Corbett smiled again, but any bit of friendliness was absent from it. “To get this out of the way, Democrats and far-left organizations love my money probably more than those on the right. Just in case you were wondering, since I’m pretty sure you haven’t made much in the way of donations to alternate parties.
“So listen, this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to call an emergency meeting of the town council, one that’s closed to the public. We’re going to tell them what’s happening, and that the town is going to be protected. But we’re going to be a little light on the details. With your permission, I’ll get with the police and fire departments and square them away later today. They’ll have to be our partners in this. The rest of the town doesn’t need to be pulled into the fold just yet, but eventually, they’ll start asking questions. Those questions might lead to some unwanted investigations, so”—Corbett continued speaking even as Booker held up a hand, trying to get a word in—“we need to get things moving fast and get the big-ticket items developed quickly so they can be finished before things really hit the fan.”
“We should talk to Victor Kuruk, too,” Norton added.
Booker wondered why the leader of the Indian reservation to the town’s south should be involved, but before he could ask, Corbett spoke again.
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. They’re good people, mostly, so we shouldn’t leave them out in the cold if we can help it.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Booker snapped.
Corbett and Norton looked at him squarely. Booker kept his eyes on Corbett, so he was surprised when Norton was the one to answer.
“Max, it’s come down to this. The zombie apocalypse is starting, and we need to fortify this town to keep our people alive.”
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
“What do you mean, all flights are cancelled? This is outrageous! Do you know who I am?”
The ticket agent had already looked harried, but as soon as Sinclair played the celebrity card, the guy’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he clenched his teeth. He glared at Sinclair, and for a moment, the talk show host feared the younger man was actually going to hit him.
“Yeah, I know who you are,” the agent said. “You’re Jock Sinclair, that lobsterback blowhard who keeps telling Americans they’re just a bunch of gun-toting assholes who shoot kids and blow up other countries. By the way, your flight’s cancelled.” He pointed at his name tag. “My name’s Juan Vega, the one from New Mexico, not the one from California. There are two of us here with that name, so make sure you mention that when you call customer relations.”
“I goddamn will!” Sinclair shouted. He couldn’t believe the nerve of the little worm. A common worker? Standing up to me?
“Jock,” Meredith said softly, tugging at the sleeve of his navy-blue blazer.
Sinclair ignored her. “How can all the flights be cancelled?” he asked the ticket agent. “Tell me that again. How can every flight out of Las Vegas be cancelled?”
“Because the FAA has called for a full ground stop, just like after 9/11,” the young man said. “You remember that, right?”
“Remember it? I lived through it! While you were still probably sucking your mother’s sagging tits in Mexico, I was living through the attack on New York!” Sinclair said. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt a surge of heat course through him like an electric shock. From the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the passengers who were to fly to Los Angeles easing away from him.
“Jock,” Meredith said again, her voice louder.
“I said New Mexico, not Mexico,” the ticket agent said. “Hearing counts, my limey friend.” He turned away as another customer approached.
Sinclair was about to have another go at the agent, but a much bigger individual in a cowboy hat stepped in front of him.
“You’re done here, Hollywood,” the man said.
Sinclair glared at the taller man but allowed Meredith to take his arm and lead him away.
“We need to get out of here,” she said.
As they walked away from the gate, joining the rest of the flow on their way to McCarren International Airport’s baggage claim area, Sinclair saw several people glancing at them. Not because of his celebrity but because of Meredith’s beauty. Even though she hadn’t been a supermodel in almost twenty years, her height, poise, tawny blond hair, and the aura of elegance she emanated demanded attention. Not that Sinclair gave a damn. He hadn’t married her for her looks or her mind but for her family’s money. While Sinclair earned an average of two million dollars per year—nothing to laugh at, considering he had been born to lower-class stock from East Sussex, England—Meredith Thorn was potentially worth hundreds of millions of dollars, thanks to the hard work of her grandfather and father, titans in the New York real estate scene. Meredith’s fortune allowed Sinclair to call the thirty-third floor of 15 Central Park West, one of New York’s most prestigious condominiums, his principal residence.
But Meredith was someone who grew weary with routine, and she liked changes in latitudes. While Sinclair was happy to stay in New York, where he hosted his weekly hour-long syndicated television show, The Sinclair News Hour, Meredith wanted to travel. Having to leave New York once a month for quick getaways to places like Seattle or Hawaii or Vancouver was a pain in Sinclair’s arse because it wreaked havoc on his broadcasting schedule. But since Meredith had access to the family jet, Sinclair tolerated it. Almost nothing beat flying in style in a luxurious Bombardier Global XRS, even if it was just to Canada.
But for the trip to Vegas, the jet hadn’t been available. There were a couple of silver linings to the situation, however. One was that Meredith owned another condo in Vegas, and the other was that Sinclair was scheduled to broadcast from Los Angeles that night. While not being able to catch a plane was inconvenient, they could drive to the City of Angels in just a few hours.
It took over an hour to get their luggage reclaimed from the grounded jet, and then they had to find ground transportation to Meredith’s condo at the Mandarin Oriental, which meant competing with thousands of other stranded fliers. Sinclair spent over an hour trying to find a cab or limo or even a bus. It wasn’t until Meredith tried that a vacant cab suddenly appeared, driven by an athletic black man with a smile that seemed to be a yard wide. His grin diminished substantially when Sinclair climbed into the vehicle after Meredith, and when it became clear Sinclair wasn’t just sharing the ride, the driver became downright surly. He also drove more slowly than necessary in a bid to drive up the meter. Sinclair stiffed him on the tip for that.
“So what will we do now?” Meredith asked as they entered the lobby.
“What do you mean? I have to work tonight,” Sinclair said. “I’m due in Los Angeles by five.” The world was starting to stumble across a rough patch, and he wanted to take advantage of it to pump up his ratings. He was down in almost every major market, and while no one had threatened to not renew their syndication contracts, Sinclair could feel the pressure building. He had decided to shoot a special in Los Angeles, where gun violence was at an all-time high. While he was reviled by the NRA and gun-toters of all stripes, Sinclair had a personal hatred for guns and the invariable loss of life they caused. And all the American nitwits could come up with was they were protected by the Second Amendment of a historical document created by a bunch of wig-wearing insurrectionists. Sinclair had a word for his opposition: Pikers.
“I don’t think it’s safe to go there,” Meredith said. “Things are getting weird now, Jock.”
As she spoke, the pop-pop-pop of distant gunfire sounded. Sinclair and the doorman standing nearby turned and looked out the lobby windows. A FedEx delivery truck sat in the circular driveway. The driver paused in unloading and looked south. The gunfire had sounded far away, and the noise didn’t come again, but Sinclair still felt a bolt of alarm run through him. He had no use for guns of any kind, and hearing them in action somewhere in the city came quite close to terrifyi
ng him.
“You may be right,” he said to Meredith, surprised to hear his voice was quaver-free, “but I’m not sure Las Vegas is going to be any safer. We should leave. Now.”
“I need to use the bathroom, and then I need to call my parents and let them know,” Meredith said. “I couldn’t get through on the cell, so I’ll have to go upstairs, Jock.”
“Well, be quick about it,” Sinclair snapped. “I’ll get the car and bring it around. Rafael, help me load the bags when I come back?”
The doorman nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Sinclair.”
Sinclair strode to the door that led to the parking garage. Meredith clucked her tongue, and he stopped.
“What?” he asked.
“Aren’t you going to see me upstairs?” she asked, a petulant tone in her voice.
Sinclair snorted. “You know the way.”
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
When they made it back to the stationhouse, Reese couldn’t help but think that he was surrounded by a bunch of badasses that made even the SWAT guys look like wusses. With their helmets, packs of gear, tactical vests, chest protectors, assault rifles, and even pistols and grenades, the Guardsmen caused quite a stir as they double-timed it back to Hollywood Station. If nothing else, at least I get to arrive in real man style, he thought as he alighted from one of the Humvees when it came to a halt in the precinct parking lot. Reese led the Guard command element inside.
“Whoa, the Marines have landed,” the desk sergeant said.
“I take offense at that,” Captain Narvaez replied.
“These guys are Army National Guard,” Reese told the sergeant.
“Yeah, I know,” the sergeant responded. “What do you need, Reese?”
“Need to find Pallata and figure out how we’re going to put these guys to use. Where is she?”
“Command post, in back,” the sergeant responded. “How many guys you got with you?”
“Eight right now, with another ninety coming in,” Narvaez said.
“Ninety? Well, shit, what do you guys think this is, Anzio Beach?” The sergeant laughed.
Reese didn’t get what was so funny, especially since the stationhouse was buzzing with activity. Cops were coming and going, and sirens wailed outside. Citizens were already queued up at the front door, either to file complaints or to seek safety from the deteriorating situation that loomed outside. While Reese hadn’t seen a lot of action just yet, Narvaez had informed him on the short drive from the parking garage on Ivar Street that the city was beginning to unravel. He’d even shown him some pictures he’d taken from the Black Hawk. Most had depicted fires and terrified Los Angelinos trying to get out of the city. All the major freeways were already clogged, and the bigger surface streets were soon to be the same. Reese didn’t know how the LAPD was going to be able to get anything done.
“Maybe you should come with me and leave the rest of your guys here,” Reese told Narvaez.
“I’d like to bring Plosser with me,” the captain said. “He’s my senior NCO. We’re kind of joined at the hip.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a tall man with broad shoulders and a dull expression on his face. The man’s insignia had a lot of chevrons, but Reese didn’t know anything about army ranks, as he had never served in the military.
“Yeah, okay,” Reese said. He looked at one of the uniformed patrolmen who had accompanied him to the parking garage earlier. “Bates, you’re ex-military, right?”
Sergeant Bates was almost as tall as Narvaez’s NCO, and he had the same kind of bland look to him. Reese knew it was an act. In real life, Bates was a cut-up who could have been a stand-up comic if he hadn’t already been a committed cop.
“Yeah, Army,” Bates said.
“You stay here with the troops, then. Try and, uh, liaise with them or something, while me, Captain Narvaez, and Sergeant Plosser go meet with Pallata.”
“That’s First Sergeant Plosser, sir,” Plosser said.
Reese spread his hands. “Hey, whatever.” He looked at the rest of the soldiers standing in the middle of the lobby like an island of utility uniforms. “You guys just vamp for a bit, but do what Bates tells you. Keep your weapons slung. You’re in a police headquarters, and having guys standing around with guns makes people nervous.”
“Hell, we let you do it, Reese,” the desk sergeant said as he reached out to answer a ringing phone. “Tell Bullet Nips we say hello,” he added before he snatched up the phone and brought the handset to his ear.
Bullet Nips had become Captain Miriam Pallata’s nickname when one of the cops had come across her Facebook page and found a photo of her in a wet bikini. Even though Reese tried to steer clear of ridiculing senior officers, he had seen more than just the photo, and the nickname was apt. Pallata had nipples the size of .45 rounds.
Reese turned his back on the desk sergeant. “All right, all right, enough of this bullshit. Let’s go, Captain. You guys will need to leave your weapons out here. You can’t take them to where we’re going.”
“Uh, not a problem,” Narvaez said, though his tone said it obviously was a problem. However, both he and Plosser handed their assault rifles and pistols to a couple of their teammates. “Good to go,” Narvaez said.
“The vests, too,” Reese said. “Can’t go walking around with magazines of ammunition strapped to your chests.”
Narvaez and Plosser exchanged glances. The first sergeant shrugged, removed his tactical vest, and handed it off to one of the men. Narvaez did the same.
Reese walked toward a steel door that the desk sergeant buzzed open for him. He led Narvaez and Plosser through it and heard it slam closed behind them as they walked down the corridor. The cops there all stared at the two soldiers with suspicious eyes. The LAPD wasn’t used to having troops roaming the halls, wearing combat gear, even if there were no weapons present.
Reese found himself repeating, “They’re with me,” over and over again. It didn’t stop the stares.
Reese led them through the stationhouse to where the command post was set up. It was a large room with several workstations set up, and two big monitors on the wall that conveyed all manner of information: locations of patrol units, unit status, video feeds from cameras installed throughout the district, and information on other first responders, including the fire departments and emergency medical services. A quick glance at the screens told Reese all he needed to know. There was a hell of a lot going on in Hollywood’s area of operations, and the district wasn’t even a hot one yet.
Pallata sat behind one of the desks, talking with other senior members of the watch. Without pausing in her speech, she glanced over at Reese as he walked up, then she flicked her gaze to the uniformed Guardsmen beside him. She was a short, busty woman with dark hair and skin, and chocolate-brown eyes a man could lose himself in. Reese knew that for a fact, since he’d spent some time looking into them when they were sleeping together a decade ago. Since then, they’d both gone their separate ways in the LAPD then come together again at Hollywood Station, where she was the vice commander. She’d never mentioned their old affair, and neither had he. The past was the past.
“I guess it’s old school to you, huh?” Reese said, noticing Narvaez looking around.
Narvaez shook his head. “Man, we’re so behind the times from a technology perspective. You’d be amazed.”
Pallata turned to them finally. “What’ve you got for me, Reese?” she asked, looking more at Narvaez than him.
“Meet Captain Bobby Narvaez, California Army National Guard. Captain, this is Captain Two Miriam Pallata, second-in-command of the Hollywood Division,” Reese said.
Narvaez stuck out his right hand. “Ma’am.”
“Hello, Captain. Thanks for coming in,” Pallata said, shaking his hand. She nodded at Plosser. “And who’s this?”
“First Sergeant Dean Plosser, my senior noncommissioned officer,” Narvaez said.
“First Sergeant, how do you do,” Pallata said, shaking hands with him as well.
>
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Plosser said. Seeing the man do a full visual surveillance routine of Pallata’s rack, Reese tried not to roll his eyes.
“Seems that Narvaez is bringing in an entire company with him, not just a dozen or so troops like we thought,” Reese said. “We’ll need to know what to do with them.”
“How many men, Captain?” Pallata asked.
“Just under a hundred,” Narvaez said. “We were plussed up at the last minute. Seems the AG wants to surge as many troops into the Los Angeles basin as possible, and we were the designated team for your district.”
“AG?” Pallata asked. “The only AGs I know of are attorney generals.”
“Adjutant General in this case, ma’am. The ranking member of the California Army National Guard. A two-star named Braden.”
“Well, we unfortunately don’t have room for so many,” Pallata said. “You could muster here, Captain Narvaez, but as far as accommodations go—”
Narvaez interrupted. “I was actually thinking about that on the way in, ma’am. I’m assuming there are no hotels nearby that we could take over, so I was thinking we could just camp out in the garage. But we’d need latrine resources, as we don’t have anything with us other than personal sanitation gear.”
“So all you need are shitters, and you’re messed up by not having any,” Pallata said, and Reese suppressed a grin.
“Basically, yes,” Narvaez said. “We can get latrine resources allocated, but we need to know where to put them, and we need to know when. It seems like the parking garage is good enough for the moment, but we need authorization to set up there.”
“I get it, Captain. I know who to call. How long will it take to get whatever you need brought in? We’ll make sure you have the space. It’s not like anyone’s going to be using the parking garage right now, anyway.”
“A couple of days, maybe,” Narvaez said. “That kind of stuff isn’t exactly part of our normal load-out. A lot of logistical supplies are still in the rear area, waiting for deployment.”
The Last Town Page 7