Last Hope: Book 5 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 5)

by Kevin Partner

  Eliza was pretty angry with him when she returned to the table, but his unfinished breakfast got recycled among the other patrons and he tried to eliminate the sounds of their chewing as he focused on the list.

  He ground his teeth, cursing Marianna for putting him in this position. Right now, he hated her at least as much as he despised Mendoza. The general was a straightforward, evil soul doing what came naturally to him, but he'd thought he knew Marianna. He'd saved her life more than once.

  An hour ago, when he'd left the community center, she'd said something that had gnawed at him. What was it? Ah, yes. That she wanted to send a message to America.

  Send a message.

  With a thrill, he knew without doubt that she had written the cipher sent to Rusty.

  Then he realized it made no difference to whether they should act upon it. If anything, she had only confirmed that she was a bad actor by supporting Mendoza. Maybe she'd tried to convince the general to be lenient. He desperately wanted to think there was a trace of the Marianna he knew in the monster she'd become, but if there was, then that only left the mystery of why she was supporting Mendoza. Could it be simple self-preservation?

  His hand hovered over the legal pad.

  And he wrote the first name.

  Devon Myers.

  He had no choice. Oh, it would be simple enough to justify not doing it. His promise to Jade, for one. And his pivotal role in organizing the attack on the committee. How would Jessie react? And, when it came down to it, he didn't want to die.

  But he made no further progress. He couldn't make the choice. The only answer was to randomize the process. And that meant another trip to the community center where he would find nine more names to add to his own. As he walked toward the intersection, he noticed a pile of timbers and the beginnings of a platform.

  In the end, the choice wasn't entirely random. He only picked men. It was his sexism talking again, he knew that well enough, but that was a line he wouldn't cross. From the list of all men, he chose the oldest and most unfit, knowing as he did it that he was doing the devil's work. Having been horrified by their policy of targeting the elderly and sick, having watched his friend die because of that policy, here he was enacting it in the most brutal way possible.

  "Unacceptable," Mendoza said as he looked down at the list scribbled on the yellow paper. He picked up a pen and drew a line through the name at the top of the list. "I will not have you make this a noble gesture. I will not make you a martyr. No, you will suffer by watching the others die. I am having gallows built and these men will be executed the day before our conference begins. These men and one other, since I said that the number would be ten."

  He leaned back, the leather chair creaking, and looked up at Devon. "Fortunately, I anticipated your … shall we say? … resistance and took out an insurance policy. You will not find your young female friend in your apartment when you return."

  "Jade? You b—"

  One of the two bodyguards stepped forward, sidearm drawn.

  "No!" Mendoza said. "I will allow this outburst because I want Mr. Myers to be there when she is hanged. First. It is a pity to sacrifice a young woman in this way, but she seems too small to be a good child-bearer. I confess I do not understand what you see in her, unless you have somewhat specialized tastes in women. Women who look like children."

  Devon threw himself over the desk, hands outstretched. Mendoza yelled as Devon's fingers squeezed his thick, bearded throat, but strong hands pulled Devon off the general almost instantly and then he was lost in a world of pain as fist after boot pounded his unresisting body.

  "I'd a slit your worthless throat," Sheriff Laverne said as he pushed Devon out onto the street the following morning.

  Devon swayed a little, feeling as though he had a thousand piranhas nibbling away at the inside of his head, then lifted his bruised left hand and gave the sheriff the finger. He was way past giving a crap and, anyway, he figured if attacking Mendoza hadn't earned him a bullet in the head, insulting the thug of a sheriff wouldn't.

  He shambled along the sidewalk toward the intersection and, beyond it, his apartment. He'd woken up in one of the two cells in the jail he'd refurbished, expecting Jade to be in the other, but she wasn't there. His face and arms had taken the worst of the beating, but, as he walked, the sharp pain in his chest suggested they'd cracked one of his ribs. Mendoza sure was keen to keep him alive long enough to watch Jade and others die. But why? What caused someone to so obviously delight in cruelty?

  But the thought vanished as he focused his entire attention on getting home, staggering northward past townsfolk and soldiers alike who gazed at him as he went. And as he walked toward the intersection, he saw the wide wooden platform and a long beam set on posts with ropes draped over it that swung in the wind.

  He wasn't given long to rest before he was summoned back to the community center. Marianna sat behind Mendoza's desk, the shock obvious on her face when she saw him struggle into a chair.

  "Good grief! What sort of a fool are you?"

  "The sort of fool who can only take so much insult. There is a line, you know."

  She shook her head. "And you crossed it yesterday. You're lucky to be alive. Frankly, I'm not sure why the general spared you."

  "Because he wants to torture me first. He wants me to watch the people I condemned die. I expect I'll be the last. The bonus. Once the last of them is dead."

  "It is regrettable," Marianna said.

  "Regrettable? Is that all you've got to say?"

  One of the bodyguards—Devon had checked and neither of them had been on duty the previous night to give him his beating—put his hand to his belt.

  "You have been through a lot, but do not forget where you are," Marianna said. "But we are here to talk about the visit of the committee. You, as mayor, must prepare your people. You must make it clear that disobedience will not be tolerated. Hope will be the model community, and I would prefer it if that was achieved without more bloodshed."

  He nodded.

  "Now, the committee has twelve members and they will all be here. We have commandeered accommodations for them. As you would expect, we will also ensure that security is tight for their visit, so I hope you will be sure to spread the message that resistance is not only futile, but will only result in the more death. Whether or not they were involved in any prohibited actions."

  He nodded again.

  "The members of the committee arrive on Sunday."

  "What? That's the day after tomorrow!"

  "Yes. I'm sorry."

  His mind spun. If they were due on Sunday, then the executions would happen tomorrow. And there was nothing, nothing at all, that he could do to save them.

  Chapter 13: Unlucky

  "Jeez, what happened to you?" Joe Bowie said as he examined Devon's bruised face. "Can't really tell from a distance on account of your skin color, but up close you're a total mess."

  "I took a swing at Mendoza."

  Joe's face widened comically. "You gotta be kiddin' me! You're lucky to be alive."

  "So people keep saying. But look, Joe, we've got a lot to talk about. Is Martha here?"

  They were in the Bowies' living room and he gestured toward the stairs. "She won't come out of her bedroom."

  "Not even to get revenge?"

  "I'll go check," Joe said and ran up the stairs, returning a minute or two later arm in arm with his wife.

  She collapsed onto the sofa, and Devon couldn't stop himself from recoiling a little at the smell of stale sweat.

  "Joe says you got a plan for revenge," she said, lifelessly.

  Devon nodded. Had it really come to this? That the resistance relied on a sick old woman and her grieving husband? He explained about the arms cache under the church and about the three positions he'd like the snipers to take. Joe would be in one, and Martha in the other.

  A little life returned to Martha Bowie's face at the prospect of taking her revenge on those responsible for the deaths of her so
n and father.

  "Martha can't do it, Devon. She can barely move."

  "Oh, you shut your mouth, Joe Bowie. If it means I can take a shot at the lowlife who … who …"

  Joe put his hand on her leg. "It's okay, blossom. We'll manage. But who's goin' to be the third shooter?" He turned toward Devon.

  "I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to suggest someone."

  "For a suicide mission? I wouldn't want to do that to no one. No one I liked, in any case."

  Devon sighed and settled back into the soft pillow of the couch. He gasped as pain lanced through his chest.

  A warm hand grasped his knee. "You look all beat up. Why don't you just rest here for a bit? We can make our plans in the mornin'."

  Devon desperately wanted to take a boat-load of Advil and fall into sleep. But he opened his eyes a crack to see concern on the bloated face of Martha Bowie. She had lost everything these past weeks. First, folks appointed by the Sons now ran her shop. Then they gunned down her son, Jenson, during the first attempt to take over the city. Now her father. And she would have completely broken if she'd known exactly how he'd died.

  Yet this woman was comforting him.

  With his last iota of energy, Devon hauled himself from the couch and stood, swaying slightly and looking down on the grieving couple. "Tomorrow night, go find the weapons in the cache and get into position before sunrise. Take out as many as you can. I'm sorry, my friends, but I can't offer any hope."

  Joe rose and took his hand. "It's alright, Dev. You've given us somethin' better than hope. You've given us the chance of revenge."

  He hurried back home, walking as quickly as his bruised legs would allow to get back before curfew at sundown. His confusion had settled into two connected points of focus. In thirty-six hours or so, they would have their one and only opportunity to destroy the committee of the Sons of Solomon, but they were shorthanded. He'd wanted at least three shooters and one in reserve to cover the speech platform being built at the intersection. There was no way Marianna would allow him to disappear that morning, so he'd have to do what he could at ground level, and so far, he had only the Bowies; less than half of the minimum he'd been aiming for.

  And the second focus was what Mendoza had planned for tomorrow. Devon would not simply stand by and watch Jade and nine others be hanged; the question was what could he do about it? Probably not a lot, but he planned to finish the job he'd started when he'd attacked the general. One thing was certain: he would not stand idly by as his friend died.

  But if he did attack Mendoza, then he would die in the attempt, which would mean he wouldn't be there the following day to play his part in the attack on the committee. And then a lot more than ten people would pay the price for his failure to hit the Sons when their neck was on the block.

  Nevertheless, he would not stand idly by.

  He arrived at his dark apartment just as the last of the light left the sky. He'd ignored the taunts and sneers of the guards at the barrier. Let them laugh—he couldn't care less.

  Lighting a candle, he sat in the emptiness, staring at the flame as it danced merrily in the draft from the rotten window frames his landlord would now never get around to fixing.

  The night stretched out before him, and he wondered where Jade was now, and what she was thinking. In his mind's eye, he saw her sitting in a dark corner, chin on her knees and tears running down her cheeks. She was probably waiting for him to come to the rescue.

  He must have fallen asleep somehow, because he awoke to the sound of gunfire.

  No, it was a quiet but insistent knock.

  He rolled off the couch onto his hands and knees, wincing and reaching around to rub his ribs with one hand while hauling himself up with the help of the other.

  The candle was still burning, and he fleetingly thought it might have been kinder if it had started a fire and killed him in his sleep. It was down to the last inch and surrounded by a frozen sea of set wax. He walked in an amber globe like a Dickens character as he made his way to the door. He considered getting his weapon, but dismissed the thought. If the Sons had come for him, they would not be knocking gently; they'd have kicked the door down.

  He opened the door and forced his sleepy eyes to focus. He half expected to see Hick there, and was prepared to reward him for the chaos he'd caused by killing that guard, but it wasn't Hickman's face that smiled at him from the darkness.

  "Gert? What the …?"

  "Are you going to let me in, my friend?"

  Devon stepped back to allow the Dutchman past, then followed him into the small living room where he'd leaned his assault rifle against the wall.

  "Are you insane? They're watching me like hawks."

  Gert shrugged. "In the middle of the night, even the tightest watch can falter. And I have much practice in slipping in and out of places without being noticed. I was special ops, you know. In the old days."

  "Why are you here?"

  "Do I need a reason other than to find out how you are?"

  Devon yawned. "To risk your life? I should hope so."

  "Oh, my dear friend, you know I don't regard that highly. I have little to live for, except for the people who need me. Why am I here? Simple. We must not fail, and I think, perhaps, my presence will make success more likely."

  "But this place is locked down like Fort Knox. You know what's happening tomorrow? They are executing ten people—nine of them names I was forced to come up with. The tenth is Jade."

  "What?"

  Running his hands down his bruised face, Devon said, "Did Hick tell you he'd killed one of their guards?"

  "Yes. Name of Joel. Hick said he was a local."

  Devon's mouth fell open.

  "You knew him?" Gert said.

  "N-no. Does Jessie know?"

  "Why would she care?"

  Why indeed? Because Joel the former jock was the biological father of the child she was carrying. Devon shook his head. "Forget it."

  "But how did Jade get caught up in all this?"

  "It was my fault. I put my name on the list, but Mendoza won't kill me until I've watched the others die. So, he took her."

  Gert leaned forward and put his hand on Devon's leg. "I'm so sorry, my friend. I like Jade, but you must see there's nothing we can do to help her if we're to succeed in our mission against the committee."

  "There's nothing you can do, perhaps, except to take my place the next day. Now that you're here, I have made up my mind. I am going to kill Mendoza."

  "Don't be a fool! You know they will be closely protecting him. You cannot possibly succeed, and Jade will die anyway. Would you give your life for nothing?"

  "Wouldn't you? If that were Libby?"

  Gert's face tightened in the orange light, his dark eyes windows on a grieving soul. "Yes, I would. But that doesn't make it right, and I'd hope my friend would talk me out of it."

  Devon shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I won't watch her die."

  "Then we are lost. If you attack Mendoza, then they will strike back at us and any hope we have of a clear shot the next day will go up in smoke."

  "If that's how it's got to be, then okay. But I won't watch her die without doing something about it."

  They sat between the guttering candle like two statues in a lightning storm. Finally, Gert's head dropped. "Ah, I understand," he sighed. "You must do what you must do. Perhaps I will get a shot after all. But, if you are going to stir up the wasps' nest—is that how you say it?—then I had best get into position tonight. I had hoped to hide here tomorrow, but … what do they say about plans and mice? Can you spare some food so I can wait in comfort?"

  So, Devon dug out the last of his supplies—a can of oxtail soup and two packages of cookies he'd taken from a hotel room on his way to Hope a year or more ago—and handed them to the Dutchman.

  Gert opened his arms, and they embraced, each knowing that they would likely not see the other again, then separated. "I will go hide in the museum," he said. "No one goes there, so
I should be safe enough."

  "Work on an escape route, will you?" Devon said, as they reached the open door of his apartment. "Get away and go look after Jessie."

  Gert opened his mouth as if to say something, but then merely gave a sad smile, shrugged and slipped out onto the dark stairwell.

  It was light far too early for Devon. He'd finally fallen into a fitful sleep some time after Gert had left, but had woken seemingly minutes later to find light flooding into his little living room, so empty without Jade.

  He yelled as he got up, gripping his ribs and cursing. How could he have forgotten the beating he'd taken? Well, today he would get revenge or die trying.

  With a final gasp, he straightened up and walked across to the window, looking down at the highway as it approached the main intersection. Fighters walked back and forth in front of the roadblock, some of them trailing plumes of smoke, while others lounged around an open fire with a kettle hanging over it. It didn't look like a military camp at a state of the highest readiness and he wondered again how many of the Sons of Solomon were trained soldiers.

  Hick had told him that Crawford’s forces were largely made up of local recruits, and then, last night, Gert had revealed that the fighter whose death had provoked Mendoza's reprisals was a Hoper. Devon squinted at the figures at the barricade as if he could penetrate their uniforms and masks to see how many of them he knew personally. Probably not many, in truth, as he hadn't made many friends in the city either before or after the firestorm.