Fallen City Read online

  Fallen City

  A story set in the world of the

  Best Laid Plans series

  by

  Nathan Jones

  Copyright © 2018 Nathan Jones

  All rights reserved.

  The events depicted in this novel are fictional. The characters in this story are also fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely unintentional. While most locations are real some creative license has been taken in describing them, and a few locations are entirely fictional.

  This book is dedicated to my readers, whose support and encouragement has allowed me to complete the story I set out to tell in the Best Laid Plans world. I'm deeply grateful for the opportunity, and hope I've not only provided you an enjoyable reading experience but also given you some ideas on how to prepare for anything the future might have in store for us.

  by Nathan Jones

  POST-APOCALYPTIC

  BEST LAID PLANS

  Fuel

  Shortage

  Invasion

  Reclamation

  Determination

  NUCLEAR WINTER

  First Winter

  First Spring

  Chain Breakers

  Going Home

  Fallen City

  YOUNG ADULT FANTASY

  THE PROTECTORATE

  Corsairs

  Revenants

  Invaders

  Shipwrights

  THE WATCHERS

  Undying Heights

  Ithel's Library

  Deep Dwelling

  Firefly Girl: A Fairy Tale

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Foreword

  In just about any major disaster situation the accepted wisdom is to get away from population centers as quickly as possible, taking with you as much as you can of what you really need or, more ideally, having a place to go with such necessities waiting for you.

  The reasoning is pretty straightforward. In most disasters population centers will soon experience critical shortages, and as a rule are terrible places to hunt and forage. Unless, of course, a person is willing to stoop to the hunting and foraging carried out by desperate, lawless criminals preying on other people. The threat of those lawless elements is an equally pressing reason to move to more sparsely populated areas, especially if one can find a stable community willing to take them in.

  But even for those who keep their integrity intact as society collapses around them, they'll soon find themselves surrounded by those who haven't, or at best other honest people who are in the same situation as them and can offer no help. Desperation can lead people to terrible acts they might not think themselves capable of, or offer those capable of them an environment where nothing prevents them from acting on their worst impulses.

  So there is plenty of incentive to abandon population centers at such times. But what of those unable to escape a city, or who are unwilling to for whatever reason? What of those who've lived in a city all their lives, for whom it never even occurs to go anywhere else, and even if they did think of it would have no idea where to go if they left? What about those who don't have the skills to survive or the courage to brave the challenges facing them?

  It's somewhat frightening to consider just how many of us would find ourselves in that position in any sort of major disaster: no survival skills, no resources, nowhere to go, no options. Huddling in the crumbling remains of our society hoping for a miracle that probably won't happen, knowing if it doesn't only starvation, disease, the merciless elements, and our potentially even more merciless fellow man turned to savagery await us.

  In Best Laid Plans I explored the perspective of people who had a place to escape to when disaster struck, who in spite of the challenges they faced were in most ways better off than the majority of those struggling to survive the collapse of society. And while they saw glimpses of the chaos that engulfed the nearby cities they were spared from most of it.

  Fallen City, which takes place in the same time frame, is the story of a young man who didn't escape, and who wasn't better off, and who most certainly wasn't spared.

  Prologue

  No Big Deal

  “Come in,” a brisk voice called.

  Jack turned the knob and stepped into the small office. Mr. Benson, his high school guidance counselor, looked up from his seat behind his cluttered desk but didn't stand. “Ah, Mr. Porter,” he said in the same brisk tone, lacking any sort of warmth. He motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Please sit down.”

  Jack settled into the plastic seat, trying to sit naturally. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  Benson gave him a reassuring smile. “Just a standard interview for students entering their senior year who're nearing graduation, Mr. Porter. A chance to address any questions or concerns you might have, discuss how you can best make use of your remaining time here to prepare for your future, and of course to go over your options once you've graduated.”

  He paused as if waiting for Jack to respond, then continued with a visible effort to be energetic and encouraging. “I can offer you advice on selecting a college that meets your financial and educational needs, help you find a major that matches your interests and has good career opportunities, show you how to seek out and obtain any financial and advisory assistance you might need, things like that.”

  “Okay.”

  If Jack found the counselor's brisk tone irritating, it was obvious the man didn't care for his lack of interest, either. With a slight frown Benson opened a file sitting in front of him. “Your academic record shows only a few disciplinary marks, mostly for absences or excessive tardiness. Nothing out of the ordinary, and honestly better than usual for someone in your situation.”

  Jack tensed slightly at that. To be fair he knew that kids who'd grown up in the system like him often had problems with acting out, but it still annoyed him that the guy was lumping him in with those other kids as if it was a given.

  Like the kind of person he was and the future he could expect had been decided for him the moment his parents died with no family or friends to take him in.

  The guidance counselor didn't notice his reaction as he continued in the same brisk, uncaring voice. “Your grades aren't fantastic, only barely sufficient to graduate. And it looks as if you haven't taken advantage of any extracurricular programs or college credit courses.” His tone turned stern. “You're not making much of an effort to make yourself appealing to any colleges you might apply to.”

  “Probably not,” Jack agreed, more curtly than was probably wise.

  Benson's frown deepened. “To be perfectly frank, Mr. Porter, you should be more concerned than you are. I understand you've been in the system, and I can tell you right now that opportunities are few and far between for young men in your situation. High school represents one of the best of those opportunities, and one which has been provided for you free of charge. I'm a bit disappointed you didn't take better advantage of it to make something of yourself.”

  Jack shrugged. “Sorry to he
ar that. Although this seems like the kind of pep talk that'd be more useful to kids coming into high school, not ones who are about to be done with it.”

  The counselor decided to ignore that. “Your test scores have always been far better than your grades would indicate. You have the intelligence to succeed in college, what you lack is the proper attitude. I would advise you to put some real thought into what sort of life you want to have while you still have some opportunities open to you.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” Jack leaned forward, preparing to stand. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  Benson closed his file in disgust. “That's all, Mr. Porter. My door is always open if you want to talk.”

  How awfully kind. Jack stood and started for the door.

  “Jack.” There was finally something in the man's tone, what might've almost been sincerity. Jack paused and looked over his shoulder. “You may think college is out of reach for someone in your situation, but it isn't. Financial aid is available . . . student loans, even scholarships. There are plenty of programs out there to help those without means find opportunities to get an education.”

  Jack just shrugged and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Opportunities. He had a hard time believing there were any colleges out there lining up to help out a dirt poor guy with average grades. If there was one thing he'd learned in the system it was that nobody cared about him unless it was their job to, and usually not even then. The only time anyone ever opened a door for him was when they were inviting him to scram through it.

  No, he had his own plans for the future. They weren't great plans for a great future, but they were something.

  Jack would be the first person to admit he was “worryingly disinterested in fulfilling societal expectations”, as a state appointed psychologist he'd once been assigned a few sessions to had put it. He supposed it was kind of hard not to be after spending half his life being passed around from one stranger to another surrounded by other kids who were getting the same treatment.

  He didn't lean towards anything criminal like some of the other foster kids he'd known, but he just didn't see the bright future for himself that teachers, foster parents, social workers, and school counselors all tried to paint.

  Going out into the world after high school he figured he'd probably either join the military or sign up for one of those brutal week on/week off oil rig jobs, like a few of his older friends going up through the system had talked about. Or something like that: as long as whatever he found provided pay, room, and board it would be a major step up from where he was.

  Backbreaking work didn't faze him as long as there was some reward to it.

  As for higher education, he didn't see it happening. He just didn't have the grades or technical knowledge or experience to get into any degree program that had a hope of earning well after graduation. Not to mention he didn't really fit any of the checkboxes for scholarships or other financial aid, obviously couldn't pay his way outright, and wasn't about to start down a path of student loans he'd spend half his productive life paying off.

  People like Benson claimed he didn't think about his future, all the while trying to push him into just those sorts of shortsighted entanglements. Hah.

  If Jack tried for any sort of further education it would probably be online courses or a trade school, but honestly at the moment it looked as if his future was as a grunt or roughneck. Not the worst thing as long as he kept his living expenses down . . . he'd probably even be able to buy most of the cool toys he wanted.

  Now that he was free from his interview with the guidance counselor he hurried more than usual on his way to grab his bike from the rack, which in this case meant practically running. For all his pretense at being understanding, Benson probably wouldn't appreciate that most of Jack's eagerness to get out of their little interview wasn't because of a poor attitude, but because he had perfectly justifiable reasons to be a bit peeved at being called in after school hours rather than sometime during the day.

  Specifically, Jack's job started at 4 in the afternoon on three weekdays, and then two night shifts on the weekends. On school days that meant he had only the time between when school ended and his shift began to get home, eat a hasty dinner, get dressed for work, and bike out to the gas station.

  Then he had to find a way to get through an 8 hour grind until midnight without going insane. Or even worse, during the after dark hours getting shot by some stupid punk trying to rob the place and not realizing the station kept the day's earnings in a safe Jack didn't know the combo for.

  What little was left in the till was enough for some guys to take the risk, although with more and more people using cards that was only a matter of time. But whatever their reasons it meant having a gun shoved in his face while someone screamed at him and he tried not to lose bladder or bowel control, or both.

  It had only happened once, if “only” could even be considered the right word for something like that, and Jack had been half certain the gun the punk used was fake. Even so, if he wasn't desperate to stay employed and well aware of how close to impossible it would be to quickly find another job he would've quit on the spot.

  Benson was probably right, he didn't care about his future. No sane person would put his life on the line like that for minimum wage. But then “options” wasn't exactly a word that applied to people like Jack Porter: he wanted to be an honest, upright citizen, which meant he took what was offered and was grateful for it.

  Jack's apartment was about a five minute ride from school, in what had charitably been described to him as a “less developed” neighborhood in the city. A place of crumbling apartment complexes with old, rundown houses squeezed in between them, low rent and low income. It was close enough to the more prosperous and built up city center to receive plenty of discussion and condemnation about its poor appearance and high crime rates.

  Just not quite close enough to receive any funds to improve conditions.

  His own apartment building was a perfect representation of the entire neighborhood: crumbling exterior, filthy and rundown interior, thin walls through which Jack could hear plenty of domestic arguments and, more frequently than he'd like, even violence.

  And then there were the cockroaches, little ones that scurried everywhere and were impossible to stamp out no matter how many times the super brought in exterminators. And the kitchen sink that regularly backed up with stinking water because the geniuses in the apartment above theirs couldn't figure out not to put grease down the pipes. And the various charming stenches that regularly permeated entire floors in spite of the fact that each apartment had its own ancient ventilation system.

  Jack made record time on his way home, speeding up to the front door of his apartment complex and wheeling his bike inside. It was a slog carrying it up the stairs to the third floor, which was second from the top, but he wasn't about to leave it outside even if the place did have a rusted tangle of bars that could jokingly be referred to as a bike rack.

  Nope, he needed his ride and it came into his apartment with him, even though his roommates insisted he keep it in his own room. He'd already had one piece of junk bike stolen and that had been enough of a hassle that he wasn't taking chances with this one.

  He shared a suite of rooms with three other boys named Tod, Greg, and Red. They were in the program for young adults in the system approaching emancipation, intended to prepare them to begin a productive life in society.

  So far Jack had been liking it well enough. His roommates were either pretty chill or at least kept to themselves, and the requirements imposed on them by the system weren't too bad. Their social worker, Mr. Greeley, came by regularly to check on them, make sure they were doing okay, and see if they needed anything. He was cool, as social workers went.

  The suite had a communal area with the living room, kitchen, and a small dining table up against one wall, and a hallway leading off to the four bedrooms and two shared bathrooms.

  The living r
oom was sparsely furnished with a futon couch, an overstuffed chair the previous tenants had left behind, a couple of those padded folding chairs, and a banana chair Tod had brought with him. At the moment Tod was on the futon totally immersed in the game he was playing on their flatscreen, a bottle of soda at his feet. He ignored Jack when he came in.

  Red was in the kitchen making a sandwich and nodded his way. Jack nodded back and headed to his room, at the end of the hall on the right, to stow his bike. Then he returned to the kitchen to fix up a bowl of ramen.

  The kitchen had come with a few basic appliances, microwave, toaster, and coffee maker, and also boasted a fridge/freezer combo and an oven. There was also a knife rack with a complete set of high quality knives that had been a gift from one of their neighbors, an old lady named Mrs. Henson who'd been moving out to go live with her son's family. She'd also left them a bed, the folding chairs, some blankets, sheets, throw pillows for their futon, and a few other things: sadly, she'd contributed more furnishings for the apartment than Jack or any of his roommates, and definitely more than the social workers had provided when the four boys had been moved in.

  Jack would've loved to relax more, but as it was he was already running late. So he rushed to get changed while the ramen was softening, then bolted it down while it was still almost too hot. Finally he spent a couple minutes taking care of a few last things then grabbed his bike and trotted out the door, calling a goodbye to his roommates as he slammed it behind him.

  The gas station he worked at was a few minutes in the other direction from the school, on a somewhat busy corner between two streets. At first Jack had used the bike rack near the front doors, assuming it would be safe since he could see it from behind the cash register where he worked.