The Last Town (Book 4): Fighting the Dead
Page 13
“Reese!” Bates shouted.
“Yes! Yes, go get the fucking truck!” Reese motioned the cops to follow, his legs quaking with fear. “Come on, let’s get going! Save who you can, let’s get going!”
The cops ran. Some of them ran light frightened rabbits; others ran like cops, stopping to urge civilians to follow them, to shoot a shambling zed, to pick up a fallen civilian. Reese scooped up and young boy who was crying and beckoned for his family to follow.
“Come with us!” he shouted.
The hulking truck was still there, and it looked as big as a house. Bates climbed into the cab, and its diesel engine rattled to life a moment later. Reese and two other cops stood by the tail gate, helping other cops and civilians aboard. From the other parking lots, he heard other engines roaring to life over the steady gunfire. A rattle of explosions tore through the fading light of late afternoon, and he saw a Humvee with a Mark 19 grenade launcher opening up on a gaggle of dead, blasting them to pieces. Desiccated body parts flew through the air. The slap of rotor blades echoed through the Bowl as a pair of Apaches roared in and orbited overhead as their pilots apparently tried to figure out where to start firing. Reese kept urging people to climb into the truck. He’d seen this before, and two Apaches weren’t enough to do shit. They’d use up all their ammunition in minutes, and then they’d be as useful as a Nerf Dart Blaster in an honest to God gunfight.
Pandemonium reigned. The screams, the gunfire, the sounds of maneuvering vehicles—it was total sensory overload, and it didn’t help that the acoustics of the amphitheater made it even more maddening. Reese felt dizzy from fear and adrenaline, his senses assaulted by the mayhem that surrounded him. There were too many people to save, and the truck was already almost full.
A zombie picked its way toward him, its jaws slick with blood, its gray-white belly so full it protruded before it like a balloon about ready to pop. It locked onto Reese and made for him, hissing. It went down as one of the cops in the truck shot it in the head.
“Reese, come on!” the cop shouted.
Reese tried to close the tail gate, but it was damned heavy. One of the cops jumped down and helped him, and the two of them managed to get it up high enough where the others could take over and pin it closed. The engine roared as Bates goosed the accelerator. Reese and the other cop climbed up and threw themselves into the truck’s long cargo bed. Someone else climbed up after Reese, and he twisted, trying to get his M4 up. It wasn’t a zombie; it was First Sergeant Plosser.
“Mind if I tag along, Reese?” the senior NCO asked.
“It’s an open party,” Reese said.
With that, Bates dropped the truck into gear. There was a metal gate in front, and he drove the truck right through it, ripping it off its hinges. There were zombies on the other side, but the hulking, olive-drab five-ton truck didn’t even slow down as it rolled right over them. The truck continued down the narrow service road that ran alongside the Bowl, then turned left, heading off overland. Everyone in the back of the truck held on for dear life as Bates steered the truck through the trees and scrub, heading in the general direction of the Hollywood Bowl Overlook, a small observation park that lay just off Mulholland Drive. The truck left a huge wake of dust behind it, and through the billowing clouds, Reese saw people running after the rig, waving their arms. Men. Women. Children.
And behind them, slower but tireless, came zombies.
The Apaches pirouetted overhead, already guns dry. Two more black dots appeared on the horizon, anti-collision lights winking in the darkening sky. Black Hawks, descending as they approached the Bowl. Reese wondered if they were going to actually attempt a landing. Plosser looked up at the approaching utility helicopters as well.
“I see the colonel’s getting a ride out,” he said, his tone dry as he held onto the side of the truck. He turned to Reese. “So, Detective. Tell me you have a plan? We heading for the Mojave?”
“Long Beach,” Reese said.
Plosser frowned. “Little late to work on your Hollywood tan, isn’t it? Gonna be night soon.”
“You like boats, Plosser?”
“Not really, But if there’s a paycheck in it, I’ll join whatever navy you want.”
Reese grunted as the big truck pushed through a copse of trees, actually knocking one right over. Its wheels spun as black exhaust erupted from its stacks, and for a moment, Reese feared the rig might get stuck. But it shuddered on, powering its way through the barricade of vegetation, then through the guardrail on the other side. Bates horsed the truck through a decidedly inelegant three point turn, and then, it was rolling down Mulholland Drive. Heading southwest, its square nose pointed in the general direction of the Pacific Ocean. From up here in the hills, Reese saw the devastation that was being wrought on the darkened, powerless city. Columns of smoke rose in the air from fires that burned unabated, lighting up the city in the darkness. Helicopters of all kinds whirled across the sky.
Over thirty miles to Long Beach, he thought. A piece of cake.
TO BE CONTINUED IN
THE LAST TOWN #5: FLEEING THE DEAD