The Last Town

by Knight, Stephen

  “Yes, sir. We thought it was a kid at first, but it’s actually a real midget,” one of the guards said.

  “A travel-sized zombie,” another added.

  Corbett spent another minute peering at the zombies then handed the monocle back to Lennon. “Okay. Thanks,” he said.

  “Hey, I’d like a look,” Victor said.

  When Lennon handed the device to him, Victor eagerly brought it up to his eye. “Wow, this is really something. And yes, that is definitely a zombie midget down there. Fascinating.”

  Lennon looked at Corbett. “Instructions, old man?”

  “Sure. Shoot them,” Corbett said.

  Victor lowered the monocle. “Could it perhaps wait until tomorrow? It’s late. Everyone’s already on edge. Gunfire in the middle of the night won’t help anyone, and the zombies are hung up. They’re not going anywhere, and if they do, can they possibly get through the walls?”

  Lennon shrugged. “I guess it won’t make much difference if we wait until after sunup.”

  “Let’s do that, then.” Corbett snapped his fingers. “Oh. Do me a favor. Before anyone takes them out, get Sinclair over here with his camera. I want him to record it.”

  Lennon frowned. “Why?”

  “Because we have nothing to hide, and our first interaction with a meaningful zombie presence should be taken down for the record,” Corbett said.

  Lennon grunted. “You really think that guy’s going to make an honest record of what’s happening here?”

  “Probably not, but it’s the only game in town. Make sure he’s here, Walt.”

  “Well, okay. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  ###

  Sinclair scaled the ladder in the early morning chill, his camera bag swinging from his shoulder. Several of Corbett’s men were already there. One of them steadied Sinclair as he rather gracelessly stepped onto the ledge.

  Couldn’t they have built stairs? He was bleary-eyed, having spent much of the night cutting together the latest batch of footage and adding some voice-over narration. By the time he’d made it to bed, sleep was long in coming. Meredith was a chilly presence beside him, and leaning against the wall on her side of the bed was the black rifle she’d become so enamored with. On the nightstand was the pistol. Before switching off the light on his side, he stared over at the weapons. They looked evil, yet oddly seductive in a dark sort of way. He’d never had any use for guns, but there he was, wondering what it would be like to hold one. Rubbish. You’re just tired, old boy. Leave the playthings to the Neanderthals.

  “So what is it that you kind gentlemen rousted me out of a warm bed for?” Sinclair moved to the edge of the wall. When he heard something hissing somewhere on the other side, he looked down. Razor wire scratched across dry rock, and over a dozen zombies writhed in the security fencing. They all had grievous wounds, deep slashes from the blades that had split open their pallid skin. Some of them oozed a black, syrupy substance that he could see even from over a hundred feet away. Most of them were virtually naked, their clothing having been torn off their bodies as they pushed relentlessly against the razor-wire fencing. It was disgusting.

  “Dear Lord,” he said, feeling sick to his stomach.

  “You see them?” Lennon asked.

  “Yes, I see them,” Sinclair said. “You’re just going to leave them like that?”

  “No. We’re going to take care of them. But Barry wanted you to get some footage of them first, before we start taking them out.”

  The sun hadn’t yet risen over the peaks to the east, and everything was still cast in shadow. Sinclair turned away from Lennon and looked back at the zombies. He began counting them. He got to twenty-six before stopping in horror. “My God! Is one of them a child?” he asked.

  “No, it’s a midget,” Lennon said. “But child zombies are a possibility. Probably going to be pretty rare, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s easier for a zombie to totally consume a kid,” Lennon said. “Adults can fight back, so there’s a greater chance of them getting away, which means they’ll die and turn. I’d imagine kids would be so badly damaged that they won’t reanimate, even if they’re not stripped down to the bones.”

  “Do you—” A sudden bolt of nausea hit Sinclair, and his mouth filled up with saliva. He spit over the side of the wall and took a deep breath. The queasiness subsided after a moment, and he was thankful. He really didn’t want to hurl whatever remained of last night’s meal in front of the other men. “Do you hear what you’re saying? We’re talking about children, for the love of God!”

  Lennon stared at him with empty eyes. “Yes, we are, aren’t we? So what?”

  Sinclair swallowed hard. “So what do you intend to do?”

  “We intend to kill them. Corbett wants you to record the encounter.”

  “Very well.” Sinclair opened his camera bag and pulled out Norton’s pricey Canon camera. He dithered over which lens to use then settled on a zoom so he could capture a variety of shots at different settings. After mounting the lens, he switched on the camera. Only after it had booted up did he remove the lens cap.

  “How many of them are there? I’m afraid I lost count,” he said.

  “Thirty-one. Last night, there were only maybe fifteen. More joined overnight.” Lennon pointed to his left. “Down there would be a better position for you to shoot from. That way, cartridges won’t be bouncing off you when we start.”

  “Oh, yes. Very well.” Sinclair shuffled past the other men, taking care to stay away from the edge. It was a long drop to the ground below, and there was no protective railing. Lennon followed him, and he took position off to Sinclair’s right when he came to a halt.

  “This should be good, yes?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yeah, this is fine.” Lennon nodded. “Go ahead and get whatever footage you need before the event begins.”

  Sinclair raised the camera and focused in on a clutch of ghouls as they shuddered about in the tight embrace of the razor wire. The fidelity of the picture was fantastic, which served to make for a sickening scene. Sinclair had no problem seeing every detail of the ghastly wounds the dead had inflicted upon themselves as they tried to fight through the barrier. He tasted the bitter tang of stomach acid in the back of his throat. He was happy that the men who had come for him that morning hadn’t allowed him the time to drink his morning tea.

  He panned the camera around the line of zombies, taking care to focus on each face: the old housewife who still had vestiges of makeup around her glazed eyes; the young college student whose lips had been almost slashed away, exposing irregular, dirty teeth; the portly man who wore the remains of a police officer’s uniform; the young woman with the gaudy wedding ring, half the hair torn from her head, her scalp a black mass of congealed blood. It was all so very disgusting, but each face had a story behind it, and Sinclair fancied that he might be able to discover a few once the emergency was over.

  “Any day now,” Lennon said, his voice dry and humorless.

  “Right. I think I have what I need.” Sinclair zoomed in tight on the midget. Its head was totally bald, and its face was half hidden behind a gigantic beard. The unruly facial hair was full of crusted blood and particles of desiccated flesh. The bantam ghoul had apparently fed well.

  “Let’s do the cop first,” Lennon called to his men. To Sinclair, he said, “Get on the police officer. Fourth from the right.”

  “Have him,” Sinclair said.

  “Okay, leave the midget for last,” Lennon said. “Take out the cop.”

  To Sinclair’s right, a rifle spoke, and he jumped, fouling the shot. By the time he refocused the camera on the zombie, it was sagging into the wire, a bullet hole in its forehead.

  Lennon clucked his tongue. “Sinclair, you did know we were going to start shooting, right?”

  “Yes, of course. I was just… caught off guard, I suppose,” Sinclair said, hoping his face wasn’t red.

  “I
’ll call out the targets so you can focus on them,” Lennon said. “There’s going to be more gunfire. Try not to jump around so much, all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” Sinclair said, trying to steel himself against the loud noises to come. “I just hope my ears can take it.”

  “I’d offer you some hearing protection, but I don’t want your limey earwax on mine,” Lennon said. “Deal with it.”

  Sinclair responded with an acidic “Fine.”

  For the next few minutes, Sinclair focused on the zombies, capturing each demise. He still jumped during the first few, but he found he was able to control his reflexes a bit better as time wore on. Rifles cracked, and bullets plowed through the skulls below. The extermination didn’t take very long, and if the men on the wall hadn’t been waiting to coordinate with Sinclair’s camera, it would have gone even faster. Sinclair’s stomach churned with disgust. He doubted the gunslingers on the wall would bat an eye if ordered to kill living people. There was a cold, calculating methodology to their work, and Sinclair was certain they enjoyed doing it. Heartless bastards.

  Finally, the only zombie left alive was the midget. It writhed and hissed in the razor wire, its movements accelerating into a near frenzy as the final gunshots echoed. Sinclair heard its dry rasping above the metallic clanking of the fence as the ghoul struggled. It only succeeded in flaying off even more flesh while oozing black ichor onto the desert floor.

  “Okay, give me your camera,” Lennon said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said, give me your camera. You’re going to take out the midget.”

  Sinclair was scandalized. “What? What’s gotten into you? I’ll do no such thing!”

  Lennon reached out and tugged on the camera strap. Sinclair held on for a couple of seconds, but the chilliness in Lennon’s eyes overpowered his momentary courage. In the end, Sinclair let go. Lennon put the camera strap around his own neck then held out his black rifle.

  “Really, what is the point?” Sinclair protested.

  Lennon stepped closer. “No point, other than the fact you’re going to need to do this anyway. Everyone will. I’d rather you had some experience to fall back on when push comes to shove.”

  “What, shooting zombies?”

  “Yes. Shooting zombies. Now take this weapon, Mr. Sinclair. Keep your finger off the trigger and bring it to your shoulder.”

  Sinclair allowed the man to place the weapon in his hands. It was lighter than he thought it should be. Indeed, it felt almost toylike, hardly at all like a weapon of vast destruction. He turned toward the wall and brought the weapon to his shoulder. It felt awkward at first, but his hands automatically closed around the pistol grip and the forestock without any difficulty. Ergonomically, it was dead-on. He found he instinctively wanted to put his right index finger on the trigger, but he remembered he wasn’t supposed to do that yet. Sinclair looked at Lennon for further instructions.

  Lennon put a finger on the barrel and gently pushed until it was pointing toward the midget zombie. “Use the sight on top of the weapon to aim. You should be able to look through it without any trouble.”

  A red dot was right in the center, and Sinclair presumed all he had to do was line it up on the remaining zombie. “So you want me to shoot it?” Sinclair asked. His legs felt weak.

  “By your right thumb is the selector switch. Move it to the next setting.”

  Sinclair performed the action, and the switch made a metallic click as it moved into the next detent. “Done.”

  “Put the red dot on the zombie’s head and hold it there.”

  Sinclair moved the rifle a bit. The zombie was thrashing about, so holding it on target was difficult.

  “Once you’re lined up, put your finger on the trigger and shoot,” Lennon said.

  “Are you sure you want me to do this? What if I miss?” From the corner of his eye, Sinclair saw the man was holding the camera up. He was recording Sinclair holding the rifle, then he swung it around to focus on the zombie.

  “You’ll have thirty more chances to hit it,” Lennon said. “Shoot when ready, Mr. Sinclair. Take a breath, hold it, and squeeze the trigger. It won’t take a lot of effort on your part.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sinclair muttered, a little pissed at the jibe. He tried to line up the shot, but his hands were trembling. Holding the rifle made him feel ill, and the fact that he was being told to shoot a person—or what had once been a person, anyway—was difficult for him to process.

  “Do I really need to do this?” he asked, and his voice sounded a bit petulant even to his own ears.

  “Fucking do it, you pussy!” Lennon snapped. “It’s a zombie! Kill it!”

  Sinclair squeezed the trigger, and the rifle cracked as it snapped off a shot. Startled, Sinclair screamed at the same time, and through the sight, he saw his bullet travel past the zombie and strike the ground behind it, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

  “Again!” Lennon said. “Line up and shoot!”

  Sinclair aimed and fired. And missed again. Then again and again. But his fifth round ripped through the dwarf-zombie’s left ear. The creature didn’t even seem aware of the damage.

  “Good God,” Sinclair whispered.

  “Come on!” Lennon said, seeming to enjoy Sinclair’s duress. “I’ve seen old ladies shoot better than that under more difficult circumstances. The thing’s caught in razor wire, for God’s sake. Hit it!”

  Sinclair fired again and again, doing his best to keep the sight lined up on the target. There wasn’t a huge amount of kick from the rifle—it was actually quite manageable—but when he fired faster, his accuracy suffered. But Sinclair was pissed, pissed that Lennon had forced him into this, pissed that Meredith was becoming a self-styled gunslinger, pissed that he was trapped in a ridiculous little town ruled by gunmen in the name of Barry Corbett. And he was also pissed with himself, angry that he couldn’t even shoot a midget-zombie trapped in razor wire.

  Several of his rounds missed the little demon entirely. Others slammed into its body, making it jerk in the wire. He eventually hit it in the neck, which stopped it from snarling. Then he hit it in the jaw, which seemed to shock it. For an instant, it stopped writhing, looking up at Sinclair with flat, stupid, vacant eyes.

  “Head shot!” Lennon said. “Hit it in the head!”

  Sinclair fired, and that time, he struck the creature right in the middle of its wide forehead. A small hole appeared in the pale skin, and the grotesquerie slumped onto the wire. Black drool leaked from its mouth in thick streams.

  “Dear God.” Sinclair lowered the rifle as the rest of the men on the wall gave him a round of golf claps and sarcastic cheers. He looked down at the tiny figure hanging motionless in the wire and felt sick to his stomach. But also a little excited.

  “Take this wretched thing,” Sinclair said, thrusting the rifle toward Lennon, “and if you don’t mind, I’d like to have my camera back.”

  Lennon took the rifle with one hand and passed the camera back to Sinclair with the other. “How’d you like it?”

  “The power,” Sinclair said. “It’s… it’s so powerful.”

  Lennon snorted. “Let’s not get too carried away. It’s not much more than a beefed-up .22 round, Sinclair.” He engaged the rifle’s safety then looked down at the gangway. Expended cartridges lay everywhere. “You wasted about half a magazine on that thing. You’re going to need to pony up some testosterone next time.”

  “The hell you say!” Sinclair snapped.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll edit to make yourself look like a regular deadeye,” Lennon responded. “It doesn’t matter to me. Okay, Mr. Sinclair, you’ve had your encounter with a dreaded ‘assault rifle,’ and you seemed to have survived, though all the thanks should be extended to the razor wire and the walls, not your ability to service targets. What do you think about it?”

  “Think about what?”

  Lennon raised the rifle. “About this. Still the scourge of America?”

  “Is that
what this is about? Trying to change my mind on the wisdom of allowing citizens access to military weapons?” Sinclair let out a bitter laugh. “As if our current circumstances could ever change the wisdom behind that ridiculous assertion. Let me ask you this. Since the Second Amendment was written well before any such weapons existed, where does it say weapons such as those are allowable?”

  “Right next to the word ‘muskets,’” Lennon replied. “You know what? Forget it. You’re not even an American. We’re done. Don’t break your neck climbing down the ladder.”

  “Oh, not to worry. You won’t be rid of me that easily.”

  “Actually, Sinclair, we can be rid of you anytime Corbett wants,” Lennon replied. “Don’t forget that.”

  ###

  The walls were extended toward the airport and eventually encircled it. In the town, secondary walls were erected, compartmentalizing the community and turning it into an establishment with multilayered defenses that included funnel points that led to kill zones. The rationale behind this was that, in the event of a substantive breach, the invading zombie hordes would follow fleeing townspeople into specific engagement areas where they would be killed en masse. It was an old military tactic that Corbett and his people knew well.

  Aside from the defenses, more construction took place. Additional housing was established to take on the overflow population from the reservation. Power generation, water, sanitation—everything was reengineered to function in an environment where the luxuries of American life had to be replicated, or at the least, substituted. Not everything was as it was before, but the people were aware that they had it much, much better than most.

  In a relatively short amount of time, the town of Single Tree was turned into a self-contained fortress.