Last Dawn

by Kevin Partner

  "It hurts!"

  "Believe me, I know. But we've got to go. Try lifting yourself up. Swing your legs around."

  He admired the boy for the way he handled the pain of the next minutes. Especially when he put his foot down. Devon searched the bedside table and finding a cache of drugs shoved them in his pocket.

  He'd been afraid that Jay would have been cuffed to the bed, but he'd merely been attached with a cable clip to his left hand and Devon made short work of that, all the while half expecting a black-clothed terrorist to come barging in.

  "So, you're the only patient here," he said while he freed Jay's hand.

  "I dunno. Where am I? I don't remember much since … since … what day is it?"

  "They butchered you yesterday, but if it's any consolation, the monster who did it is dead."

  That woke him up. "What?"

  "I killed him, Sam has gone with my … friend … and she'll wait for us if she can, but we've got to get out of here under our own steam."

  He made an odd snuffling noise and Devon realized he was sobbing. "I can't go nowhere fast. They cut me, mister."

  "Devon, just call me Devon. I know, and I'm sorry, but if we don't get out of here pronto, they'll be doing a whole lot more cutting. Now, try to get up."

  He stood beside the bed and draped Jay's arm around his shoulder. He almost choked on the overwhelming stink of antiseptic and, for a split second, wondered if he was doing the right thing. Jay had lost the end of his foot, taking all the toes in one go. And this had happened just yesterday. The poor kid shouldn't be moving for days, not till the pain had subsided and any infection was contained. But if Devon left him, he'd die. Sure as sure. So he heaved, and tried to block out the screams, the writhing and the begging until, finally, his only choice was to bend down and hoist Jay over his shoulder.

  Now he was joining in the agony as Jay rubbed against the burns on his neck and back. The girl began to bang on the pantry door—good, all the more convincing when the others who worked here returned.

  The buggy was waiting where he left it, and Devon unceremoniously dumped Jay into the back, sealing the hood to the floor to hide him, though his moans were likely to give them both away. He wanted desperately to get out of there, but he knew that even if they escaped, Jay would likely die without more medication, so he ran back into the room and ransacked the drawers of the table set against the window to watch the patients. He found plenty of antibiotics, but only one box of painkillers, and no time to search further.

  Devon tore out of the hospital, every fiber of his being in panic mode. They had taken too long. He should just have hoisted the unconscious boy onto the buggy without waking him. And now a group of a half-dozen men and women were clustered around it, and one was about to pull the hood back.

  "Stop!" He had no choice but to raise a weapon. He had only seconds, and at the ferocity of his command and the horror of his appearance bursting out of the hospital they gave way. He jumped up into the driver's seat and grabbed the reins. "Get away! You did nothing to stop them hurting him," he said, knowing that he was being terribly unfair. "Now forget you saw us. Go back to your houses and forget us!"

  He pulled on the handbrake, lifted the whip and tapped the horse. Immediately it sprang away as the crowd silently stepped back. Fortunately, the beast needed nothing more than a gentle tug to tell it which way to turn at the end of the track; Devon decided to worry about how to stop it when the time came and not before.

  More people were filing down the lane that led to the main road, though their numbers thinned as Devon approached the intersection. Did he dare go past the church? That was the direction Jessie had headed in, but there was every chance that one or more of the terrorists would still be there and he'd be terribly exposed as he drove along the road. Maybe they wouldn't notice a buggy? Maybe they'd assume it contained an Amish family going about their business? But he hadn't seen any buggies coming from that direction earlier, so he assumed there were no Amish farms to the west of the town.

  By the time he'd reached the intersection, he'd made up his mind. He would chance it. Then he saw them in the road. Two black figures, with a small group of people sitting on the ground at their feet. Even this far away, Devon could see the terror as the little shapes clustered together as if that could protect them from the rifles. One way or another, these two, at least, were now armed again.

  One of them saw him hesitate at the intersection and raised his weapon, gesturing with his other hand for Devon to approach. And then the terrorist must have recognized him. He braced the weapon with his other hand and fired. But Devon had seen it coming. He'd flicked Max hard on the rump, sending him leaping away just as the first shots pinged through the air. Jay cried out as the buggy vibrated. Then they were across, rolling quickly along the lane opposite. Barely wide enough for the buggy, but no problem for a Land Rover.

  "You okay?" he called over his shoulder.

  Jay had hauled himself upright and was gripping the bench in the back as the buggy rocked and rolled along. "Yeah. Bullet went through the hood."

  Over the staccato clopping of the horse's hoofs, Devon heard the unmistakable grinding noise of a Land Rover starting up. They were coming after them and there was no way they could outrun a car in a buggy, even in the maze of little tracks that led up the side of the valley and into the forest beyond.

  "Jay, you're gonna have to get in front."

  "No way. I can't even stand up!"

  Devon brought the buggy to a halt as the lane plunged beneath a canopy of trees, the branches above them interlocking like lovers' fingers against the skitting clouds above.

  "Come on." Devon took Jay by the arm and helped him over and into the front bench. He had no time for the boy's tears or his cries of pain as he hopped into the seat, keeping his maimed foot off the floor. "We can't run, so we've gotta fight. When you hear them come around that corner, just trot slowly on."

  "How the hell do I do that? I ain't never rode in a buggy before!"

  "Just tap with the reins like you see on TV. Just gentle, though. Better too slow than too fast. Here, take this." He handed over the Glock. "Only if they take me out and catch up with you. Point and squeeze. And if that happens, then get yourself back to the main road and follow it along to the next settlement. Jessie and Sam should be there."

  Jay grasped the handgun tight, grimacing against the pain. "And what're you gonna do?"

  "Don't you worry about me. Now, you be careful."

  Jay put out his hand. "I don't even remember your name."

  "Devon. Take care, Jay."

  The boy nodded as Devon jumped down and ran out of sight.

  Devon crouched behind an oak, the fingers of one hand pressed into the deeply grooved bark, the other hand gripping the stock of the assault rifle. The buggy sat in the road fifty yards to his right, and he could see Jay looking back through the rear window. He could hear the uneven hum of the Land Rover above the chatter and whistle of birds. This place was a paradise, especially in early spring as it prepared to burst with new life. Just as he prepared to end it. Devon drew in the moist, rich air as he tried to bring his racing heartbeat under control. Be calm or be dead, his police instructor had told him.

  Maybe they wouldn't come this way after all. Devon had passed at least three turns they might have taken. Perhaps he'd have been better to keep going in the hope they'd get far enough ahead before their pursuers chose the right road that they'd be beyond catching. And maybe pigs would grow wings and fly.

  The noise of the Land Rover suddenly got louder. They had searched along the parallel lane and would be coming along here next. And then, before he was ready, the car appeared to his left. Devon cursed under his breath and raised the weapon as the driver spotted the buggy and put his foot down.

  Jay must have seen him because it began moving away, drawing their attention exactly as Devon had intended. But the Land Rover was past him before he could bring the rifle to bear.

  Close to panic
, he lined up on the rear tire and fired a short burst. A miss! And they were almost at the buggy now. He calmed himself, aimed again and pulled the trigger, prepared this time for the recoil and concentrating the rounds to a smaller target area. The car slewed to one side, almost toppling as the tire shredded.

  Devon ran from cover. He was too far to take them out like a sniper, the only option was to get messy. He kept the car between him and them, and he was almost upon it when a head popped up and the muzzle of a rifle began swinging in his direction.

  He cried out in rage and fear as he jumped, slid over the hood of the car and came down on the man in black before he could fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a second shape moving away and toward the buggy, but he couldn't do anything about it for now.

  Devon threw his rifle to one side and reached down for the knife in his belt. He was barely aware of the searing pain in his limbs and head, merely channeling it into a tsunami of rage as he fought to subdue his opponent. But the man was bulky, and he recovered quickly from the shock of Devon's attack, pushing out with strong arms and throwing Devon sideways while he grabbed for something in his belt. He flinched as three shots, then another, punched through the grunting and cursing, but he had no time to worry about Jay.

  Devon yowled in pain as his head hit the ancient, gritty asphalt. His opponent had hold of his right arm and so Devon reached over with his left to take the dagger just as the man in the black hood brought his hand around and Devon found himself looking down the barrel of a handgun and, beyond it, a flash of white teeth. He had milliseconds to live, he knew it.

  And then a shadow appeared above him, he heard an ear-splitting crack and blood showered his face, running warm down his cheeks and into his open mouth. He yelled and wondered why it didn't hurt. Why he wasn't dead yet.

  "Are … are you okay?"

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up to see Jay leaning against the Land Rover, his hands covered in blood and shaking uncontrollably. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he glanced at the body lying beside him. Half the jaw was gone, leaving dazzlingly white teeth in a mockery of a grin as blood seeped into a halo of gore around what remained of his head.

  "The other one?"

  "He's … dead … too. Now c'mon. I can't stand …"

  Devon got to his feet. The other terrorist lay beside where the buggy had been, three holes in his chest, blood leaking onto the ground. He grabbed Jay by the arm and helped him into the passenger seat of the car. By the time he'd stripped their pursuers of jackets, ID, weapons and ammo and climbed into the driver's seat, Jay had passed out.

  He caught up with the buggy a couple of hundred yards down the road, overtook it, then jumped out and pulled Max the horse to one side, calming him as best he could. He retrieved the cache of medicine from the back seat, took a double dose of painkillers, and then tied the reins to the tow bar of the car. He would pick his way back to the main road and do his darndest to find the place with the red tractor to leave the horse and buggy because they'd saved his life, and a promise was a promise.

  He glanced at Jay as he started the car again. The bandage on the boy's foot was now soaked with fresh blood and he said a silent prayer that this rescue hadn't been in vain. He fixed an image of Jessie in his mind as he pulled away, checking that the horse was following. Somewhere ahead she was waiting; at least, he hoped so. If they missed each other now, there was very little chance of catching up on the long, long journey back to Hope.

  Devon Myers looked to the sky and whispered her name.

  Chapter 16: Martha

  Paul Hickman stood at the graveside and respectfully put his hands together as Ward McAndrew said a prayer. He hated his job. In the week since he'd overheard McAndrew inciting revolution in his congregation, Hick had felt like he was the captain of a ship being tossed around in a storm as the passengers jumped ship and the crew plotted to overthrow him.

  The militia was the only card he had to play. Gert Bekmann's Civil Defense Force had proven themselves efficient and surprisingly restrained as they'd gone about their job of securing Hope and centralizing supplies. There had been protests, of course, but this was about the greater good—or so Hick told those who complained—and so far, the anger hadn't spilled over into anything more.

  The curfew helped, of course. And the lockdown on anyone with the illness.

  "In your mercy, turn the darkness of death into the dawn of new life, and the sorrow of parting into the joy of heaven; through our savior Jesus Christ, who died, who rose again, and lives for evermore."

  Hick mumbled "Amen" while quietly cursing the treacherous, two-faced snake in the grass who was leading the service. He opened his eyes and stepped back to watch as the cemetery attendant—a pinch-faced man called Schneider—maneuvered the excavator to the pile of earth and began filling the first grave. There were sixteen this time. Nine Ezrans and seven locals. And they weren't going to be the last, not by a long shot.

  Martha Bowie was not among them. The old goat hadn't quite given up her grip on existence and simplified his life. Her father-in-law told him yesterday that she'd survived the virus only to come down with pneumonia, and the town's stocks of antibiotics had now all but run out. She was just aware enough to refuse any for herself. Damn fool woman. Always playing the heroine.

  Someone sidled up to him as he walked slowly toward the weathered gates. "Those won't be the last."

  "Thank you for stating the obvious, Ms. Hawkins."

  "Do you want the latest count?"

  Not really. "Of course." He stopped at the gate and allowed the others to file out, leaving him alone with the young woman. She looked over his shoulder as if regretting the lack of an audience. "We've now lost thirty-six. Mainly elderly, but two diabetic children among them. Forty-five have the flu or whatever it is, and nineteen of those are seriously ill. We could easily lose another fifteen this week."

  "Well, I sure am sorry to hear that," he said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. "Or I would be, if it weren't for the fact that your people have come like plague rats into my town. Because of you, at least two hundred fifty of my folks are ill and we're only containin' it at all because we're isolating the sick in their own homes and quarantining their families."

  "Leaving them to fend for themselves. Very compassionate!"

  He jabbed his finger at her. "Now you listen to me, missy." Now she was really riled up. Good. "A leader has to make hard choices. This is our only chance to stop it spreadin' to the whole town. I only wish I'd made the decision earlier but, you know, democracy and all that."

  Now he was lying. He'd had the idea soon after overhearing McAndrews's sermon. Keeping people apart seemed like a good idea until the revolutionary zeal blew over.

  "And, in any case, we ain't leavin' them to fend for themselves. Every quarantined house gets food'n whatever they need once a day, and the good doctor gets around to as many as he can."

  Libby Hawkins sighed as she looked back over the graveyard with its freshly dug rows, then out to the scrubby landscape beyond and finally to the modest peaks of the Schmidt range. "I just hope we've seen the worst of it, that's all."

  "Me too," he said, and meant it. Their anger had dissipated like a desert mist at sunrise.

  "I wonder what's happening in Ezra. I mean, there must have been people there with the disease. They can't all have been evacuated."

  Hick had to admit he'd originally suspected that was exactly what had happened. That Mayor Hawkins had seen the epidemic develop and had shipped all her sick out of town. But even if that weren't so far-fetched on its own, she wouldn't have sent her daughter with the sick. Would she?

  "Why don't you send someone to find out? We got plenty of vehicles with nowhere to go. I'll requisition one for you, if you like."

  He could sense her surprise without even looking at her. "I'm not a complete monster, you know," he said, trying to keep her off-balance.

  "Actually, I didn't know. I'm glad to find
it out, however. If you could arrange that, I'd be grateful."

  "Consider it done."

  He didn't move because he suspected she had something more to say. He could almost hear her internal struggle.

  "You know there are people speaking against you?" she said, after a long period of silence.

  "You surprise me."

  She checked there was no one in earshot before moving closer to him. "This whole … disaster. Some people say it was caused by our way of life, as if it was inevitable."

  "Hogwash. Oh, I believe you when you say some folks are talkin' that way, but to blame washing machines for the end of civilization is crazy."

  She nodded. "I agree, but it's a compelling message for some. And folks here haven't seen what it's like in Ezra, let alone the rest of the country. To them, things have gotten much worse and they're looking for somebody or something to blame. And they're looking for someone to follow."

  "Aside from me, you mean?"

  She smiled, and it was like looking at a different person. Like a glimpse into the Libby Hawkins from before. "You've got your strengths, Mr. Hickman, but gentle persuasion isn't one of them."

  Then she got close enough for him to smell her breath. Minty. "Look out for the pastor. At times like these especially, folks feel helpless, like there's nothing they can do. And, aside from those you've got working, they're sitting around with nothin' much to do. And along comes Ward McAndrew, and he tells them he knows why the disaster happened and what they need to do to make a better life for themselves and … pow!" She clapped her hands together, simulating an explosion. "Now, it doesn't really matter that most of them don't truly believe that it was their use of tech that brought this all about. They just want a purpose. They want something to say they believe so they can actually commit to a cause that gives them something to do. You're sitting on a powder keg, Mr. Hickman, and the fuse has already been lit."