“So what are you telling me?” Norton asked. “All of this is for nothing? That we’re just wasting our time?”
Corbett sighed and took another slug of coffee. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just telling you this because I want you to know. I don’t have a pair of crystal balls, I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. Maybe the government will come up with some sort of biological weapon that’ll make these things decay and fall into several million piles of bones. Maybe they have an anti-zombie weapon in the arsenal, and we just don’t know about it, and they’re taking their sweet time to deploy it. Maybe the zombies won’t even come this way at all—maybe the ones in Las Vegas will head to Arizona, and the ones in LA will split up and head to San Diego and San Francisco. Maybe we’ll be fine. Then and again, maybe we’ll have four million of them walk up on us at once. I don’t know.”
“Four million—really?”
Corbett nodded. “It’s estimated that even with the nuclear attack, there are still about fifty to seventy-five million zombies inside the United States alone, and that number is continuing to increase. Or so says my contact.”
“And who is this contact of yours?”
“Son of a former Marine I served with. He’s attached to the directorate of contingency planning for Marine Special Operations in the Pentagon. Though I doubt he’s still in Virginia, he’s probably someplace else right now. Some bunker somewhere.”
Norton ran a hand down his face, feeling razor stubble tickle his palm. Shaving was no longer much of a priority for him, so he was on the three-day growth schedule. Once it started to itch, he’d shave it off. He looked at Corbett and cross his arms.
“How many do you think we can repel?” he asked.
Corbett shrugged. “No way to know that. Fifteen thousand should be doable if it comes down to it. Maybe more. But once we get their attention, we have it, no matter what. Only way out of that trap is to kill all of them, so that’s why we need to keep things quiet once the walls go up. Another reason we need all the transients to clear out—we don’t want people outside the walls attracting unwanted attention.”
Norton slowly turned back to preparing his breakfast, even though he really didn’t have much of an appetite any longer. “You’re a bright ray of sunshine this morning. Thanks for stopping by, you old ornery asshole.”
Corbett chuckled. “I do have a reputation to maintain.”
“Sure you don’t want any breakfast?”
“You win. I’m in.”
Norton set about cracking eggs. “You know, I never asked. How did you get to where you are now? I mean, business-wise. I know all about Vietnam and the like, but I never figured out how a guy from Single Tree could become a billionaire.”
“Luck. Being in the right place at the right time. After I got back from Nam, I got a job servicing equipment at a refinery outside of Houston. Guy who ran the joint was a World War II vet. He saw I had what it took to get things done, so he took an interest in me. Taught me everything he knew about the business—not just the refinery side of the house, but the actual exploration, drilling, transport, even how product gets distributed once it’s all been blended up. He died three years later. This would have been 1976 or so. He left a big hole in the company, and I stepped into it. His partners let that happen, so I went from making nineteen thousand dollars a year to a hundred and sixty. While you could live pretty decently in Texas on nineteen grand a year as a single guy with no dependents, making a hundred and sixty grand was like winning a Powerball jackpot.”
“No kidding. One-sixty’s still good money, even today,” Norton said.
“Yeah, so long as you’re not living in Manhattan or San Fran. Anyway, it didn’t take me long to get the company back on track. Actually, it never went off the rails. Everyone knew what to do, so it wasn’t a big feat. After that though, I found that while I knew a lot about the maintenance business, I still didn’t know very much about the petrochemical industry. So I went to Lone Star College and got a two year degree, then transferred to Texas Tech in Lubbock. Got my bachelor’s in a year, then jumped right into the MBA program. I was probably one of the very few petroleum engineers with a business degree in energy commerce, back in those days. Still stayed employed full-time, too. And at the same time, bought my way into a small oil and gas exploration company and helped them exploit a field off Ghana in 1981.”
“Wow. Sounds like you never slept,” Norton said, actually interested in the old man’s history. “So that find in Ghana got you started?”
“Somewhat. Came out of that one a millionaire. Also came up with a new dog-couple design that I patented and licensed to Chevron, and that one still pays me money even today. That was where the big cash was, hooking up with the major O&G developers and licensing technology to them. Spun off the Ghana oil fields in 1988 and walked away with seven hundred and fifty million. Started my own O&G exploration and development company that same year, along with a separate engineering company. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know which one makes more money these days.”
Norton mixed up the eggs and milk. “God damn. And you still came back to Single Tree, even.”
“A man has to stay grounded,” Corbett says. “Has to remember where he came from in order to discover where he has to go.”
“Another parable from, say, Victor Kuruk?”
Corbett smiled and sipped more coffee. “No, that one’s straight from me. Vic would have made it sound a whole lot prettier. And stoic.”
“So you went from nineteen grand in 1972 or so to, what, twenty, thirty billion today?”
“Yeah. Basically. But it’s just money. Everyone wants to take it from me, of course. They all want a piece of the pie. I’m not greedy, I give away a lot. I’ve built hospitals all across the world, invested in pre- and post-natal care in third world countries, dumped a ton of cash into rebuilding Haiti and Ecuador after their earthquakes. Rebuilt an entire community in New Jersey after Super Storm Sandy, and built a bunch of new homes for families who lost everything in tornadoes in Oklahoma, Tennessee, and Texas. But no one knows that shit, Norton. I don’t talk about it.”
“Why?”
Corbett shrugged. “Sounds ... too self-serving to me. Like I’m trying to fluff up my own dummy.”
Norton nodded. “I once paid for a Mexican woman to have retinal implants in LA,” he said. “Didn’t really know her, to be honest—she was related to a woman I was seeing at the time.”
“So you did it to get in good with the girl?”
“Up front? Yes,” Norton admitted. “But then, I was in the room after the procedure was done. And I saw this woman see her children for the first time. I cried like a fucking baby.” Norton smiled at the memory, and at the emotion it invoked upon recall.
“That’s why I do what I do,” Corbett said. “I like to make a difference. I like to feel like I’m useful for something other than just making tons of cash finding, developing, and selling petroleum product. That’s just the means to an end. You do anything like that again?”
“Yeah. Set up a home for special needs adults in Encino, so they have a place to go. Did that after that guy was killed in Fullerton by the police. Nobody pays anything for it, I handle all the salaries and taxes and insurance, all that stuff. Well, actually I pay people to do it for me, I just throw in the cash and check on things every now and then to make sure no one’s playing loosie-goosie with the money. Paid for a couple of bookmobiles in LA County. Nickel and dime stuff like that, nothing like what you do.”
“It’s not a contest, Norton.”
“So says the guy who’s saving an entire town, where I was basically only trying to save myself and my parents,” Norton replied.
Corbett waved the comment aside. “How did you get started? The son of an accountant making a splash landing in Hollywood—how did that happen?”
“I shot three porn movies in college that did pretty well,” Norton said. He turned to gauge Corbett’s expression at th
e divulgence. Corbett did not look amused.
“Really,” Corbett said.
Norton nodded. “Really. I was at school in San Francisco. Did Suzy Does San Francisco, a takeoff on Debbie Does Dallas. Ever see it?”
“No. Neither one, I’m afraid.”
“Ah. A shame. Both are legendary works.”
“So you mean to tell me you acted in porno films?” Corbett asked.
Norton laughed. “Hell, no. I directed them. Suzy Does San Francisco did really well, made three million bucks worldwide. The other two did all right, but they were straight-to-video. This was in the 80s, when video porn was starting to beat the hell out of the theater chains. Even the Pussycat Theaters went under.”
“So you made three million?”
“Hell, no. I made a hundred and seventy-five thousand. Used that to make a cheap horror flick in 1988 called Creeper, and I retained sole rights. Negotiated a split deal with a second run distributor in Los Angeles where I kept forty percent of the theatricals, and retained outright ownership of the video sales. Sold that direct to video store chains. On that one, I made three million, easy. Made two more horror films, then pretty much hung up my directing spurs. Producing was much more lucrative, and not so many early morning wakeups.” Norton soaked up the egg and milk with several slices of bread and tossed a couple into the pan. “Back then, everyone was trying hard to sell their products to the studios, get them to fund them, distribute them, pony up the print and advertising costs. I stayed small until the mid-90s, doing shoots for one to five million bucks, and retained pretty much all the rights I could. It wasn’t until 1995 that I actually packaged a big budget picture and released it through one of the majors. I think I got the last gross dollar deal in the industry. That one made me.”
“No kids, Norton?” Corbett asked.
“No. No kids, but I am the proud owner of two ex-wives.” Norton tended to the contents of the pan. “What about you?”
“Never married.”
“Gay, right?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sure it is,” Norton said. “You just need to loosen up a little, cowboy.”
“Is that you asking me to wear assless chaps around town, Norton?”
Norton sighed. “Thanks for the visual. As if the zombie hordes weren’t enough, now I’m trying very, very hard not to picture your withered hindquarters in a pair of chaps walking down Main Street.”
Corbett’s chuckle sounded like a wheeze. “Norton, you are all sorts of fucked up, son.”
Norton shrugged. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
The doorbell rang again, surprising both men. Corbett looked at Norton and cocked a brow.
“You didn’t tell me you were expecting guests,” he said.
“I’m not. Must be one of my parents.” Norton excused himself to answer the door. It still wasn’t his mother or father; instead, it was Victor Kuruk.
“Good morning, Gary,” Victor said. “Sorry to intrude, but I see Barry’s truck outside, and I need to speak with him. With both of you, perhaps.”
“Sure. Come on in.”
When Norton led him into the kitchen, Victor looked at the stainless steel gas range. “Oh! French toast!”
“You want some?” Norton asked.
“Is it as good as what they serve at the diner?”
“Ah, no. If you’ve been spoiled by Raoul’s French toast, mine will be a tragic disappointment.”
“Oh. Well, no thank you, then.” Victor sounded slightly disappointed as he adjusted the patrolman’s gun belt around his waist. The regal-looking Native American was dressed in full police regalia, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail beneath his cap. “And good morning to you, Mister Corbett.”
“What’s happening, Vic?”
“We need to start handing out gasoline to the stranded motorists in town. There are derelict cars all along Main Street, and it’s causing a big problem. Families are marooned here, and as you can probably guess, they’re not too happy to be told they can’t stay.”
Corbett grunted. “Well. Wouldn’t be a problem if we’d broken up the road like I wanted, right?”
Victor frowned. “Perhaps not, but we should make the effort to get these people on their way.”
“And give away resources we’ll need for ourselves? Hell, no.”
Norton sighed and went back to making his French toast.
“So what do we do, Barry?” Victor asked. “Send families with young kids hoofing it up to Bishop with whatever they have on their backs? By the way, I made contact with the special agent in charge of District III. Some interesting things to discuss, once we get this item of business out of the way.”
Norton turned away from the range and began gathering dishes while the toast cooked. Corbett looked confused.
“What the hell is District III?”
“Law Enforcement District III of the Bureau of Indian Affairs,” Victor said. “We still have satellite radio communications with them. It’s a federal system, you know. But more on that later. Now, what about opening up one of your tankers of gas? We need to get these people out of here. If we don’t, things are going to get very ugly in a very short amount of time.”
Corbett scowled, and looked over at Norton. “God damn it, Norton, give me some more coffee, would you?” He pushed his cup across the breakfast island.
“Oh! Coffee,” Victor said, as if he hadn’t realized it still even existed.
“Yahsuh, boss,” Norton said, doing his best Winchester imitation. He refilled Corbett’s cup and poured a new one for Victor. He then topped off his own. The percolator was getting closed to empty already. Damn.
Victor sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. “A little weak,” he said.
“The hell it is. What else do you have to bitch about, Victor?” Corbett snapped.
“Yeah, really,” Norton added.
“Barry, we need to part with some fuel,” Victor said. “We need to get these people out of here so we can seal up the town, right? And they don’t want to stay, they want to leave. It’s a win-win, and once the walls go up, we’re not going to be doing a lot of distance driving anyway—right?”
Corbett drank more coffee, glowering. Norton finished the first round of toast and slid a plate in front of the old man. He regarded it for a long moment, then finally picked up a piece of bacon.
“All right, Victor,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll touch base with Walt, and we’ll see what we can do. Each vehicle gets no more than five or ten gallons. That’s it.” He looked up from the plate and faced Victor directly. “Start turning people around. The road gets cut, and barricades go up. I’ll tell Walt to start erecting HESCOs and razor wire along the highway entrances tonight.”
“I thought we’d agreed—”
“You thought wrong,” Corbett said, real iron in his voice. “Things changed overnight. We have to get this done, and we have to get this done now.”
“What’s changed?” Victor asked.
“The horde is on the move,” Norton said. “The military nuked a shitload of them, but there’s about seventy million of them in the country now.”
Victor’s face visibly paled. “Seventy … million?” he said, his voice almost a choked whisper.
“Things aren’t getting any better, Victor. That’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. But the number kind of changes things,” Corbett said. He picked up a piece of bacon and regarded it before biting off a chunk. “It’s time for our balls to drop and for us start getting stuff done.”
“Seventy million.” Victor shook his head. He sighed and rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “I guess they’re right when they say the only easy day was yesterday.”
“What is it you wanted to tell me about this District III?” Corbett asked.
“Oh. Nothing good, I’m afraid.” Victor eased himself down on the stool next to Corbett and watched as the older man poured syrup over his French toast and dug in. “Los Angeles is almost completely destabilized. Nation
al Guard was ineffective, and traffic has the entire freeway system almost completely shut down. The military is using helicopters to get around, but there aren’t enough of them on hand. State and local law enforcement are fragmented—no one has a handle of what’s happening, and communications are a mess. No coordinated efforts are underway right now. The city’s going under.”
Norton sighed when he heard that. “God damn it.”
Victor nodded. “I have friends there too, Gary. I know how you feel, but there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“What else?” Corbett asked. He continued to eat, as if unaffected by the news.
“Las Vegas has gone completely dark. From what I was told, the city is essentially a ghost town, now. Everyone who could leave is gone, and those who stayed behind are trapped. There are tens of thousands of the dead there.”
“So nothing’s really changed for Vegas since the start of the zombie apocalypse,” Corbett said. “That’s encouraging.”
Victor frowned. “Barry, there’s nothing funny about this.”
“I know, Victor. I know.” Corbett took a break from eating to take down some coffee from his refilled cup. “Vegas is going to be the first problem—we could see fifty to a hundred thousand zombies coming out of there, unless someone does something about it. But LA’s going to be the kicker. By the time the dead are done there, we might have over a million stiffs heading our way, hunting for food.”
“But we still have weeks before that happens,” Norton said. “They can only walk here.”
“Well, that might not be exactly so,” Victor said. “I was told there were some instances were some of the dead exhibited some intelligence. Some memory. They could recall how to do things, like use tools and the like.”
Norton snorted. “You’re suggesting what, Victor? That they might load up in a few Vegas tour buses and head our way?”
Victor shrugged. “I’m only reporting what I was told.”
“What else did your people tell you?” Corbett asked.
“Not much more than that, other than to tell me if we needed assistance, we should work with any local officials we could find. They’re located in Phoenix, and they have problems there, too.”
The Last Town (Book 5): Fleeing the Dead Page 5