Simultaneously, temporary housing would be set up for Victor Kuruk’s people, along with depots for all manner of supplies, each segregated from each other and independently defended in the event of a partial collapse of the town wall. Funnel points would be constructed to channelize the dead into pre-zeroed killing areas so they could be serviced before they were able to make further incursions into the town. They would have to burn the dead during the lulls in action, and Corbett wondered if that would even be possible.
What if there are no lulls? he thought as he drove across town in his big F-series Super Duty, tailed by his security detail. What if a hundred thousand zombies show up at once? What if it’s a million? The only answer he could come up with wasn’t pretty.
The rest of the country was slowly being driven to its knees. Most of the major cities in the east had gone dark, save for a few irregular reports coming out of the outer boroughs of Manhattan, the suburbs surrounding Washington and Atlanta, and the northernmost parts of the eastern seaboard. Portland, Maine, didn’t have the most stimulating newsfeeds, but they were at least more exciting than before the zombie apocalypse had arrived. Closer to home, things were deteriorating, though not as swiftly. Los Angeles was on a gradual slide into obscurity, as was Las Vegas.
Even the town of Bishop, just up the highway from Single Tree, was having issues. The streams of refugees coming in from both directions were introducing infected people into the population, and the local PD and the California Highway Patrol were struggling to deal with the effects. The governor had activated the state National Guard, but there was no chance of any troop deployments to places like Bishop, not when the larger metropolises were fast approaching their tipping points. The hordes of displaced persons seeking shelter were increasing, and behind them would come the zombies.
Corbett anxiously awaited the moment they could fully seal Single Tree. If it had been up to him, he would have cut the roads already and started turning back the traffic. But the town council, led by Mayor Max Booker, had finally asserted itself. Booker had argued that not only did a state highway run right through the center of town, but that the people trying to use it deserved a chance to reach some sort of safe harbor. Corbett understood the argument well, and he took no pleasure in depriving families a chance at safety, but the potential cost to the town was too high. Already, they’d had occurrences of walking corpses springing up inside the town limits. While two of those had been homegrown, the others were not. Corbett had stated his case and essentially told Booker and the town council to go someplace private and jump up and down for a while until their collective balls finally dropped. He had added that there was nothing they could do to stop him, then he walked out of the room.
Victor Kuruk caught up to him on the town hall steps. “Not yet, Barry,” he said. “Give them some more time.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, not about this,” Victor said, unfazed. “We’re going to have all the time in the world to turn them away. For now, we just deny them all but the most essential services and keep them going. We close all the restaurants and shops and gas stations along Main Street so we don’t give them a reason to stop. We keep the traffic flowing and work on building those internal barricades. It’ll be difficult work with the extra traffic, but as Americans, we have to give these people a chance.” The man’s unflappability really needled Corbett; he was used to being able to bigfoot his way around to get things done, but that didn’t work with Victor. It wasn’t the tribal leader’s way.
“Some speech, coming from you,” Corbett groused.
“My people even believe in letting Anglo usurpers live, whenever possible.”
“There’s just no time for this,” Corbett said. “Things have changed.”
“Just a little longer. Let them try and get to where they need to go.”
“What if they’re driving straight into the teeth of a zombie horde?”
“Then they’ll have no chance. But that’s not on us. It’s on them.”
Disgusted with himself for being so weak and taking the easy out, Corbett agreed to instruct his construction teams to work on fortifying the town, while leaving the highway uncut. He figured it would be something he’d soon come to regret, but that was just how things had to be.
Besides, Victor was right. The people on that highway were his fellow Americans, and he owed them the opportunity to find someplace where they might be safe.
Or at the very least, a place to die in the close company of family and friends.
###
So many weapons, Danielle Kennedy thought as she helped uncrate and categorize hundreds of black AR-style rifles and .45-caliber pistols. She hadn’t seen so many firearms in one place since leaving the Marine Corps, and it was an amazing sight. All the rifles were LWRC piston weapons, which, while virtually identical to the M16 rifle she’d used during her stint in the Corps, were functionally different. Instead of using the gas generated during firing to move the bolt back and forth—known as direct impingement, a process that also served to foul the entire carrier group, which eventually led to malfunctions—the LWRC Individual Carbine Systems used the gas blowback to operate a piston that would mechanically return the bolt carrier group to a firing position. The excess gas was expelled from the front of the rifle instead of through the ejection port, theoretically leaving the breech area free of any fouling residue. The tradeoff was that the rifles were nominally heavier than their gas impingement brethren, due to the additional hardware required to do the work. But when Dani hefted one, she noticed only a few ounces of additional weight, not enough to bother her. But she knew holding a rifle for hours in a fight could become surprisingly taxing. Deal with that when it comes, girl.
Inside the shade provided by a hastily erected fiberglass shelter, Dani worked with three other people at one end. The rifles were brought in on pallets by a small forklift. At the other end, four people, including Gary Norton, worked on unboxing and servicing the Smith & Wesson M&P .45-caliber pistols. Dani found herself looking up from her work every now and then to check him out. He was a good twenty years older than she was, but he was in great shape.
Dressed in faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “Life is Good,” Norton didn’t look very much like a multimillionaire movie producer, but he didn’t act like just another guy from around town, either. He moved with a self-confident grace that was quite different from other men she knew, like Barry Corbett. Corbett plowed around as if he were king of the walk, whereas Norton was more content to stay below the radar, like a lion stalking its prey. His dark hair was starting to go gray at the temples, lending him a distinguished presence. His tanned face was the perfect picture of concentration as he worked on breaking down the pistols set out on the table before him, removing the slide from each weapon’s frame before pulling out the spring and barrel for inspection. He held up each component and examined it thoroughly before giving it a quick cleaning. Basically, Norton looked like someone’s super-hot dad.
Dani found herself wondering what he looked like without any clothes. Girl, you’re a one-legged freak. Get over it. That kind of man is way out of your league.
Norton looked over suddenly and met her eyes. He gave her a quick smile then went back to his task.
“Okay, princess, let’s get back to work,” said the man in charge of Dani’s group. He was a former Marine, despite his full beard and shaggy hair. Sweat stains stood out on the armpits of his drab T-shirt. “We’ve got a lot more work to do. We have to break these babies down, do an initial service, then start test-firing.”
“We going to do all of them?” Danielle asked.
“’Course not. Just enough to sample.” His eyes dipped to her thigh. “So what happened to the leg?”
“Iraq,” Danielle said.
The man grunted. “Yeah, that happened to a lot of us.”
“You were there?”
“Not the second round, but the first one. DESERT ST
ORM. I was in the first unit to make contact with the Iraqis, in Khafji. You know it?”
Danielle snorted as she unboxed another weapon. “Yeah, they taught us a bit about it. Who were you with?”
“Recon, First Marines. They thought they had us boxed up in that town, but the ragheads got a hell of a surprise when we started coordinating artillery fires on them. They never got us.”
“Sounds like it was a tough night, anyway.”
The man shrugged. “It was, but it looks like things are going to be just as tough here if we don’t get our shit squared away. So let’s get to it, girl.”
“You got it.”
###
Sinclair didn’t know if the power outage would be long-term, but it was certainly more than just a brownout. The entire town was in the dark, with the only illumination coming from the headlights of the traffic that streamed endlessly down the main street, or from those buildings and residences that had generators. Sinclair was disgusted, though not surprised, to discover his roach motel wasn’t equipped with a backup power source. Without even the highly touted free HBO, the place was never going to increase its Forbes Star Rating.
However, by the next day, teams were splicing power generators into the system. One was even constructing what appeared to be a wind turbine on the grounds of the high school. Sinclair was heartened by that. If nothing else, it meant he could charge his phone and continue documenting the travesty that was about to occur, notably Barry Corbett’s brutal campaign to deny safe harbor to those in need. Deep down, he actually agreed with the billionaire’s stance on the situation, and as long as he personally benefited, he wouldn’t decry the actions too loudly. But he also realized a time would come when the emergency was over and normalcy would return. He had to be ready for that, which meant he had to have a story to tell. And the narrative he had chosen was one that would cast Barry Corbett and his ridiculous sycophants, like that fool Norton, as black-hearted opportunists who had overwhelmed the good graces of the embattled townspeople to enact an “us versus them” meme that was so utterly Republican that it made Sinclair want to scream. But not so loudly that it got him thrown out, of course.
Nevertheless, he was deeply shocked when none other than Gary Norton arrived at the Trail’s End Motel in his crusty old Jeep SUV and knocked on his door. Norton appeared to be the epitome of a Hollywood power broker, even when wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt, vest, leather boots, and blue jeans. His casual attire did nothing to diminish the fact that his wealth dwarfed Sinclair’s by a huge margin, and the easy confidence he exuded didn’t even pretend to dispel the fact he was a high-caste member of the accursed one percent. Sinclair hated him for that, despite the fact that he himself lived on a high-floor condominium in New York’s 15 Central Park West, two floors above Denzel Washington.
“Sinclair, I have a gift for you,” Norton said. He looked past Sinclair, where Meredith sat on the bed. “Ma’am.”
“Hello,” Meredith responded vacantly.
“Norton, what do you want?” Sinclair asked a little testily. He didn’t like surprises, and he very much doubted that Corbett had sent his chief lackey simply to check on Sinclair’s health.
Norton unslung the big backpack he was carrying. “Barry wants you to have this.”
Sinclair regarded the bag suspiciously, as if it might contain a bomb and the man holding it might actually be an operative of the Islamic State. “And what is that?”
“Can I come in? I’ll have to show you and walk you through some things.”
Sinclair dithered for a moment, unsure of what to do. Finally, he moved back. “Pardon the disarray. The maid hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Not a problem.” Norton sauntered over to the bed and placed the backpack on it. He nodded to Meredith, giving her his winning smile. “Are you able to get some sleep, ma’am?”
Meredith smiled back. “Not as much as I’d like. Lots of noise from the traffic outside.” She pointed toward the window, where the drapes had been pulled back. Outside lay the parking lot, including a good view of Norton’s Jeep and the slowly moving traffic on Main Street.
“Well, that’s not going to last forever. Hang in there,” Norton said.
“Norton, what is this gift?” Sinclair asked. “Is it a helicopter, perhaps?”
Norton unzipped the bag and pulled out several boxes, cables, flash cards, lenses, and a bulky camera. He lined everything up next to the television on the dresser. “Canon EOS Cinema 300. High-definition 4K CMOS chip with EF-mount lenses. Integrated stereo microphone, viewfinder, and battery pack.” As he spoke, Norton pointed out the various items he listed. “You have four fully charged batteries and over a terabyte of storage with all the memory cards, which are hot-swappable. Additional electronic viewfinder, which mounts up top here, so you don’t have to hold the thing up to your eye all the time when you’re recording. Four different lenses, including wide-angle and a nice fifty-millimeter for portrait shots when you’re doing sit-down interviews. I’ve got a good tripod with a geared liquid head, and of course, there’s a remote control for everything.”
“Yes, very impressive,” Sinclair said dryly. “Thank you very much for showing me your high-end camera gear. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
Norton clucked his tongue. “Come on, Sinclair. You said you wanted to document Barry’s human rights abuses, right? You’re going to do that on your little phone?”
Sinclair blinked. “I’m sorry, but what are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying the gear is for your use to make an official record of what goes on here,” Norton said.
Sinclair was confused. “I don’t understand.”
Norton sighed heavily and put his hands on his hips. “Sinclair, you’re a fucking idiot, and I’ve never, ever liked you or your shitty show. You have all the charisma of a corpse lying on the slab in a funeral home, and frankly, Larry King is better at interviewing people than you’ll ever be, and I never thought Larry King was a very tough act to beat. Despite these rather formidable deficiencies, you’re the only member of the national media in this town. Corbett wants you to capture everything. He wants a record of what happened here, even if it casts him in an unflattering light.”
Sinclair’s heart leaped. “Is this for real?”
“Yes.”
Sinclair almost couldn’t suppress the giggle building up inside him. “You mean to tell me that Barry Corbett wants me to make an official record of what happens in Single Tree during the emergency? One that’s unflinching in its scope?”
“Well, he might have a preference for truth as opposed to agenda, but he’s apparently willing to take the hit that comes with having a big-mouthed remora like you sucking the life out of everything. I think he’s crazy to give you the opportunity because I know how it’s going to play out, ‘Crazed gun fanatics finally get their chance in a doomsday scenario,’ or something like that. Right?”
“And isn’t that the truth, Norton?” Sinclair asked. “Isn’t this really one man’s last gasp at achieving what he wants while running on his last thimbleful of testosterone?”
Meredith sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Jock,” she said tiredly.
Norton glared at him. “Sinclair, you can think whatever you want about Corbett. You can run around dry-rubbing every liberal conspiracy theory about conservatives you like. You can even piss on this entire country and everything it stands—or stood—for. But remember this one small thing, you lobsterback blowhard”—Norton jabbed Sinclair in the chest with a finger—“you live or die at the pleasure of Barry Corbett. You might want to pay the man some respect, if only because he hasn’t sent you packing.”
“Don’t touch me again,” Sinclair snapped.
“Believe me, the next time I decide to touch you, it’ll be with my fist.” Norton picked up the backpack and shoved it into Sinclair’s stomach. “The manual’s in there. If you look hard enough, you might be able to find some words with proper British spelling.”
Sincl
air snatched the backpack away from Norton and pointed at the door. “I believe you were just leaving.”
Norton looked down at the camera gear spread out on the dresser. “I never really got to use this stuff,” he said sadly. “Now that you’ve touched it, I’ll have to burn it.” He reached for the doorknob.
Sinclair couldn’t escape the burgeoning notion that he was being set up. “Norton, is this really what Corbett wants?”
Norton opened the door, reached inside his vest, and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. As he slipped them on, he said, “Barry wants an official chronology of what happens here. Maybe he wants it to be some sort of historical record, an account of the town’s last stand.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask him when you see him.”
Norton stepped outside, and Sinclair reached out to slam the door behind him.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The thirty-plus-mile drive to Long Beach was worse than Reese had imagined it would be.
The big five-ton truck wasn’t meant for the tight, winding roads that twisted through the hills that separated Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley. In fact, there had been times in Reese’s past when he’d had a tough time driving a patrol car along roads like Mulholland Drive, and judging by the way people were being tossed around the big truck’s open bed, Sergeant Bates was having similar difficulties.
The fact that traffic was mounting in both directions made things even more hellish. People were fleeing communities on both sides of the Hollywood Hills, coming up from Los Angeles to the south or across from the San Fernando to the north. The zombie hordes were pretty much everywhere now, which meant the refugees were essentially fleeing from nightmare to nightmare, no matter which direction they headed in.
And echoing along the hillsides, the din of battle down at the Hollywood Bowl continued. Eventually, the sounds of combat petered out, though if it was due to distance or from the remaining defenders finally falling, Reese couldn’t tell.
The Last Town Page 32