The cops raided all the vending machines and kitchens, then brought all the bounty back to the second floor. Once they had everything they needed, they barricaded the door to the stairs, then ensured all the doors to the elevator lobby were closed and locked. The office suite that overlooked the parking lot and the precious overhang was one of the medical offices, and it had a generous waiting room with a couple of sofas and several chairs; there were also restroom facilities nearby. The building still had power, and cooled air rumbled through the air conditioning vents as the compressors continued to operate. Two cops were on guard duty at all times, watching the obstructed stairway door. It was unlikely any zombies would be able to gain quick entry, but Reese felt it was reasonable to have a pair of responders on hand, just in case.
“We’re set up pretty well,” Plosser said, finally lowering himself into one of the waiting room chairs.
“Yeah, but for how long?” Renee asked. She was sprawled out on one of the couches. The family of civilians were on the second one, and the kids were nodding off. They’d had a rough night, but Reese thought they handled themselves better than, say, Detective Marsh.
“For as long as it takes,” Reese said. “We’re not going anywhere until there’s a break in the zombie activity. Hopefully, they’ll run out of food sources and have to move on.”
“So long as they don’t move in,” Plosser said. “We need to keep quiet, people. We have to be disciplined in how we operate in here, because if those things mass, we’re going to be in a heap of trouble.”
Reese turned to Bates, who was sipping a soda from one of the vending machines the crew had worked over. “What about the boat?”
Bates checked his watch. “I’ll contact them at one and find out.”
“Contact them? How?”
Bates reached inside his tactical vest and pulled out a large, black telephone with a fold-down antenna. The antenna bore the legend INMARSAT. “With this,” Bates said. “Satellite phone. I’m supposed to contact them at one pm every day until we can arrange a pickup.”
“You guys had a plan for this already?” Marsh asked.
Bates nodded. “Yeah, but it was for today.”
“Today?” Reese frowned. “What if the Bowl hadn’t been overrun, and we were still there?”
Bates smiled tightly. “Well, you would still be there, Detective. I would already be gone.”
“You would have left us?” Renee asked.
Bates looked at her directly, his blue eyes shining hard and bright in the morning sunlight entering through the office suite’s south-facing windows. “Hell, yes. My family’s waiting for me.”
Renee glared back at him. “You’re an asshole, Bates.”
“Yeah, well, I think this is where Pee-Wee Herman walks in and says, ‘I know you are, but what am I?’, right?”
Reese sighed and walked away from the waiting room, moving deeper into the office suite. Bates’s revelation that he’d intended to leave the Hollywood Bowl all along wasn’t exactly a surprise. Reese didn’t feel any deep sense of betrayal at the notion; dozens of other guys had already walked off the job, like Jerry Whittaker, one of his partners. Everyone had families to attend to, and there was no way a cop could keep doing his job while wondering just what the hell was going on with the wife or husband and whatever kids they might have. Reese was lucky. He was single, with no dependents, and that gave him a lot less to worry about.
Hanging back a few feet from the large window in one of the private offices, Reese looked down into the parking lot outside. The truck was still there. So was the long ribbon of traffic along West Manchester Boulevard, one of the major streets that crossed west to east through the community of Westchester. Reese was only peripherally aware of what the local terrain was like. He knew that Loyola Marymount University was in Westchester, and that the neighborhood was bordered on the west by fashionable Playa del Rey and the substantially less urbane Ingleside to the east. If he recalled correctly, before its development, Westchester had begun as a hog farm. Now, it was a breeding ground for zombies.
Manchester Boulevard was full of stenches as they mounded over cars and trucks, trying to get at the motorists trapped inside. A long limousine bus was virtually a cafeteria now, its windows broken as the few remaining people inside wrestled with the encroaching horde that surged into it like army ants overrunning a plate full of glazed doughnuts. Even from where he stood, Reese heard pealing screams and on occasion, the muted report of an isolated gunshot. Across Manchester’s four lanes of motionless traffic, a beige-colored structure sat. The sign on the side read FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH. He studied it closely for a few moments, but saw no sign of life. Across the street from the church was a G&M Food Mart. Its windows had been shattered and its contents tossed quite some time ago. There was movement inside the mart’s main building. Zombies, prowling through the wreckage inside. More of them shuffled across the mart’s parking lot, stumbling over the concrete islands that housed two rows of gas pumps. In the residential area to the north, plumes of smoke rose into the sky as fires raged uncontrolled, consuming structure after structure. Soon, the entire neighborhood would be awash in flame. That concerned Reese greatly, even though the building they were in was some distance from the incubating inferno. Maybe it wouldn’t matter; the fire was unlikely to get to them, though it would certainly complicate things in the short term.
Or maybe the smoke would give us enough cover to escape? he wondered. The idea of driving through stench-filled streets wasn’t appealing in the slightest, but if the smoke was thick enough to keep the zombies from seeing them, it might be worth it. But the possible concealment would work both ways—the shooters in the truck wouldn’t be able to zero any stenches until they were practically climbing aboard.
Not a lot of good choices in the zombie apocalypse.
He walked back to the waiting room. “All right, let’s wait and see what happens. We’re in a pretty good space right now, so let’s make the most of it. We’ve still got power and running water—let’s use both. Charge up your electronics and draw as much water as we can carry. I’m kind of thinking the chances of us finding another watering hole between here and the beach is going to be pretty slim.”
“We should also service our weapons,” Plosser said. “Get ourselves organized. And get some rest. It’s been a ball-buster of a night.” He nodded at the kids sleeping with their parents on the couch. “See, they have the right idea.”
“I don’t disagree,” Reese said. “Let’s take care of the essentials first, then start getting some shut-eye. Bates, you make sure you pass on to us what’s going on with the boat, all right?”
“No problem with that, Detective.” The tall patrol sergeant was already hooking up his satellite phone to its charger. When he was done, he plugged it directly into a wall socket.
“So why don’t you just call them now?” Marsh asked. “Your buddies on the boat?”
“Because they won’t be sitting around waiting for me to call off schedule,” Bates responded.
“Why’s that?”
Bates glared at the overwrought detective. “Because they’re disciplined.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Marsh snapped.
“All right, all right,” Reese said. “Knock off the squabbling. We have work to do, so let’s get it done.”
###
A couple of hours later, it was time for the call. Bates retreated to one of the offices so he could be closer to a window, then raised the satellite phone’s antenna and switched on the unit. Even though it had an advertised standby time of almost a hundred and sixty hours, he kept the unit switched off unless he was going to be using it—no one in the boat crew would be calling him. He was a little worried about not being able to register with one of the INMARSAT satellites while still indoors, since the phone worked best when it had a clear view of the horizon. Unfortunately, due to their circumstances, they had to blocked the stairwell, and there was no way for him to make his way to the r
oof. To make matters worse, he and the rest of the cops heard noises from the first floor. The zombies that had seen them break into the building had followed them in, and they were working at pushing past the hastily-erected barricade they’d thrown together on the first floor. If the stenches didn’t lose interest soon, they’d probably be able to get inside the first floor office suite. After that, the only things that separated the ghouls from the stairwell were the pressure-treated glass windows of the suite and the door to the stairs itself.
Bates didn’t want to be around if—when—that happened.
He stared at the satellite phone’s display and watched the system boot up, then try and negotiate a connection with a satellite, orbiting the earth far overhead. It took longer than normal, but eventually a connection was established. The phone chirped, and Bates saw three bars out of five. Reliable enough for voice, though the quality would probably suck. He hit the speed dial button for his friend Connor Bay, the captain of the LAPD diving boat.
“Bates,” said a scratchy voice. The weak signal made it sound like Bay was shouting down a narrow tunnel.
“Yeah. Can you hear me?”
“Barely. What’s going on? We heard the Bowl got overrun. Where are you?”
“Things went off the rails. We’re trapped in a building. Eighty-six one six La Tijera, just off Manchester.”
“That’s nowhere near where you want to be, pal. And who’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about?” In the background, Bates thought he could hear engines and wind noise from Bay’s side of the connection.
“Picked up some LAPD, a National Guard NCO, and a few civilians. All good folks,” Bates said.
Bay grunted. “Not like you to go all soft, Bates—you know we aren’t exactly going to be living like kings for the next few months. More mouths to feed and all.”
“A lot of these guys have skills, Bay. Especially the Guard guy.”
“Oh, yeah? And that’s why you’re stuck in a building in Westchester?”
“Dude, even God would be stuck in the building in Winchester at this point,” Bates said. “What’s happening on your end?”
“We established our base of operations, and when we left this morning, no one had shown up yet. We’ve got full tanks. We’re assisting the Coast Guard with rescue and management operations, but there’s not a hell of a lot we can do. The Coasties are running out of steam—they lost one of their facilities at San Pedro, and their aviation units are operating out of Ontario. Things are kind of messed up, man.”
Bates considered that. “What about Long Beach?”
“Yeah, you don’t want to go there. It’s going to be gone in about forty-five minutes,” Bay said.
“What? Say that again?”
“Yeah, here it is. There’s a liquid natural gas freighter that’s gone all zombie. It’s about forty-five minutes out of Long Beach, and it’s still under power. We figure it’s on autopilot. Coasties are trying to get a cutter out to take it out, but it’s never going to happen—the big boats with the big guns are down near San Diego. They’ve issued a sécurité alert about the ship, but that’s going to be about as effective as a feminist rally in downtown Riyadh.”
“No idea what you just said, pal. What’s sécurité?” Bates asked.
“It’s not important—what is important is that you forget about Long Beach for the moment. You guys secure where you are?”
“We’re good, but it’s not a long term solution,” Bates said.
“Understood. Listen, we’re about four miles offshore. I’m not taking us in any closer until we know where that freighter is going to wind up. For all we know, the military might try and take it out, so I’m planning on staying about ten miles away from it at all times. But I’m presuming that it’s going to make landfall somewhere around Long Beach, and that’s going to be a hell of a bang. You guys might want to stay away from the coast for a while.” Bay hesitated for a moment. “Listen, let’s do this. How’re you doing on power?”
“Phone’s fully charged, and we have electricity where I’m at. No telling for how long, though,” Bates said.
“Plug in your phone and keep it charged. Voice takes up a lot of power, so we’ll text from now on. Once that ship does whatever it’s going to do, we’ll need some time to reassess our options for picking you guys up. You might need to backtrack, maybe head over to Santa Monica. You have wheels?”
“Army five ton, right outside,” Bates said. “We can get to it if we need to, but we’d rather wait for the stenches to move out.”
“You have a five ton truck? Damn, nice work, bro.”
“It’s only just a truck, not a tank,” Bates said.
“Yeah, well, the stenches’ll have a tough time taking you out in that, so long as you keep moving,” Bay replied. “How are the roads?”
“They suck, just like always.” Bates looked out the window at Manchester. The roadway was still clogged. Most of the people who could get out had already fled, disappearing into the surrounding neighborhoods. What fate they encountered, he didn’t know, but he could only assume things didn’t work out for them. Those who remained were trapped inside their vehicles, surrounded by the dead. They would either bake to death in the heat of the day, or eventually starve.
Or be eaten by the dead.
“Think you can make it to Santa Monica?” Bay asked.
“Do we have a choice?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You hear anything from the LAPD at all? We have ROVERs with us, but everyone in range is pretty much off the air.”
“We hear some things, but nothing good,” Bay said. “No coordinated efforts, just isolated units looking for a way out the nightmare. No one in your area though, at least not that we know about.”
“What about the National Guard?”
“They’re falling back to the north. Anything south of Marina del Rey on the coast and West Hollywood on the inland side is a lost cause. They’re hoping to be able to reconsolidate on the other side of the hills, but I don’t know about that. The San Fernando’s not exactly safe right now, either. Heard there’s a big firefight in Glendale already.”
Bates sighed. “Dude, you’re a downer.”
“Yeah, well, things are okay on the boat, so I can at least offer you that.”
“Outstanding. We just have to get there.” Bates had a thought. “Hey, any contact with an aviation unit? Maybe the fire department?”
Bay laughed. “Bro, any aircraft that’s still in service isn’t going to come get you. You can forget about that. You’re driving out. Hey, hold on.” Bates heard voices in the background, and the crackle of a radio. Bay’s voice was muted as he spoke to someone else on the boat, then he came back on the line. “Okay, listen. Coast Guard doesn’t have a chance in hell of stopping that LNG freighter I mentioned, and no one’s been able to make contact with the crew. No military assets are going to become available to take care of it, so no matter what, you guys need to stay clear of the coastline south of Santa Monica. You get all that?”
“Yeah. Long Beach is a no-go. I’m not worried about us getting there anytime soon.” Bates paused. “Hey ... just how big will this explosion be?”
“Brother, I just don’t know. Big. Real big.”
###
Reese didn’t like the news Bates quietly delivered. As if things weren’t fucked up enough already.
“So we need to get back to Santa Monica,” Reese said. “That’s great, Bates. Fucking fantastic.”
“It’s where we need to go, Detective,” Bates replied. “From the sound of it, Long Beach is going to be nuked anytime now.”
Reese cast a glance over his shoulder at the others. Most of them were lounging about in the waiting area, or had moved into some of the offices themselves in order to get some shut-eye. Reese had earmarked a corner office for himself because it had a sofa in it, but by the time he was done cleaning his weapons, Marsh had already claimed it. Reese briefly considered big footing him out of there, bu
t in the end, he didn’t want to hear anymore whining. He let Marsh be, for the good of what remained of the world, and Reese’s own sanity.
“That’s not what’s really bothering me, Bates,” he said.
Bates gave him a slow, thin smile. “You have something against Long Beach, Detective?”
“Not really. But if this freighter does blow up there, it’s going to cause one hell of a fire.”
“Yeah. We can pretty much figure that’s going to happen. So what?”
Reese pointed at the windows overlooking Manchester and the neighborhood beyond. “The fire’s going to push the dead out. And instead of coming out in drips and drabs like they’ve been doing, we’re going to get a flood of them heading our way. Or even worse, into Santa Monica. Actually, we’re so fucked, they’re going to go to both places.”
Bates nodded slowly, and Reese saw he didn’t like the thought either. “Yeah. Hadn’t thought about that. Well, just goes to show you—right when you think you’re due for a break, there’s always something else on the way to bend you over a barrel.”
SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA
The camera that Norton had loaned Sinclair was a fine piece of machinery, to no doubt. So fine, in fact, that Sinclair wasn’t certain he could operate it, even after reading the manual and quick start guides. Eventually, he managed to get the lenses figured out and installed one of the primes that seemed most relevant for what he wanted to shoot. Then there was the whole ordeal of switching the thing on, discovering which mode might work best, then fiddling with the audio component to ensure there wouldn’t be any distortion while recording. It had taken him the better part of the day to puzzle it all together, but eventually, he felt confident enough to take to the streets.
The Last Town (Book 5): Fleeing the Dead Page 7