The Last Town

by Knight, Stephen

  “Well, I guess you’re not the only jet driver to come in today,” said the FBO attendant, a slender Mexican man named Enrico. “You ever meet Mr. Corbett?”

  Norton nodded. “Oh, yeah. He’s okay once you get past the sourpuss Vietnam veteran suffering from PTSD. We worked together, once. I hired him as a consultant for that TV series I did five years ago—”

  “The one about the Marines? Khe Sanh? On HBO?”

  Norton grinned. “That’s the one.”

  “That show was awesome, Mr. Norton! I didn’t know you did that! How was it working with Mr. Corbett?”

  Norton shrugged. He had gotten along all right with Corbett, though the older man had no trouble telling Norton that some of his tricks were all bullshit to please the suits at HBO and grab some ratings. The miniseries had been the network’s highest rated since Band of Brothers over a decade before, so Corbett had apparently been right.

  As the jet neared the parking area, Enrico grabbed the orange wands. “Sorry, Mr. Norton, I’ve gotta go,” he said, tucking the wands under one arm so he could grab his earmuffs and slide them over his ears.

  “No problem, Enrico. Thanks, man.”

  Enrico hopped onto the small tow motor and drove it out of the hangar. Norton was happy to see the man had had the presence of mind to uncouple the vehicle from the Phenom’s nose gear before driving off. As the big, beautiful Gulfstream rolled into the parking area, Enrico parked the tow motor and hopped off. Using the wands, he guided the silver-on-white jet into position on the pad, its two large turbofan engines wailing. It finally came to a halt, and the turbines wound down to a descending growl.

  Norton had to admit he was envious. Corbett’s jet was one beautiful bird, but it had been built for men and women who preferred the cabin to the cockpit. Norton’s Phenom 100 suited him just fine.

  He turned away from the big Gulfstream as its boarding ramp descended so he could tend to his own aircraft. He placed chocks in front of and behind all the tires, put shrouds over the pitot tubes, and using a small stepladder, placed the bright red plugs into the engine intakes to ensure no dirt or debris entered. Nothing was worse than sucking some foreign object into a jet engine when the turbine blades were rotating several thousand times per minute.

  “Hey, Norton. What’s your net worth today?”

  Norton finished tying off the plug in the number-two engine then descended his small stepladder. He turned to see Barry Corbett looking up at the Phenom jet. “About four hundred million. If the banks are still around tomorrow and the markets are open, maybe I’ll be another million or so richer. How about you?”

  “Oh, I stopped keeping track after nine billion,” Corbett said. He reached out and put his hand on the side of the Phenom’s pointed nose. “You know, you take the seats out of this thing, and you’d have yourself a fighter jet.”

  “That’s why I fly it. We should take a spin sometime.”

  “Going to be a long wait for that. You planning on staying for a while?”

  Norton folded up the stepladder and carried it toward the rear of the hangar. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

  “National airspace is going to be sanitized in three hours.”

  Norton stopped and looked back at him. “Say again?”

  Corbett leaned against the Phenom casually, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He crossed his skinny, leathery arms across his chest. Despite his age, his muscles still moved like pythons under his polo shirt. “All civilian aircraft east of the mighty Mississip are grounded. No new flights have departed in two hours. In another three hours or so, the FAA and Homeland Security are going to start scrubbing the rest of the airspace. By late tonight, the only planes in the sky will be military.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Norton thought of Jed Simpkiss, who was probably still flying people back and forth in his JetRanger.

  “You know very well the most valuable commodity money can buy is information,” Corbett said. “Though some information is a lot more expensive. So if you were planning on just having yourself a twelve-thousand-dollar burger at the Burger Hop, you might want to consider getting the hell out of here before the curtain falls.”

  Norton continued carrying the stepladder toward the rear of the hangar. “Burger Hop’s food isn’t worth a flight back here. And I hate to break it to you, but a Phenom’s operating costs aren’t twelve grand an hour.”

  “My mistake. Guess you didn’t spring for the afterburner option. So you’re staying for a while, are you?”

  “Looks like.” Norton leaned the stepladder against the back wall and headed back to his plane. His bags were right next to where Corbett stood.

  A white Ford Expedition pulled up in front of the hangar. Two men got out of the vehicle and looked at Corbett expectantly. They were younger than Norton, and their demeanor indicated that they were Corbett’s personal security detail. He figured they were ex-military, most likely Marine Corps. Corbett was particular about whom he entrusted with his life.

  “Tell your guys I’m strapped,” Norton told Corbett. “Just in case they get antsy if I print.”

  “Well, good for you. What’re you carrying?”

  “Smith and Wesson Shield.”

  “Nine millimeter or forty caliber?”

  “Nine. Forty is just too snappy for me.”

  Corbett nodded. “I agree with you on that. But as nice as the Shield is, you should just man up and go with a 1911.” The older man lifted the front of his polo shirt to display an M1911 .45-caliber pistol strapped to his waist.

  Norton raised an eyebrow. “Nice. I’ve got one too. Sig Sauer P220R3.”

  Corbett frowned. “That’s not a 1911, son.”

  “No. But it is a forty-five.”

  Corbett grunted. “Well, if you think a German piece of shit is going to save your bacon, that’s on you. You got plans for the next couple of hours?”

  Norton looked down at his bags then back at the security guys waiting patiently in the sun. Beyond them, the Gulfstream’s two pilots and the attendant were doing a walk around the big jet while Enrico backed the tow motor toward its nose gear. Several other people—also ex-military, by their bearing—were removing bag after bag from the aircraft’s luggage bay.

  “Other than a shower and unpacking, not really. Jesus, Corbett, how many bags did you bring with you, man?”

  Corbett glanced back at the jet then faced Norton again. “I usually travel a little lighter than that, but these are interesting times, my friend.”

  Norton nodded. “They are indeed. You planning on sheltering here in Single Tree?”

  “Wouldn’t last long in Dallas, not once the shit hits the fan. Seems like you might feel the same way, seeing as you’re out here from your fancy sex palace in Malibu. Am I right?”

  Norton shrugged. “Yeah, well, like you said, interesting times. There’s some bad stuff going down in LA right now, and it seemed like maybe I’d be better off here.”

  Corbett looked at Norton for a long moment. “Norton, I want to ask you a question.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not a fag, are you?”

  Norton snorted. “What?”

  “You heard me. It doesn’t matter to me if you are, but I just want to know now. You’re a pretty good-looking guy with a shitload of money, and you’re not even married. So you’re either unlucky in love, or you’re queer. Seeing as how you’re in show business, it’s even money you’re one or the other.”

  “I’m not gay, Corbett. And I’m not unlucky in love, either. I just haven’t found the right girl to commit to. Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

  “At my age, fucking is hardly my business. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land with you. Looks like we might be working together again, and I know you’re attentive and organized and aren’t afraid of getting your lily whites dirty. I can use you.”

  “Use me for what?”

  Corbett turned and pointed past the airport manager’s office buildi
ng and the tiny FBO shack. Beyond the structures were two parking lots, and both were full of semitrucks and their cargo trailers. Norton had noticed them while flying the Phenom in the right pattern before coming in to land.

  “I’ve brought some gifts to the people of Single Tree,” Corbett said. “Some pretty useful stuff, but when people find out that I’m the official gift giver, a lot of people here won’t want what I’ve got. And that could be a major problem. The world is tearing itself apart out there, Norton, and we don’t have a whole lot of time to get ready. So I might need you and your pretty face and your smooth style to help me bring some people around.”

  “Uh, like who, exactly?”

  “Like Max Booker, for one. Then Greg Brockwell and that pissant whiner Hector Aguilar.”

  Norton shook his head. “Don’t follow you here, Corbett. What is it you want me to do?”

  With one veined hand, Corbett pulled his sunglasses off his leathered, weather-beaten face. “I need you to help me persuade them that we need to prepare for what’s coming. Single Tree is all alone out here, and the only people who can save it are us.”

  Norton looked down at his bags almost longingly. All he wanted to do was get back to his house in the town and step into a hot shower, and Barry Corbett was going to fuck up even that simple plan. “Save Single Tree from what?” he finally asked with a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t know how much you follow the news, but Europe is about to go dark, and the US isn’t that far behind. It’s already in full swing in New York, Washington, and as you probably suspect, Los Angeles. I don’t know how much time we have to prepare, but it won’t be very long, and before the dead and the panicked people they’re chasing get here, we have to turn Single Tree from a sleepy little desert town at the foot of the mountains into a fortress.” He smiled and slipped his sunglasses back on. “I don’t know about you, Hollywood, but I don’t want to be eaten alive. So why don’t you take a ride with me into town, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  “The dead? What the hell are you talking about?” Norton snapped, even though he already knew.

  Corbett grinned. “It’s the zombie apocalypse, Norton.” He bent over and picked up one of Norton’s bags. “Here, I’ll give you a hand with this. Let’s go.”

  2

  PREPARE

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  “Hiya, Max.”

  Max Booker looked up from the swath of papers that littered his desk. While serving as the mayor of a town as miniscule as Single Tree wasn’t a very stressful job, it was a bit hard on the eyes. The local government was small, which meant that Booker had to get involved with the finances behind every decision the town council brought up for a vote, as well as smooth any feathers that might get ruffled when he let an initiative’s champion know that there just wasn’t enough money in the coffers for his or her pet project. Single Tree was hardly a wealthy town, but at the same time, it wasn’t broke. One of Booker’s missions was to try to provide wealth without incurring a ton of debt in the process.

  He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and blinked a couple of times. When he saw Barry Corbett standing in the doorway to his office, he put down his pen and got to his feet. “Just the man I wanted to see,” Booker said, putting his palms on the desk. “Barry, did you somehow manage to get permission for airport construction without the town knowing about it?”

  Corbett smiled slightly. “Yes, and no.”

  “Maybe we should talk about that.”

  Corbett stepped inside the office, and another man followed him in. Booker recognized Gary Norton—his older brother Warren had gone to high school with him—but they hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since Norton had built a new house next to his parents’ home several years ago, when Booker had first been elected mayor. The town’s Planning and Zoning Board had taken issue with the house’s design, citing the fact that it was widely divergent from the rest of the houses on the street. That it was a corner lot caused even more consternation. Folks in Single Tree loved the money people like Norton spent, but they didn’t want their town transformed into Hollywood East. There was also some fear that Norton might want to establish another gigantic mansion like Corbett had, only much closer to town. That hadn’t been the case, but Booker and Norton had to ride through the P and Z gauntlet anyway.

  “Well, hi, Gary,” Booker said.

  “How are you, Max?” Norton responded.

  “Gary, maybe you could get the door,” Corbett said, sliding into one of the two visitor chairs facing Booker’s desk.

  Norton closed the door and ambled to the other chair. He settled into it slowly, his face a blank mask.

  “So what’s happening here, guys?” Booker asked. “Both of you here together? Doesn’t seem like this is a normal occurrence.”

  “It’s not,” Corbett said. “We have some talking to do.”

  Booker’s unease blossomed into full-on suspicion. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Sit down, Max,” Corbett said. “And you might want to tell Mary Ellen to hold your calls for a bit. We’re going to need some time.”

  Booker plopped into his chair. “Well, we’ll see about that. I’m pretty interested about what’s going on at the airport, Mr. Corbett. Seems like you might know something about that.”

  Corbett made a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, yeah, I really did get authorization to install an instrument landing system, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. That work is going to be postponed.”

  “How could you get that kind of arrangement made without us knowing about it?” Booker asked.

  “Single Tree doesn’t own the airport. The city of Los Angeles does. Los Angeles is a little different than Single Tree, in that you can actually buy off politicians and the like without doing anything more than handing over money. The Federal Aviation Administration is a tougher nut to crack, but at the end of the day, the administration does what it’s told, and I have enough cash lying around to buy some influence. So there’s how Single Tree’s airport managed to get an ILS. With me so far?”

  Booker took off his glasses and laid them on his desk. “Mr. Corbett, what the hell are you trying to pull? I’m impressed with your ability to corrupt politicians, but what does that have to do with our airport? Is there a point to this?”

  “Well, yeah. Initially, I wanted an ILS dropped in for safety reasons. There’s a lot of high terrain around here, and I wanted to be able to access the airport when some weather closes in. But that was a few months ago. Now, things are a little bit different.”

  “In what way?”

  “Max, have you been watching the news?” Norton asked.

  “You’re talking about the plague? The one that came from Saudi Arabia, or Russia, or wherever the talking heads on TV decide it came from next?”

  “I am,” Norton said.

  “We are,” Corbett added.

  Booker looked from Norton to Corbett. “Okay, I’m going to presume we’re no longer concerned with the ILS installation at the airport. Now we’re about to move on to the plague, and you’re both going to explain to me why that is. Is that right?”

  “Correct,” Corbett said. He looked at Norton. “You mind if I carry this a bit longer?”

  Norton shook his head. “Not at all.”

  Corbett looked back at Booker. “Listen, this is going to be tough for you to deal with. Just keep in mind that my concern is the town. Nothing else. If things are heading the way I think they are, only the town and the people matter. I’ve been here for my entire life, off and on, even though I have the ability to go anywhere and do anything. It’s always been about the town. The community. The people.”

  “Running for office, Mr. Corbett? I don’t think you can buy off this electorate. You might have been born here, but you’re not from here any longer.” Booker couldn’t control his acidic tone. Even though he had no personal unpleasant experiences with Barry Corbett, he was ideologically disinclined to trust men of great wealt
h. In Booker’s mind, men like Corbett presumed the preservation of that wealth eclipsed all else. While Booker didn’t feel money was the root of all evil, the old man had just told him he’d used it to corrupt the political process, and that pissed Booker off something fierce.

  Corbett smiled. “Thanks for the feedback. Anyway, yes, this is about the plague. Whatever’s happening out in the world is something we’re not going to be able to control. Moscow is about to be overrun by millions of walking dead. The Middle East is going under. There’s some sort of massive firefight going on inside western China. Israel is in complete lockdown. Europe is about to pull the pin and follow their example, though getting the Europeans to do anything unanimously, other than awarding more paid time off, is going to make that kind of tough. Rio is on fire, and not just because the women are so gorgeous, but because a lot of them have turned into carnivorous corpses. There are breakouts in LA, New York, Miami, and several other cities, everywhere there’s a major airport. And tomorrow, the US economy officially tanks. Per barrel prices of oil will hit two hundred twenty-three dollars, and that’s just at the market open.”

  Booker took it all in stride. He’d certainly been aware of what was going on in the world, and he didn’t doubt that things were dire. However, he didn’t—he refused—to buy what Corbett was telling him. “Nice story. Is that what you tell the Republican and Tea Party Super PACs?”