"You know, Ike, until about ten minutes ago I'd have been inclined to agree with you. But then as luck would have it, we found some insulin right here in town." She lowered the shotgun and lifted her other hand, shaking the white box it contained. "Guess where it was found?"
Warmth drained from Paul Hickman's body as he stared open-mouthed at the smiling Martha Bowie.
"You know, don't you, Paul?"
Gil Summers finally unfroze. "What's this all about, Martha? Paul?"
Hickman merely shrugged as if nonplussed.
"They were found in the garage of Paul Hickman!" Martha Bowie yelled. And that woman could yell.
Silence fell upon the crowd as the echoes died and all eyes turned to Hick.
"I … I don't believe you … I didn't … I wouldn't …"
Martha continued. "Right now, Doctor Pishar is treating Rudi with the insulin Hickman was hiding. She'll be okay, no thanks to you." She pointed directly at Hickman.
"I tell you I don't know nothing about it. I've been framed!" Hickman's mind was whirling. How could they have found what he'd stolen? Who had betrayed him? Right now, it was all about damage mitigation and limitation. "Why would I go to all that trouble if I had it in my garage?"
"That's a good question, Paul," Gil Summers said. "And one you can answer from the comfort of your cell. That should give you time to come up with a plausible explanation."
There was a murmur in the crowd as he said this. Perhaps all was not lost. "I didn't do it! I brought the supplies back to town. It's 'cos of me that we'll be able to eat for weeks to come. It's 'cos of me that Martha Bowie's store will have food on the shelves. I saved this town."
Yes, there was at least part of the crowd still on his side. They wanted to believe him and so they did.
A hand rested on his shoulder and he turned to look into the implacable face of Rusty Kaminski. The people went quiet again, sensing that matters had come to their head one way or another. Kaminski raised his voice so that everyone could hear. "Paul Hickman, you're under arrest. I can't remember the official words but, as you said, this ain't the old world no more. And the people of Hope might be prepared to believe you about the drugs, they might even forgive a thief. But the people of Hope ain't gonna tolerate a murderer."
An audible gasp circulated through the crowd as Hickman stood open-mouthed and waited for the ax to fall.
"You're under arrest for the cold-blooded murder of a guard at the Walmart distribution center and I suggest you don't say no more until we're back at the station."
Hickman felt the world collapse around him. All his carefully laid plans to take control of Hope lay in ruins.
But how?
As he turned to head toward the police house, he saw the escort Rusty Kaminski had gathered. Martha Bowie's son, Jenson—no surprise he'd been sworn in while Hick had been away—and another new deputy he knew only by sight. And hiding in the shadow of Kaminski and refusing eye contact walked Ned Birkett, ashen-faced and terrified. So, the weasel had a conscience after all. Hickman promised himself he'd make sure that Birkett's sudden discovery of a moral backbone would prove fatal sooner or later.
Better spend those thirty pieces of silver while you still can, my friend. Because I will come for you.
As Hick focused his shock and disappointment into a steadily warming cauldron of rage aimed at his betrayer, he paid no attention to the jeers and boos from the crowd. He paid no attention, but still he heard them. And he remembered.
12: SLC
"D'you reckon they've gotten to Hope?" Jessie looked across as she maneuvered the CRV out of a bottleneck caused by a tanker that lay on its side, though otherwise mysteriously undamaged.
Devon glanced out of the left window. According to the map, Salt Lake City International Airport lay somewhere out there. Yes, there it was. Low buildings stood out against the background of a mountain range, all framed against a darkening sky. Plumes of black smoke rose into the air, converging and then drifting off to the east.
"Good grief, look."
A hundred yards away, the light blue upper fuselage of a plane lay on the ground, looking as if it had been shorn horizontally from front to back. The nose and first half of the plane sat at a downward angle from the small hill on which it had broken itself, while the rear half and remains of the engines were spread across the desert.
"Watch out!"
Jessie yanked at the steering wheel as they rounded the back end of a truck and there, sitting on the highway, was the almost complete tail of the aircraft, white with a stylized crown painted in light blue above the letters KLM.
"Poor devils," Devon said. "Looks as though they were almost on the ground when it happened. Another half a mile and they might have survived."
Jessie hit the brakes. "Now what?" They were on 80 just west of Salt Lake's city center where the highway joined the southbound 15, with tall concrete sound panels on either side. The perfect place for a roadblock. There was no way out.
Across the road lay a barricade of wrecked cars with what looked like two working trucks parked in a gap in the center.
"I'll turn around," Jessie said, pulling on the wheel.
Devon pointed at the barrier ahead. "Don't bother. They've seen us."
One of the trucks—an antique Ford—had accelerated out of the gap leaving a cloud of smoke behind it as it sped toward them.
"We can outrun it," she said.
"I don't reckon we can. We've been picking our way through burned-out cars and trucks for the past ten miles."
Jessie threw her hands up in exasperation. "Then what do we do?"
"I suggest we wait and see what they want. You never know, they might lend us a hand. And, in any case, I want to find out what's happened here."
"Really? The smoke, plane crash and flattened buildings didn't give you enough of a clue?"
Devon didn't bother to answer. He was fighting hard enough to keep his cool in front of Jessie. They were trapped and there was nothing they could do about it, so they might as well make the most of it.
He watched as the old truck lumbered to a halt beside their car. The engine gave a final geriatric cough, and the passenger door opened. A woman dressed in neat black jacket and skirt climbed down and moved over to Devon's window as he rolled it down.
"Welcome to Salt Lake City. My name is Marianna. How can we be of service to you?"
Devon took her hand and shook. "I'm Devon Myers and this is Jessie Summers. We're from south of here—Ezra—and we're just passing through."
"Where are you going?"
"New York."
She looked with interest at the inside of the car. "This is a very modern car. We found that only our oldest vehicles survived the burning. How is it that yours survived?"
"It's a puzzle," Devon said, adopting his most winning smile.
The woman—a strawberry blonde with a mole on her cheek and piercing blue eyes beneath recently plucked eyebrows—blinked and then stood up as the driver of the old truck joined her. He wore a pressed black suit, white shirt and humorless expression.
"Bollocks," Devon hissed.
Marianna spoke quietly to her companion before nodding and bending down again at Devon's window. "We believe that Elliot would wish to speak to you before you continue your journey. Joshua will lead the way and I will ride with you."
Without another word, she opened the back door of the CRV and climbed inside, pushing the sleeping bags and packs across to pile up behind Jessie.
"Look, I'm not complaining, but we're on a bit of a mission. We're looking for a relative and the longer we delay, the less chance we have of finding her alive."
The car in front began to move and, with a quick glance at Devon, Jessie put the CRV into drive and followed it.
"I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Myers. We are entering the final days and such matters will seem ridiculously trivial once you understand. You are truly blessed to have survived the burning and you have surely been brought here for a purpose."
/>
Devon cursed again, this time in silence. Perhaps they should have tried to escape, but it was too late. The die had been cast and he had to hope they'd rolled a double six.
Salt Lake City itself had certainly drawn a Joker. As they followed the Ford pickup, Devon stared open-mouthed at the devastation on either side of the highway. His eye was caught by a red brick apartment block—or was it an office building?—that had lost every single pane of glass. An oily black smoke leaked out of the empty windows and hung around the top of the building like the crown of the grim reaper.
A small group of people moved along the front of the building, a hundred feet below the highway. As he squinted, he saw that they were running. One dot was ahead of the others, moving raggedly as if wounded. With a sharp intake of breath, Devon watched the larger group catch up and overwhelm the fleeing figure. He thought he heard a scream on the wind as the scene moved out of view.
Jessie took the next right into an obviously residential area with smaller dwellings, though in the same rectangular pattern as most of the buildings they'd seen. All had been ruined by fire: the roof of one house had collapsed, leaving just the blackened joists pointing defiantly at the heavens; a pyramid-shaped dwelling had collapsed in on itself so it looked like a volcano with black lava flowing down the outside. And then, quite suddenly, they pulled up outside a house unconnected to any of the others, whose untarnished white wood cladding and perfectly manicured lawn seemed like some kind of miracle among the ruin. Black-suited figures—a half-dozen or so—stood outside the house and Devon watched as one rounded the corner and went out of view.
Devon and Jessie followed Marianna to the white front door and waited while she went inside. A few minutes later, she emerged, standing back and gesturing them into the house.
"Welcome, I am Elliot DeMille!"
A small, white-bearded man with a wide smile and a shiny bald scalp framed with gray hair threw his hand out. He looked like a monkish Colonel Sanders and he led them into a simply furnished living room and gestured for them to sit.
"I am told that you are Devon, and you are Jessie. Welcome, indeed."
"Thank you. It's an honor," Devon said.
"You are one of our cousins from across the Atlantic!" Elliot said, with apparent delight. He put his hand against his mouth like a theatrical conspirator, "We will not discuss the little disagreement of a couple centuries ago."
Devon forced a smile. "Actually, I was born in Nevada. I grew up in the UK and I guess I've got a bit of an accent."
"Quite so, quite so. I lived in London for some time back in the eighties. Well, I am intrigued to hear your story. You survived the first sign, so your coming must be significant."
He led them to a sofa and gestured again for them to sit down while he fell into an armchair.
"First sign?" Jessie said. "What do you mean?"
A woman entered and placed a tray containing three cups and a pot on the coffee table between them.
"Thank you, Mary," Elliot said, before turning to Jessie. "Can it be that you don't recognize the signs? 'At the Second Coming, the proud and wicked will be burned as stubble.' The fire that consumed so much was the beginning of the end times. You survived them, so you must have value …"
"Or we're here to do something, as part of God's plan," Jessie responded.
Devon's chest tightened. She was treading dangerously.
For a moment, Elliot simply looked at her as if considering what she said. Then his face relaxed, and he nodded. "Quite so. Perhaps, then, you would tell me all about what happened on the night of the fire and since. And perhaps you'll explain why you were driving the most advanced vehicle we know to have survived those first hours. It seems to me you're quite special, Ms. Summers, and I would like to know why."
Devon sat in sullen silence as Elliot grilled Jessie for what seemed like hours. He thanked the gods of Asgard that they'd discussed the story they would use on the long journey here. Gil Summers had been adamant that they not disclose the survival of Hope to anyone they met. They'd already broken that rule by sending Jordan Lacey south in the RV with the children, but that didn't seem nearly as dangerous as letting this old man know that their town had been spared.
Finally, Elliot seemed satisfied. He had spoken with Jessie for no more than thirty minutes, and had managed to keep Hope's survival a secret, but Elliot was obviously suspicious.
"Well, Ms. Summers, it seems to me that you are withholding some information, perhaps out of shame or because you do not trust me. I suppose I cannot blame you for that; you only met me but a short while ago." He rang a small bronze bell that sat on the coffee table. "Ah, Mary. Is supper prepared?"
The slim, gray-haired woman who'd appeared at his summons nodded. "It is, Elliot. I have laid four places."
DeMille heaved himself up out of the armchair and beamed at the woman. "This, my new friends, is the admirable Mary, my faithful and loving companion these forty years. Now, let us eat together."
They followed him into a large kitchen dominated by a rectangular oak table large enough for a dozen, so the places were arranged at one end with Elliot sitting at the head.
"So tell me, Elliot, how come this place survived the fire?"
The old man waved a fragment of a bread roll at Devon. "You ask a good question, Mr. Myers. Why, out of all the dwellings in this neighborhood, did this house come out of the conflagration untouched? The answer? I do not know.
"Mary and I were on our way to the evening service when fire descended from heaven. We ran together and by divine guidance found ourselves on this street and in front of this house. It was truly a miracle."
"This isn't your house?"
Elliot smiled. "It is now."
"But what about the original owners?"
He shrugged. "We do not believe the place was lived in recently. It is our theory that the electrical supply was the flaming sword that cleansed the sinful world, and that this house was not connected at the time. The people who dwelled here lived a commendably simple life, and that is the model we are now adopting. Fortunately, they had their own generator. Most unusual. And for that we are truly grateful."
Jessie swallowed the last of her bread roll and followed it with a glass of juice. "We came to the same conclusion, though we don't know how this could have affected vehicles and airplanes."
"The flaming sword is not limited to the physical, my dear. Now, let us enjoy our meal in gratitude once we have given thanks."
By the time the meal was finished, Devon was both satisfied and exhausted. It had been delightful to enjoy food that had been prepared with the benefit of technology and Mary was an excellent cook, but Elliot was a determined inquisitor and Devon had found it increasingly difficult to keep his own story straight. Though he could think of no obvious slip-ups, he felt certain Elliot had learned more than Devon had intended.
"Now then, my new friends," the old man said as they got up from the kitchen table, "I have matters to attend to and I don't doubt you are weary, so Mary will show you to your room. We have limited space here, I'm afraid, so I must ask you to share."
Jessie took his hand. "Thank you for the meal, Elliot. It's been lovely to enjoy such wonderful food in pleasant company."
"Yeah, thanks," Devon said. "But look, Elliot, will you allow us to continue on our journey tomorrow?"
The old man seemed surprised by the question. "You are not prisoners here, Devon. You are free to go at any time. In fact, we will refuel your car and provide you with supplies and a manual fuel pump. I have only one condition …"
Here it comes, thought Devon.
" … that one of my people goes with you to bear witness."
"What? No!"
"Why not? Marianna will make for an effective and useful companion. I wish to know what is happening in the country beyond the bounds of our city. Perhaps she will encounter other pockets of the faithful. And perhaps one of you might wish to stay here while the others travel?"
"We have a miss
ion. We told you."
"Yes, I know. But Jessie here, at least, might prefer to stay. Our city is ruined, but we have formed a new community and she might be safer here among friends than on the open road."
Jessie shook her head. "No, I took the job on and I intend to see it through."
Elliot raised his eyebrows. "That is your choice, of course, but you have more than just yourself to consider."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Devon asked, noticing that Jessie had frozen.
Elliott looked from one to the other and back again. "Ah. I am so sorry. I didn't realize. I will leave the matter to you to discuss in private. Please, enjoy our hospitality tonight and we will talk again at breakfast."
The door to the bedroom had barely closed when Devon turned on Jessie. "What did he mean?"
Jessie looked absentmindedly around the pink room with its king-size bed before moving across to the window and looking out on the darkness.
"Jessie!" Devon felt as though he was the only one who didn't understand a joke that was obvious to everyone else.
She sat on the bed, drew in a deep breath and sighed.
"I'm pregnant, Devon."
"WHAT??!!"
It was like a bomb going off in his head, filling it with absurd thoughts. The first was the knee-jerk reaction of many surprised men: was the baby his? Ridiculous. Unless you could get a woman in the family way by simply thinking it, by simply loving her, and he hadn't believed that since he'd been a young boy trying to work out how his parents could have conceived him.
"Jessie, how did it happen?"
"Seriously?"
"Okay, okay. Sorry. I mean … I mean …"
"You mean who, don't you?"
Devon stopped his pacing and nodded. "Yeah, I suppose I do."
"It was Joel. You know, the …"
"The jock from the bar." Devon saw the tall, athletic man in his mind's eye. Blond, pale, muscular and young, all things Devon was not. And fertile.
Jessie wiped a tear away and patted the silky duvet beside her. "I'm ashamed, Dev. Please don't make it worse. I was lonely, and he made me feel attractive …"
Last City: Book 1 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 1) Page 12
