“Plosser, did you say the Guard was trying to get them to take the freeway? With all those people there?”
“Not so many people left anymore,” Plosser said. “That’s why the zeds are on the move.” He held up a hand, cutting off Reese from further comment. “Listen, you want to hear what I have to say, or do you want to waste my time and your energy busting my balls about decisions I had nothing to do with?”
“Get on with it, Plosser.”
Plosser pointed toward the east. “See that big column of smoke there?”
“Yes.”
“That’s about sixteen miles away. Somehow, a tanker truck blew up. My guess is that someone hit it with an incendiary device of some sort, out by Monterey Park. Probably could have been an accident, but more likely it was intentional, some sort of urban violence that got out of hand. Also possible, one of the aviators lost a lock with a Hellfire and popped the gas cow by mistake. Either way, I hear that fire is fully involved. There’s some firefighting apparatus on scene, but that’s going to slow the migration to the east.” Plosser looked back at Reese. “And I do mean the zombie migration, just in case you were wondering. That means it’s going to take at least another twelve to twenty-four hours for the stenches in the immediate vicinity to pass through. Expect them to find their way off the freeway in sufficient force to make us uncomfortable.”
“I’m already uncomfortable,” Reese said.
“Good, because it gets worse.”
Reese sighed. “Thrill me, First Sergeant.”
Plosser pointed at the sound barrier behind them. “To our south? Ten to fifteen thousand stenches are picking their way in this direction. They’re coming out of Hawthorne, Inglewood, South Central, Crenshaw. The way I hear it, emergency services failed in those areas pretty quickly. My guess is that it’s because a lot of those are high-crime areas. Am I right?”
“You are correct.”
“Well, once that force makes it to around Wilshire, all those disparate groups are going to start coming together. They’ll make another front we have to worry about. Basically, we’re pretty much screwed and tattooed on this one, Detective. I wanted to pass that on to you, since it looks like the sheriff’s guys aren’t all that interested in getting the word out.”
Reese rubbed his eyes. “How long until the first wave gets here?”
“That’ll be from the south. Leading edge is only a few blocks away. Not terribly organized, as you might expect, and there are a lot of houses and sloping terrain between us and them, but they will eventually make it here. And we’ll have to start fighting them off eventually, which means the noise will draw even more in.”
Reese didn’t know what to say, so he just shrugged. “Okay. Is that all? I mean, it’s more than enough, but is that all of it?”
“That’s all I have right now. I hope you’ll get the word through more official channels, but I think everyone’s a little bit spooked, and they’re trying to make lemonade out of lemons.” Plosser spread his hands. “Stay sharp. Keep an eye on the civilians. Things are probably going to get very loud in a little bit.”
Reese reached out and shook Plosser’s hand. “Thanks for the heads-up, and sorry for the attitude.”
“Not a problem. I’ll check back with you later.” After nodding to the surrounding officers, the tall senior NCO strode off.
Renee looked shell-shocked, just like all the other cops. Her glasses were still lopsided on her face, and she held her rifle across her chest. She’d finally had the opportunity to put it to work the night before, when she had been rotated down to the main gate. The weapon’s ejection port was filthy with expended propellant.
Reese tapped her rifle. “You should probably clean that now, while you have the time.”
Renee turned it so she could look down at the dirty port. Her expression was one of chronic disinterest. “Yeah. I guess I should.”
“That weapon might be the difference between life and death, Gonzalez. Don’t get complacent. Clean it.”
“Okay. I will.” She glanced around at the barrier. “Fontenoy left some time last night to try to get to the EOC.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. She tried to get the Guard to give her a lift. When that didn’t happen, she tried to get the guys from Wilshire to drive her over in a squad. No one stepped up, so the crazy bitch took a Shamu and went off by herself. She made it about a block before we heard her start screaming. We didn’t hear any gunfire, so she either went down without a fight or managed to drive right though them.”
Reese wondered to what depths of fear the narrow-shouldered commander had sunk in order to basically commit suicide. Staying in the Bowl was certainly preferable to leaving it without a buttload of firepower backing you up. “Well, that is just fucked up. I guess we all move up a notch in the chain of command.”
“I wonder how Jerry’s doing,” Renee said. Jerry Whittaker had disappeared early on during the emergency, taking most of his LAPD gear with him. He had a young family, and he’d made the only obvious choice.
“I’m sure he’s okay, if anyone can be in the middle of all this,” Reese said.
In the distance, rotor beats approached. Another helicopter was orbiting the area.
Renee took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah. Yeah. All right, let me get this weapon cleaned up.”
Several Apaches appeared, rising over the Hollywood Hills. At the same time, some of the Guardsmen manning the barrier wall began firing into the neighborhood on the other side. The shots were intermittent at first, then they quickly mounted in volume. As hot cartridge casings rained down on them, the cops turned and looked up. Reese saw one of the NCOs manning the battlements turn and peer toward the upper parking lots, speaking into his radio headset. He didn’t look very happy. The Apaches drifted downrange, swinging out over Highland Avenue before they disappeared from his view. Their chain guns opened up in a thunderous burst.
“Okay, shit just got real!” Reese shouted.
“Again!” Bates added from his spot down the line.
SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA
The news of the zombie attacks at the McDonald’s along Main Street had filled the city with fear. Booker called for an open town meeting starting at five p.m., promising it would last until every last question had been asked and answered. Corbett spent a few hours in the afternoon working with Gary Norton on how to present the necessary information. Norton was initially uneasy with the task, but he warmed up to it quickly. As a producer, he was used to making pitches as well as receiving them, and all he had to do was refer to the facts and figures Corbett provided.
That didn’t mean it was going to be an easy sell. The ideological complexity of the town had drifted since Corbett was a young man, moving from the center-right to the left as more migrants settled there, along with Los Angelinos who were looking to get out of the big city. That gave liberal policymakers a chance they’d never had in the 1960s or 1970s, and in large part, they had made the town more successful, with cultural events like the annual film festival that attracted some major names and by breathing new life into the town’s previously moribund winter sports offerings. Corbett didn’t begrudge them their successes, but his plans promised to undo all of that for years to come. He brought up the point with Norton, explaining it might be a reason for resistance to the plan.
“Actually, I think the zombies are what’s undoing things,” Norton said. “Nothing you’re doing is directed toward anything but securing the town. I get it, and I’m pretty sure I can sell that to the rest of the town. We have to go through some changes, mostly physical, but at our core, we’ll still be the same people. We’re not eliminating our way of life. We’re only guaranteeing it for future generations.”
“Vegas is going down hard,” Corbett said. “That’ll be our first problem. They’re already following 15 and 95 out of the town, chasing everyone who’s trying to evacuate. Some friends in the Air Force tell me that Nellis is going to pull all its assets o
ut and restage them in New Mexico. I would guess Creech will be next. That means aviation support is out of the question for the short to medium term.”
“Okay. I don’t know what that means, but okay,” Norton said.
“It doesn’t mean a lot by itself. The important takeaway is that the zombies are using the highways to move around, and unless someone stops them, they’ll eventually be able to walk right up 395 to town. And we can expect a second migration from LA, too. The people trying to evacuate are driving right toward each other, and that’ll lead the zombies to us like a trail of breadcrumbs.” Corbett sighed. “I figure a month before full-on contact, with a range of intermittent contacts before then, maybe as early as this week, next week for sure. People will eventually start dying on the road, and if those things manage to get out of whatever vehicle they’re trapped in, they might find their way here. One of my work crews had a zombie walk right up on them.”
Norton’s eyes widened. “No shit?”
“No shit. They beat it to death with shovels. That’s why I’m so eager to get as many people proficient with weapons as soon as possible. The work crews will need security, and I don’t have enough shooters to provide that.”
Norton nodded. “All right. I don’t think that’s going to be a tough sell. Victor’s on board with that, right?”
“Oh, yes. That’s something else you might have to smooth out a bit, that Victor’s acting as the senior law enforcer here instead of the local guys. That’s going to cause some concern, but Victor is a commissioned LEO through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It’s not the FBI or ATF or even the CHP, but it’s still a federal organization. Remember that when someone like Hector Aguilar starts to piss and moan.”
“Ah. About Hector.” Norton put his hands flat on the large dining room table. “I hear he finally managed to reach some regional planner or something up in Bishop, someone who works for the county. He’s been telling them all about the plans to fortify the town, and he’s been pushing them to intervene.”
Corbett blinked. “Regional planner? Is that more or less effective than a community organizer?”
Norton snorted. “I have no idea.”
“Well, how the hell did he manage to do that?”
“His kid is in the ham radio club at school. Apparently, he got word out that way.” Norton shook his head. “Damn, I didn’t even know ham radios were still a thing. What next, Heathkit makes a comeback?”
Corbett leaned back in his chair, peering out the folding glass wall behind Norton that overlooked the landscaped backyard, the high fence surrounding the property, and the peaks of the mountains beyond. He had always known Aguilar would be a burr under his saddle, but he’d dismissed the outspoken pharmacy owner as nothing but a bloviating gas bag who was more into attracting attention than anything else. That Hector had managed to get through to someone in a supervisory position at the county level at a time when communications were failing was certainly innovative, if nothing else.
“Well, I can’t see Inyo County getting too involved with what we’re doing down here,” Corbett said. “I’m sure they’ll blow a lot of sunshine up Hector’s ass, but they have problems of their own. Bishop is probably running out of food by now, which makes it even more necessary for us to sever the links leading to town.”
“I get that,” Norton said. “I understand what has to be done. A lot of the townspeople will too. But I’ll tell you, once they see a bunch of starving kids trying to get through the wire… well, that’s going to be tough to take. I’m not sure I could handle it, either.”
“Same here.”
Norton looked at him without saying anything.
“What? Did you think I could just turn that off? Did you know that I spent over eighteen million dollars last year providing emergency food relief to poor families in Los Angeles, Riverside, Houston, and Dallas? I set up nonprofits specifically to combat hunger, and I funded all of them. Who do you think fed more kids last year, me or Save the Children?”
Norton raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy there, boss. I’m making no judgments here. If you really were the evil right-wing privateer everyone likes to think you are, then you sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging out here. You’d be in a bunker somewhere, brewing a nice cup of tea made from the tears of starving orphans.”
“Who says I don’t, damn it?” Corbett asked with a laugh.
Norton smiled a bit and looked down at the planning documents laid out on the table, essentially a series of PowerPoint slides that had been printed out. He would show the full presentation on the big screen at the town hall later that day.
Corbett couldn’t tell if Norton was nervous, but he suspected making the sales pitch to a captive audience was something the man could handle. “How’re your parents doing?” he asked.
Norton shrugged. “My dad’s good, though once the news stops coming through, I’ll have to find him something to keep him occupied. My mother still thinks everything’s going to be fine. She and her friends are having a game of bridge tonight. Want to stop by?”
Corbett snorted. “I’ll take a rain check on that one.”
“So you’ll be around if there are questions I can’t handle, right?” Norton asked, tapping the presentation.
“You know it,” Corbett said. “But the less I say, the better. I want you to handle this dog and pony show, Norton. You have the pretty face, not me, and this is as much about identity politics as it is saving the town.”
###
Several hundred people showed up for the meeting, and the council chamber was standing room only. Norton delivered the presentation with a polished ease that truly impressed Corbett, and he even took some time to add context by relating his escape from Los Angeles. He covered the important topics of the zombies that had arisen in the town, the death of Chief Grady and the appointment of Victor Kuruk as Single Tree’s acting top cop, and the apprehension of the three remaining escaped convicts. Norton answered questions directly and succinctly, without stumbling, which gave the impression that he knew what he was talking about. Corbett mentally patted himself on the back, since he’d spent hours prepping Norton and getting him up to speed.
In the end, the people did want to hear from Corbett, so he had to respond to their concerns: Yes, he was paying for everything. No, he didn’t expect or want the town to reimburse him for expenses. No, he was not “taking over” the town from its elected leaders. Yes, he would obey every law and regulation.
“At the end of the day, folks, this is about the town, not me,” Corbett said. “Most of you have known me for a long time. I keep to myself and don’t get involved in disputes unless I absolutely have to.”
“What about the outsiders who are already in town?” someone asked. “The ones who can’t get out? What happens to them?”
Corbett turned and looked at Max Booker, who was sitting at the long table on the stage.
“We’ll allow them to stay,” Booker said, directing his response to Corbett. “They’re Americans, and hospitality and charity are part of who we are.”
Corbett nodded.
“And what about those you turn away?” asked a loud British voice. “What about all those families trying to get to safety? Leaving them to the tender mercies of the zombies is essentially a human rights crime, isn’t it?”
Corbett sighed and peered out at the audience. Jock Sinclair stood up, wearing a dark blazer over an immaculately pressed white shirt. He was holding something—a smartphone, maybe—away from his body.
“Excuse me, sir,” Booker said. “Are you recording this session?”
“Yes, I am,” Sinclair said. “I’m Jock Sinclair, host of The Sinclair News Hour, and I’m making an official record of what’s happening here.”
“There’s no videotaping allowed in this building,” Booker said. “That’s clearly posted in the lobby.”
“I’m a credentialed journalist, and I’m exercising my First Amendment rights.”
“Jock, you’re not eve
n an American,” Corbett said.
“Thankfully, your Constitution doesn’t discriminate,” Sinclair responded. “Or so I’ve been told. Though I’ve also heard some animals are more equal than others. Right, Barry?”
“I have to ask that you stop recording,” Booker said. “If you don’t, you’ll be escorted out.” As he said that last, Booker glanced over at Victor, who sat at the end of the table in Chief Grady’s chair.
Victor watched Sinclair with emotionless eyes.
“What do you have to hide here?” Sinclair asked. “If the world is truly coming to an end, wouldn’t a record be perhaps useful for whatever future generations might survive?”
“Let him record,” Hector Aguilar said, smiling broadly. He was obviously enjoying Sinclair’s showboating, which didn’t surprise Corbett at all.
“I agree,” Corbett said, taking delight in the puzzled look that blossomed over Aguilar’s features. “Let the man make his ‘official record’ of what we do here.” He turned back to Sinclair. “With regards to your question regarding human rights, that might be better directed toward the federal government. After all, the feds are the ones who are supposed to provide protection for the citizens of this nation, and they’re failing miserably. We’ve had escaped criminals enter our town, we’ve had zombie attacks, and we have critical supply issues… but no assistance, from either the federal, state, or county levels. If we’re going to survive, it’s obvious that we need to make some hard choices.”
“And those choices involve sending innocents into harm’s way,” Sinclair said. “Not judging, by the way, just asking.” He gave Corbett a supercilious smile.
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