Jerry Whittaker’s news wasn’t exactly making things any brighter.
“What was the extent of the guy’s injuries again?” Reese asked.
“A bite and several scratches, it looks like,” Whittaker said. “Basically, some of the usual stuff you’d see when a couple of guys go at it.”
“So that’s what killed the guy? Or did he have some kind of underlying medical condition?”
“Well, they’re not really telling me that stuff. Just that the guy passed away in the emergency room. They were still going doing the exam, and it sounds to me like he just up and died.”
Reese sighed. “Jer, you have to do a little better than that, man.”
“I’m tryin’, I’m tryin’! These people just aren’t talking to us yet.” In the background was a stir of commotion: raised voices, a shriek, and something metal hitting the floor. Whittaker paused, and the sound quality changed a bit, probably as he turned in the direction of the ruckus. “Yeah, anyway, Renee’s working the desk, and… uh…”
“Jerry? What’s going on?”
Reese heard someone screaming, loudly and strongly, and the sounds of a distant struggle—then running feet as several people hurried past Whittaker. More shouts.
Renee yelled, “Jesus, he’s not dead!” before another scream drowned her out.
Someone yelled for help, and then a clunk sounded in Reese’s ear, loud enough that he pulled his phone away. “Jerry?”
Reese heard gunfire, three rapid bangs that made people scream again. Someone was repeating “Oh God!” over and over.
“Did you get him?” Renee asked in the distance, her voice small but terrified. “Is he down?”
“Yeah, he’s down,” Whittaker said. There was a momentary scuffling sound, then he spoke into the phone. “Hey, sorry about that.”
“Jerry, what the hell just happened?”
“Uh, it looks like our dead guy came back to life and started chomping on people. Listen, Reese, I had to put the guy down. Looks like I’m about to be part of an officer-involved shooting investigation, so—”
“I’m on my way,” Reese said and hung up.
###
Something was definitely wrong in Los Angeles.
Gary Norton had been paying attention to the news, so he had some warning that things in the Southland were beginning to deteriorate past the usual local crime, car alarms, perpetual traffic, and helicopters ceaselessly flying overhead. In fact, he’d had even earlier hints that not all was right in the world when he had spoken to his friend and usual investor, Walid bin Rashid, one of the wealthy princes of Saudi Arabia.
“Gary, my friend, there is something very wrong here in Riyadh,” Walid had told him during a telephone conversation. That was unusual for Walid, as Norton had always known him to be a circumspect individual, not given to sudden outbursts of gossip. A billionaire, Walid was a shrewd businessman, and he knew well enough that allowing associates to become too intimate would give them undue advantage in future business dealings. “I’m thinking of coming to America for a while.”
“Well, that’s fantastic!” Norton said, delighted that he might be able to meet Walid. He had another production slated, and he could use an infusion of capital to get it packaged so he could shop it around to a few studios. Walid was generally good for twenty to thirty million, and he always declined the usual executive producer credit that such an investment conferred. The Saudi prince was very different from most investors. He didn’t particularly care for the limelight, and he found the best way to continue growing his wealth was to stay quiet about it. “Coming to Los Angeles, I take it?”
“Actually, no,” Walid said. “I’m thinking of somewhere a little more remote. Los Angeles, New York, Miami, those are all international cities. I want a place with a lower profile.”
“What, Kansas City?”
Instead of answering, Walid asked, “What about you, Gary? Do you have a place to go to?”
“What do you mean?”
After a long pause, Walid said, “You should pay attention to the news, my friend. I know you are a different kind of man than most of those Hollywood players. You have a plan, yes?”
“I have a lot of plans, Walid. What plan did you have in mind?”
“A safe place.”
“A safe place?” Norton was puzzled. “Well, I live in Malibu. I left Los Angeles proper years ago, but you already know—”
“No, no, Gary. I mean a safe place. Somewhere you could retreat to when… when things get ‘out of hand,’ as I believe you Americans say.”
“Ah. That. Well, as a matter of fact, I do. Care to join me there?” Norton joked. He couldn’t imagine the prince hooking up with him in a podunk town in the desert, though it would be priceless to see Walid and his entourage of bodyguards and sycophants trying to blend in with the residents of Single Tree, California.
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” Walid said. “Listen, Gary. I’m leaving in two hours. I called to tell you to pay attention to the news. There’s something going on in the Middle East, and it’s already started in Riyadh. Did you know the US military has recalled its forces from Qatar?”
“No. Is that important?” As one of the biggest producers of adventure films, many of which featured US military components, Norton considered himself to be fairly well informed when it came to military affairs. He knew the nation had a relatively small but critical operation in Qatar, mostly to coordinate air movements in and out of the region. It had previously been located in Saudi Arabia, but after the 9/11 attacks and the start of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM, most of those units had been relocated to Qatar.
“It’s extremely important,” Walid said, “not just to the US, but to this region. It’s something to think about, Gary. You should start making plans. And soon, my friend. If I’m right, you do not want to be overtaken by events.”
“What exactly is going on over there, Walid? Can you tell me that?”
“A pandemic. One that’s extremely lethal and quite possibly uncontainable. And that’s really all I can say, as the Kingdom is under a media blackout.”
“A pandemic. Gosh, from the way you’re acting, you’d think that Israel was about to nuke your house.”
“That I could deal with. This, however, is something entirely different. Gary, I must go now. Be well, my friend,” Walid had added before disconnecting the call.
The warning, as surprising as it had been, got Norton thinking. He had an eighty-five-foot yacht at a marina in Ventura that he hadn’t checked on since its last maintenance a couple of weeks ago. He kept the yacht stocked as a “get out of jail” card, just in case things hit the fan. Also, he had his plane at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank as well as the financial wherewithal to hire a bigger aircraft if he needed to cover a greater distance than what was possible in his Phenom 100. The small jet was always ready to go. He paid a premium to keep it maintained, just as he did with all his possessions. Gary Norton had endured a long, hard slog to arrive at the summit of his profession, and he didn’t treat any of his winnings as yesterday’s news. After all, not everyone had their own jet.
Safe and sound in his sprawling home in Malibu, Norton felt as safe and secure as any man possibly could. But his friend from the Middle East, a man whose wealth and station was miles above his and who was surrounded by an elite corps of bodyguards, had called him and told him to watch the news—and with fear in his voice.
Norton did just that. At first, there was little mention of the goings-on in the Middle East, beyond the usual. Israel had closed off the Gaza Strip yet again, Iran was continuing to threaten everyone, and Iraq was the usual basket case, for once loitering about in the shadows of even bigger basket cases, most notably Syria and Egypt. There was no concrete mention of a “pandemic,” though minor reports were surfacing of a medical situation in Saudi Arabia, one that was being handled expertly, of course.
Two hours later, all air travel in and out of the Kingdom had been halted.
###
> By the time Reese got to Cedars-Sinai, the place was a madhouse. Cops were all over the place, including the SWAT team from North Hollywood. Reese thought that was a bit odd, and he wondered if it meant there was more going on than just an officer-involved shooting of a civilian. It took forever for him to find a space to park, even though he was driving a black-and-white Shamu, one of the LAPD detective cars that looked like a patrol cruiser but without roof-mounted lights and siren. Making sure his ID was in plain sight, Reese headed for the emergency department, located at ground level in the hospital’s north tower. He’d parked near the corner of George Burns Road and Beverly Drive, so it was not a short walk. Outside the emergency department entrance, a uniformed cop challenged him, despite Reese’s ID.
“One of my detectives was involved in a shooting,” Reese said.
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Jerry Whittaker.”
“No, which shooting?”
That confused Reese. “What do you mean? How many shootings have there been in this place today?”
“Six,” the patrolman responded.
When he finally got inside, Reese found Whittaker and Gonzales sitting in a waiting area that had been taken over by the LAPD. Both looked shell-shocked, but so did a lot of the cops in the area. Plainclothes guys in tactical vests, uniformed patrol officers, and SWAT members holding assault rifles and body bunkers were milling around, and there seemed to be no semblance of order.
“Guys, what’s going on?” Reese asked.
“It’s like the Wild West here, man,” Whittaker said. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but his lower lip trembled.
“Yeah, okay. Once again, what’s going on?”
“Jerry had to shoot the guy who was bitten,” Gonzales said.
“Yeah, let’s talk about that,” Reese said. “You told me he was dead, Jer. Then he jumped off the table and started biting people?”
Whittaker nodded. “Yeah, man. That’s exactly it.”
Reese made a show of looking around the room. “I don’t see George Romero anywhere.”
“That’s not funny, man. It happened exactly like I told you. Guy was dead, the doctors told us he was dead, then the next thing I know, he comes out of the emergency area, dragging an IV tree from his arm, and starts biting people. He ripped one girl’s neck out with his teeth.” Whittaker shuddered.
“Anyone interview you about the shooting?” Reese asked.
“They all started biting people, John,” Gonzales said. “All the people who were bitten, they died. Then they came back… and started attacking people.”
“Hey, now,” Reese said. “Let’s back up a—”
“There’s another one!” someone shouted outside.
The mass of cops in the waiting room turned toward the windows. Everyone reached for their weapons. Reese had his Glock 17 in his hand before he realized it, and he wondered just what the hell he was doing, pulling his weapon without cause. Whittaker and Gonzales had their pistols out as well.
From outside, three shots echoed. Someone screamed, and some people—hospital staff, Reese presumed—ran past the windows, crouching low.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked.
“The zombie apocalypse,” Gonzalez said.
Reese moved toward the window, keeping his pistol at low ready. Outside, several uniforms were already surrounding a motionless body lying in the street. One cop kept his shotgun trained on the figure while the others slowly crept toward it. One of the officers kicked the body on the ground, and it didn’t move. The man with the shotgun said something, and a debate seemed to ensue.
“Ha! No one wants to try to cuff the zombie,” a nearby SWAT guy said.
“Hell, it might not be dead, so I wouldn’t want to get near it, either,” another said.
“What the fuck is going on?” Reese asked.
The first SWAT guy gave him a sidelong look. “Aren’t you one of the detectives out of Hollywood Division?”
“Yeah. Detective Three Reese from the homicide desk. You know what’s going on?”
“The zombie apocalypse.”
“Yeah, I heard that already. I mean, what’s really going on?”
“You really don’t know?” another cop asked.
“Nope.” Reese didn’t turn to look at whoever had spoken. He watched as one of the cops outside holstered his sidearm, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“It’s happening all over the city,” the second cop said. “In every hospital and lots of clinics and doctor offices. People come in sick, die, and then start running around biting people. The people who get bitten can die in about twenty minutes, I’ve heard.”
“Yeah? Then what?” Reese slowly slipped his Glock back into its holster.
“They wake up and start biting people themselves.”
Reese turned and looked back at Whittaker and Gonzales. They hadn’t come to the window with the rest of the cops. Whittaker just shrugged.
“Zombies, huh?” Reese said. “Guess someone’s made a run on the bath salts industry again.”
###
Norton stayed glued to the news for a good part of the afternoon. Things were definitely going pear-shaped in Los Angeles. All throughout the basin, there was a flurry of police and emergency services activity. People were attacking each other, and hospital emergency rooms were flooded with victims. Tossed into the jumble were a slew of unverified reports indicating many of those victims had been bitten by their attackers, and the victims would then go into some sort of short-lived medical distress that ended with death. Only they didn’t stay dead.
Norton surfed the Internet, looking for clues. He found nothing new coming out of Saudi Arabia, though the Arabic sites were flooded with graphic images of cities burning, mass shootings by military and government forces, and some of the most grotesque scenes of savagery that he had ever seen, real or imaginary. It seemed people were literally being eaten alive, and several images purportedly taken in Jeddah showed a dusty street awash with blood, disembodied limbs, torn clothing, and shredded flesh. Moving amidst the carnage were men, women, and children, their faces blackened with crusted gore as they hunched over human remains, stuffing them into their mouths.
As a movie producer, Norton was used to dealing with fantasy on a daily basis. In fact, he had once made a zombie movie that had gone on to earn him millions. The practical effects alone had cost two million dollars, which meant a lot of mangled prosthetic appliances, animatronic bodies, and gallons of fake blood. But what he saw on the Arabic sites left him sickened.
Continuing his website search, Norton found more cities in the Middle East falling victim to the same cycle of events. Israel had closed its doors, and the entire IDF had been put on high alert and mobilized to several key areas inside the small country. In Lebanon, there was intense fighting, which was blamed on Israel despite a lack of evidence documenting Israeli forces conducting any offensive operations. Things seemed static in Syria, with rebel forces continuing to duke it out with the national military, but that meant nothing. Syrian forces wouldn’t comment on anything other than the rebels and their attacks. The United Arab Emirates, Qatar, and Bahrain seemed to be one long swath of destruction. Amman had released a public statement indicating that Jordan’s military was involved in several “sustainment operations” throughout the nation, whatever that meant. There was some activity in Iraq as well, and Iran had released statements stating that American and Zionist actions directed against the Islamic Republic of Iran were doomed to fail. Norton shook his head. Those wacky Iranians, always giving the rest of the world the middle finger.
Searching wider, he found more disturbing news in southern Europe. Greece had gone dark, as had Turkey and parts of Russia. China was reporting civil unrest in its Xinjiang province, and most of the “-stans” in the former USSR were also embroiled in turbulence.
In the US, the mayors of New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and Washington, DC, were considering de
claring states of emergency. Throughout the northeastern part of the nation, things were starting to fall apart. Hospitals were overrun with emergencies, and first responders were being driven into the ground. The governor of Massachusetts had called all National Guard units to active duty. Boston was on fire after an Airbus 340 airliner had crashed on approach to Logan International Airport. People emerged from the flaming morass, horribly burned, and they attacked the responding firemen.
Norton felt a stab of fear. How could people survive a fiery airliner crash and then go on to attack their rescuers?
In the distance, a siren wailed. While his home was only a little more than five hundred feet from the Pacific Coast Highway, he rarely heard anything other than an occasional helicopter or the rumble of a delivery truck cruising up his driveway. He got up and stepped onto the balcony outside his office, which overlooked the back portion of his property. The Pacific continued to slam into the rocky beach at the foot of the hillside, and a couple of surfers cavorted in the cold waters, waiting for a decent-sized wave to ride. Another siren wailed, growing louder as it passed his property then diminishing as it raced away.
Norton ran a hand over his short brown hair and was surprised to discover he was sweating even with the cool ocean breeze rolling over him. He didn’t know what was going on, but the world seemed to be quickly sliding off the rails.
But one thing stuck out. In many of the reports he had read and videos he had watched, it had been made plain that air travel was being severely disrupted. Los Angeles was already feeling some pain, and he wondered when the apparent pandemic might grow so large that state and federal authorities would order the airports closed.
He returned to his office and began searching for traffic reports. Sigalerts were everywhere, affecting every freeway and Caltrans system in the area. Unique to Southern California, “Sigalerts” came about in the 1940s when the LAPD got in the habit of alerting a local radio reporter, Loyd Sigmon, of bad car wrecks on city streets. The Sigalerts denoted any traffic incident that tied up two or more lanes of a freeway for two or more hours. Judging by the traffic maps, 101 and 405, displayed as solid red lines, were already basket cases. The Pacific Coast Highway was yellow, which meant traffic was moving at a pace under the legal speed limit. He was heartened to see that Burbank was still showing mostly green, indicating that whatever was happening in the rest of the city hadn’t started slamming through the eastern part of the San Fernando Valley. Yet.
The Last Town Page 3