“Oh, gosh, you probably shouldn’t do that,” the officer said. His voice was high and reedy, and his big nose was covered with a spider web of veins that implied he was a veteran boozer.
“Who are you?” Corbett asked.
“John Lasher. Officer John Lasher.”
“Officer Lasher, I’m Barry Corbett. Are you from Single Tree?”
“Oh no, not at all. I’m from Ridgecrest. I came up here a couple of years ago to get away from all that action down south.”
“There’s action in Ridgecrest?” Norton asked absently, still staring at Grady’s body.
“Dani, take Norton outside, would you?” Corbett said.
Norton shook his head, visibly steeling himself. “No. No, I’m good.”
“Mr. Corbett, I’ve heard of you,” Lasher said. He hitched up his pants, which were sagging low due to his rather large belly. “Are you really a billionaire?”
“Yeah. Anyway, you done with your pictures?”
“Well…” Lasher turned and looked back at Hailey, who finally tore his gaze away from the body of his dead boss.
“You guys can come in,” Hailey said. “Just be careful not to disturb any of… any of the evidence.”
“In other words, don’t step in any gore,” Victor said, pointing at a bloody scuff mark that bore a boot tread. “Like Officer Lasher did.”
Lasher looked down in shock. “Oh my.”
Corbett pushed into the kitchen, stepping around Grady’s corpse. He paused to inspect it then moved on into the living room. Victor, Danielle, and Norton followed, while Suzy Kuruk remained in the carport.
Estelle had already been carted off, along with the prisoner Victor had arrested. But two other bodies lay in a tangled heap. On top was a Latino man with thick, tattoo-covered arms. He had been shot several times in the torso and once in the head. Beneath him was a smaller white man, whose face had been savaged. The Latino had obviously turned into a stench and attacked the other man. The smaller man had been shot as well, and Corbett noticed all the shell casings in the room were from a .45. The cops carried nine-millimeters, even Suzy out in the carport. Only Victor was a .45 man, like Corbett.
“I shot them both,” Victor said quietly.
“Had the second one turned?” Corbett asked. “The one on the bottom?”
“Of course,” Victor said, but something flickered in his eyes.
Corbett understood. The smaller man hadn’t turned yet, but he would have done so soon. Victor and his beloved Sig P220 had taken care of that.
“Looks like someone went out the back,” Danielle said, pointing at the open sliding glass door.
“Oh, yes,” Lasher said helpfully. “That’s where we think the other convicts got out. We checked the rest of the house very carefully. There’s no one else in here.” He cleared his throat. “Um, may I start documenting this scene, please?” He held up his camera.
“Sure. Sure,” Corbett said. “Guys, let’s step outside. Hailey, can you come with us?”
“Yeah, all right,” Hailey said flatly.
Corbett led the entourage through the sliding glass door. Lennon and two of his men were already in the backyard. They had put on tactical helmets with AN/PVS-14 night vision monocles over their right eyes. As they scanned the desert, each held a pistol in his right hand.
“See anything, Walt?” Corbett asked.
“Negative. We’re secure for the time being. I have Tamblyn and McGregor out front. McGregor has the REPR locked and loaded.” Lennon pronounced the acronym for Rapid Engagement Precision Rifle as “reaper,” and the designation was apt. Corbett was very fond of the weapon, which fired 7.62-millimeter man-killers out to ranges of over five hundred yards.
“I hope he’s not flashing that thing around in front of the police,” Corbett said.
“No, sir. He’s mounted up in the Expedition.” While he spoke, Lennon kept turning his head, panning the monocle across the dark desert.
“Did you want to talk to me about something, sir?” Hailey asked.
“I did. Your boss was long gone when you shot him, Hailey. In fact, you didn’t even shoot him. You shot a bag of bones that just happened to look like him. Do you understand what I mean?”
Hailey nodded, his face only slightly illuminated by the light spilling out of the sliding glass door behind him. “Yes, sir. I know all that.”
“Well, you’re not acting like you know it, so you might want to take a moment and get yourself squared away,” Corbett said, not unkindly. “The rest of the guys on your force, are they any good? I understand Santoro and… who’s the other guy, Vic?”
“Whitter,” Victor said. “Does anyone mind if I smoke?”
“So long as you don’t light yourself on fire,” Norton said.
“I’m not that drunk. Yet.” Victor reached inside his jacket and pulled out his cigarette case.
“Anyway, Hailey,” Corbett continued, “Santoro and Whitter, I know they’re reputed to be assholes. My question is, what about the others?”
Hailey shrugged. “They seem okay to me. We’ve only got a force of eight sworn officers, and Lasher’s a part-timer, more of a hobby cop. Everyone can do their job, but murders and escaped convicts and stuff, that’s more for the Highway Patrol than us local yokels.”
“Mike, you okay?” Danielle asked suddenly.
“Yes,” Hailey responded dully.
“Hailey, it’s a shit job, but you’ve got to do it now,” Corbett said. “I’ll lean in and give you guys as much support as I can. We already have men getting ready to come in and help with the search. And believe me, they’re better than the California Highway Patrol any day.”
“Hell yes,” Lennon said. He raised his hand and pressed it against his left ear.
“Something over the radio?” Corbett asked. All his men were wired with communications gear. Lennon held up a finger and walked away a few steps.
Corbett grunted and turned to Victor. “Okay, Vic. Give me your notes.”
“Heard about a shooting on 395. I rolled up there with Suzy, and we found a corrections bus with three dead prison guards in it. Grady arrived about two minutes after we did. We surmised that the prisoners had escaped, they were armed and dangerous, and that the potential for them heading for Single Tree was high. Hailey met us here on Substation Road, and Grady sent him off to Muir to check things there. We came here to Estelle’s, and guess what? Bad guys. Boom, boom, zombies, boom boom.” Victor delivered all of that in a languid, emotionless monotone.
Corbett nodded. “Hailey, who shot Grady? The first time.”
“Someone with a shotgun, which we haven’t found,” Hailey said. “So the guy who has it must have escaped.”
“We recovered the Latino’s,” Victor said. “As far as we know, there are two men at large, and they have a shotgun and possibly two pistols between them.”
Lennon stepped back to the group. “Mr. Corbett, the mayor is here, and he’s looking for you.”
###
With nothing else to do aside from stare at the television and watch Meredith slowly retreat into herself like a frightened sheep attempting to hide from a hungry wolf, Jock Sinclair headed to a pub—or “bar,” as they call them in this country, he reminded himself—down the street from the roach-coach motel. Bob’s Place was as lowbrow as the name promised. Clearly, “Bob” was into Formica-topped tables, metal chairs, and scuffed tile. A substandard wooden bar dominated the far wall, its lacquered veneer worn in so many places that it resembled a patchwork quilt.
Jock bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer—a cold one, as they had only chilled draft available. The place wasn’t exactly a full house, but it hosted a small crowd. He spotted several travelers like him, since they stood out amidst the jean-and-flannel-shirt locals. Some were white, some Asian, and a handful were black, but most of the patrons seemed to be of Mexican extraction. Sinclair didn’t particularly like Mexicans, and he occasionally referred to them as wetbacks, as long as he wasn’t on camera
or wearing a hot microphone. He had to be careful in America, since they took their appellations very seriously. He couldn’t get away with calling a Jew a kike in the US, whereas in Europe, it was practically expected. In many ways, America was so liberal it was almost silly, but they countered that with true stupidity from the right, such as continuing to allow citizens to own firearms. The asymmetry of it was almost astounding. It was like the country was half pearl, half dung.
“Excuse me, are you Jock Sinclair?” asked a Mexican man with thick glasses and a big bushy mustache.
“I am,” Sinclair said, even though he wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. He still received a little ego recharge at being recognized, especially in such a basic establishment as Bob’s Place.
“I watch you on the television. You’re quite good.”
“I thank you for that. And you are?”
“Hector Aguilar,” the man said, holding out his right hand.
Sinclair shook it and favored the man with a smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Aguilar,” he said with as much bonhomie as he could muster.
“The same here. So how did you manage to find yourself here in Single Tree?”
“Car troubles, of course. My wife has a foreign import, and we can’t find anyone in town who can attend to it. Unless you happen to know someone who knows their way around a Maserati?”
“Unfortunately not,” Aguilar said. “Hey, aren’t you friendly with Barry Corbett?”
“I don’t know if ‘friendly’ is the term I would use,” Sinclair said before remembering that Corbett was a local. “Why, are you?”
Aguilar snorted and shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“He’s going to destroy this town financially,” Aguilar said bitterly. “Did you happen to notice all the construction around town? He has dreams of turning Single Tree into some kind of fortress in response to the emergency that’s going on, instead of allowing the authorities to handle it. He even wants to barricade the town from the highway and keep people from passing through. Can you imagine the arrogance? Blocking off a state highway, the only road through this area that actually goes anywhere?”
Sinclair raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? That’s what’s going on here?”
Aguilar nodded. “Yep.”
“Well, what do your politicians think of that?”
“I’m on the town council, but the mayor is leaning Corbett’s way. He’s just doing it for votes, and probably because Corbett is paying him off under the table. I’m the only one who’s against the insanity. Even the police chief is open to it.” Aguilar shook his head and took a pull from his mixed drink. “I can’t understand it. It’s going to destroy the town. The state will penalize us, the tourism will dry up, no shipments will be able to come in, and we’ll all be broke by this time next year. Corbett will probably manage to just skip away without even a slap on the wrist.”
Sinclair nodded. “He is that kind of man, able to buy his way in and out of everything without regard for law or who might get hurt. I once interviewed him at length. He’s a climate change denier, and worse, his organization actually contributes to it. He might even be responsible for what’s happening now, with the sickness that’s going on.”
Aguilar slapped the bar. “Why, yes, that could be climate related, couldn’t it? Some sort of stress disorder, making people go crazy?”
“More likely some virus that was dug up and exposed to the open air,” Sinclair said. “You know that in the permafrost, there are all sorts of nasty little buggers that have been suspended in the ice. I wouldn’t be surprised if Corbett or one of his cronies managed to unearth something particularly nasty.” He swigged his wretched cold beer. “And of course, people like him would rush to cover it up—no warnings, no confessions, not a single thought for anything other than their fat bank accounts.” The fact that Sinclair’s bank account was on the fat side itself had nothing to do with the conversation, so of course, he didn’t bring it up.
“You should report on this,” Aguilar said, his eyes shining. “It could be a great story, how one of America’s richest men totally destroys a helpless small town.”
“Well, we’ll have to see about that,” Sinclair said, looking down at his beer. “My wife and I will hopefully be catching a ride to Reno tomorrow, so I’ll be leaving.” He almost said, “I hope to be leaving,” but managed to catch himself. No sense in offending the one soul in that godforsaken little town who actually knew who he was.
Aguilar seemed disappointed. “Oh. That’s a shame. But if things don’t work out and you get caught here, let me know. I run the pharmacy up the street.” He pointed toward the wall behind the bar. “Unlike Corbett, I’m a small-business owner who works hard every day.”
“Good man. Good man. So tell me more. What is it that Corbett plans on doing, exactly?”
Aguilar grinned. “You’ll love this.” And he began to talk.
And Sinclair listened with rapt attention.
###
Max Booker’s first words to Corbett were “What are you doing here?”
Corbett could see that his presence at the crime scene was pissing off Booker something fierce, but the mayor’s tone and general attitude got Corbett’s back up immediately. “I came as soon as I heard, Max. I figured you would have as well. But it seems I beat you here. Why is that, exactly?”
Booker glared at him in the strobing emergency lights. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
Corbett stepped up and got in Booker’s face. The mayor was twenty-plus years younger and still looked to be in good enough shape to kick his ass, but Corbett was done playing around. All the talking, the convincing, the facts, the figures, the planning—he was sick of it. It was time to start making things happen.
“Let me spell it out for you, Max. We start shutting down the town. Tonight, my men begin deploying razor wire all around the perimeter. We will fortify this town and make it as impregnable as we can. Your chief of police is dead. There are three corrections officers lying out in the desert, killed by escaped convicts, at least two of whom are loose in your town. Your backup police chief, Wilbur Santoro, is about as bright as a bag of bricks and about as competent at the job of leading a police department as an old pair of underwear is at holding back a squirt of piss. I want you to give his job to Victor Kuruk, who by the way, apparently killed one convict, captured another, and shot two zombies, one of which happened to be Chief Grady.”
Booker’s eyes widened. “My God! How did—”
“I told you, we’re all infected,” Corbett said. “The government is covering that up, but it’s the only answer for the spread. Yes, zombie bites are fatal, and the spit or whatever is loaded with the virus that reanimates the dead. But those of us who die, be it from natural or unnatural causes, also reanimate. Old Wally was the test case, and Grady was the control. Both rose, and the only way to stop them was by shooting them in the head.”
“How did Grady die?” Booker asked.
“Looks like one of the convicts popped him with a shotgun. That man is still at large. I see that Estelle is gone. Hopefully, one of the locals has her. We’ll need her to provide a description.”
“Yes, she’s at the police station now,” Booker said. “Listen, about Victor, I can’t—”
“Damn it, Max. You can do anything you want. Victor has the gumption and skill set, and he has more people to bring into the mix. At the same time, you can appoint Santoro as the new chief, but you’d damn well better make sure he doesn’t get in my way.” Booker opened his mouth to speak, but Corbett raised a hand and continued. “In about twenty minutes or so, more of my people will be here. These are ass-kickers and name-takers. They’ll be bringing some dogs. We’re going to start hunting down the sad-sack piece of shit who shot Grady. I want you to tell your cops to stop touching their junk here, because we already know who did what. We need everyone in a uniform out policing the town. We have to find these fuckers before they h
urt more people.”
“So what are you telling me to do, Barry?” Booker looked calmer. Like any politician, he was looking for the upside, and he could probably see that going toe to toe with Corbett wasn’t in his best interest.
“I’m telling you to give Victor temporary control of the Single Tree PD. You’ve got to explain to Santoro that Victor’s not just some former Hollywood actor, that he’s a trained law enforcement officer and he has the skills and personnel to make this run much more smoothly. And then I expect you to shut down Aguilar and anyone else who wants to get into a pissing contest about what’s going to happen as far as the town goes.”
“I was actually working on getting a meeting together for tonight, at nine o’clock,” Booker said. “Hector already refused to participate. He tried to get a hold of someone in Inyo to come down and reel you in, but there’s no one available. The CHP has enough problems up in Bishop, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”
“Fuck the meeting. We’ll do it tomorrow. But our plans continue regardless. By the end of this week, we’ll have the first layer of defenses up, and then we’ll start closing off the town. And after the meeting, once we know who’s up for it, we’ll start weapons training. I don’t want to hear any more shit about how it’s going to mess up our pristine lifestyle. We already have trigger-happy prisoners shooting up the place and flesh-eating zombies popping up. So are we clear on all of this, Max?”
“Yes,” Booker said. His face looked pale and drawn in the flashing emergency lights. “We’re clear on it, Barry. On all of it.”
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
When Reese found Captain III Fontenoy, he wasn’t thrilled. Fontenoy was a small-boned woman who moved like a skittish bird. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun, her expression was haggard, and the bags under her eyes were so large, Reese wondered if someone had punched her. When Reese introduced himself and informed her he had a contingent from the North Hollywood Station, she looked at him as if he were an alien invader from outer space.
The Last Town Page 26