“That’s because I’ve got Boomer and Browning out there styling with the SAWs,” Lennon said. “They might not be much use against the stenches, but they sure can change a living person’s mind.”
A call came over the radio. “Argosy, Argosy, this is Dive Boat One. We’ve turned off, but we need to know what your intentions are. Over.”
Lennon chuckled. “Oh, now they want to talk.”
“You want to handle the ship-to-ship communications?” Norton asked. “You’re still holding the mike.”
“Sure.” Lennon raised the handset to his mouth. “Dive Boat One, this is Argosy. We’re on a recovery mission and intend to stay in this area for two-plus hours. Do not close within six hundred yards, or you will be fired upon. This vessel is being operated by the United States Marine Corps. Over.”
“Aren’t you, like, retired or something?” Norton asked.
Lennon shrugged. “They don’t know that.”
“Argosy, this is Dive Boat One. What exactly are you recovering? Over.”
“Tell them cocaine and Mexican hookers,” Norton said. “They’ll probably believe that, because I kind of doubt they’re going to be willing to think we’re waiting for a Gulfstream jet to ditch beside us.”
“Well, we are off the coast of California, so it might be expected.” Lennon pressed the transmit button. “Dive Boat, if you’re that interested, stick around and watch. Do not break six hundred yards, and do not send any divers into the water. Our reach is long. Argosy, out.” He handed the handset back to Norton. “I guess you can put out the hooks now, Norton.”
“You think the LA Port Police are a threat?” Norton asked, replacing the handset on its hook.
“Everyone’s a threat, especially armed men,” Lennon said. “We have a job to do, and if those yahoos want to get in the middle of it, then we’re going to go to guns on them. It’s as simple as that.”
SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA
The remaining bodyguards kept Corbett boxed in tight as he and the remaining survivors from the convoy followed Victor down a street to the one they had been on. Corbett knew he should be thankful, but he found the guards’ dedication irksome. He was old, tired, and run out. He had no more ideas, no more resources other than what he carried, and no more hope. They should have been seeing to the safety of the Kuruks, or the Sinclairs, or even the Bookers. Overweight Roxanne looked as if she was about to have a heart attack, but she kept going. Corbett admired that.
The entire operation to save Single Tree had cost Corbett over three hundred million dollars, but that it might cost over two thousand lives was a sacrifice he suddenly couldn’t stomach. There were hardpoints throughout the city, like the schools, and hundreds of people had been urged to relocate to those hours ago. If they had heeded the advice, they could survive for months, even if the stenches surrounded the facilities.
The last redoubt was his hangar at the airport, which had been designed to withstand hurricane force winds and a magnitude 7.2 earthquake. It was stocked with everything two to three hundred people would need to survive for up to six months. The solar panels atop the structure would provide power, and the water tanks would keep everyone hydrated. Once his jet was towed out of it, people would be loaded in, and the thick bifold doors would be closed.
Corbett had managed to do more for the people of Single Tree than the President of the United States had done for the nation, but he still felt miserable at the cascading failures of the defenses. He had underestimated the enemy’s numbers, never believing they would actually penetrate the town. Retreat was the only remaining option.
As the team moved down Goodwin Street, passing vacant tract housing and desert rock gardens, Corbett spoke into his walkie-talkie, making arrangements. The street would dead end at the wall surrounding the airport. There were two options: have one of the work crews tear down a section of the wall, which was ridiculous, or have someone bring equipment out to fetch them. Randall Klaff, a hard-bitten construction foreman Corbett had known for decades, answered the call.
When the group made it to the end of Goodwin, Klaff and his men were there. They had brought rubber tire loaders, CAT 988Ks with gigantic excavation buckets. Their five hundred plus horsepower diesel engines throbbed, and their buckets had been lowered. Corbett wheezed out a dry laugh when he saw them.
Klaff emerged from one of the loaders, a bandanna tied around his neck. He was almost ten feet off the ground as he leaned against the safety railing surrounding the cab. “Mr. Corbett, this is the best we could do!”
“Klaff, that’s going to be just fine,” Corbett shouted. “I hope we’re riding in the buckets?”
“Yes, sir. Way above anything that might want to eat’cha!”
“Is that going to be safe? Any chance of imbalance?”
Klaff frowned. “Well, anyone weigh more than sixteen tons?”
“I did have the french toast at Raoul’s several weeks back,” Victor said.
Corbett ignored the remark. “How do you want to do it, Klaff?”
“Simple. A few of you folks hop into each bucket, sit down, and take it easy while we pull you up and rotate ’em back. Just enjoy the ride. We’ll take you right to the airport gate entrance then set these bad boys down to block it off.”
Corbett shot the foreman a quick salute. “Klaff, I owe you.”
“Yes, sir. You most certainly do.” Klaff looked past the group. “Okay, now. You’d best be moving quick. Got us some comp’ny coming.”
Corbett spun around to see. A row of zombies was shambling in their direction. The closest was still a good distance away but near enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. “Go! Load up now,” he ordered.
Corbett, two of his guards, the Kuruks, and the Sinclairs got into Klaff’s loader. The others split up and headed for the remaining buckets. A minute later, the buckets began to rise in the air. Corbett’s ride slowly rotated, and he felt the onset of sudden vertigo. He got to his feet and looked over the side. The bucket was deep, but he could see the street. He was almost twenty feet in the air, and for the moment, he felt safer than he had in days.
“Mr. Corbett, you guys ready?” Klaff asked over the radio.
Corbett pulled his radio from his belt. “Good to go, Klaff. If the other guys are ready, let’s get rolling.”
“Okay, you’re going to fell a little bit of bounce, so watch yourselves!”
The loader started moving. The big Caterpillar hadn’t been designed to move smoothly, and even over a standard street surface, the bucket jolted and bounced. Corbett had to hold on to the metal blades on the bucket’s lower lip for dear life. He was surprised to see Sinclair standing up on the other side, his camera pointed forward, documenting everything. For the first time, he noticed the journalist was carrying a slung LWRC carbine.
“Sinclair!” he shouted over the din of the diesels.
Sinclair looked over. The days had not been kind to him. While his hair was previously touched with only the most distinguished frosts of gray, fresh sprouts of white had sprung up everywhere. He needed a haircut and probably a good twenty ounces of styling gel. Crow’s feet lined his eyes, and his mouth seemed perennially pinched. “Yes?” Sinclair said.
Corbett released one blade and pointed at the rifle. “Aren’t you adopting a double standard carrying that thing?”
“Your bloody, barbaric Second Amendment needs to be repealed, Corbett!” Sinclair shouted back. Then, he grinned. “Once I’m out of danger, of course!”
Corbett laughed. Cheeky motherfucker.
Zombies began to fill the street ahead. Klaff just drove right over them with the loader, rolling over the bodies with over a hundred thousand pounds of metal. The bouncing didn’t get any worse. Apparently, the dead had met their match in the heavy-duty construction equipment.
“You know, this thing could probably take care of a lot of zombies,” Victor shouted.
“No kidding,” Corbett replied.
The loaders rumbled down the st
reet, completely overwhelming the packs of stenches that challenged them. At the airport entrance, a narrow-walled corridor that led directly to the airfield, more stenches were milling around. The approaching loaders caught their attention, and they surged toward the oncoming machines. Klaff pulled past the entrance then backed up, alarm keening. He did that a couple of times, weaving back and forth.
“Klaff, what’s up?” Corbett asked over the radio.
“Got to make sure there aren’t any zombies left to come after you folks,” Klaff replied. “Making this as fast as I can, Mr. Corbett. Hang tough, okay?”
“Do whatever you need to do,” Corbett replied.
When the loader ceased its gyrations, Klaff radioed that he was lowering the bucket. Corbett and Sinclair sat back down. The hydraulic arms lowered, and the bucket rotated once again. Corbett was on all fours by the time it hit the street. Ahead, a flood of zombies appeared.
“Everybody out!” Corbett said, getting to his feet and stepping out of the bucket. He pointed at the airport entrance. “Run! Run!”
Victor steered Suzy out of the bucket and pushed her toward the entrance. “Go,” he told her.
“Come with me!”
“I will, but I’ll hold back and make sure the others make it in,” Victor said. “You need to go. Right now.” He turned to Meredith. “Please see that she makes it to the plane.”
“I will.” There was cold and predatory aspect to the former model’s face, something even Corbett found chilly. The woman had changed in such a fundamental way that she no longer resembled the person who had arrived in Single Tree a short time ago.
“Sinclair, go with them,” Corbett ordered.
“What about you?” Sinclair asked, turning the camera on Corbett.
“We’ll be along,” he said. “Get going. Get some pretty pictures of the jet. Then get aboard and have a drink. There’s a bottle of Remy Martin Louis XIII Jeroboam in the galley. It’s yours.”
Sinclair raised one eyebrow. “What the hell would I do with almost a gallon of cognac?”
“Enjoy the takeoff and probably not care about the quality of the landing. Get moving, you prick!”
Sinclair sniffed. “There’s the Barry Corbett I know,” he said, but not without some humor. He turned around and headed toward the airport entrance.
Suzy, being tugged along by Meredith, cried out, “Uncle, come with us!”
“You’ll see him soon,” Meredith said. “Get out of his sight, and he’ll stop worrying about you!”
“Go,” Victor said, his face stone-like and emotionless. He turned his back to his niece, raised his rifle, and began hammering at the approaching dead.
“Mr. Corbett, can you hear me?” Klaff asked over the radio.
“Klaff, go ahead,” Corbett responded. He grabbed his rifle’s pistol grip with his other hand, levering it into position. He capped off a couple of rounds and sent a zombie tumbling to the ground.
“If’n you people wouldn’t mind, step aside and let me make a pass with the bucket,” Klaff said. “I can hold these bastards back for a bit.”
Corbett called out, “Everyone move! Bucket coming through.” Once everyone was clear, he radioed to Klaff, “Do it!”
The loader’s big diesel roared, puffing up black smoke. Consuming approximately two dead dinosaurs per minute, it rumbled forward, scraping the bucket across the road as it charged into the horde at twenty miles per hour. While the bucket wasn’t wide enough to clear the entire street, it scooped up more than a few zombies, leaving scores more writhing on the asphalt in its wake. The loader’s big tires were weapons by themselves, crushing bone and flesh beneath their craggy treads.
Corbett, Victor, and Corbett’s security team opened up, taking down as many of the remaining zombies as possible. More people streamed past them: the Bookers, Mike Hailey, Gemma Washington, and her elderly live-in boyfriend, Lance. They had a six-hundred-foot walk to the airfield then another several hundred feet to the tarmac.
“Victor, you should go with them,” Corbett said.
Another loader rumbled past, veering to the right and scraping that side of the road clear of the dead. As it turned, Corbett caught a glimpse of zombies clambering up onto the boarding ladders of Klaff’s rig. The stenches were about to gain the upper hand.
“Klaff, you’re getting too far out into the horde!” Corbett radioed.
“Well, I know that now, sir,” Klaff responded. “They’re right outside the door—”
Klaff’s loader was about four hundred feet away, and the cab was swarming with stenches. The vehicle was jerking left and right, butting up against the walls. The loader suddenly turned hard to the left and slammed directly into the wall.
“Oh, hell,” Corbett said, knowing the zombies had managed to get into the cab and were attacking the foreman.
A large section of the wall exploded outward, and the tire loader rumbled through the opening. It disappeared from view, but Corbett could hear its engine revving as it continued bouncing across the desert. After a loud crashing noise, he figured the huge machine had wound up in one of the zombie-filled trenches.
Zombies roiled in through the breech in the wall. The loader that had followed Klaff’s began backing up, its reverse alarm sounding. The zombies honed in on it.
“Time to go,” Corbett said. He resumed firing, picking off several zombies that had managed to escape being crushed by the loaders.
“The rest of you, get going!” Victor shouted.
Carl Bremer, the heavily mustachioed fire chief, stopped and pulled out a massive revolver. He pointed it at the approaching dead and fired, pelting Corbett and Victor with powder as the big handgun barked.
“Damn it, Bremer, stop playing around!” Corbett yelled. “What the hell’s wrong with you, bringing a damn wheel gun to this fight!”
“Sorry!” Bremer spun and dashed after the others.
“Sir, we need to follow!” one of Corbett’s security team shouted. Like the rest of his peers, he had been on his rifle, methodically taking out the dead as they shambled forward.
The road was littered with bodies, but there was only so much they could do. The second loader grated to a halt in front of them.
The cab door opened, and an Asian man appeared. He gestured at them frantically. “Go on! Get movin’!” he screamed. “What’re y’all waitin’ for, engraved invitations?” His Texas accent was incongruous with his looks. Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the cab and resumed backing up, obviously to use the vehicle to block the entrance.
The driver of the last loader, a broad-shouldered Hispanic man, bailed out of his vehicle and darted toward them.
“Okay,” Corbett said. “Let’s go.” He turned and jogged toward the entrance, moving far slower than he would have liked. His back was killing him, and so were his knees. He was in great shape for a man in his seventies, but the running, climbing, shooting, and general roughhousing were taking their toll.
Pacing him, Victor reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Barry, you all right?” he asked.
“Doing fantastic, Vic. Yourself?”
“I’m—oh, fuck!”
Ahead, zombies crested the walls on either side of the corridor. They fell to the road, bouncing and rolling and moaning. Corbett’s heart felt heavy. In the span of time it took to take three steps, there were over twenty stenches between them and the airfield, and more were coming over every second. Lured in by the sounds of combat and the commotion with the loaders, they had been mounding without any kind of harassment. The tsunami of corpses had reached its zenith, and it was spilling over the twenty-foot walls.
“Run!” Victor shouted, pulling Corbett along with him. “Run. It’s the only way!” He let go of his rifle and pulled his pistol instead. He fired at the corpses that struggled to rise to their feet. Two went down, leaking ichor across the blacktop.
Corbett raised his rifle and fired as well, choosing his targets carefully. The others were still ahead of them,
and while he might have enjoyed accidentally shooting Sinclair in the back, he didn’t want to hit anyone else. The driver went down with a cry as one of the zombies landed right on him. Corbett slowed, planning to turn back to help, but Victor pulled him along with almost fanatical strength. More zombies landed on and around the fallen man, and there was no hope from him. Farther back, the Asian with the Texas accent was hauled from his loader while trying to exit the cab. He kicked and screamed, but the dead swarmed the rig.
Ghouls plummeted to the ground at a continuous rate. Another member of his security detail went down, yelling as he fired into the bodies that enveloped him. One round stuck the wall beside Corbett and ricocheted with a whine and a brief burst of sparks. A stench grabbed at his right foot, and he shot it in the face. Another pawed at his back, and Corbett twisted at the waist, causing the grotesquerie to lose its grip.
A runner suddenly caught up to them and barreled into Victor, knocking him off balance. Corbett snarled and turned his rifle on it. His first shot missed. The thing was all over Victor, its teeth glinting in the afternoon sunlight. Corbett snatched a handful of its hair and yanked its head back. A patch of hair came off right in his hand with a dull ripping sound, exposing the bloodless scalp. Victor fired his pistol into the corpse’s pelvis, driving it back, then fired another round through its head. The ghoul fell and lay still.
Behind them, hundreds of stenches filled the walled alleyway. Corbett knew they’d never make it in time, especially when he spotted more runners zigzagging their way through the horde.
“Guess you wasted those prisoners a little early,” Victor said. He fired his pistol into the oncoming mass until it was empty then dropped it and pulled his rifle back into his hands.
The Last Town Page 60
