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

  By the time they got back to Hickman's place, he was bone weary, and they sat on the deck in his backyard drinking his precious supply of Budweiser.

  "My God, this is even worse when it is warm!" Bekmann said, grimacing. "What I would give for an ice-cold Grolsch."

  Hickman chuckled. "Maybe I'll keep the rest of my Bud supply for winter. I'll be able to use Mother Nature to cool it down."

  "It would still taste like rat's p—"

  Tap tap tap.

  Hick sighed and turned in his chair to see Roger looking at him, then twisting his head around.

  "What's he doing?" Gert said.

  "I dunno."

  Tap tap tap.

  Roger began scampering back and forth, tapping on the glass door and then disappearing into the shadows in the house.

  "I reckon he's tellin' me that there's someone out front. But I didn't hear no knockin'."

  Gert's face expressed his incredulity better than words could, but after Roger had repeated this performance for the third time, he sighed, got up and opened the door. The cockerel ran away and through the living room door.

  Something warned Hick not to simply pull open the front door and look outside. He went upstairs, followed by Bekmann, and crept into the master bedroom, inching carefully toward the window that looked out over the driveway before peering through the gap between the drapes and the window frame.

  "This is insane," Bekmann said. "You better not tell anyone we did this because of a chicken. I bet he's down there right now, drinking our beer and laughing at us." And yet he remained in the shadows out of view of anyone who might be looking up.

  Something moved behind the pickup on Hick's drive. "Did you see that?"

  "Yeah. Seems the chicken was right. What are they doing? Trying to break into the car?"

  Hick pulled back. "Let's find out. You can bet your bottom dollar whoever it is don't mean me any good."

  "You keep an eye from up here and I'll circle around back. When you see me signal, come on down."

  Hick nodded. "Better be quick, he might make a run for it."

  "Then I suggest, Paul, you go fetch your gun."

  Hickman held his Glock close as he waited for the Dutchman to appear. It seemed that the figure behind the pickup wasn't trying to break into it, as he or she had remained perfectly still since Hick had first spotted movement. It was lucky Roger had alerted him when he did, because if they'd come up to the bedroom now, they would have seen nothing. Indeed, Hick was beginning to wonder if the sneak was still there or whether he or she'd vanished.

  Then Bekmann's head appeared behind a trash can on the other side of the street. Now for it.

  Hick crept downstairs, keeping his feet to the edges to stop the staircase from creaking, and slid along the corridor that led to the front door. He brought his handgun up to his cheek and grabbed the handle. His heart beat against his chest as he wondered whether the stranger had a gun trained on the front door. He thrust the door open and waited a fraction of a second before darting out toward the pickup.

  Feet scampered and he could see shadows moving under the truck as he rounded the hood.

  It was a man. A young man who was taking off at top speed, heading along the drive and weaving back and forth as if he expected to be shot in the back at any moment.

  He'd made it halfway across the street when he stopped short, hands thrust in the air as Gert Bekmann emerged from his hiding place, gun pointed at him. "Don't shoot!" he squealed, and Hick could see him trembling as he waited for Gert to reach him.

  "I can't say nothin'!" the man said as he sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen.

  Gert got to his feet, having tied the prisoner's arms behind his back. "Should we call the sheriff?"

  "Oh, I reckon we don't want to get ol' Rusty up at this late hour. He'll be enjoyin' a nice cup of cocoa in his pipe and slippers. And, after all, he might be inclined to go all humanitarian on us."

  Gert smiled. "Yeah, I see your point, baas. We better get answers out of him before we hand him over."

  The two of them stood in front of the terrified young man like bad cop and badder cop.

  "I said, I can't tell you nothin'," he said, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

  "Well, we'll see about that," Hickman said, as he walked over to the kitchen drawers and carefully selected a knife which he turned over in his fingers. "You see, my friend here is a former member of the Dutch Special Forces and he knows a thing or two about extracting information."

  Nodding, Gert got onto his haunches and looked up at the young man, a look of regret on his face. "It is true, Paul, but I do not need a blade. After all, we don't wish for the sheriff to ask uncomfortable questions. No, I think we will make do with a bath and a towel. It is remarkable what a man remembers when he is on the point of drowning."

  Even the flint heart of Paul Hickman softened a little as the young man burst into tears. "No. I'm … I'm begging you … I didn't mean no harm."

  Hickman came around the countertop and sat down in front of the prisoner, still holding the knife. "Let's begin with introductions. My name is Paul—though I reckon you know that already—and this here is Gert. Now, I don't recall your face and I know most everyone in Hope, so my guess is you're from somewhere else. So, who are you and where are you from?"

  The young man simply shook his head and sobbed.

  "I sure am sorry to hear that. Gert, will you head upstairs and fill the bathtub while I watch our new friend?"

  Bekmann turned to go, but the young man cried out. "No! Please! My … my name is Evan. Evan Bird. I'm from Ezra."

  "Of course you are," Hick said. "But you weren't sent by Mayor Hawkins, were you?"

  "He doesn't look like one of the Sons, neither," Bekmann added.

  Bird shook his head furiously. "No, I ain't one of them. But they got my sister, and they'll kill her if I don't do what I was told."

  "And what's that, exactly?"

  He turned his wet, pale face toward Paul Hickman and said, "I gotta kill you."

  Chapter 3: Abandoned

  "I'm sick of having to say this to you, Devon, but you can't go!"

  Jessie had reacted exactly as he'd expected when he returned to their apartment. A black cloud had settled over him as he'd thought about going to Ezra with Bekmann, leaving Jessie alone here with two children. Neither was his, genetically speaking, but he felt responsible for both.

  Dorothy had been discovered among the dead bodies of her family outside Springs. Devon had taken to her instantly, given her a name that suited the companions of the black-haired cairn terrier that had scampered from the wreckage and alerted him to her in the first place. The dog was Toto, so she was Dorothy.

  The baby growing within Jessie had no name that he was aware of, and its father was a local jock called Joel, but since the moment Devon had found himself falling in love with Jessie, he'd shared the responsibility and intended to carry on once the baby was born.

  Devon slumped into the corduroy armchair and gazed hopelessly up at her as she stood, hands on hips, her pregnancy just noticeable as she stuck out her belly in indignation. "I'm sorry, I really am. But Gert's asked …"

  "Are you kidding me? Just because this man you only met a few weeks ago asks you to go on a crazy mission to help a traitor, you feel like you can't say no? Well, here's an idea. Pretend he's me and you'll discover how easy it is! And now Dorothy's crying. I hope you're satisfied!"

  She stomped off and despite himself Devon couldn't help but enjoy how her butt wobbled. But it was a brief break in the clouds and the malaise soon settled again. He leaned back and sneezed as the sofa ejected a lung-full of dust. He should have made more of an effort to furnish the apartment when he'd arrived in Hope. The thrift store and other people's cast-offs did not make for coordinated decor.

  He listened to her soothing the child in the next room and his mood darkened further. Why was he so determined to go with Gert? He'd settled into a pleasant domestic routine since the batt
le, why change things?

  Pleasant? Well, there had been the fallout from Gil Summers's death to contend with. But they'd done that together and, if anything, it had deepened their relationship. The memorial service had been hard enough for Jessie, but it was the constant reminders and the daily commiserations as she pushed Dorothy through the streets of Hope that took an unremitting toll on her. Her father had been a feature of the community for over forty years and his absence left a gap that every citizen noticed. And when they saw Jessie, they found an outlet for their own sense of disconnect and loss, not realizing that they were passing their burden to her.

  Aside from that, however, they had been content together—or at least as content as anyone can be when the future is so uncertain. Their love had deepened and Devon had found that he now regarded the fetus within her as if he was its natural father. They had become a family: him, her, Dorothy, Toto and the unborn child. And now he was going to tear it apart, leaving her alone to deal with them and her grief.

  He cursed as he saw just how that must appear to her. Was he running from responsibility? Was he escaping before he was in too deep? What was wrong with him?

  The truth was he didn't know. Oh, there were seemingly rational reasons for going, not least that he had infiltrated terrorist groups in London, so he knew how to earn trust. And he knew how to pretend to be someone he wasn't. Perhaps he'd done so much acting he'd lost sight of the real Devon Myers, if such a person truly existed.

  No, now he was being ridiculous. He managed to halt the descent into the black hole of self-pity before he got caught in its event horizon. He was qualified to help Gert, that was certainly true, and he'd had a sense of a danger lurking in the background that had polluted his domestic bliss. It could all end in the space of a few hours if the Sons attacked again. And they surely must.

  In truth it came down to this. He could either play house with Jessie and enjoy each day for what it was, knowing that it might end at any moment, or he could go with Gert, find out what the situation was with the Sons of Solomon and, maybe, do something about it. It was about control and clarity of purpose, but it was also about betrayal—at least, that was how Jessie would see it.

  She came back into the room and folded herself onto the sofa with Dorothy in her arms. Toto bounced up and down like a jack-in-the-box three times before he felt confident enough of his trajectory to launch himself into position next to her. Once he was in place, he fixed his gaze accusingly on Devon as Dorothy guzzled the bottle of formula.

  "You're a wonderful mother," Devon said. "An absolute natural."

  He could see that she was pleased with the compliment, but she wasn't about to let him off the hook. "I just don't want to be a single mother."

  "That's good, because I don't want you to be either."

  She tilted her head to one side and he was reminded of the Jessie Summers version 1.0 he'd fallen in lust with. "Then don't go."

  "Gert needs me," he said, knowing as the words emerged that it was the wrong line to take.

  "I need you! Dotty needs you. My unborn child needs you. Heck, even the dog needs you. But you'll do anything to avoid commitment, won't you? The prospect of an adventure with your new pal is so much more appealing than changing diapers and fixing this place up. Isn't that the truth?"

  He denied it. But the more he did so, and the greater his passion, the more he knew she was right.

  "If you go," she said, looking directly at him as she gently comforted Dorothy, "then don't expect me to be here when you return."

  His jaw dropped, and he felt the blood drain from him as if it were being drawn out of the soles of his boots.

  And he said the wrong thing. Exactly the wrong thing.

  "Where will you go?"

  "To my father's house. My house."

  "But … you said it was too painful to live there. Too many memories."

  She shifted her gaze to the now-sleeping child. "Yeah, well maybe staying here is even more painful. It's either spend time at my old home living in the past, or remain in this cockroach-infested dive regretting a future I won't get to have. I really thought this time I'd found someone who would stick around."

  "Jessie …" But he couldn't think of what to say. Her anger had mortified him, and he felt the desolation of all that he was about to lose, but as he was confronted with the depth of his feelings for his proto-family, he knew that he was right to do all he could to protect them. And that meant traveling to Ezra with Gert, whether Jessie was here to welcome him back or not.

  The right thing was still the right thing, regardless of the consequences.

  "What is the problem, my friend?" Gert said as he glanced across at Devon from the driver's seat of the SUV he'd commandeered for the trip to Ezra. "Is it Jessie?"

  Devon nodded. "Yeah."

  "She didn't want you to come along?"

  "Exactly. And I don't blame her."

  "So, why did you?"

  Devon shrugged. "I don't know."

  "I do. You are a man of action, Devon. You are not made for building a nest, even with a bird as lovely as Jessie Summers."

  "That's BS," Devon snapped.

  They sat in silence as the car headed onto the northward road. They would have to go the long way around, as the direct route to the south would certainly be watched. By going north, they could then take the road to Springs before heading down the other side of the mountain range that hemmed Hope in—the same mountains that Hick had crossed with Cassie—and approach Ezra from the west, as Gert had done when he'd last visited.

  "I'm sorry," Bekmann said. "I understand the pain of separation."

  That snapped Devon out of his navel-gazing. "You do?"

  "I have a family also. I was married once, to a woman I treated poorly. I loved my military career more than her. We had a daughter and whether she is alive or dead, I do not know. That is hard."

  "I had no idea," Devon said.

  Bekmann shrugged. "You never asked, so I did not say. Everyone has a story."

  This didn't help Devon's mood. Clearly, he could now add friendship to the list of things he was lousy at.

  "Don't worry, my friend," Gert said, smiling. "We are men, are we not? We are both fine examples of the inferior gender. But now, we must do what we can to help those who depend on us. Those we can help."

  Devon leaned back in his chair and gazed out at the landscape. Though it was a long way from the verdant green of the English countryside of his childhood, spring and summer had brought life to the red and yellow soil of the valley. They passed Pierce's Farm which was now being run by a cooperative and had a slowly growing herd of dairy cattle. The creek that ran down from the mountains had been diverted and irrigation channels dug so that what had once been arid desert was now a narrow strip of green beans. It was a precarious enterprise that would collapse in the face of its first drought, but until they could dig wells and build pivots to water wider areas, it would have to do.

  "So, what's the plan?"

  "We're gonna do what we can to help Libby and the others to keep Crawford's forces occupied."

  "She'll see right through us, won't she?"

  "Yeah, but hopefully we can make ourselves useful. Our enemy's enemy is our friend, after all."

  "So you still see her as an enemy?"

  The Dutchman gave a noncommittal shrug. "I don't know. She is certainly an enemy of Hick's—at least as far as he is concerned. He liked her, I think, and he does not take what he sees as betrayal well. Not at all well."

  "It's getting difficult to work out who the good guys are," Devon said as his mind flitted back to Jessie. He saw her in his mind's eye. She was packing her stuff into boxes.

  #

  John Crawford wandered out of the church and into the sunlight of a warm summer's day. And yet his heart was as cold as an iceberg. He should be feeling satisfied. Despite the setback at Hope, and the continuing irritation of Libby Hawkins's guerilla activities—gnat bites on an elephant's hide—progress had been
acceptable in Ezra.

  He had secretly been impressed by the plans of Mayor Crystal Hawkins to turn the core of the city into a self-sufficient community, but with the growing population here, they would need to expand once the consolidation was complete.

  Crawford, flanked by two bodyguards, strolled along Avenue I toward what had once been a recreation park. He liked to walk, and his mind drifted to happy days spent hiking the Appalachian Trail, far away on the East Coast. He thought about his two dalmatians, Ely and Wells, trotting along beside him with none of the clumsy plodding of his current companions. Back then, he'd been a mid-level executive in an oil company. Back then, he'd been able to ignore what was happening in plain sight, and enjoy a long walk in beautiful country.

  A black-masked guard stood to attention as he approached the entrance to the park and a wide woman in plaid scuttled over, clutching a clipboard.

  "Good afternoon, Ida. What do you have for me?"

  The woman nodded briskly and ran her hand down the sheet. "Greetings, Leader. Planting is going to schedule—we have two acres of green beans now in place and the earlier rows are sprouting as expected. We are experiencing some challenges with ground preparation."

  "Oh?"

  She looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Leader, but since we are not permitted to use the farm machinery, the process takes much longer."

  "You know why we do not permit the use of such symbols of the evil past?"

  "Oh yes, Leader, but I wonder whether it might be possible to increase our manpower allocation?"

  Crawford rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And where would you suggest we take those resources from? The wall, perhaps? Or should we reduce the manpower devoted to our patrols?"

  He fought to suppress a smile as he saw the panic in her eyes. "Oh no, Leader. I merely thought …"

  "That I could conjure people out of thin air, perhaps? Well, I'm afraid that's not possible. I suggest you increase the hours—"