Last Freedom: Book 4 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 4) Read online

  LAST

  FREEDOM

  The Last City Series

  Book 4

  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: The Wanderer

  Chapter 2: Plot

  Chapter 3: Abandoned

  Chapter 4: Going West

  Chapter 5: The Resistance

  Chapter 6: The Bomb

  Chapter 7: Strike

  Chapter 8: Under the Sons

  Chapter 9: Crawford

  Chapter 10: They Come

  Chapter 11: Evac

  Chapter 12: Escape

  Chapter 13: Desert gunfight

  Chapter 14: Occupation

  Chapter 15: Amanda

  Chapter 16: Slaves

  Chapter 17: Lost and found

  Chapter 18: The mayor

  Chapter 19: Crawford

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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 5

  Available Here

  Prologue

  Marianna DeMille walked confidently toward the church, gazing up at the slender spire that seemed to spit in the eye of providence. The only church to survive the night of the firestorm, it stood in well-manicured grounds kept alive by water that had been brought in bucket by bucket from a reservoir on the edge of town.

  She'd left here as an unwanted passenger on a fool's errand.

  She returned as a trusted foot soldier in the new world order.

  And she had come to visit a traitor.

  As she passed an acer in full summer bloom, she spotted someone scampering toward her. She put her hand up to halt the three black-masked guards that formed her bodyguard and waited for the little man in the gray suit to come to a sudden halt before he attempted to segue into a dignified walk. Fool! She recognized him, though she was certain his eyes would not penetrate the hood she wore.

  "Welcome to Salt Lake City! We were warned of your arrival and have complied with your requests to yield the fuel stations."

  Requests? They were instructions backed by a demonstration of power. The small force of Mormons who resisted the Sons of Solomon when they first reached the roadblocks had been swept aside. And then the demands had been delivered. She was here to see that they had all been carried out.

  Marianna nodded. "Do you have him under arrest?"

  "Yes, um, madam? Is that how I should address you?"

  "You may call me Lieutenant. Now, lead on."

  The Marianna DeMille who followed the oily little man into the Church of the Latter-Day Saints on what had once been West Temple was a changed woman compared to the frightened child who'd left there months earlier. She'd thought she'd found sanctuary in another church on the East Coast, but the Sons had found them, and they'd killed the two old people who lived there. She had been saved by her youth. They took her away and helped her to see the truth—that her entire belief system had been a lie. That the world had not ended in that firestorm but had been reborn like a phoenix. They were in the first days, not the end times. And she was a pioneer.

  And if they must destroy relics of the past to pave the way for a purer future, then so be it.

  Candles lit the entrance hallway, but there was nothing other than darkness beyond most of the doors. Darkness cloaked the Celestial Room and the vast assembly hall was silent.

  Black-suited men and women moved aside for them, watching them sullenly as they passed. Let them sulk—they would change their tune soon enough, or they would die. The Sons had given her clarity where once she was burdened with doubt. She was now the swinging blade, come to bring judgement.

  "He is in here," the man said, standing aside and gesturing at the golden handle on the white door.

  She nodded, then turned to the men accompanying her. "You will wait here."

  One of them, a big brute of a man whose black hair ran like a curtain around the bottom of the black mask, leaned in to whisper. "But, Lieutenant, we were told to stick with you at all times."

  "And I am ordering you to wait out here!" she hissed. "I am quite capable of dealing with a feeble old man."

  The brute snapped back as if she'd slapped him in the face and stiffened to attention as she turned the handle and went in.

  He was tied to a chair in the center of a small room lit by many candles that stood in recesses. There was another chair opposite his and a small table between them. She could dimly see that murals covered the walls, depicting scenes of a pastoral paradise. How very appropriate.

  The old man didn't look up to begin with, and she wondered whether perhaps he had expired unnoticed. If that were the case, then those responsible would pay with their own lives. Justice was hers to mete out, not theirs.

  Finally, as she stood gazing at this shadow of a soul, he seemed to notice her and look up.

  "So, you have come." His voice was a cracked cymbal. "I only ask that you spare my people."

  She laughed at that. "Who do you think you are? Moses? You have had ample time to prepare for our arrival, and yet when we came to your gates, you turned us away."

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "Do… do I know you?"

  She had both anticipated and dreaded this moment since she'd been assigned to the occupation of Salt Lake City. She raised her hand to her head and slowly pulled off the black balaclava.

  His eyes popped in disbelief. "Marianna! Oh thank God! You're alive!" He tried to get to his feet, forgetting the ropes that bound him to the chair, and ended up wriggling in place, a look of mixed relief and confusion on his face.

  "Yes, Father, I am alive. No thanks to you."

  He shook his head, eyes wide. "I don't know what you mean, my dear."

  "You sent me away with two complete strangers."

  "I thought you would be safer. I knew that one day the S—"

  She smiled at him. He had fallen into the trap. "You knew what? That the Sons of Solomon would one day come to SLC? And you wanted me to be elsewhere when that happened?"

  He couldn't help but give a sad nod.

  "And how did that work out? They found me despite your efforts and I thank God in my nightly prayers that my eyes were finally opened to the truth."

  Tears poo
led in the corners of his eyes. "My dear, you have been led astray by a false doctrine. These are the end days as predicted by the prophet and only those who remain firm in faith will survive to witness the return of our Lord."

  She slammed her fist on the table. "No! You are wrong, Father. This is the time of rebirth when the young and strong will build something wonderful out of the ashes. Your time has passed; ours is just beginning."

  "And what of the old and weak? What place do they have in this new world of yours?"

  She shrugged. "Nothing must stand in the way of progress and renewal. Not even you."

  Elliot DeMille slumped as tears ran down his cheeks. "What has become of you?"

  She leaned on the table, her face inches from his. "I have been educated. You sent me away as a weak girl and I have returned as a woman of authority. But don't worry, you will be spared the purge for now. My commanders believe you might still be useful, though I have my doubts. Here, enjoy a little reading. You may find it educational."

  Marianna pulled a small green book from her pocket and slid it across the table to her father.

  "This is your religious book?" he asked, gazing from it to her through pink, puffy eyes. "I will not read blasphemy."

  She stood up straight. "Suit yourself. But you will have nothing else to divert your mind, so the least you should do is read it, even if only to understand your enemy better. Goodbye, Father."

  Marianna DeMille spun around, pulled her mask down and stalked from the room without glancing back at the shrunken old man at the table who sobbed as the woman who had been his daughter left.

  Her last words came in through the door as it swung shut. "Read it."

  The oily Mormon official was waiting for her as she emerged and he scampered along as she headed for the exit.

  "How is his wife?" she asked.

  "We have kept her under house arrest as instructed, Lieutenant."

  They emerged into the sunlight. "Good. Move DeMille to one of the suites, but keep him under close guard. When I return, I expect to find him physically well and secure. Do not disappoint me."

  She lengthened her stride to get some distance between her and the odious little traitor. Her three companions shadowed her footsteps until they reached the Land Rover. She would now supervise the occupation of what remained of Salt Lake City and the conversion of its inhabitants to their cause. Or, at least, those who would join them. The others would be considered delayed casualties of the cleansing.

  She climbed into the passenger seat of the Land Rover as it headed toward their headquarters. Her father's only hope was to read the green book. She didn't expect it to convert him, but it contained other messages that she hoped he would see.

  Marianna DeMille gazed out of the window as it moved through the streets of her home city and dreamed of many possible futures. Everywhere she looked, she saw flames.

  Chapter 1: The Wanderer

  Paul Hickman nudged the last of the animals into the newly fenced field and pushed the gate shut. He leaned against the raw timber and watched the cattle as they nervously explored. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of self-satisfaction and then, as it always did, the shadow of reality settled on him. This was a respite, the breath before the killing stroke. A small taste of Eden before the legions of hell descended on them. He sighed, his bearded chin rubbing against the top of the fence as he slumped.

  "Penny for your thoughts?"

  And there she was. An unaccountable joy in a time of fear and darkness. Hickman half turned to see a mass of strawberry-blonde curls that engulfed the pretty, freckled face of Cassie Miller.

  "Oh, just the usual. I wish we could be left to get on with the rebuilding without having to keep lookin' over our shoulders. Can't help thinkin' this is a monumental waste of time."

  She giggled at that. "We saw 'em off last time, didn't we?"

  Hick gazed over the field and then up to the green-sloped low mountains. It had been two months since the “Battle of Hope” as it had become known and there had been no further attacks in that time, but he knew they would be back. And the more the people of Hope rebuilt the town, the bigger the prize it became and the greater the potential loss.

  He felt the warmth of her hand on his arm. "We gotta take one day at a time. And it's a lovely day, so why not enjoy it?"

  The wisdom of youth. Extreme youth in her case. Hick glanced across at her as she stood beside him, eyes closed and face turned upwards, the sun warming her skin. She was more elven maiden than farmer's daughter. He looked away quickly before he completely succumbed to her spell. She might be Goldberry, but he was no Tom Bombadil.

  They stood silently enjoying the peace of a hot summer's day, and he tried to do as she did and take this moment for what it was without concern for the future. But he was Hope's leader and he didn't have that luxury. And so dark clouds gathered around him.

  "C'mon, let's get back. Or have you forgot you're havin' lunch with us today?" she said.

  She grabbed his arm and he allowed himself to be steered back to the pickup. He sat in the passenger seat as Cassie expertly swung the car around and onto the track that led out onto a larger lane and then the highway.

  "What are you looking at?" Hick said, as he watched the landscape slip by. It was a beautiful day, punctuated only by two yellow circles that drifted in and out of focus as they moved left and right across his peripheral vision.

  Roger the cockerel turned his head and the yellow circles disappeared. He looked out the window as if trying to figure what was so interesting about a landscape that had neither food nor hens in it.

  "He sure has taken to you," Cassie said.

  Hick huffed. "Well it ain't mutual. I can't take a leak without him followin' me. Sits outside the bathroom door, listenin', and when I come out, he's exactly where I left him."

  "Where d'you expect him to be?"

  "I dunno, but it's unsettlin'. Sometimes I have difficulty … you know."

  Cassie burst out laughing. "Oh, that's just old age creepin' up on you."

  Hickman's attempt at a good-natured chuckle was as lame as a three-legged dog with arthritis. She patted him on the knee. "I was only joshin'. You ain't quite ready to retire just yet."

  "If only," Hick said as Roger's head bobbed up and down in apparent agreement.

  "You know, you could leave Roger at our place. I'm sure Pa could find a use for him."

  The cockerel's head rotated one hundred eighty degrees.

  Hick didn't answer. He wasn't in the mood to admit that he was crushingly lonely at home. He'd had Sam there for a handful of days and her presence had only reinforced how empty the place had been without her or her mother for the previous decade. And now the light had gone out. He'd made do with Buster the dog for most of the intervening years, but now he had no one. Except for Roger.

  "Oh, I don't know. I reckon he'd find me eventually."

  "He ain't a homing chicken, Hick!"

  And the laughter came naturally as Roger looked at them both with a perplexed expression.

  The kitchen in the Millers' newly completed farmhouse was full to the brim when Hick and Cassie arrived. It was a bright room that looked like a set from a pioneer theme park. Everything was made of wood except for the range, which they'd salvaged from the ruins of the old house, the kitchen implements and the crockery. The residents of Hope had donated this and much else, and it had been through the muscle-power of those same people that Elwood Miller and his wife had a new home.

  A large oak table with benches along the two sides and chairs at each end sat in the middle of the space, and Cassie squeezed between two others to get in. Hick, who sat in a chair at the head of the table, couldn't help noticing that the Polish farmhand who was now hip to hip with Cassie was smiling and laughing with her.

  Elwood took his place at the other end of the table and raised a wineglass to Hick in greeting. Hickman responded in kind, acknowledging the gestures of all those there. Rusty Kaminski and Devon Myers sat ne
xt to each other, and opposite them Joe Bowie represented his surviving family. His father, Leonard “Dave” Bowie was at home with Joe's wife Martha. The death of her son had broken the poor woman and contributed to her frailty. She hadn't been outside her home since the day after the attack and wouldn't tolerate being alone. The place had been turned into a fortress to placate her, and Hick had a feeling she was taking the edges off her grief with an unhealthy dose of tranquilizers.

  Duck Dale raised a glass to him, though he'd asked for beer rather than wine, and Lynda Strickland nodded as their eyes met. Gathered together were most of the heroes of the battle.

  Elwood pushed his chair back as his wife called, then went across to help her carry food to the table. "Now here we got the first of the potato crop, planted in the days after the fight. We ain't got that many, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourselves. The next crop will be bigger."

  He put a large saucepan on the table and Hick could smell the warm earthy smell of new potatoes drenched in butter. "That's our butter, of course, and this is our lamb."

  Mrs. Miller placed a long white serving platter on the table, and the smell of the still-sizzling meat took Hick back to the Stone Age. She was like the matriarch returning to the tribe with the kill. And he was the salivating caveman.

  But rather than being allowed to help himself immediately, Elwood Miller interrupted him, clearing his throat until the babble had died down a little.

  "Now, I'm sure we are all keen to start our celebratory feast, but first we will take a moment to thank He who is responsible for all this."

  For a crazy moment, Hickman thought Miller was referring to him, but then the old farmer spoke, his deep voice almost chanting the words. "Lord, we give thanks for this food, and to Your grace that's seen us through dark times. Most of us, that is."