“Roger?”
There was gunfire then, three rapid bangs that made people scream again. Someone was repeating “Oh, God!” over and over, and Reese had the impression it was one of the desk people Whittaker and Renee had been talking to.
“Did you get him?” Renee asked in the distance, her voice small but terrified. “Is he down?”
“Yeah, he’s down,” Whittaker said then, his voice growing stronger. There was a momentary scuffle, and then he was back on the line with Reese. “Hey, sorry about that.”
“Roger, what the hell just happened?”
“Uh, it looks like our dead guy came back to life and started chomping on people. Listen, Reese, I had to put the guy down. Looks like I’m about to be part of an officer involved shooting investigation, so—”
“I’m on my way,” Reese said, hanging up.
###
Something was definitely wrong with Los Angeles.
Gary Norton had been paying attention to the news, so he had some advance warning that things in the Southland were beginning to deteriorate past the usual malaise of crime, strident car alarms, perpetual traffic, and helicopters ceaselessly flying overhead. In fact, he had had even earlier warning than most that not all was right in the world, when he had spoken to his friend and usual investor, Walid bin Rashid, one of the wealthy princes of Saudi Arabia.
“Gary, my friend, there is something very wrong here in Riyadh,” Walid had told him directly during a telephone conversation. That was unusual for Walid in particular, as Norton had always known him to be a circumspect individual, not given to sudden outbursts of gossip. Despite having billions in his possession, Walid was still a shrewd businessman, and he knew well enough that to allow associates to become too intimate would give them undue advantage in future business dealings. “I’m thinking of coming to America for a while.”
“Well, that’s fantastic!” Norton had said, delighted that he might be able to meet Walid. He had another production on the slate, and he could use an infusion of capital to get it packaged, so he could shop it around to a few studios. Walid was usually good for twenty to thirty million right off the bat, and always declined the usual executive producer credit that such an investment generally conferred. The Saudi prince was very different from most investors—he didn’t particularly care for the limelight, and he found that the best way to continue growing his wealth was to stay quiet about it. “Coming to Los Angeles, I take it?”
“Actually, no,” Walid said. “I’m thinking of somewhere a little more remote. Los Angeles, New York, Miami ... they’re all international cities. I’m thinking of something with a lower profile.”
“What, Kansas City?” Norton had asked.
Walid declined to answer the question. “What about you, Gary? Do you have a place to go to?”
“What do you mean?”
Walid hesitated for a long moment, then said, “You should pay attention to the news, my friend. I know you’re a different kind of man than most of those Hollywood players. You have a plan, yes?”
“I have many plans, Walid. What plan did you have in mind?” he asked.
“A safe place,” Walid said.
“A safe place?” Norton was puzzled by his friend’s response. “Well, I live in Malibu—left Los Angeles proper years ago, but you already know that—”
“No, no, Gary. I mean a safe place. Somewhere you could retreat to when ... when things get ‘out of hand,’ as I believe you Americans might say.”
“Ah. That. Well, as a matter of fact, I do. Care to join me there?” Norton asked. He was actually joking, because he couldn’t imagine the prince hooking up with him in a podunk town in the California desert. Though it would be priceless to see Walid and his entourage of body guards and sycophants try to blend in amongst the residents of Single Tree, California.
“No, thank you. I’m good,” Walid said. “Listen, Gary. I’m leaving in two hours. I called to tell you to pay attention to the news. There’s something going on in the Middle East, and it’s already started in Riyadh. Did you know the US military has recalled its forces from Qatar?”
“No. Is that important?” As one of the biggest producers of adventure films, many of which feature US military components, Norton considered himself to be fairly well informed when it came to military affairs. He knew that the nation had a fairly small but very critical operation in Qatar, mostly to coordinate air movements in and out of the region. It had previously been posted in Saudi Arabia, but after the 9/11 attacks and the start of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM, most of those units had been relocated to Qatar.
“It’s extremely important,” Walid said. “Not just to the US, but to this region. It’s something to think about, Gary. You should start making plans,” Walid added, before Norton could respond. “And soon, my friend. If I’m right, you do not want to be overtaken by events.”
“What exactly is going on over there, Walid? Can you tell me that?”
“A pandemic,” Walid said, after a long pause. “One that’s extremely lethal, and quite possibly uncontainable. And that’s really all I can say, as the Kingdom is under a media blackout.”
“A pandemic,” Norton said. “Gosh, from the way you’re acting, you’d think that Israel was about to nuke your house.”
“That I could deal with,” Walid said. “This, however, is something entirely different. Gary, I must go now. Be well, my friend.”
And with that, Walid disconnected.
The warning, as surprising as it had been, got Norton thinking. He had an eighty-five foot yacht at a marina in nearby Ventura that he hadn’t had much to do with in a couple of weeks, ever since it had undergone its last maintenance interval. He knew the yacht was well-stocked, as he kept it that way himself as a “get out of jail” card, just in case things hit the fan and he had no recourse. And he had his plane at Bob Hope Airport at Burbank, and the financial wherewithal to hire a bigger aircraft if he needed to cover a greater distance than what was possible in his Phenom 100. He knew the small jet was ready to go, for he paid a premium to keep it maintained, just as he did with all of his possessions. Gary Norton had endured a long, hard slog to arrive at the summit of his profession, and he didn’t treat any hard-won winning as yesterday’s news.
After all, not everyone had their own jet.
Safe and sound in his sprawling home just off the Pacific Coast Highway in the colony of Malibu, California, Gary Norton felt as safe and secure as any man possibly could. But his friend from the Middle East, a man whose wealth and station was miles above his, and who was surrounded by an elite corps of bodyguards, had called him and told him to watch the news. And with fear in his voice.
Norton did just that.
At first, there was little mention of the goings-on in the Middle East, beyond the usual. Israel had closed off the Gaza Strip yet again, Iran was continuing to threaten everyone, and Iraq was its usual basket case, for once loitering about in the shadows of even bigger basket cases, most notably Syria and Egypt. There was no concrete mention of a “pandemic,” though there were minor reports of a medical situation in Saudi Arabia. One that was being handled expertly, of course.
Two hours later, all air travel in and out of the Kingdom had been halted.
###
By the time Reese got to Cedars, the place was a madhouse. There were cops all over the place, including the SWAT team from the North Hollywood Station. Reese thought that was a bit odd, and he wondered if this meant there was more going on than just an officer-involved shooting of a civilian. It took forever for him to find a space to park his car, even though he was driving a black and white Shamu, one of the LAPD detective cars that looked like a patrol cruiser only without roof-mounted lights and siren. Making sure his ID was in plain sight, Reese headed for the emergency department, located at ground level in the hospital’s north tower. It was a relatively long walk—he’d parked near the corner of George Burns Road and Beverly Drive, so it wasn’t like he just had to cross a street to g
et this destination. Outside of the Emergency Department entrance, a uniformed cop challenged him, despite Reese’s ID.
“One of my detectives was involved in a shooting,” he told the cop.
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Roger Whittaker,” Reese said.
“No, which shooting?”
That confused Reese. “What do you mean? How many shootings have there been in this place today?”
“Six,” the patrolman responded.
###
When he finally got inside, Reese found Whittaker and Gonzales sitting in a waiting area that had been taken over by the LAPD. Both looked pretty shell-shocked, but then and again, so did a lot of the cops in the area. There were plainclothes guys in tactical vests, uniformed patrol officers, and SWAT members holding assault rifles and body bunkers. All were milling around, and there seemed to be no semblance of order.
“Guys, what’s going on?” Reese asked when he finally threaded his way through the crowd to where his detectives leaned against one wall.
“It’s like the Wild West out here, man,” Whittaker said. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but Reese saw a tremor run through his lower lip.
“Yeah, okay. Once again, what’s going on?”
“Roger had to shoot the guy who was bitten,” Gonzales said.
“Yeah, let’s talk about that,” Reese said. “You told me he was dead, Rog. Then he jumped off the table and started biting people?”
Whittaker nodded. “Yeah, man. That’s exactly it.”
Reese made a show of looking around the room. “I don’t see George Romero anywhere.”
“That’s not funny, man. It happened exactly like you said. Guy was dead, the doctors told us he was dead, then the next thing I know, he comes out of the emergency area dragging an IV tree from his arm and starts biting people. Ripped one girl’s neck out with his teeth, man.”
“Anyone interview you about the shooting?” Reese asked.
“They all started biting people, John,” Gonzales said. “All the people who were bitten, they died. Then they came back. And started attacking people.”
“Hey, now,” Reese said. “Let’s back up a bit—”
“There’s another one!” someone shouted outside, and the mass of cops inside the waiting room turned toward the windows. Everyone reached for their weapons, including Reese. He had his Glock 17 in his hand before he realized it, and he wondered just what the hell he was doing, pulling his weapon without cause. Whittaker and Gonzales had their pistols out as well. So did the dozen or so other cops near them.
From outside, three shots echoed between the north and south towers. Someone screamed, and Reese saw people—hospital staff, he presumed—run past the windows, crouching low.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked aloud.
“The zombie apocalypse,” Gonzalez said.
Reese moved toward the window, keeping his pistol at low ready. Outside, several uniforms were already surrounding a motionless body that lay in the street. One cop kept his shotgun trained on the figure while the others slowly crept toward it. One of the officers kicked the body on the ground, and it didn’t move. The man with the shotgun said something to the others, and a debate seemed to ensue. Reese watched all of this, confused by everything.
“Ha, no one wants to try and cuff the zombie,” one of the SWAT guys said.
“Hell, it might not be dead, so I wouldn’t want to get near it, either,” said another.
“What the fuck is going on?” Reese asked.
The SWAT guy next to him gave him a sidelong look for a moment. “Aren’t you one of the detectives out of Hollywood Division?”
“Yeah. Detective Three Reese from the homicide desk. You know what’s going on?”
“The zombie apocalypse,” the SWAT guy said.
“Yeah, I heard that all ready. I mean, what’s really going on?”
“You really don’t know?” asked another cop.
“Nope.” Reese didn’t turn to look at whomever it was who had spoken. He watched as one of the cops outside finally got his nut up and pulled out a pair of handcuffs after holstering his sidearm and snapping on a pair of latex gloves.
“It’s happening all over the city,” the second cop said. “In every hospital, and lots of clinics and doctor offices. People come in sick, die, and then start running around biting people. The people who get bitten die in about twenty minutes, I’ve heard.”
“Yeah? Then what?” Reese slowly slipped his Glock back into its holster.
“They wake up and start biting people themselves.”
Reese turned and looked through the crowd at Whittaker and Gonzales. They hadn’t come to the window with the rest of the cops. Whittaker just shrugged.
“Zombies, huh?” Reese said. “Guess someone’s made a run on the bath salts industry again.”
###
Norton stayed glued to the news for a good part of the afternoon. Things were definitely going pear-shaped in Los Angeles. All throughout the basin, there was a flurry of police and emergency services activity. People were attacking each other, and hospital emergency rooms were being flooded with victims all across the Southland. And there were a slew of unverified reports that indicated many of those victims had been bitten by their attackers, and they in turn went into some sort of short-lived medical distress that ended with the victim expiring.
Only they didn’t stay dead.
Norton trolled the Internet, looking for clues. He found there was nothing new coming out of Saudi Arabia, though the Arabic-speaking sites were flooded with graphic images of cities burning, mass shootings by military and government forces, and some of the most grotesque scenes of savagery that Norton had ever seen, be it real or imagined. It seemed that people were literally being eaten alive, and several images that were purportedly taken in Jeddah showed a dusty street awash with blood, discarded limbs, torn clothing, and shredded flesh. And walking amidst the carnage were men, women, and children, faces blackened with crusted gore as they hunched over human remains, stuffing them into their mouths.
As a movie producer, Norton was used to dealing with fantasy on a daily basis. In fact, he had once made a zombie movie that had gone on to earn him millions—the practical effects alone had cost two million to produce, and that bought him a lot of mangled prosthetic appliances, animatronic bodies, and gallons of fake blood. But what he saw on the Arabic sites left him sickened.
Is this what Walid was calling about?
There was little doubt. Norton found that more cities in the Middle East were falling victim to the same cycle of events. Israel had closed its doors, just as Saudi Arabia had done, and the entire IDF had been put on high alert and mobilized to several key areas inside the small country. There was intense fighting in Lebanon, which was blamed on Israel, but there was no evidence documenting Israeli forces were conducting any offensive operations. Things seemed static in Syria, with rebel forces continuing to duke it out with the national military, but that meant nothing—Norton knew that Syrian forces wouldn’t comment on anything other than the rebels and their attacks. The United Arab Emirates, Qatar, and Bahrain seemed to be one long swath of destruction. Amman had released a public statement, indicating that its military was involved in several “sustainment operations” throughout the nation, whatever that meant. There was some activity in Iraq as well, and Iran had released statements regarding American and Zionist actions directed against the Islamic Republic of Iran were doomed to fail. Norton shook his head at that. Those whacky Iranians, always giving the rest of the world the middle finger.
Searching wider, he found more unrest in southern Europe. Greece had gone dark, as had Turkey and parts of Russia. China was reporting civil unrest in its Xinjiang province, and any number of the “stans” in the former USSR were also embroiled in turbulence.
In the US, the mayors of New York, Chicago, Washington, DC, and Atlanta were considering declaring states of emergency. Throughout the northeastern part of
the nation, things were starting to fall apart. Hospitals were overrun with emergencies, and first responders were being driven into the ground. The governor of Massachusetts had called all National Guard units to state active duty, and for good reason: Boston was on fire after an Airbus 340 airliner had crashed on approach to Logan International Airport, only not everyone had been killed. People emerged from the flaming morass, horribly burned, and they attacked the firemen responding to the crash.
Norton felt a stab of fear in his heart. How could people survive a fiery airliner crash, and then go on to attack their rescuers?
In the distance, he heard a siren wail. While his home was only a little more than five hundred feet from the Pacific Coast Highway, it was a rare occurrence for him to hear anything other than the occasional helicopter or the rumble of a delivery truck cruising up his driveway. He pushed back in his chair and got up, stepping onto the balcony outside his office that overlooked the back portion of his property. The Pacific continued to slam into the rocky beach at the foot of the hillside, and a couple of surfers cavorted in the cold waters, waiting for a decent-sized wave to ride. Another siren wailed, growing louder as it passed his property, then diminishing as it raced away.
Norton ran a hand over his short brown hair, and was surprised to discover he was sweating, despite the cool ocean breeze that rolled over him. He didn’t know what was going on, but the world seemed to be suddenly sliding off the rails.
But one thing stuck out. In many of the reports he had read and videos he had watched, it had been made plain that air travel was being severely disrupted. Los Angeles was already feeling some pain, and he wondered when the apparent pandemic might grow so large that state and federal authorities might order the airports closed?
He returned to his office and began searching for traffic reports. Sig-Alerts were everywhere, affecting every freeway and Caltrans system in the area. “Sig-Alerts” are unique to Southern California, coming about in the 1940s when the LAPD got in the habit of alerting a local radio reporter, Loyd Sigmon, of bad car wrecks on city streets. These notifications became known as Sig-Alerts, and denoted any traffic incident that tied up two or more lanes of a freeway for two or more hours. Judging by the traffic maps, the 101 and 405 were already basket cases, displayed as solid red lines. The Pacific Coast Highway itself was yellow, which meant that traffic was moving at less than the legal speed limit. He was heartened to see that Burbank was still showing mostly green, which indicated to him that whatever was happening in the rest of the city, it hadn’t started slamming through the eastern part of the San Fernando Valley just yet. Still, it didn’t bode well. He needed to get to Burbank, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to make it.
The Last Town (Book 1): Rise of the Dead Page 3