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

by Kevin Partner

  Hick pressed the end of the Glock to the militiaman's temple. "Make a noise and so help me Jesus I'll blow a hole in your head like I did to your friend." Hatred and fear looked back up at him, but he was focusing on the sounds of the tractor as it moved away, and the cries of its pursuers. Shots echoed around the farmyard and he said a silent prayer for the son of Martha Bowie. The world really was all upside down.

  He spun around to see Brain emerge from behind him. "Here, you hold this one. If he makes a noise, silence him. No gunshot, though."

  "Can I slice him, boss?"

  Hick glanced at the prone figure. Now all he saw was terror as Brain's bulk cast a shadow over him. "Sure. But only if he gives you trouble." He got to his feet and ran across the farmyard to the open door of the house, the dog at his heel.

  Tac-a-tac-a-tac-a-tac.

  Throwing himself to the ground, Hick rolled over, desperately trying to avoid the spitting rounds. He was in the open; a sitting duck. Where were the others? But, of course, they couldn't get any nearer than him with an assault rifle holding sway at the door.

  Then, after a final burst, the gunfire stopped.

  "You can come out now," a voice boomed.

  Running feet. "Pa!"

  Hickman got up. Elwood Miller stood at the door, towering over a uniformed body. He threw away the hunk of firewood he'd used to fell the man. "I sure hope you got a plan. 'Cos he's gonna be mad as a rattlesnake with a sore tooth when he comes back."

  Jimmy Miller shook his father's hand and gestured at Hickman as he reached the door. "It was Hick's idea."

  "Mr. Hickman," the farmer said, with a nod. "So, what's the deal?"

  So, Paul Hickman explained his plan. He watched Miller's face as he spoke, saw it cloud, tighten and then, finally, relax in resignation. "I feared it might come to that. We better get movin'. You and me can set things up while the others deal with those guards that've gone after Martha's son."

  "We need to leave one alive, at least," Hickman said. "Otherwise, Hemmerich will know something's going on."

  "I don't mean to kill no one unnecessary. This fella here," he said, pointing down at the moaning figure at his feet, "I reckon he'll have a sore head, but he'll survive."

  "If he does exactly what we say," Hick added, looking down at the soldier so his meaning couldn't be mistaken.

  #

  Martha Bowie watched as the young man was pulled struggling toward the makeshift gallows. A rope had been cast over the streetlight and the noose that had been tied at one end swung gently in the drizzly breeze.

  Rage built like a red storm within her, threatening to overwhelm her conscious mind and cause her to do something stupid. Gentle pressure on her arm. Joe Bowie was a useless hunk of flesh, except that he knew her better than anyone, so he was here to stop her, to reassure her that there really was nothing they could do. Even his father Leonard (known to one and all as "David") was there to witness this atrocity. Martha liked her father-in-law a whole lot more than his son, but she couldn't help worrying about Jenson and, in her mind's eye, saw him swinging from a streetlight instead of the poor sap who now stood in the back of the old pickup as the rope was passed over his head.

  To her other side stood Gil Summers, who gazed with tear-filled eyes at the boy, and the guard of four dozen militia, each carrying an assault rifle that could wipe out hundreds if they dared to protest.

  Rusty was standing beside Summers, and Martha Bowie didn't dare look at his face. They'd all agreed that the only thing they could do for Marlin Cook was to avenge him, and that meant being obvious and visible right now, then acting quickly once it was all over.

  So, she watched as the pickup revved away and Marlin Cook kicked and convulsed his way into the next world.

  #

  "Jake! Jake!"

  Voices were calling from outside. At least two, maybe three.

  Hick hid in a dark corner of the parlor. The others were concealed behind the countertop and one was beneath the table.

  "Where are you, Jake?"

  The door burst open and two shapes appeared framed against the brighter light of the hallway. "Hey, what the h—"

  Hickman sprang into view, Glock first. "Don't move or I'll blow your head off."

  He heard Ned Birkett and Jimmy Miller move and the two militiamen froze before raising their hands. Hickman strode past their colleagues who were tied to kitchen chairs and gagged, when there was a yell outside. One of the bandits went to lower his hands, and then fell to the ground, dropped by Birkett's Smith & Wesson.

  "Everybody stop!" The voice of Elwood Miller boomed around his home. He emerged holding a knife to the throat of a third uniformed figure.

  And, behind him, walked a beaming Jenson Bowie. "I reckon we got them all. That was the best fun I've had in years."

  Hick surprised himself by being pleased to see Bowie alive and well.

  "We ain't got time for talkin'," Elwood said. "The head honcho will be here soon enough, and we ain't ready."

  So, they tied and gagged their captives and they made themselves as ready as they could.

  An hour later, Captain Clay Hemmerich's vintage Army trucks coughed and spluttered their way into the farmyard as Paul Hickman waited, his heart fit to burst out of his chest.

  20: King of Hope

  As he peered through a gap in the drapes of an upstairs window, Paul Hickman cursed his own stupidity. There were too many of them to hope they could get them all inside the house. Too many to keep inside once the fun started. Too many things could go wrong. Anything less than perfection would see him and his comrades dead. Frankly, he didn't care much for the others, but he sure wanted to survive himself. Oh, and Buster. Yeah, he hoped Buster would be okay.

  One of the guards they'd jumped greeted Hemmerich at the front door. The guard knew that he was in the crosshairs of an assault rifle, so he was likely to play along. He saluted and pulled the door back so his superior could come inside. Hickman watched as Hemmerich disappeared, followed by his South African lieutenant and his other close aides.

  Come on, come on.

  Bang! Bang!

  After a moment's frozen shock, figures on the threshold ran inside until only a handful remained on the porch. Elwood Miller had sprung the trap. He'd remained in the parlor, executing exactly the same maneuver as earlier.

  If all had gone to plan, Captain Hemmerich was now dead.

  At-at-at-at

  Brain was targeting the bandits who'd been lingering outside.

  Hickman wrenched open the window and lowered himself down, dropping onto the porch chair he'd left in position.

  At-at

  Damn! Brain hadn't finished the job. Idiot! Hick felt, rather than saw, a soldier turn in his direction.

  at-at

  And the bandit fell.

  Hick grabbed the door handle and wrenched it shut. A tang of gasoline on the air. Any second now. He turned the key in the lock. Hands grabbed him around the shoulders and forced him backward. He felt something cold and sharp on his throat, and then the weight was gone. Ned Birkett stood over the writhing figure and put a hand out to help Hickman up. "Sorry, Hick. I shouldn't'a let you down about the old guy at Walmart."

  Hickman nodded and ran his hand over his jugular. It came away bloody, but there was no time to treat the wound. "Come on!"

  They ran around to a corner of the farmhouse. A barrel was hidden beneath the deck and Hick pulled the lid off. He slammed his hand over his nose too late to prevent a lungful of fumes and fought back his retching reflex as he struck a match, stepped back and flung it into the barrel.

  Searing heat forced him farther away as the barrel disappeared within a pillar of flame. Seconds later, the corner of the house was wreathed in fire and he could hear, beyond the crackling of wood, fists beating against the locked front door.

  Ned Birkett stood admiring the bonfire, then turned to Hick. "We better get in position. They're gonna be comin' out the windows any second."

  "Sure." Hick sai
d, pointing along the house.

  Birkett began moving in that direction.

  Now he would get his revenge. No one betrayed Paul Hickman and escaped unpunished, even if they'd just saved his life.

  With the fury of pent-up rage, Hickman launched himself at Ned Birkett, catching him off guard and sending him plunging headfirst into the firestorm with a surprised, terrified yelp. He watched as Birkett sprawled beneath the burning porch and grimaced as a tortured scream pierced the chaos, the agonized shape rolling back and forth until, after a few seconds, it came to a halt. It lay there, consumed like one of those bodies they cremated beside the Ganges in India. Like it was no longer human. But then Net Birkett had barely been worthy of the label when he was alive and Paul Hickman sure wasn't going to mourn him, even as he watched with disgusted fascination as his former enemy fed the flames of retribution.

  "No, Ned. Apology not accepted."

  He smiled, then filed Ned Birkett in his outbox and ran back to the cowshed where he'd felled that first guard. That female. He felt bad about that. He didn't make it a habit to hurt women, but right now it was the law of the jungle.

  Glass smashed, and a figure forced itself out of the window through a gushing column of smoke. It took three shots to get him—Hick was no marksman—but he got the next escapee in one. Another shape, another window, another shot. The night crackled with burning wood and gunfire from all directions. The Hopers had the enemy pinned down and burning.

  They were winning. They were actually winning! And they hadn't even needed backup.

  He didn't think about the people burning to death inside that farmhouse any more than he thought about those he gunned down, or those being shot by his comrades covering the other sides of the farmhouse. He thought about triumph and revenge, and Paul Hickman smiled as he watched the flames. Hope had finally experienced a little of what the country had gone through a couple of weeks ago.

  Was it over now? No movement from the farmhouse except the pulsing of flames and the sudden collapse of timber.

  He swung around as he sensed someone nearby.

  "A mighty grim business." It was Elwood Miller. His clothes were smoking, and he stank of gasoline and burned hair, but he was alive.

  "I'm glad you got out."

  "I know that house better than those poor unfortunates. Hightailed it down to the basement, came out through the storm shelter. Don't worry, I locked the door behind me. No one got out; may God have mercy on their souls, and mine."

  Hick slapped him on the shoulder then, as he turned, he saw a pair of lights moving along what must have been the approach road to the farmhouse. Was it the backup party from Hope? Something didn't quite feel right.

  He called up the view from the bedroom window into his mind's eye. How many had there been? "Oh jeez … Quick, Elwood." He dragged the farmer out of sight behind the cowshed, then along the back toward where he knew the others would be gathered.

  "Stop!"

  "It's me, Brain."

  Brain, Jenson and Buster were waiting behind a stack of rusting barrels with a good view of the house. Jimmy Miller appeared from out of the darkness and threw himself at his father. "Pa! You did it!"

  "Sure, son. But look, we got company."

  "Isn't that the folks from town? Oh. We didn't get them all, did we?"

  Brain nudged Hick as he refilled his magazine. "Where's Ned, boss?"

  "He didn't make it."

  "Oh. Shame."

  An old Army truck raced into the yard and skidded to a halt outside the blazing farmhouse. Hick watched from a gap between two barrels as the doors were flung open and booted feet jumped out and ran to the house. Above the crackle of flame, he could hear the crying of voices; many voices.

  "What do we do?" Jenson asked.

  Hick frowned. "I guess we open fire. If we don't, they'll find us soon enough."

  "Can't we slip away?"

  "We're in the middle of nowhere and I don't like the idea of running across the fields with them on our tail. Besides, we came here to do a job, and we only did half of it."

  "Hey! Over there!" A figure pointed in their direction.

  Brain ducked back down. "Sorry, boss."

  Rounds thumped into the metal barrels as Hick and the others returned fire. Jimmy and his father were using assault carbines taken from fallen militia and they took their toll on the running figures still out in the open.

  Soon enough, however, they were outflanked as, using the track as cover, the enemy slipped behind a barn that would bring them around behind the defenders.

  "We gotta get outta here, boss," Brain hissed, producing a miasmic fog.

  Maybe he was right, for once. To stay here was to die. Better to run and live to fight another day. And yet, nothing had changed. They were no more likely to be able to get away now than five minutes ago when he'd said it was impossible. Perhaps it was better to die fighting than with a bullet in the back.

  "Help me move these barrels," he said. If Brain was good for one thing, it was using his muscles as Hick directed. Together, they dragged the barrels into a crude circle that gave them limited cover in all directions, at the cost of much less concentrated firepower.

  There was going to be no quarter, no discussion, no surrender, no escape. Hickman spotted a figure run toward them with something in its hand. Its arm went back, and he shot two rounds at it. The grenade looped upward and landed about ten yards from the barrels. "Duck!" he called out. He felt the barrel he was hiding behind lean back before he heard the muffled thump of the detonation.

  He could hear boots on gravel, cries of exhortation. Jimmy Miller was the first to recover, but he had no sooner raised his carbine than he was falling back.

  "Son!" Elwood cried, dropping his weapon.

  They were finished. Paul Hickman crouched behind the barrel and waited for another grenade, or a bullet, or a knife. Buster, who'd been shaking at his heels, leaped over him and threw himself at the throat of the first man to breach the perimeter. The man screamed, then his cry merged with an anguished howl and it was this, the bravery and suffering of his dog, that finally snapped Paul Hickman out of his despair. He jumped up, indiscriminately firing into the advancing soldiers. Jenson stood with him. A round seared his shoulder, but he didn't stop. Jenson fell, Brain dropped, but still he fired. His arm became warm and wet. Something stabbed at him and he staggered. He fell to the ground and waited for the end.

  Gunfire, gunfire all around. Do not go gentle into that good night. Darkness. Silence. Nothing.

  His eyes had stuck together. Had he been asleep? No, that couldn't be right. He'd been waiting for death. He forced his eyelids apart and winced at the sudden brightness. A shadow passed in front of the light.

  Was he dead? He rubbed his eyes. Martha Bowie's large face peered down at him. Was he dead and in Hell? Then he became aware of a dull pain in his side. No, that felt entirely real.

  "He's comin' round," Bowie said to someone he didn't see. "You know, they say the only thing that'd survive a nuclear war would be cockroaches …"

  "Now then, Martha. Don't be unkind. Hick ain't no saint, but it's on account of him we can run our own affairs again."

  Consciousness rushed back like cold water and he turned his head. "Rusty?"

  "Yeah, it's me. Just relax, you got badly beaten up."

  Then another shape moved into his field of vision. "You are a remarkable man, Paul. I was quite expecting to have to administer last rites."

  "Ward." That was all he needed. No, it could get worse; Gil Summers could turn up.

  "We'll leave you to recover a little," Martha said.

  Hickman put his hand up. "Rusty. Stay. I wanna know. What happened?"

  Kaminski helped him sit up and arranged pillows to prop him. He was in a white-walled room that he recognized as where the community nurse poked and prodded folks. He'd been in here once for a flu vaccine.

  Rusty pulled up a chair. "We got there as quick as we could after the hanging. Couldn't follow the
m too closely, and Hemmerich left some of his men behind to watch us for a bit. Thought we were too late when we got there, but there weren't many left and they didn't have much fight in 'em."

  He took a deep breath and looked up into the corner as if seeing the scene projected there in his mind's eye. "Brain and Elwood, they're okay, but Jimmy's dead and Jenson Bowie was in a bad way. He's gonna be okay, though. Doc patched him up, just like he patched you up."

  Hickman felt around his shoulder. His side had been bandaged and he could feel the soreness of a stitched wound beneath.

  "Couldn't find no sign of Ned," Kaminsky continued, and Hickman thought he saw the sheriff's eyes narrow.

  For once, Hickman decided it would be best for him to keep his mouth shut. Birkett had betrayed him, and Hick had seen justice done. That was the end of it as far as he was concerned.

  "Buster?"

  "The dog? Sorry, Paul. He's dead."

  Hickman felt his throat thicken. He'd raised that dog from a puppy he'd found in a shelter in Ezra. The only loyal being in his life. Now he was alone.

  "How long have I been here?"

  "The attack on the farmhouse was night before last, and you slept through yesterday."

  The door creaked open. "Paul, are you awake?"

  Hickman turned his head to see Gil Summers enter the room. Or, at least, the shell of Gil Summers. His pale face showed no sign of life and his eyes were empty.

  "He's pretty beat up, Gil," Rusty said. "Maybe it could wait?"

  "Sorry, Rusty. He has to know."

  That got Hickman's interest. "Has to know what?"

  Gil Summers looked down at him, his balding head eclipsing the bright ceiling light. "You were right, Paul."

  Now Hickman was wide awake.

  "About what?"

  "That we needed to have democratic accountability."