Narvaez looked at Reese with a frown. “Detective, are you plugged in to what’s happening in the rest of the world at all?”
“Hollywood’s my beat.”
Narvaez grunted. “Huh. Okay. Well anyway, Europe is about to tip over into the Dark Ages all over again. Russia’s pretty much gone—there’s a huge artillery fight going on outside of Moscow. Back east, there are substantial infestations of stenches now, in just about every metropolitan area, but New York City has it the worst in the nation. Two days ago, everything was under control, and the NYPD and New York Guard were exterminating the stenches wherever they found them. Then the balloon popped, and now there are thousands of them in the city. Maybe even hundreds of thousands, by now.”
“No shit,” Reese said, not particularly interested but keenly aware that the new information did nothing to diminish the sense of anxiety he felt. As a homicide detective, Reese had pretty much seen it all. In a city the size of Los Angeles, and a division as busy as Hollywood, he’d been exposed to a litany of heinous crimes, from gang killings that no one cared about to white-collar murder among the Hollywood elite which made the front pages. Solving homicides required attention to detail and a mastery of several disciplines, including investigatory and forensic. Zombies or “stenches” weren’t something Reese had any experience with.
Until that guy ate his baby ...
“Yeah, no shit,” Narvaez said. “Air travel in the east is shut down, there’s a ground stop at every airport. I would imagine that’s going to be nationwide in a couple of hours. Airplanes are probably the best way to spread infected persons around the country, you know?” The soldier pointed toward the first Chinook as it slowly advanced toward the parking garage. “Okay, you guys might want to stand back a bit, these Chinooks have a rotor wash that moves at about a hundred ten miles an hour. Let us get our vehicles out, and then we’ll figure out the surface movement to your police station.”
“Surface movement?” Reese asked. “We can just drive or walk there, Captain.”
“Nothing’s as simple as that, Detective. Once you have the military in the mix, everything gets complex.”
“Good to know,” Reese said, thinking that things were complex enough already.
SINGLE TREE, CA
Norton had just watched the lone FBO attendant at Single Tree’s airport tow his Phenom into the hangar and was making to follow him in to do a final inspection when the roar of approaching jet engines caught his attention. He turned at the hangar threshold just in time to see a Gulfstream G650 coast in on its incredibly wide wings, its big flaps lowered like two tapering billboards to slow the massive jet so it could land. The engines went from a roar to a full-on bellow as the massive jet’s thrust reversers were activated. Along with judicious braking from the pilots, the sleek, sixty-seven-million-dollar aircraft slowed to taxiing speed well before it reached the end of the runway and executed a smart one-hundred-eighty-degree turn so it could amble back to the taxiway. Its landing lights gleamed brightly in the late afternoon sun.
“Well, I guess you’re not the only jet driver to come in today,” said the FBO attendant, a slender Mexican man named Enrico. “You ever meet Mister Corbett, Mister Norton?”
Norton nodded. “Oh, yeah. He’s okay once you get past the sourpuss Vietnam veteran suffering from PTSD. We actually worked together, once. I hired him as a consultant for that TV series I did five years ago—”
“The one about the Marines? Khe Sanh? On HBO?”
“That’s the one.”
“That show was awesome, Mister Norton! I didn’t know you did that! How was it working with Mister Corbett?”
Norton only shrugged. Truth be told, Norton and Corbett got along all right, though the older man had no trouble telling Norton that some of his tricks were all bullshit to please the suits at HBO and grab some ratings. It had been the network’s highest-rated miniseries since Band of Brothers over a decade before, so Corbett had apparently been right.
As the jet drew nearer to the parking area, Enrico grabbed the orange wands.
“Sorry, Mister Norton, I’ve gotta go,” he said, tucking the wands under one arm so he could grab his earmuffs with both hands and slide them over his ears.
“No problem, Enrico. Thanks, man.”
Enrico hopped on the small tow motor and drove it out of the hangar. Norton was happy to see he’d had the presence of mind of uncouple it from the Phenom’s nose gear before taking off. Norton watched the big, beautiful Gulfstream roll into the parking area as Enrico parked the tow motor and hopped off. Using the wands, he guided the silver-on-white jet into position on the pad, its two large turbofan engines wailing. It finally came to a halt, and the turbines wound down into a descending growl. Norton had to admit, he was envious. Corbett’s jet was one beautiful bird, but it had been built for men and women who preferred the cabin to the cockpit. Norton’s Phenom 100 suited him just fine.
He turned away from the big Gulfstream as its boarding ramp descended and tended to his own aircraft. The plane had already been refueled, so that was taken care of. He placed chocks in front and behind all of the tires, put the shrouds over the pitot tubes, and using a small stepladder, placed the bright red plugs into the engine intakes, just to ensure no dirt or debris managed to enter the engines. There was nothing worse than sucking some foreign object into a jet engine where the turbine blades were rotating several thousand times a minute.
“Hey, Norton. What’s your net worth today?” said a gruff voice.
Norton finished tying off the plug in the number two engine and descended the small stepladder. He turned and faced Barry Corbett, watching as the taller, older man looked up at the Phenom jet beside him.
“About four hundred million. If the banks are still around tomorrow and the markets are open, maybe I’ll be another million or so richer. How about you?”
“Oh, I stopped keeping track after nine billion,” Corbett said. He reached out and put his hand on the side of the Phenom’s pointed nose. “You know, you take the seats out of this thing, and you’d have yourself a fighter jet.”
“That’s why I fly it. We should take a spin sometime.”
“Going to be a long wait for that. You planning on staying for a while?”
Norton folded up the stepladder and carried it toward the rear of the hangar. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”
“National airspace is going to be sanitized in three hours,” Corbett said.
Norton stopped and looked back at him. Corbett leaned against the Phenom casually, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He crossed his skinny, leathery arms across his chest. Despite his age, Norton still got the impression Corbett’s muscles moved like pythons under his polo shirt.
“Say again?” he asked.
Corbett smiled cryptically. “All civilian aircraft east of the mighty Mississip are grounded. No new flights have departed in two hours. In another three hours or so, the FAA and Homeland Security are going to start scrubbing the rest of the airspace. By late tonight, the only planes in the sky will be military.”
“How the hell do you know that?” Norton asked. He thought of Chris Simpkiss, who was still probably flying people back and forth in his JetRanger.
“You know very well the most valuable commodity money can buy is information,” Corbett said. “Though some information is a lot more expensive than others. So if you were planning on just having yourself a twelve-thousand-dollar burger at the Burger Hop, you might want to consider getting the hell out of here before the curtain falls.”
Norton said nothing for a moment, then continued walking toward the rear of the hangar with the stepladder. “Burger Hop’s food isn’t worth a flight back here. And I hate to break it to you, but a Phenom’s operating costs aren’t twelve grand an hour.”
“My mistake. Guess you didn’t spring for the afterburner option. So you’re staying for a while, are you?”
Norton leaned the stepladder against the back wall and headed back toward his plane. H
is bags were right next to where Corbett stood.
“Looks like,” he said.
A white Ford Expedition pulled up in front of the hangar. Two men got out of the vehicle and looked toward Corbett expectantly. They were younger than Norton, and their demeanor indicated to him that they were Corbett’s personal security detail. He figured they would be ex-military, most likely Marine Corps. Corbett was particular about who he entrusted with his life. Both men watched Norton openly behind their dark sunglasses, and Norton had no doubt they were armed.
“Tell your guys I’m strapped,” he said to Corbett. “Just in case they get antsy if I outline.”
“Well, good for you. What’re you carrying?”
“Smith and Wesson Shield.”
“Nine millimeter or forty caliber?”
“Nine. Forty is just too snappy for me.”
Corbett nodded. “I agree with you on that. But as nice as the Shield is, you should just man up and go with a 1911.” The older man lifted up the front of his polo shirt, and strapped to his waist was an M1911 .45 caliber pistol. Norton nodded when he saw it.
“Nice. I’ve got one, too. Sig-Sauer P220R3.”
Corbett frowned. “That’s not a 1911, son.”
“No. But it is a forty-five.”
Corbett grunted. “Well, if you think a German piece of shit is going to save your bacon, that’s on you. You got plans for the next couple of hours?”
Norton looked down at his bags, then back at the security guys waiting patiently in the sun. Beyond them, the Gulfstream’s two pilots and attendant were doing a walk around the big jet while Enrico backed the tow motor toward its nose gear. He saw several other people—again, ex-military by their bearing—removing bag after bag from the aircraft’s luggage bay.
“Other than a shower and unpacking, not really. Jesus, Corbett, how many bags did you bring with you, man?”
Corbett turned and glanced back at the jet, then faced Norton again. “I usually travel a little lighter than that, but these are interesting times, my friend.”
Norton nodded. “They are, indeed. You planning on sheltering here in Single Tree?”
“Wouldn’t last long in Dallas. Not once the shit hits the fan. Seems like you might feel the same way, seeing as you’re out here from your fancy sex palace in Malibu. Am I right?”
Norton nodded again. “Yeah, well, like you said. Interesting times. There’s some bad stuff going down in LA right now, and it seemed like maybe I’d be better off here.”
Corbett looked at Norton for a long moment. “Norton, I want to ask you a question.”
“What?”
“You’re not a fag, are you?”
Norton snorted. “What?”
“You heard me. It doesn’t matter to me if you are, but I just want to know now. You’re a pretty good-looking guy with a shitload of money, and you’ve never been married. So you’re either unlucky in love, or you’re gay. Seeing as how you’re in show business, it’s even money you’re one or the other.”
“I’m not gay, Corbett. And I’m not unlucky in love, either. I just haven’t found the right girl to commit to. Not that it’s any of your fucking business, right?”
“At my age, fucking is hardly my business,” Corbett said. “But I’m just trying to get the lay of the land with you. Looks like we might be working together again, and I know you’re attentive and organized and aren’t afraid of getting your lily whites dirty. I can use you.”
“Use me for what, Corbett?”
Corbett turned again and pointed past the airport manager’s office building and the tiny FBO shack. Beyond the structures were two parking lots, and Norton saw both were full of semi-trucks and their cargo trailers. Norton had noticed them while flying the Phenom in the right pattern before coming in to land.
“I’ve brought some gifts to the people of Single Tree,” he said. “Some pretty useful stuff, but when people find out that I’m the official gift-giver, a lot of people here won’t want what I’ve got. And that could be a major problem. The world is tearing itself apart out there, Norton, and we don’t have a whole lot of time to get ready. So I might need you and your pretty face and your smooth style to help me bring some people around.”
“Uh, like who, exactly?”
“Like Max Booker, for one. Then Greg Brockwell, and that pissant whiner Hector Aguilar.”
Norton shook his head. “Don’t follow you here, Corbett. What is it you want me to do?”
Corbett turned back to him. With one veined hand, he pulled his sunglasses off his leathered, weather-beaten face and looked at him with his brilliant eyes.
“I need you to help me persuade them that we need to prepare for what’s coming. Single Tree is all alone out here, and the only people who can save it are us.”
Norton didn’t say anything for a long moment. He looked down at his bags almost longingly. All he wanted to do was get back to his house here in town and step into a hot shower, and now, Barry Corbett was going to fuck up even that simple plan.
“Save Single Tree from what, Corbett?” he finally asked with a heavy sigh.
“I don’t know how much you follow the news, but Europe is about to go dark, and the US isn’t that far behind. It’s already in full swing in New York. In Washington. And as you probably suspect, in Los Angeles. I don’t know how long we have to prepare, but it won’t be very long, and before the dead and the panicked people they’re chasing get here, we have to turn Single Tree from a sleepy little desert town at the foot of the mountains into a fortress.” He smiled and slipped his sunglasses back on. “I don’t know about you, Hollywood, but I don’t want to be eaten alive. So why don’t you take a ride with me into town, and let’s get this show on the road?”
“The dead? What the hell are you talking about?” Norton snapped, even though he already knew.
Corbett smiled again. “It’s the zombie apocalypse, Norton.” He bent down and picked up one of Norton’s bags. “Here, I’ll give you hand with this. Let’s go.”
TO BE CONTINUED
The Last Town (Book 1): Rise of the Dead Page 6