Last City: Book 1 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 1)

by Kevin Partner

  "You are attractive," Devon blurted out as he sat on the bed.

  She put her hand on his. "Thank you. I wish I could say it was only once …"

  "So, you were seeing him when …"

  "When you asked me out. Yes."

  "Oh. Why didn't you say?"

  She shook her head. "I may be an idiot, but at least I could see it for what it was."

  "How long have you known?"

  "A week or so. I've always been as regular as clockwork and I haven't felt menopausal yet. Anyway, I've had other symptoms, though not too severe."

  "You're certain, then?"

  She squeezed his hand. "Yes."

  "Then why did you come with me? You should have stayed in Hope."

  She shrugged. "Do you think Paul Hickman would have cared that I was pregnant? No, I couldn't bear to see my father having to carry the shame with him."

  "The shame of your pregnancy? I didn't think he was that much of a dinosaur."

  "No. Hickman has something on my father and I don't want that to be made public."

  They sat silently for a while before Devon spoke again. "So, what do we do now? Elliot’s right—you might be safer here. He seems to have become head of a community here that's capable of protecting itself. That's got to be better than traveling on the open road."

  "No, Devon."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I would rather be on the open road with you than here without you."

  Devon felt his heart swell, followed immediately by the bitterness of knowing that if he followed his desire, he would be opening the door to a world of conflict and pain. If she stayed here, he could attempt the mission knowing she was relatively safe. If he took her with him, as his heart wished, he would have a constant reminder that she was carrying another man's child while simultaneously feeling responsible for them both. Antediluvian though that instinct was, Devon knew that this was how he'd feel whether he wanted to or not.

  They lay on opposite sides of the king-size bed, she under the silky sheets, him on top, both staring out at the darkness, both unable to sleep. Devon's mind was whirling and felt as though he were lost in stormy seas, being tossed about by tide, wind and waves. He wondered where they'd wash up.

  And what sort of a world this was to bring a child into.

  Somebody else's child.

  13: Gideon

  Sam gazed down at the route map and blinked away the tears as she wiped Richie's blood from the dog-eared paper. They'd buried him that morning in the sandy soil of the backyard. She'd tried to say something about him, but couldn't get the words out, so Jerry had taken over. She hadn't heard what he'd said through her sobbing, but Amanda told her he'd given Richie a respectful send-off.

  They'd left Bobby Joe to rot in the living room. None of them wanted to stay in that house. Apart from the bitter memories it held, it clearly wasn't safe, so they'd decided to head for the summer house of Sam's grandparents which, if it still stood, was isolated from its neighbors and easier to defend.

  That left the issue of what to do with the other thug. A red net of rage descended on Sam's mind every time she thought of him. She wished with all her heart that he were dead, but, on the other hand, her rational mind didn't want Margie to have the man's blood on her hands. And, for all her hatred of Lem, she couldn't kill him as he lay there unconscious. So, they'd taken the passive approach of tying him up and leaving him on the floor in the hope that he'd expire overnight while they huddled upstairs waiting for daylight.

  But the stubborn lowlife was conscious and struggling when Jerry came down shortly after the sun rose. Jerry volunteered to smother the man, but none of the others believed he'd actually go through with it, so they'd left Lem there, gagged and tied, as they dug a grave for Richie, and they'd left him there, moaning as they slammed the front door and set off along the road, heading for a destination that Richie would now never see.

  She'd been lost in thought for most of the walk down Long Beach Island and her only memory of the journey was an impression of long rows of electricity poles, cables hanging down and blowing in the sea breeze. They'd passed houses that would once have been prime real estate but were now nothing but ruins, as if someone had built them out of black and brown Lego pieces and then kicked them down. And she remembered Margie's endless bellyaching.

  They'd gone slowly and carefully after what had happened the night before. From time to time, one of them would spot movement to either side—though never on the boulevard itself—and they'd scramble for whatever cover they could find. Once, Sam had been crouching behind the wreckage of a Porsche when her foot slipped. Stifling a cry, she'd grabbed the car's fender and then looked down at what remained of its former owner. A gold chain, brown leather jacket and Armani sunglasses did nothing to disguise the horror within. She'd swallowed bile as she waited for the group they'd spotted to pass—at least three men, all armed, several women and children—before staggering away and spraying vomit on the sportscar's hood.

  Memorial Bridge, which linked Long Beach Island with the New Jersey coast, was a special kind of nightmare with cars and trucks end to end in both directions for its entire length. Sam didn't have to imagine the chaos of that night—it was fossilized in the blackened, crumpled wreckage. It reminded her of a wildebeest stampede. Doors swung in the breeze, the only sound except for the gentle whistling of the wind. From time to time they'd been forced to climb on broken hoods, wincing each time the metal creaked, hoping it didn't attract unwelcome attention. Most of the vehicles were open to the elements, but every now and again they'd come across one that had become a sealed tomb from which a putrid stench leaked as they squeezed past it.

  There were people here, living among the rusting metal, picking at the corpse of civilization. Sam and the others were scared at first, but these scavengers ran and hid as soon as they came into view. Many were children and it broke her heart to imagine the horrors they'd seen. How were they keeping themselves warm? She imagined dozens of them sleeping together like rats in a sewer.

  Finally, they neared the end of the bridge and Sam glanced along the waterfront with its row of white wood houses and jetties. At least, they had been white. Now, they were charcoal and tortured metal and she could see no movement other than the lazy swirling of smoke rising into the air, evidence of campfires among the ruin caused by the inferno.

  "Perhaps we should take a break," Amanda said. She was pointing at a two-story waterfront building on the opposite side of the shoreline from where Sam had been looking. The roof had collapsed onto the top floor, but somehow the lower part of the building had survived.

  Sam shook her head. "How do we know there's no one in there?"

  Jerry, who'd been shepherding a pale-faced Margie across the bridge, strode past them. "I'll check. I can't walk much farther without stopping for a bit, and this looks as good a place as any."

  Sam watched him go as Margie came to stand alongside her. The young woman put out her hand and Sam took it. She was shivering.

  The map said that beyond and to the right of where Jerry was walking was a place called Mud City. To the left lay the lagoons and summer houses of Beach Haven West. On the far side of that was a stretch of marshland cut across by Cedar Creek Road. She was probably just a handful of miles from the house on stilts as the crow flew, but they had no choice other than to proceed on foot.

  She wished she hadn't thought about crows. She'd seen enough of them to last a lifetime. Especially on the bridge.

  "He's coming back," Amanda said, touching Sam's arm and rousing her from deep thought.

  Sam followed her outstretched arm to see the old man waving encouragingly. It would be good to rest their feet, even if only for a half hour. She desperately wanted to reach the familiarity of the summer house today and she didn't dare think what she would do if it was as ruined as everywhere they'd seen so far.

  "No one here?" Amanda called to Jerry as they approached the building, which revealed itself to be the ground floor of a c
afe called Roastin' Joe’s.

  As he emerged, Sam gasped to see him accompanied by three smiling people. She raised Bobby Joe's shotgun and pumped a round into the chamber.

  "Hooold on!" Jerry called. "It's okay, Sam. These are good folks. They're unarmed."

  She remained there, arms shaking as she bore the weight of the gun that had killed Richie.

  One of the three stepped forward, hands outstretched. He was a good-looking man in his forties with thick hair that was gray around the edges and black on top. His silver-flecked beard served as the canvas for his dazzling smile. "Please, don't shoot me. Jerry is right, we mean you no harm. We invite you to share our meal. You see, we also are on a journey."

  Margie appeared at Sam's side and wrapped hands around her arm. "He looks like a nice man. Not like the ones last night. I think we should go inside. Maybe they have cake!"

  "Margie's a pretty good judge," Amanda said, softly. "It was her who saw you in the street yesterday; you and Richie. She said you were good people and we should ask you in."

  And because of her, Richie is now dead, Sam thought, and instantly felt ashamed of herself. Without Margie's attack on Lem, they'd all be rotting now.

  Sam lowered her weapon and the smile on the man's face widened. "I am called Gideon and, while I can't promise cake, we are happy to share what he have."

  They followed him and his two companions—a young man and woman—in through the cafe door.

  "Good grief!" At least two dozen people sat on chairs and tables they'd gathered together. There were no elderly, but otherwise every age seemed to be represented.

  "Jerry has told me the names of each of you, and about the trauma you suffered. For now, I ask you to be at peace and I welcome you into the company of the new pilgrims."

  As they ate, Gideon plied Sam with questions. He seemed far more interested in her than Amanda and Jerry, and barely acknowledged that Margie was there at all, but he was all smiles and charm with Sam. Somehow, being among other human beings helped lift the shadow from her heart a little, and it also sharpened her mind. In her turn, she asked him about his group.

  He claimed to be a pastor from a church in Philadelphia who'd been out of town on the "Night of Flames" and had heard the call to the "Heart of Darkness" that had led him into New York to find refugees. Sam listened to all this, extracting the underlying meaning and trying to work out whether Gideon truly believed what he was saying or whether he spoke like this to impress. Perhaps both were true.

  "I have been sent to gather survivors of the great cleansing and to bring them to an appointed place."

  "Who sent you?"

  The smile returned. "Our Lord, of course."

  "And he told you where to bring them?"

  Gideon tilted his head to one side as if considering this. "Certain information is given only to those who join us. These are dangerous times, my dear Sam, and we must take care with our choice of who to trust."

  Ain't that the truth, Sam thought.

  He was waiting for something.

  "Are you asking me if I want to sign up?"

  Yes, that was it.

  She shook her head. "Look, I'm not religious. 'Specially after last week."

  "I understand. It's hard to reconcile this—if you'll forgive me—Hell on Earth with a loving God, but that is the role of faith. We offer you hope and purpose. It is up to you to accept that gift."

  Sam got to her feet. She felt like a punch-drunk fighter so beaten up that she could conceive of nothing more complicated than putting one foot in front of another. She saw the summer house in her mind. There would be time to consider spiritual matters when she was there. For now, she knew she had to focus on the simplest objective and ignore the swirling tempest of choices and consequences that lay beyond it, for fear of being dragged under and losing herself forever.

  She looked across at where Amanda, Jerry and Margie sat. They were watching her, and Sam saw, with a stab of shock, that they were afraid. It was as if they were waiting for her to pronounce their doom and expecting the worst.

  "I think it's time we got moving," she said. "Are you coming?"

  Jerry got up so fast he grabbed his back, wincing. Amanda took his arm and gestured to Margie.

  "Ah, I want to stay and play," the girl said, looking wistfully at the now-silent group.

  Gideon stood, the smile still fixed on his face. "Of course." He stepped across to Sam, took her hand and held her gaze. "If you change your mind and wish for our fellowship, then look for a beacon."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You will know when you see it."

  With that, he let her hand go and it was as if a light went out. He turned to his followers and paid no further attention to Sam.

  Outside, Jerry took Margie in hand—he called her “Moaning Margie” when she was in that sort of a mood—while Amanda walked alongside Sam. Now that the decision had been made, she found that she wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Gideon so they set off at quite a pace.

  "Thank you, Sam," Amanda said. "I thought you would go with them and I don't know what we'd have done out here on our own."

  Sam stopped at an intersection and unfolded the map. "Really? I thought the same. When I got up, I half expected you to stay with them. Safety in numbers."

  "Oh, Sam. Gideon's invitation was for you, not us. Didn't you notice that he only recruits the young?"

  Lowering the map, Sam looked at Amanda and, beyond her, to Jerry and Margie. "I assumed it was just coincidence. You know, survival of the fittest. If you see what I mean."

  "More like selection of the fittest," Amanda said, ruefully. "Jerry and I are too old to be new pilgrims and Margie … well … you know …"

  Sam's mouth dropped open. "Are you serious? What a total b—"

  "No, don't get angry Sam. Let's just get to your summer house, can we? It'll be dark in a few hours and I don't want to have to find somewhere to hide overnight."

  Sam folded the map and slipped it into her jacket. "Let's go." She said it with a smile, but rage was fomenting in her heart. Rage and the burden of responsibility. Amanda and Jerry were looking to her for leadership. She wasn't a bad kid—not really—but she was just a kid. But then, experience counted for nothing in this new and terrifying world. She had as much of a clue as they did. But she hadn't asked to be the one they looked to, and she felt the weight of it on her shoulders as she trudged through a darkening landscape, a soft drizzle falling from the lowering clouds, missing Richie more and more with every step.

  She felt Amanda move close and whisper in her ear, "Thank you, Sam."

  #

  While his daughter was leading her motley crew through the ruins of New Jersey, Paul Hickman was wrestling with his own conscience.

  Or, perhaps more to the point, he was looking for it.

  And the last person he wanted to discuss it with was Ward McAndrew, but he was, unfortunately, a captive audience for the boring old fossil.

  "Now look, Paul," he droned, "all you gotta do is apologize and explain that you did it with the best of intentions, just like you told me. You were misguided—I think we can agree on that—but it came from a good place."

  Misguided, my ass. My only mistake was to trust Ned Birkett.

  "I mean, I understand you were worried that someone would clean out the pharmacy, so you took the drugs for safe keepin', but you gotta do things by the rules, Paul, you know that."

  This was too much. "John 8:7, Pastor."

  "'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.'" McAndrew nodded. "A fair point, my friend. I have surely strayed from the righteous path many times. But I have returned as a witness to the truth and will now lead the people of Hope."

  Hickman looked up at the old man.

  "Spiritually, of course," he said. "Temporal matters I leave in the hands of practical men such as yourself."

  "Huh, I ain't gonna be leading no one from in here."

  Hick wa
tched McAndrew through the bars of his cell. Aside from the pastor, he was alone in this part of the police house, though he knew that Rusty Kaminski and the traitor Birkett were on the other side of the heavy door that separated the two halves.

  "I just gave my sermon. It's been a week, you know. A week today since it happened. I spoke about forgiveness; especially in difficult times. Gil was there and I think if you talk to him, if you apologize, he'll let you go."

  Snorting, Hick got up and wrapped his hands around the bars like a two-bit cattle rustler in a spaghetti western. "Oh, I reckon he's just about made up with me bein' here. He thinks I was tryin' to take over the council."

  "And was he right about that?"

  "You better believe it!"

  McAndrew turned from the window to look at him. He was a lean old man with sallow skin and a straggly white beard. Mind, he'd looked like that for twenty years. He'd disappeared to go on missionary work—or so he said—but the only change Hick had noticed on his return a couple of months ago was a new set of heavy bags under his eyes like he hadn't slept for a month.

  "Why, Paul?"

  Hickman let out a huge breath and sagged. "Because we need strong leadership. We got to set up new ways of doin' things and then we all have to stick to them."

  "And you're the right person to make that happen, are you?"

  "I happen to think I am."

  "The sort of man who'd shoot another without compunction?"

  "He was trying to stop us finding the supplies. It had to be done."

  McAndrew walked up to the bars until he was a couple of feet from Hickman. "And I agree with you."

  "You do?"

  "Yes. But there's a right way and a wrong way to go about saving Hope."

  McAndrew pulled up a chair as Hick sat down on his cot and shrugged. "What does that mean, exactly?"

  "Paul, we got nothing if we don't have democracy and tradition. I mean, if all we end up doin' is fighting each other in the rubble of our former glory, what's the point?"