Last Stand: Book 3 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 3)

by Kevin Partner

  Hick held on to Linda, his rage breaking like a wave, and turned to go, when a movement caught his eye. The Land Rover had reached the truck that the mortars had hidden behind and, suddenly, the door flew open and Gil Summers fell sideways onto the asphalt. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and began running toward them.

  Hefting his gun, Hick accelerated in his direction as the Land Rover stopped and the guard who'd held Summers stepped out, raising his assault rifle.

  Hick called out to the former mayor, "Get down!" But Summers kept running, his arms pumping, sweat and saliva spraying from him as he made his bid for freedom. And Hick was looking directly into his eyes when he heard a crack and a hole appeared in Summers's torso, the bullet zipping past Hick as he ran.

  He didn't even look to see the Land Rover take off again toward the waiting trucks. He was too late to catch Gil Summers, but he kneeled beside him as he lay in a growing slick of red. He didn't register Lynda Strickland's scream, he just held on to the dying man’s hand as he waited for the light to fade from his eyes.

  “Sorry … Paul,” Summers managed, his words pushed out between panting breaths.

  “No need, Gil. No need. You did your best, as always.”

  Summers’s body convulsed, and he gripped Hickman’s hand before finally looking into his eyes. “Promise me…”

  “Anything, old friend,” Hickman said, marveling to hear the emotion in his voice. He’d spent most of his adult life hating this man, and yet now he felt nothing but incoming grief.

  “Look after Jessie. And my … grandchild.”

  Summers didn’t hear the promise of Paul Hickman, but he made it nonetheless.

  Hickman sat on the cold earth, back leaning against the tire of a car, staring along the road to Hope. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, just a vague memory of staggering back carrying the body of Gil Summers with the help of a sobbing Lynda Strickland.

  Someone had placed a mug of something hot in his hands, the rich beefy smell of the broth penetrating the fog as he mechanically brought it to his lips and sipped it. A small part of the turbulence in his mind settled down now that his bodily needs were being attended to, but still he felt like a lifeboat adrift on a stormy sea, just waiting to be swamped by the next unforeseen wave.

  A shape settled down beside him. "What are you going to do, Paul? They said they'd kill the next hostage in an hour's time."

  "I ain't negotiating with terrorists, Lynda." He marveled to hear how calm his voice sounded. Calm? Or was it dead?

  "You can't let them kill all twenty!"

  He glanced across at her. She was sitting beside him encased in a dusty, quilted coat that she'd pulled around herself. It looked to him as though she'd cried so hard over Gil and Jenson that the liquid had been sucked right out of her; making her look dry and old. "I ain't negotiating. If we surrender to them, they'll kill all the sick in any case."

  "You don't know that!"

  Hick shrugged. "I'm pretty darned certain that's exactly what they'd do. They don't want the sick or the old. And anyway, why should we sacrifice the hundreds of folk hidin' in their houses right now so two dozen might survive?"

  He could hear her head shaking within the hood of her coat. "We've got to do something, Paul! How can you be so … so inhuman?"

  "I didn't say I wasn't goin' to do nothin', " he said.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out the walkie-talkie Rusty had given him. He pushed the button a couple of times and waited until a voice said, "Acknowledged."

  "Sheriff, that you?"

  "Yeah, it's me. What's the situation over there?" Kaminski's voice had the same lifeless quality that Hick felt. They were two people communicating because they had to; seeing the situation through to its conclusion because they had to.

  "We heard what happened to Jenson," Hick said. He drew in a deep breath. "Gil's dead. Shot by Crawford."

  The radio emitted nothing but static for several seconds, then Rusty's voice returned. "My God, Paul. What are we gonna do?"

  "Has Gert arrived?"

  "Yeah. He's watchin' the front entrance while me and the others are keepin' tabs on the perimeter."

  "Devon?"

  Another pause. "I ain't sure. He went inside when they first ran into the school and we ain't seen him since. There've been shots. I reckon he's prob'ly …"

  "Listen, Rusty, if we surrender, they'll shoot the hostages anyway once they have control."

  "Maybe."

  Hickman shook his head. "There's no ‘maybe’ about it. They wouldn't be goin' to all this trouble if they thought there was an easier way. They know we can hold this bridge and the northern approach. We can't give in on account of a few sick folk."

  "Still the same Paul Hickman, ain't you?"

  Hick bit down his anger. "If we give in to them, we're all either dead or we're slaves. Tell Gert to go in and take them out."

  The channel went to static again. Hick felt Lynda reaching across him. "Give me the radio," she said. "Please."

  He let her take it, figuring that she could hardly make matters worse. He would have to drive into Hope himself and give Gert the order if Kaminski wouldn't cooperate.

  "Rusty, this is Lynda."

  "Glad to hear your voice. I hope you've talked sense into Hick."

  Lynda shook her head, looking down onto the dirty asphalt. "I'm sorry, Rusty, but he's right. If you attack, then some of the hostages might survive. If you don't, then sooner or later they'll shoot them. We must not surrender."

  "Are you serious? There's over twenty in there. Martha included!"

  "I'm sorry, but there is no other way. Good luck."

  She handed the handset back to Hick.

  "You got that, Sheriff?"

  Kaminski sighed. "Roger. We'll do our best."

  "You do what Gert says and maybe it'll turn out alright. Good luck. Over."

  "Over and out."

  Hick sat back. "Thanks, Lynda. You swung it, I reckon. What changed your mind?"

  She didn't look at him as she responded. "You may have the blood of an alligator running through your veins, Paul, but that doesn't mean you're wrong. They will likely kill the hostages anyway. And you're also right that they know how weak their position is. If they thought they could take this bridge easily, they'd have done it already. Crawford's a coward and he doesn't trust his men, so he's sent his most reliable lieutenant into Hope to grab hostages. We neutralize him, we neutralize Crawford."

  He put his hand in hers. "Maybe we ought to say a prayer."

  And they bowed their heads together.

  Chapter 19: The Final Stroke

  Devon had watched, powerless, as they'd dragged Jenson Bowie into the corridor and gunned him down. Powerless? Well, he could have fired on them, but then Jenson would still have died, and so would he.

  He'd crawled into a neighboring classroom and hidden in a corner under a desk. He could hear what was happening, but only risked looking from time to time. The Slovak captain was a brute and he had a core of four or five similarly flint-hearted murderers who were only too happy to kill innocent people while they were begging for their lives.

  He'd heard the helicopter taking off about half an hour before Jenson was executed, but since then he'd hidden here without a plan other than to stay alive. He hated himself for his fear, though he knew that alone he couldn't hope to achieve anything other than martyrdom.

  Jenson's body had been dragged out and dumped on the pathway outside the school entrance as a message to any who might attack. It was an excellent plan—subdue a town with minimal force. And then what? He'd seen what the Sons did when they ruled a community: dominance and punishment in equal measure. And the old and sick would die. No baggage for this new society.

  He breathed in the smell of polish, wood and bubblegum and gazed out of the window that ran along the top of the wall. A gray sky was beginning to darken, bringing on a night of murder.

  His mind turned to Martha Bowie. Devon knew t
hat Jenson had been checking on his mother when the helicopter had landed. Martha had been moved into the hospital so she could have her antibiotics intravenously—a gift from the pharmacy at Springs. The confrontation with Ward McAndrew had been too much for her and she'd taken a bad turn. A real bad turn that had led to the death of her only son.

  It had been quiet in the gym, but it had been almost an hour since Jenson had died, and some other poor devil would be killed unless Hick had surrendered. How likely was that? Devon couldn't pretend to know Paul Hickman that well, but he couldn't see him giving in. Gil Summers, maybe, but not Hick. And he'd be right to resist, even at the cost of the hostages' lives.

  Devon got to his feet and crawled over to the other side of the classroom. It had a single window and he risked getting up onto his knees and pushing the blinds apart with his fingers so he could see into the corridor. No one was moving, no guard was posted here. And then he saw movement from the classroom opposite. Someone was looking back at him.

  Joe Bowie. Jenson's father and Martha's "good-for-nothing" husband. While Devon had been wrestling with his impotence and rage in this classroom, it seemed Joe had been doing the same in the one opposite.

  The eyes blinked, then disappeared and, seconds later, Devon saw the door open a crack.

  He crawled as fast as he could along the inner wall and pulled down on the door handle. Joe Bowie's head appeared and he looked left then right before pulling the door open and scampering across, bent down like a chimpanzee.

  As soon as he was inside, Devon shut the door silently and leaned back against it. Bowie let out a huge breath and then threw himself at Devon, flinging his arms around his neck.

  "They killed my boy! They killed him. I got a gun, but I didn't do nothin' to stop them. They killed him, Devon." He subsided into sobbing as Devon said a silent prayer that no guard was passing to hear the poor devil.

  Eventually, the heaving slowed and stopped. Bowie moved back and raised a wet, raw face, with red eyes that met Devon's.

  "I know, Joe. I couldn't stop them either."

  "If I was any kind of a man, I'd have … I'd have …"

  Devon shrugged. "There was nothing you could do."

  They listened as they heard voices coming from the gymnasium, some barking orders and others protesting. "I guess the hour must be almost up and some poor sap is gonna get shot," Bowie said.

  Getting to his feet, Devon looked down at the man. Joe Bowie was small, thin and inoffensive. He was the last man you'd want by your side as you went to war. But he was all Devon had. He put his hand out and helped Bowie get to his feet. "I'm not going to let them shoot another sick person without at least trying to stop them."

  "I thought you said we couldn't do nothin'?"

  Devon checked his Glock and tried to project calm confidence to the trembling little man. "Each of us on our own couldn't do anything, but together we might stand a chance." A remote chance. A really remote chance. But the arrival of Joe Bowie had changed Devon. Suddenly, all the self-pity and fear had evaporated. He was Detective Inspector Devon Myers of the Metropolitan Police's Counter Terrorism Command. And it was time to deal with some terrorists.

  Devon and Joe crept along the corridor until they hid around the corner from the gym, exactly where Devon had been when he'd seen Jenson dragged out and shot. The young man's blood stained the polished floor and he sensed Joe's eyes settling on the pool, the little man's frame shaking as if he was on the verge of breaking down completely. Devon reached back and grabbed Bowie's arm before putting a finger to his lips.

  Three men in military uniforms and wearing black masks came out of the gym dragging another figure who was protesting feebly. A fourth man carrying a bronze handgun followed.

  "It's Martha!" Joe hissed.

  He went to move but Devon pulled him back. "Wait!"

  "But they're gonna kill her!"

  "Wait, Joe."

  Martha was dumped on the floor and Devon saw her look down at the bloodstain. He'd never imagined she could be defeated—she'd always seemed to be a force of nature—but in her face he saw utter hopelessness and grief. He saw a woman with nothing to live for.

  Captain Mäsiar walked around her until he stood in the center of the corridor, his bronze weapon in one hand and the radio in the other.

  #

  The helicopter hovered above the forward barricade. The side door was open and Crawford's voice boomed out. "If you attack this aircraft, then all the hostages will be instantly shot. Your hour is up; you will surrender now, or the next hostage will pay with their life."

  Hick simply watched, itching to grab the M-249, swing it around and bring that chopper, with Crawford in it, crashing down.

  "Captain Mäsiar, are you ready?" Crawford’s voice called.

  "I am ready. She is an old woman, but she is the mother of the boy I shot before. She wishes for me to put her out of misery."

  "Paul Hickman. Will you see another of your people executed because you will not bow to the inevitable? Surrender now and I guarantee the safety of the hostages."

  Hickman didn't move. He was more certain than ever that Crawford was a liar, though he didn't doubt that Martha Bowie was about to die.

  "I am sorry. It seems you require another demonstration. Captain Mäsiar, proceed."

  "Acknowledged."

  #

  Devon, Joe and everyone in the gym had heard this exchange.

  As Mäsiar lowered his bronze gun and pointed it at the motionless head of Martha Bowie, he turned to Joe and nodded.

  Devon sighted along the short barrel of his Glock. And fired.

  Mäsiar fell, there was a moment's silence, and all hell broke loose.

  Joe Bowie ran from cover, spraying bullets left and right as Devon followed him along the corridor. Devon was dimly aware of gunfire that might have been coming from inside the gym, or it might have been outside.

  The corridor filled with the stench of gunpowder and the cacophony of gunfire. Joe reeled backward, as if someone had grabbed him by the shoulder, falling onto the floor as Devon ran past him.

  Devon threw himself at the nearest soldier, knocking him to the floor and stabbing down with his knife. The gunfire got louder.

  #

  Paul Hickman heard the sound of shooting over the helicopter's loudspeaker and the fact that Crawford cut it off told him all he needed to know.

  He jumped up like a twenty-year-old, braced the stock of the M-249 against his shoulder and tried to calm his breathing as Gert had told him. He pulled gently on the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Then he disengaged the safety and pulled the trigger again.

  Chugga, chugga, chugga, chugga.

  It thumped against his shoulder and his ears were instantly overwhelmed, but he was ready for it and he sprayed the helicopter with bullets, aiming for the transparent cockpit. His second burst punched through and the chopper, which had been trying to wheel away, suddenly spun on its axis, tilted sideways and fell from the sky. Hick ducked down as the rotors hit the asphalt and pieces of the chopper exploded in all directions.

  "Told you I’d get you. Murdering scum," Hick muttered as the wreckage caught fire, lighting up the dusk.

  #

  Devon held his knife against the throat of the soldier he'd downed. The last of the guards who'd dragged Martha out of the gym had run off when, quite suddenly, the gunfire stopped and Gert Bekmann burst through the door.

  "Oh mijn God. Devon!"

  Devon looked up at Bekmann, threw the knife away and jumped off his captive, to scramble over to where Joe Bowie lay. "Martha!" he called, but she simply sat, looking at the body of Captain Mäsiar.

  "Joe!"

  He opened his eyes. "Got me in the shoulder," he whispered.

  A slick of scarlet had spread over his quilted top. Devon was about to look when Martha cried out.

  "I knew it!"

  She was on her knees, knife in her hand.

  "He's alive," she said.

 
; Rusty Kaminski emerged from the gym and kneeled beside her. "C'mon, Martha, leave the dead be."

  She raised her knife, but the sheriff caught it. Devon got up, walked across and kicked the Slovak in the ribs.

  "Ah!" he cried.

  "I told you!"

  Mäsiar looked from one to the other of them, grimacing at the pain in his ribs and the wound in his chest. "I surrender …"

  "You don't get to surrender, you low-life murderer. You killed my son! Let me go, Rusty. Let me kill him."

  Kaminski looked at Devon, who nodded.

  Then he let go of her hand.

  Mäsiar's eyes widened in terror as the knife came down.

  Again. And again.

  Devon kneeled beside Joe and tended his wounds. He did his best to shut out the agonized cries of the dying Mäsiar.

  Chapter 20: After

  Paul Hickman rode into Hope in the passenger seat of a battered red Honda. The place looked entirely unchanged, though the headlights revealed no people walking the streets in the dark. Lynda Strickland sat next to him, her hand in his as they turned off Main and passed the sports field where the helicopter had landed. Riven chain-link and blackened metal bore testament to the desperate fight that had taken place here.

  Heads turned as they pulled into the parking lot and applause broke out as he emerged, people gathering around the lit school entrance waiting for news.

  Hick stumbled under the force of hands beating on his back, merely nodding as people asked whether the enemy had truly withdrawn, whether they were safe. For now, he would add in the privacy of his mind.

  He shielded his eyes from the bright lights of the interior, a tiny, normal, part of his mind wondering how much propane was being burned right now. Hickman swerved to avoid someone walking toward him.

  "Paul! It's me."

  He stopped like a remote-control robot. His AA batteries sure needed changing.

  "You look like death warmed up. Come on, I'll get you a coffee."

  He followed the man along a corridor and into the cafeteria. Faces turned as he entered and many people stood up, hands clapping together.