“How’re your parents doing?” he asked.
Norton shrugged. “My dad’s good, though once the news stops coming through, I’ll have to find him something to keep himself occupied. My mother still thinks everything’s going to be fine. She and her friends are having a game of bridge tonight—want to stop by?”
Corbett snorted. “I’ll take a rain check on that one.”
“So you’ll be around if there are questions I can’t handle, right?” Norton asked, tapping the presentation before him.
“You know it,” Corbett said, “but the less I say, the better. I want you to handle this dog and pony show, Norton. You have the pretty face I don’t, and this is as much about identity politics as it is saving the town.”
###
The meeting had gone as well as could have been expected. Several hundred people had shown up, and the council chamber was standing room only. Norton delivered the presentation with a polished ease that impressed Corbett more than he would have thought possible, and took some time to add context by relating his escape from Los Angeles, so many days ago. He covered the important topics of the zombies that had arisen in the town, the death of Chief Grady and the appointment of Victor Kuruk as Single Tree’s acting top cop, and the apprehension of the three remaining escaped convicts. Norton answered questions directly and succinctly, without stumbling, and gave the impression that he knew what he was talking about. Corbett gave himself credit for that last one. After all, he’d spent hours prepping Norton and getting him up to speed.
In the end, the people did want to hear from him, so Corbett had to address the assemblage. Yes, he was paying for everything. No, he didn’t expect or want the town to reimburse him for expenses. No, he was not “taking over” the town from its elected leaders. Yes, he would obey every law and regulation.
“At the end of the day, folks, this is about the town, not me,” Corbett said. “Most of you have known me for a long time. I keep to myself, and don’t get involved in disputes unless I absolutely have to.”
“What about the outsiders who are already in town? The ones who can’t get out?” someone asked. “What happens to them?”
Corbett turned and looked at Max Booker, sitting at the long table on the stage.
“We’ll allow them to stay,” Booker said, looking at Corbett. “They’re Americans, and hospitality and charity are part of who we are.”
Corbett nodded without comment.
“And what about those you turn away?” asked a loud British voice. “What about all those families, trying to get to safety? Leaving them to the tender mercies of the zombies is essentially a human rights crime, isn’t it?”
Corbett sighed and looked into the audience. Jock Sinclair stood up near the middle of the sea of people in the auditorium, wearing a dark blazer over what appeared to be an immaculately-pressed white shirt. He was holding something in his hand—a smart phone, held straight out from his body.
“Excuse me, sir,” Booker said, noticing the phone as well. “Are you recording this session?”
“Yes, I am,” Sinclair said. “I’m Jock Sinclair, host of The Sinclair News Hour, and I’m making an official record of what is happening here.”
“There’s no video taping allowed in this building,” Booker said. “That’s clearly posted in the lobby.”
“I’m a credentialed journalist, and I’m exercising my First Amendment rights,” Sinclair countered.
“Jock, you’re not even an American,” Corbett said.
“Thankfully, your Constitution doesn’t discriminate,” Sinclair responded. “Or so I’ve been told. Though I’ve also heard some animals are more equal than others, right, Barry?”
“Look, I have to ask that you stop recording,” Booker insisted. “If you don’t, you’ll be escorted out.” As he said that last, Booker looked over at Victor, who sat at the end of the table in Chief Grady’s chair. Victor looked at Sinclair with emotionless eyes.
“What do you have to hide here?” Sinclair asked. “If the world is truly coming to an end, wouldn’t a record be perhaps useful for whatever future generations might survive?”
“Let him record,” Hector Aguilar said, smiling broadly beneath his thick mustache. He was enjoying Sinclair’s showboating, which didn’t surprise Corbett at all.
“I agree,” Corbett said, taking delight in the puzzled look that blossomed over Aguilar’s features when he realized Corbett was backing him up. “Let the man make his ‘official record’ of what we do here.” He turned back to Sinclair. “With regards to your question regarding human rights, that might be better directed toward the federal government. After all, the feds are the ones who are supposed to provide protection for the citizens of this nation, and they’re failing miserably. We’ve had escaped criminals enter our town, we’ve had zombie attacks, and we have critical supply issues … but no assistance, from either the federal, state, or county levels. If we’re going to survive, it’s obvious that we need to make some hard choices.”
“And those choices involve sending innocents into harm’s way,” Sinclair said. “Not judging, by the way … just asking,” he added, with a supercilious smile.
“I’m sure your intentions are nothing but noble, Mister Sinclair,” Norton said dryly from the stage before Corbett could respond. His comment brought a brief moment of laughter from the crowd, and Sinclair smiled with them. The smile was expertly faked, Corbett knew. Men like Sinclair never appreciated being laughed at. “But we have to embrace reality here,” Norton continued when the laughter had stopped. “We either try and save more people than we can support, which means in the end everyone dies, or we save just enough to make it through the coming year. It really is an either-or situation.”
“Certainly, you would agree that those you turn away will face nothing but the greatest of hardship,” Sinclair pressed. “Women. Children. Entire families will be wiped out.”
“And your solution to that is for the town of Single Tree to commit suicide, Mister Sinclair?” Norton asked. “To commit seppuku in a demonstration of supporting the common good? We have women, children, and entire families here, too. Because of Mister Corbett’s boundless generosity”—Corbett cringed at the term, and he could tell Norton had delivered the line just to needle him a bit—“the families of Single Tree and our neighbors from the nearby reservation will have a chance at survival. Is it your recommendation that we allow ourselves to die as well, starving to death behind the walls we’re building around the town? Because if you are, Mister Sinclair, I’ll personally make sure you don’t get another thing to eat, starting right now.” Norton finished that off with a winning smile of his own, which resulted in a loud round of applause.
Sinclair looked flustered for a moment, then recovered and shook his head. “I’m only asking the questions that I feel need to be answered,” he protested. “How you proceed is up to you and the people of Single Tree. Switching gears somewhat, is it true that you believe arming the entire town is a necessary step? Aren’t you concerned about having so many military assault rifles in untrained hands?”
Corbett took a deep breath, but again, Norton beat him to the punch. “Let’s be clear about some things with regard to that,” Norton said. “We have in our community several dozen people who are former military, including veterans from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, not to mention previous conflicts. As you might expect, all of those people have more than a little bit of practical experience handling weapons. They, along with the consultants Mister Corbett has brought in, will form the training cadre that will instruct those civilians who are competent enough to bear arms. Those under eighteen years of age are not eligible, and Chief Kuruk and the rest of the law enforcement staff will determine if other factors might be involved that would prevent someone from legally possessing or being afforded the opportunity to legally possess a firearm. All of that was covered in the presentation you just saw, so I’m a little perplexed by your question.
“With regards to the not
ion that we’re handing out ‘military assault rifles’, I need to tell you that the term ‘assault rifle’ is made entirely from whole cloth. There is no specific weapon classification called assault rifles. That little nugget was made up by the anti-gun lobby in order to sow fear, and it’s something you and your fellows in the media willingly perpetuate. I’m aware of your stance on gun ownership, Mister Sinclair. I find it interesting that you stand before us in the guise of exercising your First Amendment rights, but will instantly seek to reduce the citizens of Single Tree from exercising their Second Amendment rights. While this is California, the most liberal state in the union and one that’s not exactly hospitable toward firearm owners, the town of Single Tree is historically a frontier town. We know our weapons, and we know how to use them, as they are tools that feature prominently in our history.”
Another round of applause. As Corbett looked across the crowd, he saw Danielle Kennedy sitting in the second row, next to her father. She was smiling as she applauded, and her eyes were locked onto Norton. He had to smile at that a bit.
“Very well,” Sinclair said, though not without a trace of disappointment.
“At this time, I’d like to ask if any of our residents have anything further to add,” Booker said. He waited for a time, and when no additional queries seemed to be forthcoming, he nodded. “Then at this time, the council believes the townspeople of Single Tree are in agreement with the plans set forth by Barry Corbett and company, and that those plans will continue as discussed. Many thanks to Gary Norton for his presentation. This meeting is adjourned.” Booker picked up a gavel and rapped it on the sound block before him.
And with that, the power went out. The crowd inside the big room released a startled gasp. The emergency lights snapped on, their battery-powered lamps providing pools of illumination that was just enough for people to be able to find their way to the doors.
“Okay, folks, let’s take it easy!” Booker shouted before the rising chorus of confused, fearful voices could take control. “Just make your way to the doors and out into the lobby. Take it easy, don’t push, don’t shove! Be mindful of the elderly and the young ones!”
Victor snapped on the flashlight that hung from his belt, and played the beam over Corbett. “Yep, still dog-butt ugly, even in the dark.”
“Stop screwing around, Victor!”
“Officers in the back, use your flashlights to assist!” Victor said. More flashlight beams cut through the darkness. Corbett was surprised to see the doors to the room were already open to the lobby, but the sun was going down behind the mountains. The light outside was tepid and wan.
He made his way toward Victor and Norton, carefully picking his way through the gloom. “Vic, you need to get officers out on the highway,” he said.
“Of course,” Victor said.
“No, no, you need to do it now. You need to start getting traffic turned around.”
“I will, Barry. What’s the rush?”
“We’re cutting the roads. Tonight,” Corbett said. “Enough screwing around. If we’ve lost power for good, then I want this town sealed tighter than a frog’s butt.”
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The dead hit the Bowl like a stinking flood.
It took less than an hour for them to overwhelm the wire defenses that Morton’s men had erected. The coils of razor wire were crushed beneath the weight of hundreds and hundreds of cold bodies that continued to thrash about, ignoring the slashing razors the same way they ignored the fact that hundreds more ghouls were crushing them underfoot. The Guard and most of the cops had massed at the entrance to the Bowl, where they slugged it out with the dead, cutting them down by the dozens. For the moment, the high, reinforced sound barriers that surrounded three quarters of the amphitheater served to channelize the zombies into the main entrance, and Reese thought that was all right. It reduced the scope of the engagement to one front, and made it so the zombies were essentially walking into a kill funnel.
At the end of the first hour, thousands of rotting, cold corpses lay all across Highland Avenue. The piles of dead slowed the advance of the next waves, giving the shooters time to zero in and score perfect kills. But the mounds of bodies also worked to the advantage of the stenches. They provided cover behind which they could mass, and charge anew. When that happened, the big .50-calibers opened up, chopping the dead to pieces.
By the third hour, Reese couldn’t see much in the way of pavement—every open space on the street was occupied by a body. A Chinook came in, slinging a pallet load of ammunition. Boxes of .50-caliber ammo and 40-millimeter grenades were offloaded, as well as cans of 5.56-millimeter. In one flight, the Chinook had dropped in over two hundred and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition.
Well, that’s convenient.
“They keep that up, we might be able to get through this,” Bates said, as he fired his M4 at a shambling monstrosity. “Though they might need to send us a bunch of upper receivers, at this rate.”
“Maybe they will,” Reese said, shouting over the constant firing.
After five more hours, the LAPD cops were rotated back to rest and refit. Bates disappeared to check on the five-ton truck. Reese quickly broke down and cleaned his M4, then stuffed fresh mags into the magazine carrier he wore around his vest. He hadn’t fired his pistol yet, but he did check to ensure it was still functional. Then he helped himself to some chow—bags of MREs were set out, so he just grabbed one and ate as much of it as he could. The civilians inside the Bowl were severely freaked out by the din of combat, and Reese couldn’t blame them. He felt he was half-deaf already, and the constant combat left him feeling kind of strung out, like how a drug addict might feel when he needed a fix, but knew one wasn’t coming.
Bates returned and shot him a thumbs-up. “Truck’s still there,” he said, then set about breaking down his rifle to clean it. “How long do we have?”
“Don’t know. Better make it quick. Shit could go downhill in a heartbeat.”
“Yeah.” Bates quickly cleaned his rifle, then headed over to grab some food. Like Reese, he didn’t bother picking through the MRE bags looking for something specific. He just took the first one he came across, cut it open, and dug in. Reese grabbed a bottle of water and walked around the cluster of cops, checking to make sure everyone was accounted for. Everyone was there, and everyone was busy. Even Renee was cleaning her rifle, pausing every now and then to fiddle with her glasses.
“Renee, you have a spare set of specs?” Reese asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “at home.”
“Ah.” Reese knew she lived in a condo in West Covina, fifteen or so miles east of Los Angeles. There was no chance she would be getting her spare set of glasses anytime soon.
The few Guardsmen still manning the hastily-erected parapets along the sound barrier wall suddenly began shooting in eanest. Reese looked across the breadth of the Bowl, as did thousands of terrified civilians. There wasn’t much to see—just guys in Army uniforms shooting, which was pretty much the new normal right now. Then one of them grabbed a grenade and tossed it. It went off a few moments later with a hollow thump. More Guardsmen tossed grenades after that, and the firing picked up.
Bates looked up from his meal. “Second front,” he said, stuffing a piece of prepackaged cake in his mouth.
“What?” Renee asked.
“New wave coming in,” Bates said. He picked up his rifle and ran over to the rearming station, pulling fresh magazines. The rest of the cops stirred uneasily.
“Man, this shit is just never ends,” Marsh said. He looked like crap—face covered by gray-speckled stubble, eyes red and glazed, face drawn and haggard. Reese knew he looked the same way. Hell, he might look even worse, except Marsh was bald and Reese still had hair.
“It is what it is,” Reese said.
More Guardsmen pushed toward the far wall, running on either side of the bowl. Reese wondered what the emergency was. Then he saw a couple of Guardsmen actually wrestling with a zombie as it c
ame over the top of the wall and lunged for them.
Holy fuck—
The men fired at the stench, but it was too close. It wrapped its arms around one and began to take him down while the other ineffectively kicked and punched it. He finally drew back and slammed it in the head with the butt of his rifle, but that didn’t seem to do much either.
Another zombie came over the edge, and behind it, scores of arms flailed in the air.
“Oh, shit!” Renee cried, and she frantically began slapping her rifle back together.
“What?” Marsh didn’t know what was going on. He turned and looked behind him, watching the scene atop the wall unfold. “Hey, how the hell did they get up there?”
“On your feet!” Reese ordered the cops. “On your feet, now!”
More Guardsmen ran toward the wall, followed by a slew of sheriffs and a few LAPD cops. The wooden parapet that had been built collapsed suddenly, and the two Guardsmen fell to the ground, one of them still wrapped up in the stench’s cold embrace. The Guard troops on the other fighting stations kept pouring on the firepower, but it was too late. Two more ghouls came over the top. Then five. Then twenty. They dropped into the Bowl like lemmings running off a cliff, only they didn’t die when they hit the bottom. The Hollywood Bowl was like a sinking ship, taking on the foulest of water.
“Where are the Apaches?” Reese asked.
“Busy, I guess,” Bates said. “So, we going for the truck?”
Reese raised his rifle and began firing across the Bowl, drilling the boiling mass of dead with shot after shot. A couple of other cops joined in as well, but the breach was too frantic for aimed shots. They hit several zombies, but they were non-critical shots. They just kept coming. The people in the Bowl began to surge away from the incursion, screaming. Reese stepped forward and looked into the amphitheater itself. There were already zombies in the mix, crawling in through the rear bleacher seats, dragging fractured legs behind them. Some cops floundered after them, trying to douse their lights before they could start inflicting more damage, but it was hopeless. There were hundreds pouring over the wall now, and they were intermingling with the Guard and police. And some of them were damned fast.
The Last Town (Book 4): Fighting the Dead Page 12