The Last Town (Book 6): Surviving the Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  Some things you just can’t plan for.

  Before heading off to shower, Lennon had contacted Corbett directly from the ship’s satellite phone. The security team leader had his own, but it was inoperative, likely from when he’d dived into the water outside the boat channel. The unit would still power up, but it would not transmit. It didn’t matter; Norton’s boat was a top-shelf affair, so satellite phones weren’t a big deal to him. Norton didn’t get much of an update from Lennon after his brief conversation with Corbett, and he was of a mind to redial the billionaire’s number and get some information directly from the horse’s mouth. He knew Corbett would be busy, so he demurred on making the call.

  He also had a healthy fear of bad news. There was always a chance something had happened to his parents, or Dani. And he just couldn’t face that right now. So he sipped hot coffee while sitting in a well-padded Stidd helm chair, wishing he could add some whiskey to the brew to take some of the edge off. He busied himself checking the instruments. The yacht was running on generator power, and fuel was not a concern at the moment. He’d also started up the water-making system; with that, he could transform three hundred gallons of seawater into potable water per day. No one would be going thirsty any time soon.

  Lennon appeared, climbing up the curved gangway that led downstairs to the forward staterooms. He was freshly showered and wore a pair of board shorts and a polo pullover that Norton had given him while his tactical uniform was washed and dried in the utility room off the companionway below. The middle-aged former Marine still managed to look formidable in the getup.

  “How are you feeling? Warmed up?” Norton asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks. Hell of a boat you have here, Norton.” Lennon looked at Norton’s mug. “I could use one of those.”

  Norton jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Behind the dinette directly abaft of the helm station was the galley, complete with stainless-steel appliances, cherry wood cabinetry, stone countertops, and a Keurig coffeemaker.

  “Help yourself,” he said. “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 set about brewing a cup. He rummaged through the selection of K-cups next to the Keurig. “What, no hazelnut?”

  “I don’t drink feminine coffee,” Norton said. “All bold or breakfast blends, those are your choices.”

  Lennon snorted, made a selection, and dropped it into the brewer. It hissed as it poured hot coffee into the mug he placed on the filling tray. “What’s this boat’s range?”

  “Depends on how fast we go,” Norton said. “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,” Lennon said.

  “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. He considered it for a moment before slowly nodding. “Yeah, that’s not bad.”

  “I’m so glad you approve. I was worried you might leave a bad review of the selection on Yelp or something.”

  “Yelp?”

  Norton sighed and waved that away. “Never mind.” He looked at the radar display, considering the contacts that were out there. Most were small, but there was one that was actually generating a pretty decent return. A good-sized boat, making maybe seventeen, eighteen knots.

  “Everything all right?” Lennon was suddenly next to Norton, looking down at the displays.

  “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 pointed at the larger return. “Running on plane, heading in our general direction. Came from the other side of Santa Cruz Island. Was originally heading for the mainland, but now he’s altered his course.”

  Lennon lowered his mug. “Coming for us?”

  Norton shrugged. “A boat that size probably has a radar system that can see for about forty miles or so. He can see us.”

  “How big is it?”

  “Fifty feet, give or take.”

  Lennon regarded the display 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 get to us?”

  “Five, 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?”

  “Mendoza 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.” The voice came from the main salon behind the galley. “What’s up?”

  “Boat approaching from the northwest. Tell the guys to get on their guns, just in case.”

  “Oorah, on it!” Norton turned and looked down the companionway beside the galley. He saw Browning sprint up the stairs to the flybridge.

  “Call him,” Lennon said, nodding toward the display.

  Norton flipped frequencies, from sixteen to nine.

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  Corbett regarded the hideously pale faces that surrounded the immobilized SUV as steam rose from the vehicle’s shattered front end. The Expedition rocked slightly from side to side as the zombies pressed against it, slapping at the glass and sheet metal with their hands. Sometimes, they left bloody smears on the glass. These ghouls had just eaten, and they were still looking for more.

  “My God, we’re trapped,” Sinclair moaned from the back of the vehicle.

  “We’re still alive,” said the guard in the front passenger seat as the driver spoke into his radio. “Just stay where you are and wait for support to arrive.”

  Corbett glared back at the zombies outside his door. More arrived, surging against the vehicle, practically slamming their bodies into it. The SUV rocked again, and he heard its metal frame grating along the top of the Jersey barriers.

  “Any chance we can drive off this?” he asked.

  “I’ve been trying to start it, sir. No dice,” said the driver. “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. The rest of the small convoy was halted a distance away. Corbett twisted in his seat, but couldn’t see much past Sinclair. The Brit 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!”

  As he spoke, 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, and then another. The security guards in the rest of the convoy were attacking forward, in true Marine Corps style, presenting the enemy with overwhelming force. In moments, Corbett saw he now had enough room to open the door and step out if he chose to do so. Which would be madness. So that’s what he did.

  “Sir!” shouted one of the security guards.

  Corbett pushed open the door, its hinges squealing. He stepped out into the day, his boots landing right on the cold bodies of the dead. Raising his .45, he popped three zombies as they ambled toward him, invigorated by his emergence from the battered vehicle. He reached back into the Expedition and pulled out his rifle as the driver crawled ou
t as well. Corbett had to help him with the door. The fender had shifted backward, and it prevented the door from opening easily. Even with the two of them working, it wasn’t easy to push it open.

  And the zombies kept coming.

  “Barry, what exactly are you doing?” Corbett looked over as Victor sidled up to him. He didn’t wait for any response, just opened up on the approaching dead with his rifle. Hot cartridges bounced off Corbett and the driver’s doorframe. The driver even caught a few in the face, but didn’t react as he grabbed up Corbett and hauled 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 appeared, creeping onto the Jersey barriers. The razor wire there held them up, but it was a temporary circumstance. 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.” As he spoke, the razor wire runs atop one of the Jersey barriers gave way, and a flood of zombies crashed to the street behind the convoy. More gunfire rang out as Officers Hailey and Lasher opened up, backed by some of the townspeople. He noticed Meredith Sinclair was back there, leaning into her rifle, firing hate into the stenches like it was nobody’s business. 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?”

  Suzy emerged from the Expedition in a sudden hurry as the front passenger window imploded and several ghouls reached in. She hauled her rifle out after her, glanced at the zombie elements in front and behind, then turned back and yanked out Sinclair as he fumbled over the backseat.

  “He’s right, Uncle. 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. He wasn’t giving in to fear, but Corbett saw he wasn’t really adapting to the rather fluid circumstances. He 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 reaching in through the shattered passenger side window. He pushed the driver’s door closed as soon as he was clear. Corbett did the same with the rear door once Sinclair tumbled out, still holding his camera.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it,” Victor said to Corbett. “We have maybe a minute before they’re too concentrated to hold back.” As he spoke, more dead hands pulled at the rows of razor wire next to the Expedition. One particularly agile stench managed to clamber onto the truck’s dented hood. The security guard next to the driver’s door popped it right 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 an old goat could. He passed the next two vehicles, startling Hailey as he trotted past. The Expedition driver came with him, refusing to leave. That suited Corbett just fine. He stopped at the last vehicle, which was Lasher’s. It was a Single Tree PD Suburban, outfitted for prisoner transport. Old Lasher stood at its left rear fender with Meredith Sinclair, gunning down the dead. Corbett glanced at the overweight cop. He was gasping for air like a fish out of water might deeply desire water.

  “Sir, what’s up?” the driver asked.

  Corbett yanked open the Suburban’s door. Inside were the prisoners that had worked on the details, and Hector Aguilar. The pharmacy owner looked at Corbett with frantic eyes.

  “Corbett, get us out of here!” he shrieked.

  “That’s my intention. Come on!” No sooner than he had spoken the words, one of the black prisoners leaped out of the vehicle. He was in handcuffs, but no leg irons. He tried to bolt past him, but Corbett collared him immediately and threw him to the ground.

  “Hey, what the fuck!” the man yelled.

  “Get them all out, and watch yourself,” Corbett said to the security man. He glared down at the short black man lying on the street. “You Doddridge?” Corbett asked.

  “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. He moved aside as the rest of the prisoners were pulled out of the vehicle: a smaller black man, younger than the one lying on the street before him. Not much more than a kid, really. And the third was a huge, hulking white man with a full beard and long hair who glowered at everyone. Apparently, he was unfazed by the presence of the zombies that were slowly creeping up on them. And Hector, who was cuffed just like the rest of them.

  “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 him in the right thigh as Doddridge tried to get up. He collapsed back to the asphalt street with a snarl as his leg gave out beneath him, and Corbett knew the round had shattered his femur. Blood already stained his prison uniform.

  The big man with the beard grunted and charged forward, knocking Corbett’s security man aside. He took two steps before Corbett shot him too, right in the pelvis—twice. With his hands behind his back, the big man fell face-first to the street, breaking several teeth and probably his jaw. He writhed on the ground and rolled over onto his back. His glower was gone now, replaced by a grimace of pain and fear.

  “Please, sir,” said the last convict, the skinny black kid. “Please.”

  “I am sorry, son,” Corbett said, and in truth he was. 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 him in the leg, and he too went down.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Lasher asked. He couldn’t intervene—zombies were only twenty feet away. 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. One of them already lay at her feet amidst over forty cartridges.

  Corbett turned toward Hector. Hector’s
eyes looked gigantic behind his glasses. Sweat glistened in his mustache, and a 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 went down 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.

  “It’s all on you,” he said to Hector, even though he knew the pudgy pharmacy owner couldn’t hear him over the gunfire and his own screaming.

  “You fuckin’ piece of shit!” Doddridge snarled from where he lay. He struggled to rise into a seated position. He was bleeding badly from his leg, 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 Sinclair’s wife. “Let’s go, both of you! Leave them here!” He holstered his .45 and pulled his rifle off his shoulder. As he stepped back to depart, he bumped right into Sinclair. The Brit had followed him and had recorded the entire thing.