Last Dawn Read online

  LAST

  CITY

  The Last City Series

  Book 2

  By

  Kevin Partner

  Mike Kraus

  © 2019 Muonic Press Inc

  www.muonic.com

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Hope

  Chapter 2: Burn

  Chapter 3: Refuge

  Chapter 4: Pursuit

  Chapter 5: Ezra

  Chapter 6: Rusty

  Chapter 7: Amish

  Chapter 8: Armory

  Chapter 9: Pathogen

  Chapter 10: Samantha

  Chapter 11: Martha

  Chapter 12: Taken

  Chapter 13: Sedition

  Chapter 14: Execution

  Chapter 15: Rescue

  Chapter 16: Martha

  Chapter 17: Saline

  Chapter 18: Rusty

  Chapter 19: Hickman

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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 3

  Available Here

  Chapter 1: Hope

  20 days after the firestorm

  "You come one step closer and I'm gonna blow her head off!"

  Paul Hickman stopped and raised his hands. "Come on, Nicky. I know you. You don't wanna go hurtin' no one." The gunman pressed a revolver against his daughter's temple, trigger finger shaking.

  "I told you. Leave us alone!"

  Nicky Pierce's place was just north of the main part of town and set back from the highway. Hickman, who'd consulted his computerized records when he'd gotten the call to come out, knew Pierce had retired here a decade ago along with his wife and daughter, Rose. He'd kept himself to himself, in true Stephen King serial killer style, but his sanity, it seemed, had been another casualty of the last three weeks.

  The house stood alone in a stony landscape of grays and greens punctuated by patches of grass. The low peaks of the Schmidt Mountains—a two-bit range of hills with aspirations—blocked the horizon behind the house, broken by a row of indistinct wooden buildings that looked as though they were held up by nothing more than rotten wood and wishes.

  "We gotta share resources, Nick, or we ain't gonna make it."

  "You ain't havin' my propane!"

  "We're not asking for all of it."

  "You'll be back. If I let you take some, you'll be back."

  He was right, of course. He was certainly insane, but that didn't make him stupid.

  "Look, can't we just calm down a little? I got a nice bourbon in the car I'm willin' to share if you'll put down the gun."

  "Ha! You must think I was born yesterday! I heard what you did to that Walmart guard. Dropped him in cold blood."

  Damn! How on earth did he hear about that?

  Pierce looked beyond Hick to the man standing behind him.

  "Brain? You know him?" Hick hissed over his shoulder.

  Brain shuffled uncomfortably. "Yeah, boss. He married my sister."

  The oaf had blabbed to his brother-in-law. Showing off, probably. That narrowed Hick's options.

  "Keep your gun, then. But one way or another, we need to talk. And it's a fine bourbon."

  Hickman had always held to the opinion that there was no such thing as useless information, so he had gathered every scrap he could. Among his records on Nicky Pierce was the gem that the man was a heavy drinker and connoisseur of fine liquor.

  "Well, alright then," Pierce said, and his hand relaxed a little. "But you bring Rusty with you."

  That was a surprise. Hickman had ordered the sheriff to keep a low profile. He turned and nodded to Kaminski, who handed his shotgun to Jenson Bowie and, smirking a little, moved forward.

  "Me and Nick go back a long way," he said. "I guess he wants a referee."

  Together they walked, hands raised, toward the house. It had been the heart of a working farm until Pierce bought it for his retirement, and the interior looked as though it hadn't been touched in the intervening years. Black fungus ran along the top of the hallway wall and down the magnolia wallpaper. The air had a cloying, dusty texture that sat at the back of Hickman's throat, threatening to send him into a coughing fit.

  "In there." Pierce followed them through the dim and musty hallway and into the front room.

  Hickman glanced out the grimy window at the flatbed truck with a long tank on the back that stood outside the house. Brain stood beside it with another man, while Jenson Bowie leaned on the hood of the squad car that had once been Ned Birkett's.

  Hickman's first act as council leader had been to order a survey of propane stores in and around Hope. The mini medical unit in the community center needed electricity, as did the refrigerators in Martha's grocery store. But it was cold that would take the biggest toll on people, especially the elderly. Hick had plans for house-sharing, but however he sliced the melon, he needed generator fuel. Only a small fraction of people in Hope had generators, and just over half of them ran on propane, but keeping them running until spring got under way would make the difference between life and death for many.

  Rusty sat beside Hick on the moldy couch. "Look, Nicky, you can put the gun down now. No need to frighten Rose no more than you already have."

  Pierce looked from one to the other of them and then waved the revolver at his daughter. "You bring that chair over here and sit down," he said, gesturing at a wooden chair in the corner of the room.

  Hickman watched as Rose did as her father had instructed. She was a plain woman in her forties who looked as though she'd spent her life in the shadow and service of her parents.

  "Where's Molly?" Rusty asked once Rose had finished dragging the chair across the room.

  Pierce shrugged. "She went to visit her family in Vegas. Ain't seen her since … you know."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. You doin' okay?"

  Hickman was looking at Rose, whose eyes were reddened and moist. He wondered whether she'd felt truly frightened when her father had pressed his gun to her head. Perhaps she'd craved release from the nightmare.

  "Enough of the small talk. We don't want visitors and we ain't givin' up what's ours. We got our rights under the Constitution."

  Hickman wanted to tell the old fool that the Constitution and rights didn't mean squat since the country went up in a fireball. But Pierce had a gun, so he bit down on his anger and calmed his voice. "Nicky, we're not lookin' to steal nothin'. There must be a trade we can do."

  "You ain't got nothin' I want."

  "What about Rose? Maybe Martha's store might have somethin' she'd like."

  Pierce growled angrily. "She don't need nothin' from you."

  "But Pa, I d
o. I tol' you—"

  "Shut yer mouth!"

  He stabbed his ancient Smith & Wesson revolver at his daughter, hands shaking, as he pulled back the hammer.

  In that instant, Rusty leaped at Pierce, surprising him and thrusting him back. A glass table lamp behind Rose exploded as the gun spoke. The armchair fell backward and the yelling Rusty tried to subdue the madman.

  Hick took the opportunity to run across the room, put his hand on Pierce's shoulder and press the cold steel of his hunting knife to the man's throat.

  "I suggest you relax a little, Nicky, or my hand might slip."

  Instantly, Pierce went limp as his eyes swiveled from Hick to Kaminski. He cursed, then hawked up a mouthful of spit that missed Hickman by inches. "You better kill me, Hickman, or so help me God, I'll get back at you."

  Truth was, Paul Hickman would have happily taken the gun from Pierce's hand and finished him, but he had an inconvenient audience.

  "I guess I'll be satisfied with your ass rotting in jail," Hickman hissed as Rusty turned Pierce over and cuffed him.

  Together, they hauled him onto his feet and out to the front door where Jenson ran over and dragged him off toward the car.

  "What happens to me?" Rose said. She'd drifted into the hallway as her father was ejected.

  "Well, that depends on you," Rusty said, gently. "You can stay here, or you can move into Hope. There's a fair few empty homes in the town and I reckon some folks would have a room or two to let out. Will you show us where the propane tanks are, darlin'?"

  She led them back along the hallway and out through a grubby parlor into what had once been a farmyard. Opposite them ran a row of dilapidated animal barns with rusting bars and clogged-up slurry drains. "What sort of farm was this?"

  "Dairy," Rusty said. "I knew old Sam Whelan. The only cow farm in east Nevada, but he couldn't make it pay so he sold up and moved away."

  Rose turned to them, her face alight with the first signs of animation. "Oh yes, we've still got some cattle. Mr. Whelan left us some milkers and two of them were pregnant, so we had milk for a while. Then the bull died, and they dried up."

  "What are you thinking, Paul?" Rusty rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing.

  Hickman shook his head. "I dunno yet. But it seems to me that Hope sure could do with its own dairy herd. If we could produce our own fresh milk … and we'd be able to make butter, cheese, even yogurt … "

  "You're gettin' ahead of yourself. We ain't got no cattle, apart from these few, and no one who knows how to look after 'em, let alone makin' cheese and yogurt."

  Hick slapped the grizzled sheriff on the shoulder. "Have a little optimism. But first, let's find the propane."

  They'd returned from the farm with a two-thirds-full 500-gallon propane tank on the back of the truck. That would help, that would surely help. But it was a Band-Aid on an open wound.

  "You wanna be careful, Paul. Folks ain't gonna stand for it."

  Martha Bowie closed the door of her cold store and blew warmth back into her hands.

  Sighing, Paul Hickman followed her into the daylit box room she used as her office and glanced down at his clipboard. Three days since he'd gotten out of his sickbed to take on his duties as council leader and he'd spent the entire time listening to people bellyaching and looking to him for answers. Be careful what you wish for, Paulos. He could hear his father's voice echoing in his mind.

  One of the least pleasant parts of his new job was having to deal with people he had previously avoided or ignored. Martha Bowie didn't like him, and the feeling was one hundred percent mutual, but aside from running the grocery store, she had her fingers in just about every pie in Hope. For now, at least.

  "Well, I don't see what choice we got, Martha. Your cold store is the biggest one in town and if we don't keep it workin' then everything in there goes off."

  Martha lifted a box out of an old swivel chair and gestured for Hickman to sit down as she settled into a moth-eaten leather seat. "I hear you nearly got your head blown off out at Pierce's place."

  "Good ol' Rusty saved the day."

  "Want a piece of advice, Paul?"

  Not from the likes of you. "Sure."

  "Try not to be so bitter about someone else bein' the hero and gettin' the credit. It's a team sport, y'know."

  "I'll bear that in mind."

  Martha sat back and regarded him for a moment. "You're a strange one and no mistake. I don't reckon I've quite got you figured out yet."

  "Why d’you say that?"

  "Well, for the longest time, I thought you were just a troublemaker, always lookin' for an angle to get one over on folks. Then, when all this happened, I figured you wanted power for its own sake. And then you went and shot that guard at Walmart. I'd have locked you up and thrown away the key, but Gil knew better. Suddenly, you're the great hero of the battle at Miller's Farm."

  Hickman shifted uncomfortably under her examination. "Just tryin' to do my bit for the community."

  She laughed at that. "Hick, I may not have worked out what you're up to, but I sure as hell know it ain't community spirit that drives you. Ah, don't do the wounded puppy dog eyes on me. I don't give a flying fig why you do what you do; as long as it's for the greater good of the folks of Hope then I'll back you up."

  "That's mighty kind of you, Martha," Hick said, not bothering to hide his derision. "But let's get back to business. What's the latest on the supply situation?"

  Gil Summers had put Martha in charge of managing the stock of food and drugs before he'd been deposed in a snap election following the execution of Marlin Cook by the militia who'd taken over the town. The militia Paul Hickman had helped defeat.

  "We're gettin' low on just about everything. We're just pickin' over the bones up at the Walmart center now. Most folks have run out at home and I didn't stock all we might need in the first place—almost everyone drove down to Ezra to do their big monthly shop. Two thousand mouths to feed, Paul. You'd be surprised how fast the well runs dry."

  Hickman rubbed his eyes and ran his hands over his scalp. "I'm gonna get Rusty to send deputies around to all the empty houses and strip them of everything."

  "Well, it'll help a little, I suppose. Does Rusty have the manpower?"

  "He'll have to manage for now, but I figure we need to set up some sort of team to handle this sort of thing. Can't have the police fetchin' and carryin'."

  Again, she regarded him as if seeking to divine his thoughts. But, after a few moments, she sighed and got to her feet. "You look exhausted, Paul. Take yourself off and get some sleep. All the same problems will be there when you wake up, but maybe they'll be a little easier to wrap your mind around. I may not have worked out what your endgame is, but you're the smartest man I know, and a few hours of shut-eye might help you figure things out. I'll hold the fort for now."

  I bet you will, Hickman thought, but without malice. Truth to tell, and now she'd mentioned it, he desperately craved a few hours' rest.

  But there was something he needed to do first.

  A simple wooden cross marked the spot where Marlin Cook was buried. He was one of a half-dozen residents of Hope who'd died since the firestorm, and the only one Hick cared about. The bodies of the militia members were buried outside the graveyard, while the survivors languished in a new makeshift jail created in a warehouse off Main.

  "I'm sorry, son," he said as he stood, hands clasped, looking down at the grave. The cemetery lay on what had once been the eastern border of the town. It was now surrounded on two sides by ranch houses but, if he looked straight ahead, past the wooden cross, and squinted a little, he got an uninterrupted view of the mountains. It was a vista Marlin Cook hadn't had long enough to fall in love with, but if Paul Hickman felt an emotional attachment to anywhere it was here.

  He wasn't prone to self-reflection, but he wondered, as he stood there, why Cook's death had hit him so hard. He'd persuaded himself that he hadn't visited the grave before because he'd simply been too busy, but he knew now that
this was a lie. And it was fine to deceive others, but he wouldn't tolerate lying to himself.

  He'd liked the boy and had recognized in Cook a little of himself—both the good and the bad. Marlin Cook could have been a better version of Paul Hickman, a version that wouldn't have made the mistakes he had. The son he'd never had.

  No, now he was becoming sentimental. He shook his head, took one last look at the cross set against the jaw-dropping backdrop of a clear Nevada day and turned away from the graveside.

  There but for the grace of God, he thought. And maybe that was it. Marlin Cook was a cipher for his own defeat and he took it personally.

  "I promise you this, son," he whispered as he walked toward the gate, heels crunching on the dry desert soil. "I'll make 'em pay."

  Chapter 2: Burn

  Devon Myers only wanted one thing. All the desires and dreams that had seemed so important to him had fallen away like the flesh of an avocado, leaving nothing but the bitter, unyielding stone to choke on. His love for Jessie, a love that had driven him to accompany her across the continent; his pursuit of redemption for the mistakes of the past; his drive to bring order.

  All gone.

  Devon Myers only wanted one thing.

  He wanted to die.

  "I've found some, Dev!"

  An excited voice from somewhere beyond the red shell of pain that encompassed him.

  He felt soft fingers against his lips, so he opened his mouth obediently. Two pills fell inside. He swallowed, choked, coughed them up.

  "Wait! I've got water to wash them down."

  This time, he took it more slowly. He opened his eyes a crack, then blinked them until fresh tears had broken through the crust of the old ones. Jessie hovered over him, pity etched on her face. Pity and disgust.

  With a roar, he pulled himself up the pillows a little. His hands were scabbed and stiff, his forearms tender, but he took the glass and opened his mouth again. This time he took more care.