The Last Town (Book 3): Waiting For The Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  He’d tried several times to call people he knew in LA, but the expensive smartphone he carried was useless for communication now. He wasn’t thrilled to find the landline wasn’t much better—All circuits are busy. Please try your call later. He had no idea what had happened to his friends and coworkers. Most of them were good people, and he felt a nagging sense of guilt at not taking time to reach out and try to warn them before leaving the city. He knew it was wasted emotion. If they hadn’t known well enough to get out, then there was no saving them. The reality was, he had barely made it out himself, and he had his own plane. For those less fortunate, trying to flee using the roads and freeways was virtually a death sentence in and of itself. He wouldn’t have been able to help them. An extra hour wouldn’t have made any difference.

  He finally sat up and pulled on his jeans and left the bedroom, walking into the kitchen. He was neither hungry nor thirsty, but he flipped on the light over the sink and went through some of the cabinets anyway. Oatmeal. Chips. Bottled water. Booze, which he seriously considered for a long moment, especially the bottle of Glenfiddich 18 which practically seemed to be smiling at him. Canned goods, breakfast cereal, peanut butter, some freeze-dried products he had left behind some time ago. He pulled those out and inspected their labels. They were still good, their expiration dates indicating they would remain edible for almost another five years. He put them back and for a change of pace started going through the drawers.

  He smiled when he found several packages of e-cigarettes in the junk drawer. Four Logic disposables, loaded up with 1.8% nicotine. Norton pulled one out and held the package up in the wan light, inspecting it. He’d used e-cigs in a bid to kick the smoking habit a few years back. They’d done the trick, and with their help, Norton had been able to eradicate a addiction that had blossomed to almost a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights a day. He checked the expiration date on the package, having to squint to read the faint type. It was less than a month past its best by date.

  “Well, what the hell,” he said aloud, and he tore open the cardboard and plastic packet. He screwed the cartomizer into the battery and took a hit off the black cylinder. The tip glowed a bright blue like some sort of prop from a science fiction movie, and nicotine-laced vapor filled his mouth as he pulled it into his lungs. It was harsh, and he coughed a bit, but he appreciated the burn now in a way he never had before. He exhaled a cloud of vapor, watching it drift toward the ceiling, writhing slightly in the light before it vanished. He took another drag and didn’t cough this time.

  Hey, not bad, he thought.

  He wandered through the house until he found himself standing on the back patio. Wearing only his jeans, the chilly air bit at his chest and feet, but Norton ignored it. Overhead, the stars blazed, blanketing the night sky with a pale light that was billions of years old. Norton contemplated them for a time, then looked over at his parents’ house, its roof just visible above the top of the tall fence that surrounded his property. It was dark and silent, and Norton was surprised he couldn’t hear his mother snoring. For his entire childhood, Norton’s mother was a perpetual snorer, so much so that his father wore earplugs to bed.

  But the night wasn’t completely silent. Norton could hear the susurration of traffic flowing up and down Main Street, as people fled the terrors occupying their points of origin and hurried to encounter new ones on the way to their final destinations. Thinking about that made Norton aware that he had stepped outside unarmed, a thought that wouldn’t have crossed his mind two days ago. Now, he reminded himself, he needed to be armed at all times. Even in his own backyard, which was surrounded by a six-and-half-foot-tall fence.

  He took another pull on the e-cigarette and looked up at the distant stars. They stared back at him coldly, dispassionately, completely unmoved by the horror that was spreading across the face of the tiny, insignificant planet on which he stood.

  Norton sighed, took another drag, and made a mental note to talk to his parents about arming up. That would take some doing—while his father would probably understand the need, his mother hated firearms and would be a much tougher sell. With that thought in mind, he turned back to the patio door. He reentered the house, closed the door, locked it, and dropped the wooden stop into the sliding door’s rail for good measure. Just in case.

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  By the time Reese had finished his report and filed the appropriate forms, it was almost three thirty in the morning. He staggered through the still-hectic hallways of Hollywood Station to the command center, his eyes burning, his joints aching. He stumbled twice, almost falling against the wall the second time. The exhaustion was taking its toll.

  Captain Miriam Pallata didn’t look a hell of a lot better when he found her in the darkened command center. It was only half-manned, if that. Reese saw many of the desks and workstations were devoid of operators, and the remaining staffers were older cops or civilian workers. Reese wondered why that was.

  He approached Pallata as she sat hunched over behind her desk, her face ashen in the gray glow of the workstation display before her. Pallata looked up at Reese with hollow, rheumy eyes. She didn’t seem to recognize him for a long moment as he stood before the desk, looking down on her.

  “How’s it going, Captain?” he asked. His voice was made rough by the combination of exhaustion coupled with the lots of shouting he’d done during the hospital tour.

  Pallata just looked up at him for a moment longer, then slowly nodded. “Reese. Didn’t think you were going to show up.”

  Reese frowned. “What do you mean? I just filed my report.”

  “Your report—?”

  “Yeah. You know, my little department-mandated diary of how I spent my day?” Reese put his hands on the desk and leaned toward Pallata. She leaned back at the same time, an unsettled expression on her face. A tremor of fear flashed through her eyes. “Miriam, you all right? Maybe you need to grab a rack in the bridal suite for a while?” The bridal suite was the room where cops could crash during protracted emergencies that required extended staffing. It wouldn’t surprise Reese to learn it was full at this hour, but he was certain Pallata could get a cot if she wanted one.

  Pallata seemed to recognize him in a rush. She sighed and leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the desk. She rubbed her eyes.

  “Reese. Yeah. I heard things were getting out of hand down at Cedar-Sinai. What happened?”

  “What happened? You already know, right?”

  She looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Things have been blowing up all over the place, Reese. I’ve got maybe a general awareness of the big picture, but I’m a little light on the specifics right now. So what happened at the hospital? Make it quick, I know you need to get some sleep.”

  Reese gave her the short version of what went down. “Narvaez and his troops are still there, and a new platoon of unis showed up. The Guard’s turning the place into a fortress. Not so sure that’s what we want.”

  Pallata shrugged. “Not much we can do about it. The hospital has to stay open.”

  Reese nodded and looked around the command center. Phones were ringing, but there weren’t enough hands to answer them. “What’s the deal here?”

  “We’re down about a hundred cops, Reese.”

  That surprised him. Hollywood Station wasn’t huge, and a hundred cops accounted for almost half the stationhouse strength. “What?”

  “Some were killed. More have been injured. And even more just got up and drove away, like your partner.” Pallata looked up at him, her gaze flat, expressionless.

  Reese shuffled his feet. “Ah yeah, I was going to talk to you about that. Listen, we don’t know if Jerry’s—”

  “Don’t sweat it, Reese. He’s in good company. Captain Marshall is unaccounted for, as well. I’m the new area commanding officer.” She smiled thinly. “Acting area commanding officer, I mean.”

  Reese wasn’t so exhausted not to be astounded by the revelation. “Are you kidding me? Marshall walked off
the job?”

  Pallata shrugged again. “We don’t know. He was out in the field. Some of the guys were attacked, and he got involved. No one knows if he was bitten or not, but he was on his way back to the station and never showed up. They found his radio car out on Sunset, parked near one of the barricades, but none of the unis there saw him. He’s off the air, won’t respond to either radio or cell.”

  A helicopter thundered overhead, its pounding passage audible even inside the stationhouse. Guy must be flying low, Reese thought.

  “Well … congratulations, Miriam,” he said stupidly.

  “The city’s falling apart, Reese. The LAPD’s already hollowing out. Less than three or four days into this, and the department’s coming unglued. Hollywood’s still got it easy compared to some of the other areas—Rampart, Hollenbeck, Seventy-Seventh Street—all dropping off the network. Metro’s blowing up big time, and there’s a big fire over by the civic center. It’s the Times Building that’s burning, not headquarters. At least, the last I heard. The fire department is having as tough of a time as we are.”

  Reese pushed away from the desk and stood up straight. “Yeah, you’re not telling me anything I don’t know. From what I’ve seen … well, things kind of look inevitable at this point, you know?”

  Pallata looked up at him for a long moment. “You going to step into the wind, Reese?”

  “No. Never say never, but that’s not me. I’m in for the long haul.”

  She nodded slowly. “You were always one of the really great cops. That’s why I liked you. You always walked the walk.”

  Reese didn’t know how to handle the sudden intimacy of the conversation, so he just nodded and slid his hands into his pockets. Apparently, Pallata didn’t know how to handle it either, for she suddenly looked at one of the big displays on the wall.

  “Get some sleep, Reese. Things aren’t going to settle down overnight, so get ready for it. Tomorrow’s going to be a shit duty day.”

  Reese nodded again and stumbled off to the bridal suite.

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  If the town had slept during the night, Corbett couldn’t tell. The diner was open at six thirty in the morning, as usual, but the lot was already half-full by the time he arrived. He backed his big truck into a space and watched as his detail hunted around in their Expedition, trying and failing to find a spot close to his Super Duty. Corbett didn’t wait for them. He marched right for the diner and stepped inside.

  As he’d suspected, most of the patrons inside the dining establishment were from out of town. There was plenty of bar space available, but precious few booths. He saw Danielle Kennedy already at work, serving a big spread to some out-of-towners with little kids. The travelers looked worn down from worry and exhaustion; even the kids, two girls and one boy, appeared to be just about run out as they contemplated the plates of pancakes, eggs, and sausage that were set down before them. Seeing their crestfallen expressions—especially those on the faces of the children—caused Corbett to look away. His plan would save Single Tree, but at the expense of hardworking Americans like these. They would have to be sacrificed in order for the town to survive. While he had long grown accustomed to being viewed as some heartless, big-business boogeyman, causing harm to families in general and kids in particular did not set well with him.

  It’s all about the town, he told himself. For the town. The town.

  He saw Danielle waving him toward one of the two-seater booths that was open. Corbett smiled at her and lumbered forward, sliding into one of the small vinyl-covered seats.

  “Be with you in just a second, Barry,” Danielle said as she shot past, so quickly that no one in the establishment could tell she had even lost a limb on the other side of the planet. Her smile was genuine, though strained. Corbett smiled back, though he was wondering what the hell she was doing in the diner at this hour—he thought she was late staff. And she only worked the tables in the late afternoon for a little extra tip money, before she took her place in the kitchen for the dinner rush.

  “Take your time,” he said. He pulled a menu from the rack off his right elbow even though he didn’t need it. The rest of his men piled into the diner a moment later and locked onto him. Corbett grinned inwardly at their confusion—there was only room for one of them in the small booth. The oldest man waved the three others in his party toward the bar, where there were still plenty of stools available. He then spun on one heel and marched toward Corbett.

  “Am I sitting here, old codger, or are you eating alone?” he asked.

  “I’m eating alone, Walt. Besides, we’ll be seeing each other all day every day for who knows how long. Think of it this way, I’m doing you a favor,” Corbett said.

  Walter Lennon, head of Corbett’s security detail, smiled thinly. Corbett was fairly surprised. Even though he’d known Walt for years—he had served with his father in Vietnam, and had met him when he was just a boy back in the 1970s—the only time he had seen him smile was when his daughter Eloise had been born.

  “You shouldn’t be left unprotected, sir,” Lennon said.

  Corbett cocked a brow. “I’m hardly unprotected, Walt.” He patted his side, where his pistol was concealed beneath his light jacket. “Go on, get with the rest of the guys. They make some awesome cinnamon French toast here. You should try it. And get a side of Huevos al la Mexicana—they do it up right here, just like back in Texas.” As he spoke, he heard a raucous rumble from outside, and he glanced out the diner’s front windows. Victor Kuruk rolled in on his gleaming Harley, bringing the machine to a soft stop right between two parked cars.

  “Is that the same man from last night?” Lennon asked. “The guy from the reservation?”

  Corbett nodded. “None other than the great Victor Kuruk himself. He’ll be joining me.”

  Lennon turned back to Corbett, his smile long gone. “You didn’t mention anything about a breakfast meeting, sir. We really need to stay current on your schedule.”

  “That’s because I didn’t know I was having a breakfast meeting, Walt. But Vic’s not exactly a regular here, so he’s apparently looking for me.” Corbett raised his hand before the other man could speak. “He’s one of the good guys, Walt. Now go join the rest of the boys and have some breakfast. You’re attracting some attention standing over me like some mother hen.”

  The leader of Corbett’s security detail sighed heavily, not liking that he was being pushed offstage. But he took a quick look around the diner, and saw several pairs of eyes were focused on him and Corbett. He sighed again, and started toward the bar as Victor stepped inside the diner and headed directly for Corbett.

  “Hello again,” Victor said to Lennon, favoring him with a regal nod.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kuruk,” Lennon responded as he stepped aside. “You’re here to see Mr. Corbett?”

  “I guess I am. Is that allowed?”

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Vic. Have a seat,” Corbett said. He looked up at Lennon. “You. Scat.”

  Lennon disappeared, and Victor slid in across from Corbett. “Well, he seems to be the protective sort,” the distinguished-looking Native American said. “So what’s good here? I haven’t been to this place in years.”

  “What did you have then?”

  “Uh, pancakes, maybe. The silver dollar stack. That was back when I was doing some work on that western series on Fox. I had to watch my weight, because the network execs told the show runner they didn’t want to have to change the name of my character to Chief Fatso.”

  “Victor—that was like twelve years ago.”

  “It’s been that long? Huh. Time flies,” Victor said. He reached for another menu and opened it, then reached inside his leather jacket for his reading glasses. Corbett watched as he peered at the selections, one perfectly manicured eyebrow cocked slightly as he adopted an expression of deep concentration.

  “Do you read the white man’s words?” he asked.

  Victor looked at Corbett over the rim of his reading glasses. �
��I can even understand your forked tongue.”

  Danielle appeared then, looking harried as she stepped up to the table. She seemed a bit surprised to see Victor, and she looked from him to Corbett.

  “Dani, you know Victor Kuruk, don’t you?” Corbett said.

  “Well, yes, but mostly from TV. Hi, Mr. Kuruk,” Danielle said, running a hand through her short, dark hair.

  “Well hello, Miss Kennedy,” Victor said, pressing the charm button while simultaneously maintaining the role of wise, inscrutable Indian Chief. “Of course, I’ve known your father for years, but I’ve never really had the opportunity to speak with you since you were”—Victor held a hand out to his side so his palm was just a little over three feet above the floor—“about this high. I remember your father was annoyed with you, because your mother had just bought you a pretty pink dress, and you’d gotten it filthy playing with some of the other kids.”

  Danielle blinked, suddenly recalling the moment. “Oh, wow. You remember that?”

  Victor tapped the side of his head. “Unlike Mr. Corbett here, my mind is still very much a steel trap.”

  “Too bad it’s usually disconnected from your mouth,” Corbett said. “Dani, is Raoul on the grill?”

  “He is.”

  “Then I’ll have the Mexican scrambled eggs with extra jalapeño. Go a little light on the cilantro, and bring some chipotle salsa. And a cup of the boldest coffee you have. Vic, you drink coffee?”

  “Oh, yes.”