls-eye.
"Ah, yes, I see you have heard of her, if not of him. She was from here, was she not?"
"Ms. Hickman was not part of our community," Weppler said. "She merely took advantage of our hospitality before leaving after a few days."
Azari turned his eyes to Weppler, who shrank a little under the silent interrogation. "Did she indeed? And has she returned?"
Weppler went to open his mouth, but Rusty stepped in. "What's it to you?"
The eyes flicked back to Kaminski who sensed Weppler relaxing a little as the spotlight moved away. "She is complicit in the murder of one of my men, the wounding of another and the kidnapping of my … son."
"Well, I'm as sure as could be that's not the entire story. But, in any case, she ain't here and hasn't been since she headed west. You've had a wasted trip, my friend, and I suggest you head back where you came from."
Azari held Rusty's gaze for a few moments as if trying to work out whether he was telling the truth. Finally, he nodded. "I believe you. But let me tell you this. You would do well to cooperate with the Sons of Solomon. We are taking control across the entire country and, sooner or later, we will come here. It would go better for you—especially a man of your age—if a senior Son put in a good word."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just this, my friend," he said, spitting the phrase back. "The new world is a place for the young and strong. There is no room for the old and weak, unless they prove their value in other ways. Do not oppose us. That is my advice."
Rusty looped his fingers through his belt and stood with his hands on his hips like a marshal of the Old West warning off a brigand. "And my advice to you is to crawl back under your rock and don't show your ugly face here again, or I'll fill it with buckshot."
Azari's sneer twisted in fury and one of the men behind him raised his weapon. "No!" he snapped. "This fool will receive his reward in due time. I think, perhaps, I should contact the local commander and draw his attention to this place. General Mendoza would take great pleasure, I think, in bringing this cesspit to heel."
He spun around and stalked back to his car, climbing into the passenger seat and avoiding eye contact as it reversed up the road before turning and accelerating away.
"Are you insane?" Weppler spat.
Rusty shook his head. "Yeah, probably not my finest moment."
"The last thing we want is to come to their attention. If we just keep a low profile and mind our own business …"
This was too much for Rusty Kaminski. "And what? They might leave us be? You had your own problems here with Warner and his gang, but they were just pussies compared to the Sons of Solomon. I've heard stories that would shrivel your balls. If you've got any.
"No, I shouldn't have poked the tiger, but it's comin' for us either way and I'd rather face it like a man than roll over like a yellow-belly."
The crimson-faced Otis Weppler finally breathed out, then wagged his finger at Kaminski, his lips moving, but no sound emerging. Finally, he controlled himself enough to affect what he thought was a dignified exit, but which looked more like a child having a tantrum. He stalked away, but turned his head to call back to Kaminski. "I am going to call a meeting of the council. It's time you thick-headed military types left the governing to us. I suggest you pack your bags, Mr. Kaminski."
Chapter 4: Rebel HQ
After dark on a midsummer night and Hick had his foot on the gas. They were heading for 93 to Springs in the bullet-ridden Land Rover they'd taken from Ezra. It had taken a full two days to make their way around Hope, taking to the desert tracks that hugged the feet of the mountains until they were north of the roadblock.
Jumping, jerking and rattling, the old car heaved a sigh of relief as it emerged onto the black tar after dozens of miles across rough country.
"Thank the Lord," Brain said. "I weren't sure I could keep my food down much longer."
Kris looked left, down the highway toward Hope. "Can't see any sign of patrols."
"Our roadblock is a good couple miles away and I doubt they've bothered to build another. Reckon we can risk the headlights?"
"Headlight," Kris said. "Singular. Once we've passed the Salt Lake City intersection, I guess so. It'd be good to get some miles between us and them, but I don't want to run across any patrols heading south from SLC."
Hick nodded. It was good to have someone competent by his side. She certainly made up for the pair of idiots in the back seat. Brain and Donnie had been last in the queue for wits and the best that could be said about them was that they generally followed orders as long as you didn't toss in too many syllables.
It was a relief to be on the smooth asphalt, though phantom shivers and shakes ran up Hick's legs and arms as his body seemed to think they were still in the desert.
"Watch out!"
Three beams of light moved across the highway ahead of them looking like miniature UFOs before settling in a line. The beams rose and hit Hick's eyes as he stabbed his foot on the brake, the car squealing as one tire slipped, sending it spinning around.
Kris took the assault rifle out of Donnie's hands and thrust it out of the open passenger window as the car came to a halt. Hick reached under the seat and pulled out his Glock as he searched the darkness for a target.
Voices called from outside.
"Drop your weapons! Hands up!"
Hick covered his eyes as his vision filled with brilliant white. Then he felt something cold press against his temple.
"Move and I blow you
r head off, komaan!"
Hick couldn't help himself. He twisted a little to look into the darkness outside the car. "Gert?"
"Christus! Hickman? I thought you must be dead!"
"I knew for a fact you were dead."
The door opened, and a hand grabbed Hick, pulling him out of the car.
"And yet, here we are, my friend! But what are you doing in the car of the enemy? Don't tell me you've gone over to their side?" He said, laughing.
Hick shook his hand, grabbing his arm. "Not exactly. But how come you're alive? And what are you doing here?"
"Being as much of a pain in the ass as I can. But come, my friend, let's go somewhere we can talk."
#
The most despised man in Hope parked his car outside the farm and walked toward the field. Marianna DeMille had asked him to meet her here as she inspected progress on the irrigation project. It wasn't so much a request as an order with a bowtie on it, so he'd cut short his meeting with two neighbors who were squabbling over whose land was whose and driven straight out here.
She was standing at the fence looking at the toiling laborers. A masked guard stood at each shoulder, both towering over her diminutive figure.
At first glance, it was a perfect summer day. Fluffy white clouds skirted the mountain range, melding into a sky that became ever bluer as it rose. The sun warmed the back of his neck and birds argued with each other in the bushes as figures bent to their work in the trenches beyond, carving into the pristine landscape.
"Ah, Mr. Mayor. I'm pleased you could find the time to join me."
He couldn't resist. He knew he should, but he couldn't. "I didn't have much of a choice."
"There's always a choice. But anyway, perhaps you are wondering why I asked you to meet me here."
"I assume you're going to congratulate me on how the people are doing?"
Marianna made a small noise that might have been a chuckle. "If only I could do that, but you see this project is now behind schedule. It was due to be completed today, but the foreman tells me it will take at least another two."
Last Hope: Book 5 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 5) Page 3
