The Last Town

by Knight, Stephen

Plosser nodded out the windshield. “Those five-tons will do just fine. Once they get moving, we can bash through pretty much anything. They’re tough, durable, and can keep going through all sorts of shit. Not the most comfortable ride available, but they’ll get us to wherever we decide we need to go.”

  “And where might that be?” Reese asked.

  “Don’t know. The Mojave, maybe. It’ll take a while for these things to push out that way. And maybe they won’t. Lots of people to feed on here in the LA basin. They might be occupied for the next several weeks.”

  “We were thinking about trying to get one of the MRAPs the sheriff’s department has,” Marsh said.

  “Great wheels if you can get ’em, but I’m pretty sure whoever has them right now isn’t exactly going to hand them over,” Plosser said.

  “We’ll see about that,” the cop driving the RV said.

  Plosser blew out a harsh breath. “Yeah? You going to shoot sheriffs so you can steal their vehicles? Because that’s what it’ll probably come down to. You guys ready for that?”

  Reese looked around the back of the RV. No one said anything. He turned around and faced forward again to watch the city roll by. Guardsmen in the trucks ahead opened up on a clump of zombies chasing a woman, but their aim was terrible. The woman went down, either because she tripped on something on the sidewalk or because she’d caught a round in the leg. The zombies mounded over her like a fetid tide.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Plosser mumbled.

  ###

  As Plosser had said, the Hollywood Bowl itself wasn’t exactly in the best location. Surrounded by freeways and residential suburbs, it wasn’t terribly difficult to get to, though law enforcement and the meager Guard presence had worked hard to change that. There were rows of razor wire, sandbags, and gun emplacements at the entrance, all designed to compress any zombie herds into narrow, confined areas where they could be serviced more efficiently. From the pile of corpses across the street, Reese guessed the setup had already been put to use. However, the pile was much, much smaller than the one at Cedars-Sinai.

  To the left was the lower parking lot area, which held several LAPD and LASD vehicles, including a couple of mobile command posts like the one he sat in. A few buses with pop-outs were emblazoned with the FEMA logo. Cement barriers had been erected around the lots, and cops and soldiers were visible above them, probably standing on the metal guardrails that surrounded the parking area. A team of National Guardsmen was setting up coils of razor wire.

  “We’re going to have to wire up the entire perimeter,” Plosser muttered as the convoy rolled to a stop on Highland Avenue, just outside the fortified entrance.

  “There’s a ten- to twelve-foot wall surrounding the entire rear of the Bowl,” Reese said. “A sound barrier. Only this part facing the street is open.”

  “It’s a deterrent but not a fortification.” Plosser grunted. “We’ll have to beef it up.”

  “Sounds good,” Reese said.

  Outside, Bates approached the door of the idling RV. He had ridden in one of the Guard Humvees at the front of the column. He wore a tactical helmet with the visor raised.

  Reese rolled down his window. “What’s up?”

  “Area’s pretty secure,” Bates said. “According to Morton, there hasn’t been a shitload of activity. Seeing as how the piles of dead stenches aren’t much more than three deep, I guess he’s telling the truth.”

  “Is he taking command up here?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was told.” Bates turned and scanned the area, keeping the M4 he carried in a low ready state.

  Traffic still moved leadenly along the Hollywood Freeway overpasses a hundred feet away. A long line of Army Black Hawk helicopters buzzed past, heading toward the San Fernando Valley.

  Reese turned in his seat. “Plosser, is Morton a decent commanding officer?”

  “Yeah,” Plosser responded. “He spent fifteen years active duty. He’s a cavalry officer, though. Leading a battalion of infantry must be a downer for him.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  Plosser waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Yeah, Morton can get shit done. He’s a hard charger, but he’s not stupid.”

  Reese looked back at Bates. “Bates, you want to step inside?”

  “I’m good.”

  “All right, suit yourself. What’s the plan?”

  Bates pointed up the line of waiting vehicles. “They’re opening the gates to let us in. FEMA’s already set up in the lower parking lot. We’re going to be moved up the Bowl Road to Lot A. After that, not sure.”

  “Who’s the operational leader?”

  “Law enforcement side?” Bates shrugged. “Probably someone with the LASD.”

  Ahead, vehicle engines revved as the front vehicles began to move slowly past the fortified entrance. Civilian traffic had been restricted to the lane farthest from the Bowl. Reese tried to ignore the stares from the idling cars and trucks full of frightened civilians.

  “Bates, hop in,” Reese said.

  Bates waved him away. “You go ahead. I’m going to scout around and see if anyone from Hollywood’s here. I’ll meet you in the CP later.” The tall patrol sergeant slapped the side of the RV then walked away, heading toward the rear of the column.

  Crazy bastard, Reese thought, running a hand over his head. His hair felt lank and greasy, and he could smell the stink emanating from his armpits. He wondered if the odor would keep the zombies at bay when the bullets ran out.

  ###

  Before anyone was allowed into the secure area around the Bowl, they had to pass through several checkpoints. Each person was thoroughly searched for bites and had to provide detailed explanations for any injuries. Next, they had to scrub themselves with water and bleach, a painstaking process that was not only smelly, but uncomfortable. The bleach burned Reese’s skin and stuck in his nostrils, searing the back of his throat. At least he had found an antidote to his body odor.

  Someone had brought fresh tactical uniforms, and Reese found one that almost fit, though he had to roll up the sleeves and work on making sure the trousers remained bloused in his boots. He reclaimed his detective ID and body armor, though the Guardsmen running the site weren’t eager to return the M4 he had liberated from the hospital. One of Morton’s officers passed the word that the colonel had authorized the temporary transfer of the weapons, though the soldiers manning the checkpoints were dismayed to find out that several forms making the transaction legal hadn’t been provided. Reese and the rest of the cops thought the abject adherence to process somewhat humorous.

  After the decontamination, they were allowed into the fortified areas around the Bowl. A separate decon area had been set up for civilian refugees. The line for it was long and seemed to hardly move at all. Officials from FEMA oversaw it, and they were just as meticulous as the Guard had been. The problem was the civilians weren’t necessarily interested in waiting, and there always seemed to be some commotion going on. Reese was watching FEMA and the few Los Angeles sheriffs on site try to manage the situation when Morton appeared at his side, towering over him in his battle gear.

  “Detective, maybe your guys can help out with the civilians,” the lieutenant colonel said. “You guys should know a thing or two about crowd control, right?”

  “I was kind of hoping we might be able to get some food and rest before we got back to it,” Reese said. He almost winced at the whine in his voice. Fuck, I sound like some spoiled brat after he’s been told to go to bed.

  Morton snorted. “Yeah, that’d be nice. But I’m told we have about five thousand inside already, and we have at least that many outside, waiting to get in. So no one takes a break.”

  “Fantastic,” Reese said.

  “You know what the capacity is in this place?”

  “About eighteen thousand in the seats. How many troops are here?”

  “A full battalion. Five hundred twenty-seven, with another two companies inbound. The sher
iff in charge told me he has eighty or so guys working for him, and about another forty to fifty LAPD have shown up. There’s a captain here named Fontenoy. You know him?”

  “Her. She’s a second stick over at Wilshire Station. You know where she is? I should check in with her.”

  “She’ll be up in Lot A,” Morton said. “I haven’t introduced myself to her just yet. What do you know about her?”

  Reese shrugged. Aside from seeing her name on department organizational charts and what he’d heard from some fellow cops, Reese didn’t know much about Fontenoy at all. “I heard the cops out of Wilshire think she’s a dimwit and an incubating political stooge who has her nose fairly far up the backside of the mayor’s office. I guess she’s one of those diversity types, always going on about inclusion, et cetera.”

  “Yeah, that should come in handy,” Morton said. “Listen, I guess she’s going to give you your final taskings, but I really need your guys out on the street, helping with the civilians. You’re the ranking guy from your station, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Can you put your men to work then come with me to meet this captain? We’ll want to check in with the sheriff’s guys, too.”

  “What’s the point? What if Fontenoy just pulls them off?”

  Morton smiled stiffly. “She won’t. Trust me.”

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  Corbett climbed out of his big Super Duty pickup, followed by Gary Norton and Danielle Kennedy. He’d been meeting with them at Norton’s residence to go over what the coming days would bring. He had been briefing Danielle on her role when Walt Lennon informed him that there had been a shooting and that some convicts were on the loose somewhere in town. Lennon had most likely brought the information to Corbett in a bid to keep him locked down, but with Chief Grady being one of the victims, no one was going to be able to keep Corbett hemmed up inside his house.

  “Not safe,” Lennon said. “Listen to what I’m saying. Escaped convicts who are armed. They are at large, which means no one knows where they are. Dead policemen. This is not something you should be exposing yourself to.”

  “Walt, sometimes leadership requires risk. You might have learned that if you’d stayed awake during your officer training classes,” Corbett had said. No matter how hard Walter Lennon pushed in his role as chief protector, Barry Corbett was still the boss, and he got what he wanted, even if it meant Lennon or one of his men would have to take a bullet over it.

  An Expedition pulled in beside the pickup, and Corbett’s men, six armed retired Marines who had seen battle in Iraq and Afghanistan, got out and joined them. Those men knew their way around killing people they deemed threatening. Corbett felt completely safe in their presence. There were three cops at the small house and a gaggle of onlookers, many who stared at Corbett and his entourage with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

  “Victor, what are you doing here?” Corbett asked as he stopped beside Walter Lennon. Next to Victor was Santoro, the beefy cop Victor had told him was a grade-A pecker. That made perfect sense, since Santoro was a relative of Hector Aguilar, and peckerdom ran strong in that family, kind of like the Dark Side of the Force ran through the Sith.

  “Barry? What are you doing here?” Victor asked.

  Lennon sighed and spread his hands. “My question exactly.” He then turned away from both men as he kept eyes out, like any good Marine.

  From the corner of his eye, Corbett saw Danielle doing the same. She swiveled her head, scoping out the houses that faced the street, their façades illuminated in strobing blue and red emergency lights. Norton stood beside her, hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable and out of place.

  “I heard we might have lost the chief, and I wanted to get the information firsthand,” Corbett said, stepping closer to Victor and Santoro. For all the stories that he’d heard, he was surprised to see that Santoro seemed meek. For certain, he could see a little bit of the Aguilar bloodline in the chunky cop’s face: olive complexion, thick-framed glasses, and a bushy dark mustache that sat above his upper lip like a caterpillar on a campout.

  “Wilbur, is it?” Corbett asked.

  Santoro nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m Officer Santoro,” he said with a little bit of arrogance in his tone.

  “You next in line?”

  Santoro seemed caught off guard. “Sorry?”

  “Grady’s dead, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. So are you next in line? Who leads the department now?”

  Santoro shuffled his feet. “I’m the senior officer on the force right now, so yeah, I’m technically in command.”

  “Good to know.” Corbett turned to Victor. “Vic, tell me what happened.”

  Santoro held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corbett, but—”

  “Santoro, how many prisoners are dead in Estelle’s house?” Corbett asked.

  “Two, but one has been taken into custody.”

  “And how many more are on the run?”

  “That would be two,” Victor answered. “As best as we can figure. Estelle confirmed she saw five men, and we can account for three.” He turned back to Santoro. “By the way, I’ll need my cuffs back.”

  “Santoro, how many officers are on duty at the moment?” Corbett asked.

  “All of them,” Santoro answered. “Three of us are here, though one was involved in the incident. The rest are heading this way to search for the convicts.”

  “We don’t know if they’re together,” Victor said. “They might have split up.”

  “Are reservation police assisting?”

  Santoro frowned. “I’m not sure we’re going to need—”

  “We are,” Victor said coldly. “I arrested one of the convicts, and Tribal Officer Kuruk engaged the others, along with me and Chief Grady.” He looked back at Barry. “Officer Santoro here seems to think that Single Tree’s small department can handle this situation without further assistance from us, but I have five officers already looking in the desert.” Victor nodded down the street, and Corbett saw flashlight beams sweeping the scrub.

  “Good,” Corbett said. “Walt, call in some of the guys. They should take direction from—” he stared at Santoro for a beat “—Tribal Police Chief Kuruk.” When Santoro seemed about to protest, Corbett held up his hand and added, “Have them bring the dogs.”

  “That means we’ll have to pull bodies off the construction details,” Lennon said. “The guys who are off will need a bit to get spooled up. And it’ll take some time to get the dogs down here.”

  “Understood,” Corbett said. “Do what you can, when you can.”

  “Mr. Corbett, this is a police matter, and I think I’ll be making the decisions,” Santoro said, though without a great amount of confidence in his voice.

  “I think you’ll have some degree of input, Officer Santoro, but no one’s made you chief of police just yet. Vic, do you have enough time to walk me through the CliffsNotes version of what happened?”

  “Sure. But important matters first. You don’t happen to have any of your revered flasks on hand, do you?”

  Corbett started to respond with a needling remark about Indians and firewater, but Victor did look like hell. His hands were trembling, and his face had that cast that indicated a combination of shell shock and nervous jitters. Corbett figured anything that might have knocked Victor’s carefully cultured stoic aura off balance was probably nothing but bad news. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. After unscrewing the lid, he held out the flask to Victor. “It’s only Hennessey, nothing to get too excited about.”

  Victor took a long pull then handed it back. “Thanks.”

  Corbett recapped the flask and slipped it back inside his jacket. “More when you need it,” he said. He noticed the knuckles on Victor’s right hand were bloody, and he pointed them out. “Fisticuffs? At your age?”

  “Grady turned into a zombie,” Victor blurted.

  “Damn, Vic. Does liquor always work that quickly on yo
u?” Norton asked.

  Corbett looked over at Estelle Garcia’s neat little house. Mike Hailey and another officer stood beside the open side door. Suzy Kuruk was there as well, panning the beam of her flashlight around the carport floor.

  “Is he in the house?” he asked.

  Victor nodded. “Yes.”

  “Can you go back inside with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Santoro held up his hands. “Whoa! No one’s going inside. It’s a murder scene under active investigation. We have to collect evidence, and—”

  “Oh, Wilbur, shut the hell up,” Corbett said then started up the short driveway.

  The scene inside the little house was gruesome, but Corbett had seen much worse during his time in Vietnam. He was nevertheless saddened to see Chief Grady’s cooling corpse on the kitchen floor, his face and skull severely disfigured from both a convict’s shotgun blast and a shot from one of his own officers’ pistol. There wasn’t a great deal of blood, which meant that the man had already been dead when the fatal shot had been delivered.

  “Oh, wow.” Gary Norton’s voice was strangled, and the producer’s tanned, handsome face was scrunched in horror. “I mean… Jesus.”

  “You’ve never seen a dead body, Gary?” Corbett asked.

  “Not like this. Not outside of a funeral and not someone I actually knew.”

  An older cop Corbett didn’t know started photographing the body. Danielle hung back at the edge of the carport, next to Suzy Kuruk. Danielle stared at Grady’s body with a great sadness in her eyes. Suzy Kuruk looked the same, but she’d had the presence of mind to secure Grady’s pistol. She held it in her left hand, already ensconced in a plastic evidence bag.

  Mike Hailey stood in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room, his eyes blank and emotionless. He was probably in shock. And he had every right to be. Not only had he seen two zombies up close in just a few days, but one of them had been his boss, and he’d had to put him down.

  “Okay, we’re coming in,” Corbett told the older cop with the digital camera.