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

  LAST

  STAND

  The Last City Series

  Book 3

  By

  Kevin Partner

  Mike Kraus

  © 2019 Muonic Press Inc

  www.muonic.com

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Powwow

  Chapter 2: Milk

  Chapter 3: Convoy

  Chapter 4: Visitations

  Chapter 5: ZZ Top

  Chapter 6: Springs

  Chapter 7: Warner

  Chapter 8: Rustler

  Chapter 9: Return

  Chapter 10: Coup

  Chapter 11: Cowpoke

  Chapter 12: Mine

  Chapter 13: Hopeless

  Chapter 14: Council of war

  Chapter 15: Many Partings

  Chapter 16: Prelude to war

  Chapter 17: Battle for Hope

  Chapter 18: Sacrificial

  Chapter 19: The Final Stroke

  Chapter 20: After

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  Special Thanks

  Special thanks to my awesome beta team, without whom this book wouldn’t be nearly as great.

  Thank you!

  LAST CITY Book 4

  Available Here

  Prologue

  Ward McAndrew was on his knees praying when he finally got an answer.

  "What's that beepin' noise, Reverend?"

  McAndrew sighed. He'd hoped the old man would be too deaf to hear it, but then he hardly had the sharpest ears himself. It was coming from the basement. "Oh, never you mind. Now, I think we're just about done here, aren't we?"

  With a groan, he got to his feet and held out a hand. "Up you come."

  Wilbur Dunklee stood up in stages, finally straightening his back and nodding to the pastor. "D'you think Jesus heard our prayers?"

  "Our Lord hears all prayers, my friend, if they are offered up in repentance and good faith. And surely, the early hour must count to your credit."

  Dunklee nodded and, with a final glance at the little altar in McAndrew's living room, turned toward the door. "Only, I don't know as I can carry on much longer without Elsie. She's a good, God-fearing woman. Surely she would have been saved? Wouldn't seem fair otherwise."

  Who said life was fair? Silly old fool! McAndrew guided his congregant to the front door as quickly as possible. "Change is coming, Wilbur. Stay strong in faith and you will be rewarded."

  Wilbur Dunklee shook the pastor's hand and, with a mumbled "thank you", shuffled off along the path. By the time he reached the gate, McAndrew had gone.

  The military-grade radio sat on a table that had been pushed into the far corner of the basement. It was hidden by a bookshelf that formed a third wall, turning it into a tiny room of its own that could be hidden entirely by sealing the remaining gap with a stack of boxes.

  McAndrew stumbled down the steps, having locked the front door, heart pounding as the beeps got louder. Finally, someone was responding to him. He'd been broadcasting the agreed message every day since the firestorm and had begun to wonder if, somehow, the plan had gone wrong after all.

  He sat in his battered typist's chair and turned down the volume with one hand while pulling out a notepad and pen from the top drawer with the other. He waited for the message to repeat, then scribbled what he heard:

  beep beep bah bah bah bah bah hah beep beep

  bah beep beep beep beep

  beep beep bah bah bah

  It took three repeats before he was confident he had it down. He looked up to the bookshelf and found the one he was looking for. It fell open at page one. Marley was dead, to begin with.

  "Page twenty-eight," he mumbled to himself as he leafed through the old volume. He found it, scanned down to the sixth paragraph, then found the final word.

  Supplication.

  Of course.

  He transmitted the correct series of dots and dashes and sat back to wait for a response. He cast his eyes at the book and read the next line.

  "I am a mortal," Scrooge remonstrated, "and liable to fall."

  His mood darkened. Whoever was manning the radio set at the other end had a grim sense of humor. Either that or Ward was seeing meaning where there was none.

  He jumped as the receiver chirruped into life, scribbling down the Morse code and then checking it on repeat.

  1616576400

  28

  He sent the acknowledge bit before signing off and flicking the power switch on the radio. A couple of months ago, he'd have been able to type that long number into Google and get an immediate answer, but in this new world he accepted it was going to take him at least a few minutes. So, he went back upstairs with the scrap of paper, poured himself a drink and sat at the table with his pocket calculator.

  Ten minutes later, just as he felt the rum beginning to warm his blood, he put his pencil down, satisfied that he had the answer. Satisfied, but not exactly pleased. Tomorrow at 1am on channel 28. He had sixteen hours before he found out if he was likely to be forgiven.

  Chapter 1: Powwow

  As Ward McAndrew was downing his early morning shot, Paul Hickman was throwing off his comforter and running into the spare bedroom. Not because he thought he'd been dreaming the night before—he knew Sam had come home—but because he panicked that she might not still be there.

  He managed to control himself enough so that he didn't burst into the room, but carefully turned the door handle and inched it open. He pushed his face into the gap and swiveled his eyes back and forth to penetrate the darkness.

  Someone was asleep in the bed, but it wasn't his daughter and it wasn't Libby Hawkins. He caught a whiff of antiseptic and then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the bandaged lower leg lying exposed. Sam lay at the foot of the bed, wrapped up in a blanket she'd taken from the linen closet.

  Thank God. She was still here. As he gazed down at her, he felt a tear run down his cheek. He pulled the door shut and finally let his breath go before padding downstairs and into the kitchen. He still half expected that darned dog to be asleep on the couch, but even his absence didn't produce the usual lump in his throat. Sam was home. He'd done it.

  Or, at least, he'd achieved half of his plan. Sam was home, but Hope wasn't the safe haven he'd worked so hard to make it. Not yet, anyway.

  He lit the stovetop and took a can of Spam from his hoard, tossing thin slices into the frying pan. His neighbor was raising chickens—another idea
of Martha Bowie's—so he had eggs, but no bread. Low carb it was then.

  She drifted into the kitchen as he cracked the last egg into the pan.

  "That smells good," she said.

  He turned to her, feeling simultaneously joyous and, for some reason, tense. Perhaps, having wanted nothing more than to have her here and safe, he was now replacing that yearning with the fear of losing her again. Or that they wouldn't get along. And past experience said that was a safe enough bet.

  "I guess you've been on strict rations on the road." He flipped two eggs and three fried slices of Spam onto a plate and slid it across the countertop.

  She perched on a barstool and tucked in immediately. "Sometimes," she said between mouthfuls. "It's not been so bad recently. We found a house with some supplies in, and Amanda's pretty amazing at making something out of nothing."

  "Tell me about the boy," Hick said, completely failing to say it nonchalantly.

  She smiled. "You'll like him." Then she snorted. He loved that. It was a signature snort. "No, you won't. But you should. It's because of him that I escaped from New York. Him and Richie."

  "Richie?"

  The smile had vanished, and Hick could see she was remembering something sad.

  "It was Richie's boat. That's how I got out. But Richie was killed. Escaped convicts."

  He didn't really want to talk about it, but he felt obliged to feign interest. "What happened?"

  "I killed the thug who shot him."

  Hick dropped his fork onto his plate, drops of yolk showering his white T-shirt. It might have been funny in other circumstances. "You killed a man?"

  She looked down at her food and began moving it around the plate. "Everything's changed out there, Dad. You don't know what it's like."

  He went to correct her, but thought better of it. "You told me last night that Jay was burned up in New York. You thought he was dead. Then you found him again when his foot was injured. You didn't want to tell me the whole story last night, but I need to know now. I need to know everything, Sam. Things might seem okay here, but trouble's brewing and I want to be prepared."

  So she told him and, as she spoke, Paul Hickman felt the panic rise.

  They'd agreed to meet at the Bowies' at noon. Sam had told Hick that Devon had gone back to his apartment on Main, and Jessie was spending the night with her father. They obviously thought they could trust Martha more than him, but they would be in for a hell of a shock when he and Sam turned up.

  He saw Devon walking along the road as he arrived at the compound.

  "What happened to you?" Hick gestured at the livid pink scar on Devon's cheek.

  "Good to see you too, Paul. It's a tough world out there."

  "It hasn't exactly been a bed of roses here, neither."

  Devon looked at him doubtfully, but Joe Bowie appeared to let them in and they followed him into the house.

  "I gotta say, Paul," Bowie said as he opened the front door, "Martha's doin' a whole lot better cos of you."

  Hickman could feel Devon's eyes burrowing into his back as they walked into the living room. He was astonished to see Martha Bowie sitting up. She looked weak and thin, and seemed only able to keep herself vertical because she had a dozen pillows supporting her, but she was alive. No doubt about that.

  Jenson Bowie got up from a chair beside his mother's bed and limped across to Hickman. "Thank you so much, Mr. Hickman. I owe you. I really do."

  Devon looked from Bowie to Hick. "Have I woken up in an alternate universe? Paul Hickman, the hero?"

  "No, he's still the same selfish SOB he always was." Rusty Kaminski emerged from the kitchen and strode across to shake Devon's hand. "It's just that sometimes what he wants is the same as what others want, ain't that right, Paul?"

  Hickman shrugged. "If you say so, Rusty."

  "But, boy, it's good to see you again, Devon. I'll be honest; I never thought I would. And you did it, too. Brought Sam home. And Jessie. I reckon ol' Gil'd hand you a medal if he was still mayor."

  Devon peered around Kaminski to see Jessie approaching. She smiled and then slipped into Devon's arms as the audience looked on, wide-eyed.

  "Looks like you two got to know each other real well on the road," Rusty said with a smile.

  You don't know the half of it, Devon thought as he released her.

  "Come into the garden room," she said. "Dad's there. And Dave. We've got a lot to talk about."

  And talk they did, sitting on chairs drawn up in a circle. Leonard "Dave" Bowie began with a quick update on Martha. Paul had called in on his way to Ezra with a box of antibiotics he'd gotten from heaven knows where and, as she was in no condition to protest, they'd begun treatment immediately by breaking the tablets up in milk and getting her to swallow. They thought it was too little too late that night as she hovered on the border between life and death, but the following morning she spoke for the first time in days and now she looked as though she was on the mend.

  "I'm glad to hear it," Hick said. He meant it, too. Despite what Rusty had said, he wanted her to survive, though he expected to regret it soon enough. He knew he could be an arrogant man, but if he was slapped across the face enough he'd eventually work out how to duck. He couldn't run this town on his own. "I took the supplies from Ezra around to the school for Doctor Pishar to distribute."

  "What's the latest count?" Rusty asked.

  Hickman tried to call the figures to mind. He really should have been paying more attention. "The doc said the rate of new infection is goin' down since folk were isolated, but he reckons maybe four hundred have got it. With the antivirals and antibiotics, more of them will survive, but we've lost a couple of hundred and will probably lose half as much again before it's through."

  "And the Ezrans?"

  "Libby's on her way over to the school to find out. I don't expect she'll get good news. There was a hundred ten of them. Maybe thirty will survive. They gave us their sickest, after all."

  Gil Summers shook his head. "I still can't believe Crystal Hawkins would do such a thing. To send a … a plague bomb into the only place we know to have survived the firestorm. It's tantamount to attempted genocide."

  "She cares about Ezrans first, second and third," Rusty said. "I didn't have her down as a monster, though. Just goes to show. I guess the plan was to move Ezrans here when we'd been thinned out a little."

  Hickman grunted. "Yeah, and then watch Gert Bekmann use Ward's foolishness as an excuse to take control. Mayor Hawkins could roll into town like a modern-day Boadicea."

  Devon broke the silence that followed. "That's not the worst of it."

  "Are you pulling my chain?" Hick said. "How can it be worse than a military takeover and the loss of our independence?"

  Devon caught Jessie's eye and gave an "over to you" gesture. "Paul, this whole thing, this firestorm, was engineered by people who want to drag us halfway back to the stone age. We've met them. They're brutal. That young man in your house—I watched as they chopped his foot off in public. I watched as they lined up three women and prepared to execute them for daring to defy them. We've seen churches burned and people living in fear as they took control of towns and settlements. Make no mistake; they're coming. And we'd better be ready because if you think life under this Mayor Hawkins is going to be bad, you ain't seen nothing yet."

  "Imagine the Taliban at their worst," Devon said. "Complete obedience or summary justice, those are your choices. No chance of ever restoring the way of life we grew used to. Men and women alike treated as slaves under the pretense of building a perfect society without technology."

  Hickman rubbed his chin. "Good grief. But that sure does sound like what Ward was preachin'."

  "You don't think he's in on it, do you? Old Ward McAndrew?" Dave Bowie said.

  Hickman shook his head. "No, I can't say as I do. But it don't really matter much if the end result is the same. If we don't have control of our town, we can't do nothin' about this Taliban of yours."

  "They're not the Ta
liban," Devon said. "That's just the closest equivalent. Our Amish friend told us they're not from just one religion. My guess is they started off with aims we'd probably all approve of, but got taken over by folks who saw them as a way to power. I don't think we have long. Maybe just a few weeks. And if we're not ready when they arrive, we're finished. Hope is the last city standing, and we owe it to our own people and our fellow Americans to put up a fight, and to win it."

  Rusty slapped his hands together. "I didn't know you had it in you, Devon. You oughtta run for mayor!"

  "You're right," Gil said. "You folks who've been out in the world need to take the lead in this. You know better than any of us what's going on out there."

  "Does that include me, Gil?" Hick said.

  Summers nodded. "Of course it does, Paul."

  Hick blinked in surprise. "It does?"

  "Not everything anyone says is a plot to depose you. I think we're all agreed that you'd be the man to lead us even if you hadn't already been elected."

  Kaminski chuckled. "Yeah, we'll be standin' right behind you while you take the heavy fire."

  Dave Bowie slapped Hick on the shoulder. "Seriously, though, we got your back. The Bowie family owes you, and between us here we represent the heart of Hope. Now, I suggest you go spend the rest of the day gettin' to know your daughter again, and then we need to find a way of keepin' tabs on Ward and this Gert fella."

  Ward McAndrew sat at his radio and swallowed another mouthful of rum. He'd developed a taste for it when he'd done missionary work in the Caribbean—the cheaper the brand the better—but he hadn't brought the bottle down into the basement because he needed to be on his A game tonight. He'd had just enough to take the edge off his fear, but not so much it would dull his wits.

  At 1am, he powered the radio on and switched to channel 28. This time, he'd be speaking to someone rather than deciphering Morse code, and that meant two things: the person he was communicating with was much closer, and they were speaking in the open. He knew that the chance of anyone intercepting their conversation was pretty minimal, but it paid to be cautious when so much was on the line.