Reese wondered what Bates was doing in the cab during all this, but the truck was still moving. As long as it did, then he had little to worry about.
But the five-ton truck was still subject to physics, and while it was a hardy vehicle, it wasn’t invulnerable, and it couldn’t push through tons of dead traffic. Finally, their luck began to run out—too many obstacles to navigate around, too many dead. Bates cut the wheel to the right and ran up an embankment, shoving aside an abandoned Tesla, crushing its unibody form in the process. The truck climbed up to Westchester Parkway, which was hardly much in the way of an improvement. Hotels flanked the road, dark and essentially deserted. Reese wondered if their lightless hallways were stalked by dozens of flesh-eating ghouls, or if pockets of humanity still lingered inside, hoping against hope for rescue. There were zombies here as well, just as many as there had been on the street below, and the road was equally as clogged with dead traffic as Lincoln Boulevard had been.
“Yeah, this is definitely a bag of dicks,” Plosser said. He scanned the roadway through his night vision device, his head moving left and right like it was on a swivel. He pointed off to the right. “Don’t know if you can see it, but there’s what’s left of a Guard unit over there.”
Reese and some of the other cops looked into the darkness. The lights were still on at the airport, which the truck now paralleled. Reese saw the indistinct outlines of some slab-sided vehicles parked along the fence. They had turrets, but the guns they contained were silent. There were more five-ton trucks, too.
“Anything over there we might be able to use?” Reese asked.
Plosser shook his head. “We’d never get over there, and if we did, we’d never get out alive. Stenches are everywhere.”
As he looked, Reese saw that for himself. Shambling, humanoid figures moved in the night, momentarily silhouetted against the lights of Los Angeles International Airport.
Marsh saw them, too. “Fuck—what are they doing over here?”
“Lots of humanity tried to get here,” Reese said. “They followed the chow line. And maybe the lights attract them, too. Who knows?” He paused for a moment, then added: “Who cares?”
The truck took a bumping left turn. Reese searched for the street sign. La Tierja Boulevard. He tried to recall what was in this area, and believed it was mostly industrial. Not much in the way of residences, but the not so distant popping noises of gunfire didn’t mean they were alone. He couldn’t tell if they were driving toward the shots or away from them.
“Reese.”
Bates’s voice came over his ROVER. Reese grabbed the microphone and pulled it toward his mouth. “Bates, how’re you doing?”
“Still kicking it. Listen, we’re never going to get through if we stick this close to LAX. We have to head east for a while, put some distance between us and all the bullshit here.”
“Bates, we don’t want to drive into South Central, man.”
“If we don’t, we’re not going to be driving anywhere. The dead all over this place. We need to get the fuck out of here. I’ll take La Tierja up to Manchester, and we’ll move across town on that. I’m thinking if we can make it to Prairie Avenue or somewhere in that area, we’ll have a better time of it.”
Reese didn’t agree, but he wasn’t the one doing the driving. “Okay, if you think it’s the way to go. How’re you holding up? Do you want one of us to take over for you?”
“No. I’m good. Will let you know when it’s time to change drivers.” With that, the radio fell silent.
“I’d rather fight gang-bangers than the dead anyway,” Plosser said.
“Yeah,” Reese said. “Sure you would.”
###
Bates’s plan died shortly thereafter. After crashing through three rows of dead traffic on Sepulveda Boulevard and rolling up La Tierja, it became obvious the amount of dead were increasing. Reese didn’t know what to make of it. Either they had already overrun the neighborhoods in South Central Los Angeles, or they were being pushed out—an event he considered to be very unlikely.
As the truck made it to the intersection of La Tierja and Manchester, two things immediately became very clear. Manchester was totally blocked up, thanks to several accidents and an ongoing car fire that had consumed several vehicles. Hundreds of people were still trapped in their cars, surrounded by pulsing throngs of the dead. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands, perhaps. Reese was stunned by the sheer numbers of stenches.
“Christ,” Plosser said, and his voice was small. He sounded like a man who had just had a blindfold removed only to discover he had been led to the executioner’s block.
Reese grabbed his ROVER. “Bates—”
“I fucking see it, Reese. We’re going for that building there. We have to get inside, then barricade ourselves in tight for a while. We’ll have to wait until these things leave before we can go any farther.”
“Let’s go back, Bates!”
“Turn the fuck around and tell me how we’re going to do that, Detective.”
Reese turned as the cops in the back of the truck swore as if of one mind. Behind them, hundreds of stenches filled the street—shambling, loping, crawling. The lone five-ton truck and the load of cops and civilians it carried was surrounded by the legions of the dead.
The truck angled off to the right, plowing right through the rear of a motor home, sending fiberglass, plywood, foam insulation, and household goods exploding through the air. A queen-size foam mattress bounced off the top of the cab and skittered back into the street as the truck rolled into the parking lot of a five story, cube-shaped building. The structure was dark, but through the ground floor windows, Reese saw the glow of an exit sign inside. The place still had power, for whatever it was worth. The truck braked to a halt just beneath the overhang that led to the building’s main entrance. The headlights went out, and the diesel engine coughed before it cut out.
“Everybody out!” Bates snapped as he jumped out of the cab. He slammed the door shut behind him as he bolted for the building.
“Out! Out, out!” Reese echoed, pushing at the cops. “Help the civvies!”
“What about the fucking truck?” Marsh asked. “What, we just leave it here?”
“Stenches aren’t going to be interested in it,” Plosser said. “Come on, pull the pins on that tail gate, and let’s get the hell out of here!”
SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA
The biggest pain in Mike Hailey’s ass right now, aside from the fact that Single Tree was teeming with displaced persons, was the disabled vehicles. People were running out of fuel along Main Street, and the halted cars and trucks mightily impeded the flow of traffic. That meant not only did he and the rest of the overworked town cops have to figure out how to clear the jams, they had to deal with displaced persons who were caught in a town that didn’t want them, and couldn’t really take them in, regardless. He’d already been read the riot act on that by the older cops—Single Tree was closed to everyone, and they had no choice but to try and relocate people as quickly as possible.
But without wheels, that was going to be tall order. Hailey couldn’t just send a family of four, including one nine-day-old infant, walking out of town. It just wasn’t who he was. Though he could be one when the chips were down, playing the part of a hard-hearted son of a bitch wasn’t in his DNA.
“What do you mean, we have to leave the town?” shouted the panicked father when Hailey explained to him that there was no gas left, and no accommodations in Single Tree. He looked around at all the closed shops along Main Street. “How? How are we going to leave without any wheels? How far do you expect us to walk, all the way to Bishop?”
“Sorry, sir. I don’t have any answers for you,” Hailey replied. “All I know is that I’ve been told everyone has to leave the town.”
“Well, I’ve got an answer for you—get me some gas, and I’m gone!” the guy practically screamed.
“Hey, take it easy. We don’t want any trouble here,” Hailey said. “You don’t wan
t to get arrested.”
“Kind of gets us off the hook, doesn’t it?” the man snarled. He was a big beefy type, a true-blue Westerner. He had Arizona plates on his Dodge 2500, and he didn’t seem to be the kind who came from Prescott or Tempe. His face was weathered and while the guy obviously enjoyed a beef-based diet, he looked like he could put a hurting on just about anyone he wanted to. Hailey wasn’t a runt, but he knew a guy like this would probably have to be taken down hard if things escalated to the next level. Hailey’s choice would be to shoot the father of young kids right in front of them, or be beaten to death.
He was saved from having to make the choice by his partner for the day, Suzy Kuruk. Dressed in her tan tribal reservation police uniform, her long hair pulled up into a bun beneath her cap, she walked right up to the man and put a hand on his arm. Standing in at a mere five feet four inches, the man confronting Hailey essentially towered over her, a giant consumed by fear and desperation. He looked down at her quickly, dismissed her, and looked back at Hailey.
“Sir, maybe we can help you,” she said calmly.
That got the man’s attention. “How so?”
“Yeah, how so?” Hailey echoed.
Suzy ignored Hailey and focused her attention on the big man standing next to the rugged Dodge pickup. “We’ve been told that everyone has to move out of town, and no one can stay,” she said. “But obviously, in your case, we’re going to have to be creative. Can you hang here with Officer Hailey for a bit while I see what we can arrange?”
The man huffed. “Hell, yes. I mean, what else can I do other than lead my family out of here on foot?” The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder where a plump woman of Hispanic extraction stood next to a boy of about six. She held the tiny baby who slept against her shoulder.
“Let’s see what we can do for you,” Suzy said. “Just stay here. I’ll be right back.” Suzy turned and walked back to the Expedition, drifting toward Hailey as she did. She looked at him with her dark eyes and gave him a crooked smile.
“Be cool,” she said. “It’s going to be a long day.”
###
Norton was just getting his breakfast underway when the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so he figured it would be one of his parents swinging by to check on him before he left for another day of unloading and unpacking over at the school. As he walked to the front door, the tiles cool against the bottoms of his bare feet, he instinctively checked to ensure the Shield was in its appendix-carry holster. It was there, a comforting weight that he knew he wasn’t likely to be missing in the short term.
Through the glass-paned front door, he could see none other than Barry Corbett standing outside, dressed in his pseudo-intellectual cowboy getup of denim shirt and baggy jeans. His graying hair was neatly combed, as always. He wore his hulking 1911 right on his hip, in plain view. Concealed carry was pretty much a thing of the past, at least for the duration of the emergency. Norton slowly unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open.
“Barry?”
“Hi, Norton. Thought I’d drop in and see how things were going.”
“Well, they were going fine, until I started working for you. You always show up on the doorstep of your titular employees before they start work?”
Corbett smiled thinly. “File a complaint with the EEOC.”
Norton snorted and stepped back. “Well, come on in. Was just rustling up some breakfast.”
“Got any coffee?” Corbett asked as he stepped inside. “Or has living in LA made you into a fruit juice only kind of guy?”
“Always have coffee.” Norton closed the door behind the tall billionaire and motioned for him to follow. “Come on in, make yourself at home. It’s not much by your standards, but it’s not exactly a lopsided trailer, either.”
Corbett grunted as he followed Norton down the hallway and into the kitchen, his boots clicking on the floor tiles. “Not bad. Would’ve thought a guy like you would have gone full-on gonzo, built a glass and metal monstrosity with a car park for six or seven cars.”
“Not my style, at least not here in Single Tree. By the way, I’m old school with the coffee—percolator brewed, none of those Keurig things.”
“Strong?”
“Bold enough to make you shit yourself twice.” Norton pointed to a door off the kitchen. “Bathroom’s that way, if you can hold it in long enough to make the trip, old man.”
Corbett snorted again. “Cheeky bastard. Give me a cup of your worst, Hollywood. I’ll show you how a real man takes it in.” Corbett pulled out one of the barstools placed in front of the kitchen breakfast island and perched on top of it. Sitting there, Norton thought he looked like a cross between a waiting buzzard and one of those raptors from Jurassic Park. He poured Corbett a cup.
“Cream? Sugar?”
Corbett looked offended. “What are you, a pussy?”
“Sorry. I guess I should have asked what brand of whiskey you wanted me to stir in.”
“Just the coffee, Norton,” Corbett said.
Norton pushed the cup across the marble countertop. “Give it a shot.”
Corbett lifted the steaming cup to his lips and sipped from it. He held the coffee in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed and nodded. “Tough stuff, just how I like it.”
“I’m making French toast and bacon. I don’t usually eat breakfast, but these days, I’d better eat whatever I can.”
Corbett looked at the gas range on the other side of the breakfast island. “Damn, that thing’s big. You a chef?”
“No. It just looks more impressive when I burn a hamburger to a cinder. You want something to eat?”
Corbett waved the notion aside. “I’ll pass. Have your breakfast—it’ll be fun to watch the French toast surrender to the all-American bacon.”
Norton had to laugh at that. “Well, I’ll try and make sure someone puts on a show. Anyway, while I get that squared away, what brings you this way?”
“The town’s not that big, Norton. ‘This way’ is about forty-two seconds away from my place.”
“Touché. Anyway, what brings you here?”
Corbett hefted his mug. “Well, the coffee is pretty damn good, to tell the truth.”
“Come on, Corbett. What is it?”
Corbett sighed and put the cup back on the countertop. “The truth?”
Norton pulled out a bowl from a cabinet and stepped over to the refrigerator. “No, I want you to lie to me. Of course, the truth.” He removed a carton of milk from the fridge and set it down next to the range.
“They say there’s a cure for the infection,” Corbett said. “They’ve been shipping it out for weeks.”
Norton turned away from the gas range. “No kidding?”
“Yeah. Some facility around Odessa was manufacturing it. And yesterday, the military nuked it.” Corbett looked grim. “As in, our own guys actually deployed a nuclear weapon on American soil.”
Norton was gobsmacked. “So they, uh, nuked the facility that was developing cure. Brilliant! What the fuck for?”
“As far as my sources can tell, it was a locus point for the zombies. They were converging on it. No one knows why. They compromised the facility, even though the military had stood up a silver bullet task force of special operators and regular line units to secure it.”
“So they went ahead and ... nuked it?” Norton shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“It was a target of opportunity,” Corbett said. “There were hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of those things there. They got the people out, then atomized one shitload of stenches. If nothing else, there’s a lot fewer of them ... in Texas.” He pointed to the west. “But that doesn’t help us out here. It’s spread to California, with the biggest outbreak occurring in LA. And as far as I know, there are no plans to start nuking the Golden State, so we will definitely be having visitors at one point in the near future.”
“What about this cure?”
“What’s been concocted is being distributed—to whom,
I don’t know. Probably to the military and politicians, if I had to guess. John Q. Public is going to have to wait for a while. Don’t worry, Norton. We won’t be seeing any.”
Norton slowly turned back to the gas range and placed a skillet on one of the burners. “Okay. I don’t understand half of what’s going on, but okay. At least there’s a cure.”
“There’s a lot of thundercloud around that silver lining,” Corbett said. “This facility was considered a national asset. They had B-52s bombing the stenches, tons of Special Forces and SEAL teams backed up by Rangers, attack helicopters, replenishable defenses in depth—hell, I was told they even had the Army Corps of Engineers helping them out. No expense was spared in securing it, and it still got overwhelmed.”
Norton heard the ominous tone in Corbett’s voice. “What about us?”
“That’s a bit of a sore point. We’re not a national asset. I pulled out the stops in getting a ton of essentials here, but I don’t have a squadron of heavy bombers at my beck and call. All the troops I brought with me are Marine Corps trained, but numerically, they’re about the size of two platoons. Marines can do fantastic things, but seventy leathernecks aren’t going to be able to hold off a couple of hundred thousand zombies. Thing is, the highway will channel them right to us. We could be in a pretty tight spot.”
The Last Town (Book 5): Fleeing the Dead Page 4
