Lennon’s voice came over the radio. “Tower one, give a burst.”
Hailey ducked down behind the HESCO and looked up at the guard tower. One of the big mirrored windows cranked open, and a long object was pushed through the opening.
“Hey, is that a Gatling gun?” one of the cops manning the short wall asked.
With a ripping roar, the gun let loose a fusillade of fire at the highway. A stream of big cartridge casings rolled out of the tower, twinkling as they tumbled through the sky. Hailey heard motorcycle engines revving.
Slowly, Hailey rose and peeked over the HESCO line. The bikers were in full flight mode, racing back down the highway, weaving around the derelict cars and trucks that dotted the thoroughfare. Whatever bravado they’d felt earlier had melted away in the face of the extreme firepower that had chewed up the road right in front of where they’d been idling. He turned to get a better look at the gun, but the tower’s mirrored window had already been closed, cutting the weapon off from view.
He wondered what the bikers were thinking. They couldn’t possibly believe they were going to come out on top. Could they? Looks like we’re going to have more to worry about than zombies.
###
The sound of the .50-caliber Gatling gun blurting in the distance caught a lot of attention, even on the gun range where Norton worked securing rifles and pistols. The noise only lasted a few seconds, but everyone turned toward that direction as if of one mind. Norton had a radio, so he’d heard what was going on at the wall, but the sudden gunfire still caught him off guard. He knew the plan had been to place a Gatling gun—a GAU-19, actually—in every tower, but he’d been assured they would likely never be used. But only a day or so after Tower One had gone operational, the weapon had apparently been employed. It hadn’t even been test fired yet.
Well, actually, I guess it just was.
A nervous rustle went through the line of townspeople standing behind the benches. While they’d been having some fun learning the ins and outs of their weapons, hearing one being fired in anger was unsettling. Norton studied the faces of those closest to him. He knew almost all of them, to one degree or another, and the reactions he saw were varied. Some were frightened, others were nervous, and a few just took the event in stride; after all, the world was careening to its end, so a little gunplay wasn’t going to be much of a showstopper for them. Even if it was a multi-barreled piece of military hardware that shouldn’t have been in even Barry Corbett’s possession. But it was, along with eleven others just like it, plus enough spares to put together another three weapons if needed.
Danielle Kennedy looked back at him. Her face was mostly hidden beneath a battered old cowboy hat, but she smiled at him like an excited schoolgirl. Norton smiled back. He felt a little giddy himself and not because of the gunfire. It had been a long, long time since he’d felt alive again in the romantic sense, and all it took for that to happen was the end of the world. His wealth was no longer a factor in his life. Lunch dates at The Ivy were not an option anymore, and he’d probably never set foot in his oceanside mansion again. He knew he should be remorseful about that. After all, he’d worked decades to accumulate such wealth, so losing it should have been quite traumatic. Instead, he found the smile of a pretty girl was enough to make him forget all about it.
It didn’t hurt that Danielle was unlike most of the women he’d ever met. She was a hard-charger, not afraid to get her hands dirty doing hard work, and she was as direct as a laser beam. She wasn’t interested in his money, and if she was, he figured she knew she’d have a tough time getting her hands on it. After all, banks weren’t exactly open for business. Norton thought she liked him for him, not for what he could buy for her. After years in the entertainment industry, that was something new and novel.
So Norton just stood there, smiling back at her like an idiot until she turned away and got back to work. He would be seeing her again that evening, as he had every night over the past couple of weeks. He never thought that it would be a battle-scarred combat veteran that would make him start living again as a real, flesh-and-blood man. It had been easy being the moneyed playboy, taking whatever and whomever he wanted and giving back only when it suited him. Norton had slowly come to realize that he’d been missing out on a lot of what life had to offer. He’d thought that being free and unattached, without a real care in the world, was what he wanted. But he’d just been a prisoner of his own wealth and selfishness.
Dani had helped him cast off those shackles, and she hadn’t asked for much in return. Norton couldn’t remember a time when a woman hadn’t at least implied he owed her something: a part in whatever show he was pulling together, a shopping spree, a flight in his jet to some vacation spot, a weekend spent tooling down the coast on his yacht. Dani wanted none of that. And, Norton suspected, wouldn’t much be interested even if the zompoc hadn’t occurred. She just wasn’t that kind of girl. She was almost a freak of nature: a millennial who had served in the armed forces, been disfigured in combat, and still didn’t think the world owed her any kind of entitlement. She was, as far as he was concerned, something else.
And even though someone had just been fired upon by a tri-barreled .50-caliber machine gun, he was still looking forward to spending time with her.
###
Sinclair looked up from the laptop he was using to edit some footage. “Meredith, what exactly are you doing with that?”
“It’s mine,” Meredith said. She wore faded cargo pants and a loose T-shirt that did little to flatter her still-worthwhile figure. Her dark-brown hair, normally perfectly coiffed, was tied back in a ponytail. Sinclair couldn’t remember when he’d seen her with such a hairstyle. Over her left shoulder was a large duffel bag. She wore a baseball cap, and Sinclair was momentarily thankful that it didn’t read Make America Great Again.
They were still staying in the roach motel, which thankfully had electricity since Corbett’s people had managed to splice in generators and what-not into the local power grid. Sinclair was almost satisfied with the ability to take a hot, if brief, shower, switch on lights at night, and resume a more-or-less normal existence, albeit one where the sheet thread count was under a thousand. While he knew millions of others were living in fear-filled squalor, Sinclair still found the housing situation far below his liking.
And Meredith, a woman who had previously had no inclination toward anything rougher than the occasional nail file, was standing before him, holding an assault rifle. The dreaded AR-15, bane of America, murderer of school children. Sinclair was so fixated on the long gun that it took a few moments for him to notice she also wore a pistol at her hip.
“Guns? Guns, Meredith? Have you gone mad?”
She walked across the room and dropped the duffel bag on the bed. It had been made, which pleased Sinclair to no end. At least the maid service still worked in the backwater motel they were stranded in.
“I’m not going to be a victim, Jock,” Meredith said. As she unbuckled her gun belt, the holstered pistol sagged toward the floor. She tossed it onto the bed as well.
“A victim? Of whom?”
Her face was still drawn and pale, but she no longer had the look of a cast-off waif waiting for someone to rescue her. There was a durable hardness there, something he’d never seen before.
“You know the answer already, Jock. The zombies. The survivors who will want what we have. There’s going to be a lot of violence in the future, and I’m not going to let myself be swallowed up by it without a fight.”
“So these madmen just let you walk away with guns?” Sinclair asked.
“I earned the right. While you’ve been off pointing your camera at people trying to uncover some dark right-wing conspiracy, I’ve been going to firearms training. I graduated today, so the weapons are mine to keep if I want them.” Meredith looked at him pointedly. “I decided I want them, since I’m going to have to protect myself.”
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
Meredith smiled. It
wasn’t the pretty, dainty, disarming smile he’d seen at fashion shows or award luncheons or charitable dinners. “You aren’t able to protect me, Jock,” she said. “Admit it. You aren’t even capable of protecting yourself.”
Sinclair felt a queer sense of outrage at the affront to his masculinity, coupled with embarrassment because she was probably right. “And you think guns are the answer to that, darling?”
“Aren’t they? There have been plenty of times when you’ve allowed yourself to be protected by armed security. Remember when you were interviewing those Black Lives Matter protestors in Times Square, and you had two bodyguards with you… just in case? If things had gone bad, how much protection would they have been without guns?”
“That was a completely different set of circumstances. I—”
“How is it different? What will you do when the zombies attack, Jock? Reason with them? Educate them on the virtues of an all-vegan diet, even though you yourself fancy thick steaks cooked medium rare?” Meredith spread her arms. “You’re surrounded by armed men and women right now. They’ve built walls and defenses, they’ve built housing for those who don’t have any, they’ve provided power and running water, and all they ask is that we throw in with them and help carry the load. Instead of tossing us back into the world, they’ve allowed us to stay. They even gave you a job that you could actually do for once.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Sinclair snarled.
“I mean that all you have to do is record what’s going on in this town. But instead of capturing the real events, you’re running around trying to get residents to admit that they’re exercising some sort of prejudice, that by saving themselves instead of taking in others and ensuring no one lives past the winter that they’re somehow dirty, selfish, hateful bastards.”
Sinclair snorted. “Sounds like Barry Corbett to a T, doesn’t it?”
“Why do you hate him so much?” Meredith asked. “What has he ever done to you?”
“It’s not what he’s done to me, it’s what he hasn’t done for others. Don’t you see it, Meredith? He’s taken everything all his life, but never once given back—”
“Sounds like my father, doesn’t it?” Meredith said. “Yet, you sit around with him, smoking Cuban cigars, drinking brandy, and slapping him on the back whenever he tries to tell a joke. He hasn’t done a damn thing for anyone, but as long as you get a piece of the family fortune when he dies, that’s fine with you, right?”
Sinclair felt his temperature rise. “Meredith, darling, that was a very hateful thing to say.”
“The truth usually hurts.” Meredith turned to the dresser behind her. She opened her pocket book and pulled out an expensive leather wallet. From inside that, she pulled out a gold credit card and a key. She handed both to Sinclair.
He didn’t know what to make of the key, but the credit card he recognized instantly. It was a Palladium Card, the most elite credit card issued by J.P. Morgan Chase. “What’s this?” he asked, more about the key than the card.
“The key to a safe deposit vault in the Citibank branch on the corner of Broadway and Pine Street,” Meredith said. “Inside, there are three hundred seventy-six gold bars. Each one weighs ten ounces. Worth over five million dollars.”
“Impressive,” Sinclair said, rubbing the key between his thumb and forefinger.
“It’s yours. Take it. It’s what you married me for. The card can get you twice that, since it’s linked to the family accounts.”
“Why are you giving these to me?”
“You want them. I can’t give you enough to make you as rich as Barry Corbett, but with those, your net worth just increased five-fold. Congratulations.”
“But what about you?”
She turned and put a hand on the black rifle lying on the bed. “I’ve got what I need.”
“You can’t be serious!”
She shook her head. “You should try getting to know one, Jock. Because the only way you’re ever going to be able to use what I’ve given you is if you can fight your way to it.”
He chuckled. “Oh, you want me to become a gunslinger, do you?”
“No. I just hope you won’t continue to be a victim, dependent on other people to save you when things go bad.” She sat down and started unlacing her shoes. “I’m going to take a shower. Try not to touch anything you’re afraid of. And if the guns make you uncomfortable, run out and interview that Hector asshole again. He’s just like you, only not as rich.”
Sinclair could only blink. What had happened to the woman he’d married? It’s the damned guns. They corrupt everything.
###
Corbett had just slid into his bed when the radio on the nightstand chirped. His eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the darkness, but the flashing red light on the handset was clearly visible so he managed to grab it without knocking it to the floor. “Corbett,” he said.
“Sir, it’s Walt. We’ve got stenches in the wire.”
“How many?”
“We don’t have an accurate count, but maybe fifteen to twenty. All on the eastern side. Looks like they came across the Inyos.” The Inyo Mountains lay to the east of Single Tree, standing opposite the much higher Sierra Nevada range to the west.
“Roger that. Are they contained?”
“They are. We have them under surveillance. They’re wrapped up in the razor wire and don’t seem to be going anywhere fast. I have eyes on them now. Looks like they were trying to reach the wall.” Lennon paused for a moment. “They knew we were here, old man.”
That unsettled Corbett. One of the reasons he had insisted on the walls was to hide the town from sight. His reasoning had been that while average people still in possession of their faculties would understand that a community existed on the other side of the steel barricades, such complex reasoning was, or should have been, beyond the ken of zombies. While there was information indicating that some of the ghouls retained some vestige of intelligence, he was surprised to discover that firsthand.
“Where along the wall are they hung up?” Corbett asked.
“Ah, closest road is Mary’s Trail.”
“I’m on my way.”
###
Victor Kuruk was already there when Corbett rolled up in his truck. He was just about to climb the ladder that led to the parapet, but when he saw Corbett arrive, he hung back. Walt Lennon was with him. Atop the wall, three men were looking out into the desert through night-vision goggles.
“Victor, what brings you here?” Corbett asked.
Victor pointed at his Dodge truck sitting several yards away. “You mean, aside from that?”
Corbett frowned at the attempted levity. The hour was late, and the circumstances weren’t exactly conducive to laughing. “You know what I mean,” he snapped.
Victor covered his mouth with one hand and looked back at Corbett, faking wild-eyed fear. “Oh no, did the billionaire not get enough beauty sleep?”
“The only way sleep will make me beautiful is if I get put in suspended animation,” Corbett replied.
Victor lowered his hand and smiled. “Yes, give it a million years or so, and that might just work.”
“Victor—”
“All right, Barry, all right. Don’t be such a snap-ass. One of the patrol officers called me over. Why? Is there a problem with my taking an interest in what happens in this town? Because I hadn’t been aware caring was the province of such an exclusive club.”
As Victor spoke, Corbett became aware of how tired the tribal leader looked. While Corbett had been keeping tabs on the big picture, Victor and his mix of local and tribal police had to oversee the details, of which there were many. The town and its people were under a great deal of stress, and Victor’s folks would be the first ones to encounter the fallout that generated.
“No. Thanks for coming. I was just surprised to see you here,” Corbett said. It sounded lame even to him.
“You think I could sleep through our first zombie contact?” Victor asked.
/> Corbett turned to Lennon. “Okay, Walt. Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”
Lennon pointed at the ladder. “Try not to fall and break your ass, old man.”
Corbett grunted and stepped toward the ladder.
As Victor stepped aside to allow him access, he said, “You know, Barry, I really do like Walter’s pet name for you. ‘Old man’ fits very, very well.”
“Shut the fuck up, youngster,” Corbett said congenially.
Corbett climbed the ladder. At the top, there wasn’t a handhold to latch onto, and the edge of the wall was just outside his grasp. He levered one of his legs over the top of the ladder and tried to stand on the landing, but the angle was a little off. He just didn’t have the strength to push off onto that one leg with the other straight out on the ladder. Damn, getting old sucks!
“Here, sir,” one of the guards said. He slipped an arm under Corbett’s right armpit and helped him up.
“Thanks, son. Sorry. When you get into your seventies, you’ll have the same problem.”
The guard smiled. “Here’s hoping I live that long.”
Corbett moved aside as Victor came up behind him. Even though he wasn’t a great deal younger, Victor managed to pull himself onto the landing without help. In the darkness, Corbett thought he saw Victor wink, but he wasn’t sure.
“I recommend yoga,” Victor said. “It keeps you limber and strengthens your core.”
“I’d rather just keep drinking Budweiser,” Corbett responded.
Lennon darted up the ladder then sidled around Corbett while simultaneously steering him toward the wall. “Here, take a look through this,” he said, handing Corbett a night-vision monocle.
Corbett raised it to his eye. The unit was already switched on, but the field of view was so narrow he saw only a small swath of desert. Lennon put his hands on Corbett’s shoulders and turned him to the left a bit, and then, Corbett saw them, several human-sized shapes caught in the first barrier of razor wire. They were a mixture of men and women, except for a significantly smaller one at the far end. The little one had gotten deeper into the razor wire, and it flailed out there, hung up with its feet off the ground. At first, he believed it was a child. After staring at it for a few more seconds, he chuckled. “Is one of them really a dwarf?”
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