“Will do. Go ahead and get out of this wind. You’ll be a lot warmer behind actual walls as opposed to Isenglass.” Norton waved at the clear, plastic sheeting that surrounded the front part of the flybridge and served as a windbreak.
“Just get us on the other side of the breakwater,” Lennon said. “Come on, guy. Get it done.”
Garcia walked over and clapped a hand on Lennon’s shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Walt. You need to check this thing out. It’s bigger than every house I’ve ever lived in, combined.”
Norton advanced the throttles slowly and steadily, making ten knots as he pointed the Argosy’s high bow toward the harbor inlet’s opening. The surface conditions on their side of the seawall were glassy smooth. That would change the farther out they went, but to his eye and from what the instruments told him, sea conditions were favorable. It would be as easy sailing as they were likely to get.
“Where am I headed?” Norton asked.
“A few miles or so outside the surf line,” Lennon said. “How deep is the water out there?”
“A few miles out? Depends, can range from a few hundred feet to a few thousand,” Norton said. “Am I anchoring or just holding position?”
“Anchor,” Lennon said. “Is the water too deep for that?”
“I know some places where I can set the hooks and not have to worry about the depth,” Norton said. “You guys can leave that to me.”
“How long until we get there?”
“Fifteen minutes. We’ll head down the coast for a few miles, then I’ll start scoping out anchorages. We’ll be on the hooks in twenty minutes, max.”
“Good,” Lennon said. leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe I’ll have a nice drink instead of that coffee. I guess it would be too much to hope for that you’d have any booze on this barge, right?”
Norton snorted. “You can have all the booze you want, and there’s some Japanese wagyu steak in the freezer. I’m not like Corbett. I spend my money.”
Lennon raised one eyebrow. “On yachts and planes, right?”
“Both of which saved your ass today,” Norton replied. “Just in case you were about to get all high and mighty.”
Lennon clucked his tongue. “Yeah, okay. I kind of have to give you that.”
SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA
The dead were winning.
Corbett couldn’t believe everything was all unwinding so fast. All the defenses, all the planning, all the training, all the expertise and materiel he’d brought in, all of it had become meaningless. Zombies simply poured over the defenses and kept on coming, no matter how many of them were returned to death’s lasting embrace. Without fear, remorse, or caution, the dead were as unstoppable as an earthquake. For miles all around, they stood shoulder to shoulder outside the walls, each one of them vying for a chance to get across and gorge on the few living that remained.
At least a hundred defenders had been taken down, and twice that number of townspeople had met their ends at the hands and teeth of the hordes. The Bi-Rite had been overrun by noon, the defenders there driven back or killed where they stood. Soon thereafter, the dead began walking right off the supermarket’s roof, shattering their legs when they landed on the ground below. But that didn’t matter. They kept on coming, at a crawl if necessary.
The only bright ray of hope had come twenty minutes ago, when Lennon had contacted him via satellite phone. He reported that they were on Norton’s yacht and were holding position off the California coast.
After the zombies began cresting the tops of the Alaskan barriers, Victor ordered the police station evacuated. Everything that could be taken was thrown into the vehicles in the parking lot. Corbett was practically carried out by the remaining members of his security team. He didn’t want to leave, but even he couldn’t fight off three well-trained men who intended to discharge their duty.
“The girl rides with me!” he shouted as they stuffed him into the backseat of a waiting Expedition.
Already, the dead were at the eastern side of the chain link fence that surrounded the station house, hissing and moaning, frustrated by the thin barrier of twisted metal that held them back. Scores of them were caught up in the tanglefoot wire before the fence. Corbett was heartened to see Suzy Kuruk being escorted out of the building by Hailey. She climbed in beside Corbett. Sinclair hurried over and managed to cram himself in back. The rest of Corbett’s security detail filled the remaining seats. Victor emerged from the station house next, leading the handcuffed criminals and Hector Aguilar. He turned and took them to one of the Single Tree PD SUVs.
“He wouldn’t leave them behind,” Suzy said, following Corbett’s stare.
“Damn, if anyone should be left behind, it’s them. The lot of them!” Corbett snapped.
“That’s not my uncle,” she replied.
“I know.”
“Sir, we’re going directly to the airfield,” the driver said after starting the vehicle.
“Not yet,” Corbett said.
“Sorry, sir. That’s where we’re headed,” the driver said.
“Not yet!” Corbett roared. “Not yet, damn it!”
The driver accelerated, heading to the back of the parking lot. There was a closed gate there, and the dead hadn’t gotten to it yet. Another one of Corbett’s hired guns was there, providing security. He pulled the gate open and pointed out the tanglefoot that lay on either side of the exit.
The driver stopped and rolled down his window. “Laramie, you catch a ride with Tork and Nelson, all right?”
“Oorah!”
The window went up, and the Expedition roared out onto the street. Stenches were already picking their way toward the open gate, but the tanglefoot wire ensnared them and brought them to a momentary halt. Corbett twisted in his seat and looked out the rear window. The corpses struggled against the wire’s embrace, shedding both garments and skin. It was disgusting to watch, even for him.
“We can’t go to the airport,” Corbett said. “It’s not time yet.”
“Sorry, Mr. Corbett, but I disagree,” the driver said. “We have thousands of stenches inside the walls. They’re coming over at about a thousand a minute. Eventually, they’ll figure out the airport is pretty lightly defended, and they’ll start coming over those walls, too. If that happens, you’ll never get out. There aren’t enough of us left to hold them back.”
“I have people I need to get there.”
The driver glared at him in the rearview mirror. “Sir, they are there. We started moving them ten minutes ago, when the Bi-Rite was about to go under. The only people who aren’t there are you and your immediate party, and we’re correcting that now.”
Corbett fidgeted in his seat. He didn’t want to be seen running away.
Behind him, Sinclair said, “Barry, I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”
“What is it, Sinclair?”
“My wife, Meredith. Do you have room for her?”
Corbett sighed. “Sure. I’ll just tape her to one of the wings.”
“I would appreciate that,” Sinclair said. “Anything you might be able to do.”
“Have you developed a conscience after all this time, Jock?”
“It’s the end of the world. She’s a fighter. I’d just like it if she could have a chance.” Sinclair paused then added, “She really is a good woman.”
Corbett turned and looked at Sinclair. The journalist had his camera pointing out the Expedition’s rear window, recording the small convoy behind them. Corbett knew Meredith was in one of those four SUVs. Despite his animosity toward the loudmouthed Brit, he felt that Sinclair had changed over the past weeks. He’d matured, if that was even possible. But Corbett wasn’t in the frame of mind to start passing out awards for a man doing what he should have done, no matter the circumstances.
“No promises, Sinclair,” he said. “No promises.”
Sinclair nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”
As the convoy wound through the town, rolling pa
st revetments and obstructions designed to slow down the zombies, he made a mental list of people he was worried about. Dani. Victor. Suzy. Martin Kennedy. I guess Hailey, since Suzy won’t leave without him. Now Sinclair and his wife. Lennon’s family. Who else? Gemma? The Bookers? What about the rest of my people and their families? How many more can I save?
The SUV began a series of wild gyrations. Corbett snapped out of his introspection and looked out the windshield as the Expedition rounded a curve. A herd of stenches flooded the street ahead, turning toward the vehicle as it barreled toward them.
“Fuck!” the driver shouted.
They were caught in a stretch of road bordered by Jersey barriers, so there was no turning off. And the SUV was going too fast to stop anyway. It plowed into the corpses like a battering ram, sending bodies flying as sheet metal crumpled and glass fractured. The Expedition rocked from side to side, its engine bellowing.
The air bags suddenly deployed, filling the cabin with an explosion of dust and a wave of air pressure. The driver lost control of the vehicle, and the Expedition slalomed from barrier to barrier, taking down a host of zombies. The SUV rode up one barrier until the front right tire slipped over the lip and became entangled in strands of razor wire. The vehicle jolted to a sudden halt, and Sinclair slammed into the back of Corbett’s seat with a curse.
Corbett turned to Suzy. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” she said. Like Corbett, she’d slipped on her seat belt, but she looked a little dazed.
“Stay in the vehicle!” the driver shouted. “No one exit the vehicle, wait for support!”
The two bodyguards in the front were wrestling with the rapidly deflating air bags. Something struck Corbett’s door. He looked over and saw a zombie peering inside and pawing at the glass. It slammed its face against the window, trying to tear at him with its teeth.
Corbett pulled his .45 from its holster. “We might have to help ourselves out of this one,” he muttered.
OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA
Once again, Reese was given shore duty. He was on the dive boat with the usual cast of characters, all single men and women who were deemed expendable by Button-down Bob. Reese wasn’t thrilled, but opportunities for different work would likely be long in coming, and bitching about it did nothing. Marsh had griped, and he was dead from bleeding on the brain, which Reese had caused. But if the bald detective with the penchant for seasickness had grown a pair and tried to save Manalo, he would still be alive. Instead, both men were dead. Marsh wasn’t missed. Manalo was.
The current mission was farther south, in the corridor between Santa Barbara and Ventura. The team had been tasked with reconnoitering the area to identify a location from which resources might be harvested. Santa Barbara was still hot, as the zombie population lingered there. The chatter was that areas down south were a bit less infested, though Reese didn’t know how that could be. As far as he was concerned, getting closer to Los Angeles wasn’t a great idea.
“Maybe we won’t be going ashore,” Renee said, as if reading his thoughts.
Reese had been staring at a mug of coffee he didn’t really want. He looked across the dinette table at her. She had lost quite a bit of weight since relocating to the island. She used to be a plump woman, but she was currently approaching svelte territory. Her clothes, always a bit tight before, hung on her shrinking frame. Reese’s pants felt a little loose in the waistline as well. The weight loss wasn’t caused by lack of food but by stress and depression. The long days of always being switched on, waiting for something to happen, were taking their toll on everyone. Even Plosser was beginning to fray a bit. The big Guardsman kept to himself more and more. The only person who seemed unaffected was Bates. Even as rising zombie hordes slowly consumed living humanity, Bates was just fine and dandy.
Reese felt the boat alter course. He looked out the windows and saw the nondescript California coastline receding as the boat turned away from it. He twisted in the dinette and glanced at the helm deck. Connor Bay was staring at one of the displays intently.
“Sit tight,” Reese said to Renee as he slid out from behind the dinette table. He walked up to the helm deck and looked inside. Through the front windows, he saw that the dive boat was no longer tracking toward the coastline.
Bay must’ve sensed his presence, and he looked over his shoulder as Reese stood on the gangway’s last step. “What’s up, Reese?”
“Something wrong?” Reese asked. “You calling off the mission?”
“No, no. We have a pretty sizable radar contact about six miles out. We’re going to check it out,” Bay said, nodding toward the Harbor cop piloting the boat.
“How big?”
“Bigger than we are. It’s holding a constant bearing, so either they’re keeping station with power or they’re anchored. Either way, we should check it out.”
“Why?”
“Because it might be easier to see what we can get from them than to put you guys ashore,” Bay said. “Unless you want to go back to the mainland?”
Reese considered the question rhetorical. No one in their right mind wanted to step back into California. “Is it a ship? Maybe the Navy or the Coast Guard?”
“Possibly,” Bay said, running a hand over his fuzzy chin. Like a lot of the guys, he had given up shaving. Reese still shaved every three or four days, whether he needed it or not. “I want to put eyes on it before we try to make contact. If it’s big enough, we might want to steer clear. Big boats can have big guns.”
“We might be able to work out a deal,” Reese said. “Maybe they have a place like ours.”
“And no one’s going to waste time and fuel hanging off the coast of Ventura County,” Bay replied. “I think they’re waiting for something, and I’m kind of curious to see what that might be.”
###
Norton had anchored the Argosy a little less than two miles off the coast, roughly between the mainland and Santa Cruz Island. There was some small boat traffic, but no one seemed interested in the Pacific Mariner as the current moved it in a slow, lazy circle around its anchorage point.
The Argosy was operating perfectly, and he’d taken the opportunity after setting anchor to walk the boat from stem to stern. Nothing was out of place, aside from the crusted gore on the decks. He hosed some of that away with raw seawater, but it was pretty obvious he would have to do some heavy-duty cleaning if he wanted to restore the vessel to its former luster. That didn’t seem very important, considering the circumstances. He did stop by the master stateroom to make sure his personal possessions were in good shape. He kept clothes, toiletries, and clean linens stored in the king-sized berth. If all went well, he would share the space with Danielle Kennedy.
Before heading off to shower, Lennon had contacted Corbett, using the ship’s satellite phone. Norton didn’t get much of an update from Lennon, so part of him wanted to redial the billionaire’s number and get some information directly from the horse’s mouth. But he knew Corbett would be busy, so he decided to wait.
Norton also feared bad news. If something had happened to his parents or Dani, he didn’t want to know yet. So he retreated to the pilot house for a cup of coffee, wishing he could add some whiskey to take the edge off. He kept busy with checking the instruments. The yacht was running on generator power, and fuel was not a concern. He’d started the watermaking system, which could transform three hundred gallons of ocean brine into potable water per day.
Lennon appeared in the doorway. His hair was wet from his shower, and he wore a pair of board shorts and a polo pullover. Norton had loaned him the clothes so he could wash his tactical uniform. Even in that casual outfit, the middle-aged former Marine still managed to look formidable.
“How are you feeling? Warmed up?” Norton asked.
“Yeah. Thanks. Hell of a boat you have here, Norton.” Lennon gestured at Norton’s mug. “I could use one of those.”
Norton jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the dinette, which had stainless stee
l appliances, cherry wood cabinetry, stone countertops, and a Keurig coffeemaker. “Help yourself. I already had to chase off your guys from the beer, so don’t get any ideas. Mugs are in the cabinet over the coffeemaker.”
Lennon padded over and rummaged through the selection of K-cups. “What, no hazelnut?”
“I don’t drink feminine coffee. All bold or breakfast blends, those are your choices.”
Lennon snorted, made a selection, and dropped it into the brewer. “What’s this boat’s range?”
“Depends on how fast we go. Displacement speed? Over a thousand miles. Planing speed? Maybe three hundred, if the seas aren’t too heavy. We have someplace else to go?”
“Eventually.”
“Not sure if that actually means something, Lennon. Do we have an actual destination in mind?”
“Same answer,” Lennon said, as he picked up his mug. “Eventually.” He brought the mug to his lips and took a sip of the hot coffee. “Yeah, that’s not bad.”
“I’m so glad you approve. I was worried you might leave a bad review on Yelp.”
“Yelp?”
Norton chuckled and shook his head. “Never mind.” He looked at the radar display. Most of the contacts were small, but one was generating a pretty decent return. It was a good-sized boat, going seventeen or eighteen knots.
Lennon walked over and peered down at the screen. “Everything all right?”
“You know how to read a radar display?”
Lennon shook his head. “Not really. Those splotches there, those are land masses, right?”
“Yeah. These here are the Channel Islands, and this long one here is California.” Norton pointed out the features without touching the screen. “Everything else is mostly a surface contact. Some small boats, and this one right here.” He indicated the larger return. “Running on plane, heading in our general direction. It came from the other side of Santa Cruz Island and was originally heading for the mainland, but now he’s altered his course.”
Lennon lowered his mug. “Coming for us?”
The Last Town Page 58