Norton shrugged. “A boat that size probably has a radar system that can see for about forty miles or so. So he knows we’re here.”
“How big is it?”
“Fifty feet, give or take.”
Lennon stared at the screen for a moment. “I don’t think I like that. Can you contact him?”
“Why?”
“I want to know what his intentions are. If they’re up to no good, I want to know about it before they get here. How long until they can reach us?”
“Five or six minutes.” Norton put down his mug and got to his feet. He reached for the radio handset mounted on the left side of the helm console. “You want me to call him?”
“Yes, please. Where are the other guys?”
“Garcia is on the aft deck, covering the stern. The other guys are up top. I think Browning’s in the head.”
“Browning!” Lennon shouted.
“Yeah, right here,” Browning called from the main salon. “What’s up?”
“Boat approaching from the northwest. Tell the guys to get on their guns, just in case.”
“Oorah. On it.” Browning sprinted up the stairs to the flybridge.
“Call him,” Lennon said, nodding toward the radio.
Norton flipped frequencies from sixteen to nine.
SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA
Corbett stared at the hideous faces that surrounded the immobilized SUV. As steam rose from the shattered front end, the Expedition rocked slightly as the zombies pressed against it, slapping at the sides. Sometimes, they left bloody smears on the glass. The ghouls had just eaten, and they were still looking for more.
“My God, we’re trapped,” Sinclair moaned.
“We’re still alive,” the guard in the front passenger seat said. “Just stay where you are, and wait for support to get here.”
More zombies arrived, surging against the vehicle, practically slamming their bodies into it. The SUV rocked again, and its undercarriage grated against the top of the Jersey barriers.
“Any chance we can drive off this?” Corbett asked.
“I’ve been trying to start it, sir. No dice,” the driver said. “We’re going to be here for a while. The only team I can talk to is at the airport.”
“No, they need to stay there,” Corbett said. “They have to keep the airfield clear.” As he spoke, gunfire rang out from the rear, where the rest of the small convoy had halted a few hundred feet away.
Corbett twisted in his seat, but he couldn’t see much past Sinclair, who had his camera pointed out the back window. “Sinclair, what’s going on out there?”
“The others are shooting the zombies,” Sinclair said. “They’re trying to get to us!”
Black ichor exploded against the window in Corbett’s door. A zombie went down, its head ravaged by a rifle round. Another met a similar fate. Then another. The security guards in the rest of the convoy were attacking forward in true Marine Corps style. After a few minutes, Corbett saw he had enough room to open the door, which would be madness. So that was what he did.
“Sir!” one of the security guards shouted.
Corbett stepped out, his boots landing on the cold bodies of the dead. With his .45, he popped three zombies ambling toward him. He reached back into the Expedition and pulled out his rifle. The driver tried to crawl out, but the fender had shifted backward, blocking a portion of the door. Corbett grasped the handle and tugged while the driver pushed. Even with the two of them working, it wasn’t easy to push it open, but the driver managed to squeeze through the small opening they made. And the zombies kept coming.
Victor came around the back of the vehicle. “Barry, what exactly are you doing?” Without waiting for a response, he opened up on the approaching dead with his rifle.
Hot cartridges bounced off Corbett and the driver’s door frame. The driver even caught a few in the face but ignored them and grabbed Corbett’s arm.
The driver pulled him toward the rear of the vehicle. “They’re coming up behind us!” the man shouted over the gunfire.
Corbett turned to look. Sure enough, more shambling monstrosities were creeping onto the Jersey barriers. The razor wire had held them up but only temporarily. Already, the wires were bulging outward from the building weight as stench after stench shoved themselves into it.
Victor took his finger off his rifle’s trigger long enough to glance over one shoulder. “So much for a little jaunt to the airport.”
“They’re coming from the west,” Corbett said. “One of the funnel points must have been overrun. They’ve been paralleling Main Street. I guess we couldn’t get enough people to fall back to contain them.”
The razor-wire runs atop one of the Jersey barriers suddenly gave way, and a flood of zombies crashed to the street behind the convoy. More gunfire rang out as Hailey and Lasher opened up, backed by some of the townspeople. Meredith Sinclair was back there, leaning into her rifle and firing hate into the stenches. Maybe her husband was right. She deserved a shot at something more.
Corbett tore his eyes away from the new incursion and looked around. The street looked so different from what he had known for decades, and he had a moment of trouble determining where exactly he was. “We’re on Leonard, right?” he yelled.
Victor swapped out magazines and resumed firing. “Are you asking me? You live here, white man.”
The driver pulled at Corbett again, as more members of his security team charged forward from the other vehicles. “We can still drive out of here!” the man shouted, trying to drag Corbett back to the rest of the convoy. “Come on, sir!” As he spoke, another length of wire snapped, releasing another deluge of the dead.
Corbett slapped his hands away. “No! We’re not getting through that. Victor, take everyone east, to Goodwin. We can make a run for the airport that way!”
“Goodwin parallels the airport. We’ll still have to make it to the entrance,” Victor said.
“I’ll arrange for someone to pick us up,” Corbett said. “I’ll tie up the dead back here, give them something to occupy themselves with.”
“Sounds like you’re about to put the wow in pow-wow,” Victor responded. He fired a few more times before glancing over at Corbett. “What, things are so dire that even some perfectly-executed Native humor has no effect?”
The front passenger window of the Expedition imploded and several ghouls reached in. Suzy jumped out, hauling her rifle out after her. She then yanked out Sinclair, who was trying to clamber over the backseat.
“He’s right, Uncle,” Suzy said. “We need to beat it. I’ll cut a hole through the wire and take everyone across.”
“No, we can still use the vehicles!” the driver yelled. The guy wasn’t giving in to fear, but he wasn’t really adapting to the rather fluid circumstances.
Corbett yanked his arm out of the man’s grasp and pushed him back. “Follow the girl!” he bellowed as Suzy cut across the street, pulling a large utility knife from her belt. “Help her!”
The second guard emerged from the Expedition, firing his pistol at the dead. He pushed the driver’s door closed as soon as he was clear. Corbett did the same with the rear door.
“Whatever you’re going to do, do it,” Victor told Corbett. “We have maybe a minute before they’re too concentrated to hold back.”
More dead hands pulled at the rows of razor wire next to the Expedition. One particularly agile stench managed to climb onto the truck’s dented hood. The security guard next to the driver’s door popped it in the face, and it fell back from view.
“On it right now,” Corbett said. “Get going. I’ll send everyone over to you!”
Corbett turned and ran as fast as he could, wishing he was twenty years younger. The Expedition driver came with him, refusing to stay behind. They passed the next two vehicles and stopped at the last, the Single Tree PD Suburban outfitted for prisoner transport. Lasher stood at its left rear fender with Meredith Sinclair, both gunning down the dead. The overweight cop was gasping for air l
ike a fish out of water. Corbett yanked open the Suburban’s door.
Hector Aguilar stared at him with pleading eyes. “Corbett, get us out of here!” he shrieked.
“That’s my intention. Come on!”
One of the black prisoners leaped out of the vehicle. He was in handcuffs, but no leg irons. He tried to bolt, but Corbett collared him and threw him to the ground.
“Hey, what the fuck!” the man yelled.
“Get them all out, and watch yourself,” Corbett told the security guy.
The guard pulled the rest of the prisoners out of the vehicle. First was a smaller black man, not much more than a kid. Next came a huge white man with a full beard and long hair. He seemed unfazed by the zombies creeping up on them. Hector climbed out last.
Corbett glared down at the short black man lying on the street. “You Doddridge?”
“What’s it to you, man?” The prisoner tried to get up, but Corbett kicked him back to the street.
“Stay right there. I just wanted to thank you for helping us out,” Corbett said.
“Yeah, it was real fun doing all your labor for you,” Doddridge said. “Can we please get the fuck out of here now?”
“Oh, I’m not thanking you for that,” Corbett said. “I’m thanking you for keeping the zombies off our asses.”
Doddridge looked up at Corbett with wide eyes. He figured it out in an instant, and he struggled to get to his feet. “No way, motherfucker! No way!”
Corbett pulled his 1911 and shot Doddridge in the right thigh. The prisoner collapsed back to the asphalt with a snarl, blood already staining his prison uniform. Corbett was pretty sure the round had shattered the man’s femur.
The big man with the beard grunted and charged, knocking the guard aside. Corbett spun and fired, hitting the man in the pelvis twice. With his hands cuffed behind his back, the big man couldn’t catch himself, so he fell face-first onto the street. He rolled over onto his back. His glower was gone now, replaced by a grimace of pain and fear.
“Please, sir,” the skinny black kid said. “Please.”
“I am sorry, son,” Corbett said, meaning it. He didn’t know what the young man had been incarcerated for, but his chance to repay society had ended with the apocalypse. Corbett shot the kid in the leg.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Lasher asked. Beside him, Meredith Sinclair continued hammering away at the dead. She was the one who was principally holding them back, firing like a machine that paused only to swap out magazines.
Corbett turned toward Hector.
Hector’s eyes looked gigantic behind his glasses. Sweat glistened in his mustache, and dark stain appeared on his crotch, streaming down his left leg. “Barry, please—”
“Oh, it’s Barry now, is it?” Corbett shouted over the gunfire. “Sorry, Hector. All of this? It’s on you. It’s on you.”
Hector’s shouted plea was drowned out by the .45’s roar. He fell with a shriek, his glasses flying from his face when he hit the street. The slide on Corbett’s pistol locked back, and he ejected the magazine, pocketed it, and inserted a fresh one.
“You fuckin’ piece of shit!” Doddridge snarled. He struggled to sit up. His leg was pumping out a lot of crimson, and Corbett wondered if he might bleed out before the stenches got to him. “I’ll fuckin’ come back as a zombie and hunt you down, motherfucker!”
“Better find a wheelchair first.” Corbett looked up at Lasher and Meredith. “Let’s go, both of you! Leave them here!” He holstered his .45 and pulled his rifle off his shoulder. As he stepped back, he bumped into Sinclair. The Brit had his camera raised, apparently having recorded the entire thing.
“Catch my good side?” Corbett snapped.
“I’m not sure,” Sinclair replied, his face ashen. “History will likely have to be the judge.”
Lasher was backpedaling toward him, sweat pouring off his face. “Why, Mr. Corbett?”
“Why do you think, Lasher? We need to slow them up somehow. You want to see another day? Then come on!” Corbett spun and started back toward the first vehicle.
His driver followed, wearing a distantly-shocked expression. He made no comment on what he had just seen. Lasher swore and fell in line. Meredith continued to drop zombies. Sinclair called her name, and Corbett glanced back over his shoulder. She shot a few more then turned to walk away.
Doddridge lurched toward her, reaching out, but she easily avoided him. “Fucking bitch!” he cried.
Hector blubbered for her to stop, but she ignored him and caught up to the others. Corbett led them to where Suzy had created a hole through the razor wire by loosening the tension on one strand. The security guard from Corbett’s Expedition climbed up onto the barrier and gripped the strand with both hands while standing on the one immediately below it. He pulled upward, opening a sizable gap between the two rows of wire. Victor went first and got through without cutting himself. Corbett was surprised to find he managed it as well.
Screaming erupted as the zombies made it to the men he had hobbled. Corbett didn’t try to shut it out. He heard it all as the prisoners, along with Hector Aguilar, met their grisly ends. He helped the Sinclairs across. By that time, the herd creeping up from the south was closing on their position, and Corbett joined Victor and the others at the barrier wall as they went to guns on them.
Even though the zombies had to walk through a virtual gauntlet, they stormed the wires then clambered atop the Jersey barriers to get at the living on the other side. Mike Hailey cut himself on the arm as he moved through the gap, but he still turned to fight as soon as his feet hit the ground on the other side. The driver was next, and he practically swan-dived through the opening without even tearing his pants. Officer Lasher was slower. The old cop’s hands were shaking, and he was breathing hard. The last member of Corbett’s security team on the other side screamed for him to move his fat ass.
Lasher stepped into the opening, just as the zombies reached Corbett’s man behind him. Corbett grabbed Lasher’s arm, intending to yank him all the way across, razor wire be damned. Instead, the zombies got a hold of him and pulled him back. More glommed onto the security man as he tried to get to the opening, and he was taken down.
Screams filled the air.
OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA
Reese stood on the bridge of the dive boat, leaning against the rear bulkhead, as the craft approached the position of the larger boat ahead. They knew the vessel’s name was the Argosy, and that it was waiting for an extraction, whatever that meant. They also knew the boat had armed men aboard, and her skipper was telling the Port Police vessel to stay clear, even after they had identified themselves as law enforcement. The Argosy wasn’t having any of that, and a second voice came over the radio.
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Lennon of the United States Marine Corps. If you close inside of six hundred meters, you will be fired upon and your vessel destroyed. Final warning. Turn away. Argosy, out.”
The bridge crew all looked at each other.
Bay snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, okay. Someone’s up to no good.”
“So we’re going to keep rolling up on them?” Reese asked. On one of the displays, he could see an image of the vessel, a big motor yacht, a real gold plater. Though the infrared camera didn’t have enough fidelity to make image crystal clear, Reese thought the men on the deck were holding rifles, but the things in their hands could possibly be boat hooks, harpoons, or even fishing rods.
“We’re going to get close enough to get a good visual,” Bay said. He stepped toward the pilothouse windows and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
Out on the bow, other men were doing the same thing. One of them was Plosser, and Reese perked up when the tall National Guardsman started waving and yelling while looking back at the dive boat’s helm deck.
“What the hell is he saying?” the cop manning the helm asked.
“I got no idea. I don’t speak dogface,” Bay said. He gave Plosser an exaggerated shrug that basically said,
Guy, what the fuck?
Plosser picked his way back from the pitching bow, his face hard. He shouldered into the pilothouse a moment later. “Yeah, you guys might want to turn the fuck away,” Plosser snapped.
Bay smirked. “Funny, I don’t remember you being in charge, big guy.”
Plosser looked around the helm deck. “You guys have any armor? Ballistic shielding?”
Bay clucked his tongue. “No one’s going to get shot, Plosser.”
Plosser moved to stand directly in front of Bay, fairly towered over the man. “Hey, asshole, those guys have M203s and squad automatic weapons on that boat. Since I know you’re all nautical and stuff and don’t know the difference between a SAW and a bra, I’ll spell it out for you. They have machine guns.”
“Oh, bullshit!” Bay turned back to the windows and peered through his binoculars again. “All I see are what might be some long-barreled ARs.”
“Okay. I could stand here wasting time trying to make you understand the difference between shit and Shinola, or I could get to the back of the boat and potentially survive. Later, dude.” Plosser pivoted and headed for the boat’s muster area. As he passed Reese, he said, “You probably don’t want to stand there, Detective. The other side of the bulkhead might be a better place to be.”
As Plosser left the helm deck, Bay was still peering at the big yacht, but the other men on the bow were starting to look fidgety. One turned back toward the pilothouse and began to motion to the right.
Bay finally lowered the binoculars and looked at the wet compass on the console. “Okay,” he said wearily. “Let’s come around to two-seventy. Just in case.”
###
Norton watched the silver-gray vessel turn to starboard and tack away from his yacht. “Well, Lennon, your people skills suck, but you sure did a better job than I did,” Norton said.
Even though Norton had hailed the inbound boat several times on two different frequencies, there hadn’t been a response. Only after Lennon had snatched the microphone away and broadcasted his simple message did the inbound track turn off. Norton had already started the Pacific Mariner’s engines and raised its anchors, preparing to leave the area. He could see the approaching vessel through the Argosy’s top-notch FLIR mounted on the flybridge’s big fiberglass overhead. He recognized the aluminum-hulled catamaran as the LA Port Police boat, and he knew it had a three-knot speed advantage over the Argosy. It wouldn’t be the fastest chase in the world, but eventually, the cops would have caught up.
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