The Last Mission of the Living (The Last Bastion #2)(35)

Unable to answer for a moment, Lindsey swallowed hard, then nodded. “We’re close to it now. Because of them. The valley will soon be cleared and the farms will bring in fresh food. We’ll be able to flourish again.”

“But for how long?” Mariano wondered aloud. The question seemed directed at the universe and not at Lindsey.

“We’ll find a way. Humanity always does.” Or at least she hoped so.

“Take care, Lindsey. Don’t let them f*ck you over, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She lightly touched his shoulder, then headed back toward the stairs.

“The castellan...”

Lindsey turned around. “Yeah?”

“He loved her a lot, right?”

“With all his heart. And she loved him.”

“Then she was happy.” Mariano held the medals to his chest. “I’m glad to know that.”

“Me too.” Lindsey gave him a wistful smile, then headed down the stairs.





Chapter 10


Torran exited the narrow shopping area tucked between two apartment complexes. The blue tarps that were strung overhead to keep out the sun and rain flapped in the breeze. His purchases safely secured in his bag, he hurried down the road toward the entrance to the Espana Sector.

“...is said to be ready to surrender only to law enforcement officials dispatched from the Judicial Authority. If Admiral Kirkpatrick surrenders this evening, it will bring an end to the standoff between forces loyal to the SWD leader and the Constabulary forces dispatched by President Cabot...”

Glancing at the big vid screen perched above the district square flanked by the local government and security buildings, Torran wasn’t sure if he felt relief or not. Trials were inevitable at this point, but he feared they would only segregate the population. Admiral Kirkpatrick was a very charismatic man. During the last few weeks he’d probably been crafting a defense with his legal counsel and supporters that would be aimed at destabilizing the Cabot presidency.

Another pedestrian bumped into Torran, spurring him onward. The pillars of the meeting hall in the center of the square were draped in black banners and a large granite wall was erected in the front. People clustered before it, some openly praying or weeping. An older woman stood a few feet away with bins full of wildflowers for sale for a few credits. Torran hurried over to her and looked over the wilting display.

“For a loved one?” the woman asked with a heavy accent. Dark eyes tucked into heavily wrinkled lids regarded him with curiosity. She was clothed in what appeared to be tribal garb and her thick silver hair was plaited to her waist.

“A friend, actually. She came from here. Rosario Smyth.”

“She’s on the wall. I’ve seen her face. So sad.” The woman pulled some flowers that were still in fresh condition. They were bright orange and pretty.

Torran handed over a few credits. “She was a good person.”

“They were all good people.”

Nodding, Torran weaved through the mourners toward the placards on the wall. Each one contained the official photo of each soldier lost in defense of The Bastion along with a commemoration beneath it. A narrow metal vase was welded to the corner of each one. Some people hung rosaries or other mementos from the vases, but many were filled with flowers. When Torran found Rosario’s memorial, he was saddened to see her vase was empty. Rosario had been raised in a foster home after the death of her parents during one of the flu epidemics. He’d sent notice to her foster parents, but had never received any sort of reply. His heart heavy for his lost friend, he carefully arranged the flowers in her vase.

“At least Kirkpatrick did something about the Scrags, right?” a guy said to Torran. The dark skinned man with a shiny bald head stared somberly at the image of a soldier who looked quite a bit like him, just younger.

“It was a joint effort,” Torran answered.

“Yeah, but Kirkpatrick had the balls to do make the hard call. You really think there was a cure? That was bullshit. He did what he had to do.”

Torran peeked at the name on the memorial the man was regarding. The name on the memorial was Jose Gutierrez and he’d been in the SWD. It was a name he recognized. “Your family member was Inferi Boon?”

“My brother. And yes. But he knew what he was doing. He willingly gave his life. No questions asked. He died a hero out there.”

“They all did. The question is: did they deserve to die?”

Torran wondered if the man would answer, but he didn’t. Instead, he kissed the image, said something in Spanish, and walked away.

As the crowd briefly parted, Torran saw Lindsey standing at the far end of the memorial, tucking flowers into a holder. Pressing his way through the throng, he drew close enough to see she was leaving flowers for Maria Martinez.

Unwilling to bother her, Torran took a few steps back and tried to not disrupt the mourners. It hurt to see families gathered at the memorial. One woman was carefully cleaning rain spots from the image of a male soldier while a gentleman pressed his forehead to another and prayed.

There were monuments of this type all over the city. Death was such an enormous part of the life of The Bastion that elaborate rituals had grown up around it. Memorial walls and yearly observances of various battles or epidemics were just as common as holiday decorations and celebrations.