Despite this, they lingered. Moving along the long expanse of the walls, they rubbed against it with their shoulders, as if trying to discover a way past them. Even when faced with the open expanse of the desert, they still turned and paralleled the walls, rubbing and scuffing against them in a bid to discover some variant or irregularity they could exploit.
Time was on the side of the dead.
###
Hector Aguilar had had enough. Enough of being bottled up in his house, enough of being ignored by the council, enough of Barry Corbett and his heavy-handed ways. He had to live in semi-darkness during the long nights, and he couldn’t spend every waking moment in the pharmacy—there was nothing really left there anyway, the entire place had been picked clean and there was no chance of restocking it. And while he’d made a tidy profit emptying the store, he had nothing to spend the money on. He couldn’t drive his car, so even if there was someplace to go, he couldn’t get there. And of course, there was nowhere to go outside of Single Tree. The rumored zombie apocalypse had actually come to pass.
So he had no choice but to sit at home and fume and fuss over his lot in life.
And nurse his simmering hatred for Barry Corbett, and everything Single Tree’s wealthiest man had done.
On the afternoon of the fifth day of his exile, he decided it was time for a nice steak. And a grilled steak, too, not something fried up on a pan in his kitchen. He was well aware of the edict against cooking, for fear that the scents would draw in the zombies and overwhelm the town’s defenses. Aguilar considered that to be bullshit—he was certain that Corbett and his boy Gary Norton and his legion of cronies weren’t sitting around eating prepackaged foods. That was what they wanted the townspeople to think, of course. Aguilar knew better. He knew the ways of the rich and the powerful, how they always managed to skirt the laws of average men and lead lives of great excess. Today, Hector Aguilar would give all of them the finger.
He had one steak left, a lovely cut that had defrosted overnight in his refrigerator. He pulled it out and seasoned it with a nice pepper rub. Letting it steep for a bit, he walked outside to his patio and set about getting the charcoal fire lit. It took some doing, but soon, the coals were burning brightly. Once they’d burned down to a ruddy glow, Aguilar brought the steak out and put it on the grill. Fat sizzled, and greasy smoke rose into the air. He inhaled the aroma, and his mouth practically began to water.
Ah, such a delight!
###
The only vehicles that still ran in the town were golf carts. Sinclair was happy to have hitched a ride on one, even if it was being driven by the titular head of the Single Tree police, Victor Kuruk. Sinclair didn’t mind, though he’d been surprised when the tribal chieftain had offered to take him for a “ride along”, as he called it. From the passenger seat of the golf cart, Sinclair saw much more of the town than he would have managed on foot, albeit at a meager sixteen miles per hour. At first, Sinclair was content to document the ongoing changes in the town—the walls were still being finished up, and where their construction had been suspended, tall fences were erected. The town had been broken up into four different sections, not counting the long stretch which ran to the airport to the south. Each section contained a walled-in neighborhood, complete with fortified pathways that led to the next neighborhood, which was similarly walled off. Where walls were not available, chain link fences had been erected. Those were being additionally fortified with what looked like big cardboard boxes surrounded by a steel mesh. Men and woman dumped soil into each container.
“What are those containers?” Sinclair asked.
“Those are HESCO barriers,” Victor said. “Used by the military for reinforcing revetments and the like. Also useful for things like flood control, or making mindless zombies go where you want them to go.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s the plan,” Victor said. As they drove along, Sinclair noticed Victor kept his eyes out, scanning the neighborhood.
“Say mate, do you mind if I interview you?” he asked.
Victor glanced over, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. It was late afternoon, but there was a hint of chill in the air. While jackets weren’t yet required during the day, a long sleeved shirt was a great idea. Victor wore a blue police uniform with Single Tree PD patches on the shoulder, but on his breast was a tribal pin that represented the reservation his people had abandoned. Sinclair was curious about that.
“Sure,” Victor said.
Sinclair turned his borrowed camera toward the broad-shouldered man beside him, and worked on the focus a bit. “How does it feel, serving two masters?”
“Sorry?”
Sinclair jerked a thumb toward Victor’s uniform. “You’re wearing a Single Tree police department uniform, but you have some insignia which looks tribal to me. Is there more to that?”
“I represent the people of Single Tree in law enforcement matters during the crisis, since the death of the previous police chief,” Victor said. “At the same time, I’m also chief of the tribal police from the reservation. I don’t view it was having two masters—we’re the same people, trapped in the same boat.”
“Which do you give greater priority?”
“Like I said, Mr. Sinclair, we’re in this together. My approach is to treat everyone equally.”
“Does this include Barry Corbett?”
Victor looked over at Sinclair and gave him a small smile. He looked only at Sinclair, not the camera. He’d obviously had some training.
“Didn’t take you long to go there, Sinclair,” he said.
“Well, he is calling the shots, isn’t he?”
Victor faced forward and slowed as he steered around a work crew filling HESCOs. It looked like back-breaking work to Sinclair, hauling soil from loaded wheelbarrows and dumping them into the waiting containers. Since there was a moratorium on engine noise, everything had to be done by hand, which meant everything took twenty times longer. Victor called out to some of the workers and thanked them for their hard labor. There was a mayoral presence to the Native American, something solid and calming. Sinclair wondered if that would show up on camera.
As they pulled away from the work site, Victor guided the golf cart down one of the narrow thoroughfares that led to another walled neighborhood. This was one of the better ones in the small town, and all the homes were neat and well-tended. Several were two story affairs, though the lawns were starting to go to hell. Some enterprising individuals had even started fortifying their own residences, as if they could somehow survive a zombie invasion by sheltering in place.
“Yes, Barry is calling the shots,” Victor said at last. “But he doesn’t hold himself above anyone. We’re all in this together. He might have some guys around to provide personal protection, but their families are here too, so it remains to be seen how long they’ll stick around for him.”
“Didn’t he give you your job?” Sinclair asked.
“In a roundabout way, I suppose. Barry and I have known each other for over forty years. As we grew older, we found we actually enjoyed each other’s company, on occasion. But the fact of the matter is, I’m already a federally-trained law enforcement officer. I’m senior in grade, and even though Single Tree’s top cop is an elected post, I’m serving only in an interim capacity. There’s not a lot of nepotism going on here. I’m a bit of a known entity in town, and since I already represent the residents of the reservation who had relocated here, I really was the logical choice.”
“You seem quite sure of yourself, if I might say that,” Sinclair said.
Victor glanced at him again, and this time, there was a coldness lurking behind the man’s sunglasses. Sinclair realized then that he had overplayed his hand.
“I’m sure of the circumstances that led to me wearing this uniform, Sinclair. That’s all,” Victor said.
Sinclair was about to apologize, when he noticed a small tendril of smoke curling into the air from the next street. “Excuse me, but is that smoke?”
Victor turned and looked, then brought the golf cart to a halt. “Huh. It sure is.” He looked around the quiet street they were on, as if getting his bearings, then took off again. “Well, if my memory still serves, that would be your friend’s residence.”
Sinclair frowned. “I’m sorry, my friend?”
“Hector Aguilar,” Victor said with another small smile. “You don’t think we didn’t know the two of you would lift a bottle every now and then, do you?”
“Oh, well. He’s hardly a friend—”
“Good. Then I expect you won’t interfere when I stop to arrest him.”
“Arrest him? Whatever for?”
Victor sighed. “I realize you come from a culture where people prepare your food for you, Sinclair. But over here, folks can pretty much recognize grill smoke when they see it. Hector’s cooking.”
It didn’t take long to make it to the next street, and Victor brought the golf cart to a stop in front of a neat, two-story Spanish villa-style home. It was one of the nicer houses on the street, though it pretty much took up all the corner lot it sat on. Victor climbed out of the cart and walked up the driveway, and Sinclair hurried to keep up, keeping the camera focused on the acting police chief’s back. Instead of going for the door, Victor walked around the garage, to where the gate to the back yard was.
“Are you going to just walk in, uninvited?” Sinclair asked. “Don’t you need a warrant, or something?”
“The smoke is probable cause,” Victor said. “But you can bet that, with or without a warrant, Hector’s going to cry like a baby about me violating his civil rights.”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
Victor stopped before the gate and turned to Sinclair. “Look, you want to go wait in the gold cart?”
“Well, no, I should document this,” Sinclair said. “For the record.”
“Then be quiet and document.” Victor turned back to the wooden gate and pushed it open. The yard on the other side was neat but turning a nice shade of dusty brown from lack of water. Sinclair followed Victor as he walked around the house to the patio in the rear. Sure enough, there was Hector Aguilar, Sinclair’s barroom confidant, standing over a grill that held a sizzling steak. The scent of cooking meat hit him, and Sinclair found his mouth was beginning to water, just like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
Ah, a steak, he thought mournfully.
“Smells great, Hector. What cut is that?” Victor asked.
Aguilar looked up, a big grill fork in one hand. His dark-rimmed glasses made his eyes appear owlish as they widened in surprise.
“What are you doing back here?” he snapped, while taking a step back. “This is private property!”
Sinclair looked away from the camera’s display and at Aguilar with his naked eye. There was some fear in Aguilar’s body language. Sinclair wondered what that was all about, but then and again, he’d developed the strong impression during their conversations that the pharmacy owner wasn’t exactly the bravest of souls.
“I’m here because you’re breaking the law, Hector,” Victor said. “You know there’s a ban on open air cooking.”
Aguilar sneered. “We voted on no such ordinance!”
“No vote required. It was made in the interest of public safety, which is well inside the scope of authority of the Single Tree police department,” Victor said.
“But you aren’t a legal representative of the law here!” Aguilar snapped. “Your jurisdiction is in the res, not in Single Tree!”
Victor sighed. “Hector, that was decided a long time ago. We need to put that fire out.” He pointed at the grill. “Like, right now.”
“No.” Aguilar’s face took on a hard set that looked so ridiculous that Sinclair almost laughed out loud. Try as he may, it was impossible for the pharmacy owner to hide the fact that Victor Kuruk intimidated him furiously. “No, I’m not going to do that.”
Victor put his hands on his hips. “Hector, you do what I tell you to do, or you’re going to pass out in front of me again.”
Aguilar’s eyes widened even more, and he turned to Sinclair beseechingly. “You see he’s threatening me, don’t you? Here on my own property, without having committed any crime whatsoever?”
“Well listen, mate, you can save yourself some trouble by taking the steak inside, right?” Sinclair offered.
Aguilar scowled and turned back to Victor. He pointed at him with the grill fork, and Victor took a step back. “This is my property!” Aguilar shouted. “You can’t stop me from doing whatever I want, on my property!” He made jabbing motions with the fork as he spoke, and Sinclair found himself take a couple of steps away as well.
“Calm down, Hector,” he said. “It’s not a big deal now, is it?”
“It is a big deal!” Aguilar shouted. “This is my house! My land! Mine! Not Barry Corbett’s, mine!”
“Hector, let’s start with you putting the fork down,” Victor said. His voice was deep and even. “I’m too old to start throwing punches, but you’re about to get my dander up.”
Aguilar made a strangled noise and tossed the fork—right at Victor. Victor jumped to one side, and the implement missed him by a wide margin, but Sinclair could see the useless attacked infuriated the lawman to no end.
“Hector, come on now!” Sinclair said.
“Fuck you! Fuck you, Victor!” Aguilar screamed, his voice high and strangled. He bent down and scooped up the can of lighter fluid sitting on the porch beside him and hurled it at Victor with all his strength. Victor batted it away with his left hand, and the metal canister flew right past Sinclair’s head… and tumbled right into the grill.
“Oh my,” Sinclair said. He started for the grill, but Aguilar shrieked again and pushed him aside as he lurched toward Victor, his arms held straight out like Frankenstein’s monster. Sinclair had no idea what had gotten into the man, but whatever it was, it was strong enough to motivate him to attack an armed police officer.
What manner of lunacy is this? he wondered as he struggled to retain his footing. He came perilously close to dropping the Canon EOS camera, but managed to hold onto it even while he tottered around the patio like he was on some sort of drunken bender. From the corner of his eye, he saw a bright weal of flame rising from the grill—lighter fluid, dripping from the canister that was igniting.
“The grill!” he shouted.
He looked over at Victor and watched as Aguilar actually tried to slip his hands around the Indian’s neck. Victor lashed out with one punch, a solid left that struck Aguilar right in the forehead. The pharmacist collapsed there without a sound, his breath leaving him in a rush.
“I told you you’d be passing out again,” Victor said, looking down at Aguilar’s supine form.
“The grill!” Sinclair shouted again, torn between trying to do something and running away.
Then the can of lighter fluid exploded like a firework, sending flaming liquid flying everywhere.
###
The sound rippled through the still air like a small thunderclap. Without any ambient noise to mask it, the explosion—even though quite small—attracted the mass of dead outside the town walls like a clarion call. Thousands of carnivorous corpses paused in their shuffle past the fortified community and regarded the blank walls with equally blank stares. The muted detonation had captured their attention, though on the whole, the zombie horde did not know why.
When black smoke curled into the air, the town’s fate was sealed. To the dead, smoke and sound meant life, and life meant food.
The horde shambled toward the walls, crashing through the remaining razor wire barriers and clambered over the various barriers and impediments that lay in their path. It surged toward the walls surrounding the town from all directions, pushing against them. Climbing over each other, the dead mindlessly formed tall, undulating mounds.
###
Corbett’s radio crackled with the panicked message, “They’re coming over the walls!” The speaker went on to repeat the message sev
eral times, cutting off other transmissions on the same frequency until the cool voice of Walter Lennon managed to jump in, instructing the personnel manning the towers to prepare to fire on the horde with the miniguns.
At the moment, Corbett was alone in his house, sitting at the dining room table. He tepid cup of coffee was placed before him, cooling in the light breeze that entered the home through the open sliding glass door. With a heavy sigh, the old man pushed back in his chair and clambered to his feet. His right hand drifted down to the .45 caliber pistol on his hip. He would soon be needing it, he knew.
“God damn it,” he muttered, listening to the chatter across the radio. He stepped closer to the open door and peered out into his back yard, looking out over the elaborate stonework of the patio he’d had built. He’d thought about having his coffee out there, but the sun was sliding toward the western horizon and the air was a bit too cold to suit his old bones. He realized now that he should have toughed it out, because he’d probably never have the opportunity to grab a few moments of peace in the tranquil environment he’d had constructed just for him.
How long can we hold out? he wondered. How long before the stenches overrun the entire town?
There was more chatter over the radio as Corbett’s security people asserted themselves and began taking control of the situation. Still no firing yet, which meant the reports of zombies coming over the walls was still being assessed. But he did hear engines firing up in the overall stillness of the fading day, which meant stealth was being sacrificed for speed. Yep, there was something going on, which probably meant the reports were true. Unsurprising, given the explosion that had rung out minutes ago.
The Last Town (Book 5): Fleeing the Dead Page 17