The Last Town (Book 6): Surviving the Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  Man, these things really are dumb.

  Lennon made it to the tip of the jetty before the boat pulled in. He turned and gunned down a couple of faster stenches that were picking their way after him. Several others emerged from the waters of the channel and clambered onto the jetty as well, striking out toward him. Lennon and the crew on the boat picked off as many as they could, but the numbers were in favor of the zombies. Lennon was running out of time. He turned, regarded the still approaching tender, then hurled himself into the water. Tossing off his heavy pack before it pulled him under, he swam as hard and fast as he could. Behind him, zombies leaped off the jetty and went in after him. Norton watched all of this, becoming more agitated with each passing second.

  “Come on, guys! How tough is it to pick up a single guy?” he shouted to himself.

  The tender finally made it, and the man in the bow reached down and grabbed onto Lennon. The boat rocked from side to side as he tried to pull him in. Lennon floundered in the water for a moment, then grabbed onto the side of the boat and clambered over. He collapsed into the passenger compartment, and the man standing behind the console cranked the wheel hard to starboard. The tender accelerated away from the jetty, just as hands emerged from beneath the surface. They groped for the tender, but only managed to touch its fiberglass chines before the small boat powered away.

  A minute later, the tender returned to the Argosy. Mendoza returned to the flybridge and worked the davit, retrieving the small center console after Lennon and the others had safely disembarked. Norton busied himself with the throttles, keeping the big boat more or less stationary as the smaller one was brought aboard. A wet and bedraggled Lennon slowly emerged from the gangway and joined him at the helm console. He collapsed into one of the Stidd chairs, shivering in the wind.

  “About time,” Norton said.

  Lennon grunted. “You got any coffee on this tub?”

  “About fifteen different varieties. Why don’t you get down below and take a shower? Grab the VIP stateroom, it’s in the bow. I’ll hold us here for a few minutes while you get yourself squared away.” Norton pointed to the sliding, smoked-glass door that led below deck.

  “No, we need to get underway,” Lennon said tiredly. He checked his watch. “We’re over an hour behind schedule. Get us out to sea, Norton.”

  “Will do. Go ahead and get out of this wind. You’ll be a lot warmer behind actual walls as opposed to Isenglass.” Norton indicated the clear, plastic sheeting that surrounded the front part of the flybridge and served as a windbreak. Even with the material, it was still plenty cool in the sea breeze.

  “Just get us on the other side of the breakwater,” Lennon said. “Come on, guy. Get it done.”

  “Welcome aboard, Walt.” Mendoza walked over and clapped a hand on Lennon’s shoulder. “You need to check this thing out. This thing is bigger than every house I’ve ever lived in, combined.”

  Norton advanced the throttles slowly and steadily, making ten knots as he pointed the Argosy’s high bow toward the harbor inlet’s opening. The surface conditions on this side of the seawall were essentially glassy smooth. That would change the farther out they went, but to his eye and from what the instruments told him, sea conditions were favorable. It would be as smooth sailing as they were likely to get.

  “Where am I headed?” he asked.

  “A mile or so outside the surf line,” Lennon said. “How deep is the water out there?”

  “A mile out? A few hundred feet to a few thousand,” Norton said. “Am I anchoring, or just holding position?”

  “Anchor,” Lennon said. “Is the water too deep for that?”

  “I know some places where I can set the hooks and not have to worry about the depth,” Norton said. “You guys can leave that to me.”

  “How long until we get there?”

  “Fifteen minutes. We’ll head down the coast for a few miles, then I’ll start scoping out anchorages. We’ll be on the hooks in twenty minutes, max,” Norton said.

  “Good,” Lennon said. He leaned back in the chair and hugged himself. “Maybe I’ll have a nice drink instead of that coffee. I guess it would be too much to hope for that you’d have any booze on this barge, right?”

  Norton snorted. “You can have all the booze you want, and some Japanese wagyu steak from the freezer. I’m not like Corbett, I spend my money.”

  “On yachts and planes,” Lennon said.

  “Both of which saved your ass today,” Norton replied. “Just in case you were about to get all high and mighty.”

  Lennon clucked his tongue. “Yeah, okay. I kind of have to give you that.”

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  The dead were winning.

  Corbett couldn’t believe it was all unwinding so fast. All the defenses, all the planning, all the training, all the expertise and materiel he’d brought in … all meaningless. The dead simply poured over the defenses and kept on coming, no matter how many of them were returned to death’s lasting embrace. Without fear, remorse, or caution, the dead were as unstoppable as an earthquake. For miles all around, they stood shoulder to shoulder outside the walls, each one of them vying for a chance to get across and gorge on the few living that remained.

  And there had been a series of deaths already. At least a hundred defenders had been taken down, and twice that number of townspeople had met their end at the hands and teeth of the hordes. The Bi-Rite had been overrun by noon, the defenders there driven back or killed where they stood. Soon thereafter, the dead began walking right off the supermarket’s roof, shattering their legs when they landed on the ground below. And that didn’t matter. They kept on coming, at a crawl if nothing else.

  After they began cresting the tops of the Alaskan barriers, Victor ordered the police station evacuated. Everything that could be taken was thrown in the vehicles in the parking lot. Corbett himself was ushered out by the remaining members of his security team, and they practically carried him out and stuffed him right into a waiting Expedition. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but even he couldn’t fight off three well-trained men who intended to discharge their duty.

  “The girl rides with me!” he shouted. Already, the dead were at the eastern side of the chain-link fence that surrounded the station house, hissing and moaning, frustrated by the thin barrier of twisted metal that held them back. Scores of them were caught up in the tanglefoot wire before the fence, but the wounds it inflicted did nothing to deter them. Corbett was heartened to see Suzy Kuruk being brought out behind him, escorted by Hailey. They shoved her into the waiting SUV after Sinclair managed to cram himself in back. Victor emerged from the station house, leading the handcuffed criminals and Hector Aguilar out into the day. They were spirited to one of the Single Tree PD SUVs.

  “He wouldn’t leave them behind,” Suzy said, following Corbett’s stare.

  “God damn, if anyone should be left behind, it’s them. The lot of them!” Corbett snapped.

  “That’s not my uncle,” she replied.

  “I know.”

  The rest of Corbett’s security detail hopped into the SUV. “Sir, we’re going directly to the airfield,” the driver said, starting the vehicle and slamming it into reverse.

  “Not yet,” Corbett said.

  “Sorry, sir. That’s where we’re headed,” the driver said.

  “Not yet!” Corbett roared. “Not yet, God damn it!”

  The driver accelerated, heading to the back of the parking lot. There was a closed gate there, and the dead hadn’t gotten to it just yet. Another one of Corbett’s hired guns was there, providing security. He pulled the gate open and pointed out the tanglefoot that lay on either side of the exit. The driver stopped momentarily and rolled down his window.

  “Laramie, you catch a ride with Tork and Nelson, all right?”

  “Oorah!”

  The window went up and the Expedition roared out onto the street. Stenches were already picking their way toward the open gate, but the tanglefoot wire ensnared them and b
rought them to a momentary halt. Corbett twisted in his seat and looked out the rear window. The corpses struggled against the wire’s embrace, shedding both garments and skin in the process. It was disgusting to watch, even for him. The only bright ray of hope had come twenty minutes ago, when Lennon had contacted him via satellite phone. They were on Norton’s yacht, and were holding position off the California coast.

  “We can’t go to the airport,” Corbett said. “It’s not time yet.”

  “Sorry, Mister Corbett, but I disagree,” the driver said. “We have thousands of stenches inside the walls. They’re coming over at about a thousand a minute. Eventually, they’ll figure out the airport is pretty lightly defended, and they’ll start coming over those walls, too. If that happens, you’ll never get out. There aren’t enough of us left to go around to try and hold them back.”

  “I have people I need there.”

  The driver glared at him in the rearview mirror. “Sir, they are there. We started moving them ten minutes ago, when the Bi-Rite was about to go under. The only people who aren’t there are you and your immediate party, and we’re correcting that oversight now.”

  Corbett fidgeted in his seat. He didn’t want to be seen running away. A lot of people depended on him, and now he was being spirited to safety? It was outright galling.

  Behind him, Sinclair stirred in the third seat, holding his borrowed camera.

  “Barry, I was wondering if I could ask you a question,” Sinclair said quietly.

  “What is it, Sinclair?”

  “My wife, Meredith. Do you have room for her?”

  Corbett sighed. “Sure. I’ll just tape her to one of the wings.”

  “I would appreciate that,” Sinclair said. “Anything you might be able to do.”

  “Developed a conscience after all this time, Jock?”

  “It’s the end of the world. She’s a fighter. I’d just like it if she were to have a chance.” Sinclair hesitated for a moment. “She really is a good woman.”

  Corbett turned in his seat again and looked at Sinclair. The occasional journalist had his camera pointing out the Expedition’s rear window, recording the small convoy following their vehicle. Corbett knew that in one of those three or four SUVs trailing behind them sat Meredith Sinclair. Despite his animosity toward the loudmouthed Brit, Corbett felt that Sinclair had changed over the past several weeks. He’d matured, if that was even possible. But he wasn’t in the frame of mind to start passing out awards for a man doing what he should have done, no matter the circumstances.

  “No promises, Sinclair,” he said. “No promises.”

  “Thank you,” Sinclair said.

  Corbett grunted in response, which was probably more recognition than Sinclair warranted. As the small convoy wound through the town, rolling past revetments and obstructions designed to slow down the zombies, he made a list of people he decided he was worried about.

  Dani. Victor. Suzy. Martin Kennedy. I guess Hailey, since Suzy won’t leave without him. Now Sinclair and his wife. Lennon’s family. Who else? Gemma? The Bookers? What about the rest of my people, and their families? How many more can I save?

  “Fuck!” the driver shouted as the SUV began a series of wild gyrations. Corbett snapped out of his introspection and looked out the windshield as the Expedition rounded a curve. A herd of stenches flooded the street ahead, turning toward the vehicle as it barreled toward them. They were caught in a stretch of road that was bordered by Jersey barriers on either side, so there was no turning off. And the SUV was frankly going too fast to stop, anyway.

  It plowed into the corpses like a battering ram, sending bodies flying as sheet metal crumpled and glass fractured. The Expedition rocked from side to side, its engine bellowing. The air bags suddenly deployed, filling the cabin with an explosion of dust and a wave of air pressure. The driver lost control of the vehicle—understandable, as he had a face full of automotive air bag—and the Expedition wound up slaloming from barrier to barrier, taking down a host of zombies, but not enough to matter. The SUV eventually started riding up one of the barriers until the front right tire slipped over the lip and became entangled in strands of razor wire. The vehicle rocked to a sudden halt, and Corbett felt Sinclair slam into the back of his seat with a curse.

  Corbett turned to Suzy Kuruk. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” she said. Like Corbett, she’d slipped on her seat belt. Just the same, she looked a little dazed.

  “Guys?” Corbett looked to the front of the vehicle, where the two bodyguards were wrestling with the rapidly deflating air bags.

  “Stay in the vehicle!” the driver shouted. “No one exit the vehicle, wait for support!”

  Something struck Corbett’s door. He looked over and saw a leering zombie peering inside as it pawed at the glass. It slammed its face against the window, trying to tear at him with its teeth. Corbett pulled his .45 from its holster.

  “We might have to help ourselves out of this one,” he muttered.

  OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA

  Once again, Reese was given shore duty. He found himself on the dive boat with the usual cast of characters, all single men and women who were deemed essentially expendable by Buttondown Bob. He wasn’t thrilled by it. No one in their right mind would be, but choices were few and opportunities for different work would likely be long in coming. And bitching about it did nothing. Marsh had bitched, and he was dead from bleeding on the brain, something Reese himself had caused. Of course, had the bald detective with the penchant for seasickness grown a pair and tried to save Manalo, then he would still be alive today. Instead, both men were dead. Marsh wasn’t missed. Manalo was.

  Reese felt no despair at his role in Marsh’s demise. He had long since moved past that.

  Today’s mission area was a bit farther south, in the corridor between Santa Barbara and Ventura. There was no particular target. The team would simply reconnoiter the area and try to identify a location from where resources might be harvested. Santa Barbara was still a bit hot, as the zombie population seemed to linger. There was some chatter that areas down south were a bit less infested, though Reese didn’t rightly know how that could be. As far as he went, getting closer to Los Angeles wasn’t a great idea.

  “Maybe we won’t be going ashore,” Reneee said, as if reading his thoughts. Reese had been sitting in the dive boat’s salon, staring at a mug of coffee he really didn’t want. He looked across the dinette table at her. She had lost quite a bit of weight since relocating to the island. Before, she was a plump woman. Now, she was approaching svelte territory. Her clothes, which were always a bit tight before, now hung on her apparently shrinking frame. Reese’s pants felt a little loose in the waistline as well. It wasn’t from starvation. It was from stress and depression. The long days of always being switched on, waiting for something to happen, were taking their toll on everyone. Even Plosser was beginning to fray a bit. The big Guardsman kept to himself more and more. The only person who was handling things okay was Bates. Even as rising zombie hordes slowly consumed living humanity, Bates was just fine and dandy. The tall patrol sergeant’s luck had finally run out, though. He was aboard the boat as well, having been selected by Buttondown Bob to lead whatever shore excursions might crop up. Reese watched the patrolman as he stood on the aft deck of the boat, swaying with the waves, apparently impervious to the cold and salt spray.

  Reese felt the boat alter course. He looked out the windows and saw the nondescript California coastline receding slightly as the boat turned away from it. He twisted in the dinette and looked toward the helm deck. Connor Bay was staring at one of the displays intently.

  “Sit tight,” Reese said to Reneee as he slid out from behind the dinette table. He walked up to the helm deck and looked inside. Through the front windows, he could definitely see the dive boat was no longer tracking toward the coastline.

  “What’s up, Reese?” Bay must’ve sensed his presence, and he looked over his shoulder as Reese stood on the gangway
’s last step.

  “Something wrong?” Reese asked. “You calling off the mission?”

  “No, no. We have a pretty sizable radar contact out there, about six miles out. We’re going to check it out,” Bay said, nodding toward the Harbor cop piloting the boat.

  “How big?”

  “Bigger than we are. It’s holding a constant bearing, so either they’re keeping station with power, or they’re anchored. Either way, we should check it out.”

  Reese didn’t understand. “Why?”

  “Because it might be easier to see what we can get from them than to put you guys ashore,” Bay said. “Unless you want to go back to the mainland?”

  Reese considered the question rhetorical. No one in their right mind wanted to step back into California, not now. “Is it a ship? Maybe the Navy, or the Coast Guard?”

  “Possibly,” Bay said, running a hand over his fuzzy chin. Like a lot of the guys, he had given up shaving, and sported a fairly full beard. Reese still shaved himself, once every three or four days, whether he needed it or not. “I want to put eyes on it before we try and make contact. If it’s big enough, we might want to steer clear. Big boats can have big guns.”

  “We might be able to work out a deal,” Reese said. “Maybe they have a place like ours.”

  “And no one’s going to waste time and fuel hanging off the coast of Ventura County,” Bay replied. “I think they’re waiting for something, and I’m kind of curious to see what that might be.”

  Norton had anchored the Argosy a little less than two miles off the coast, roughly right between the mainland and Santa Cruz Island. There was some small boat traffic out there, but no one was very interested in the Pacific Mariner as the current moved it in a slow, lazy circle around its anchorage point. He had retreated downstairs to the yacht’s pilothouse and was enjoying a hot mug of coffee while keeping an eye on the displays. The Argosy was operating perfectly, and he’d taken the opportunity after setting anchor to walk the boat from stem to stern. Nothing was out of place, aside from the crusted gore on the decks. He hosed some of that away with raw seawater, but it was pretty obvious he would have to do some heavy-duty cleaning if he wanted to restore the vessel to its former luster. That didn’t seem very important at the moment. He did stop by the master stateroom to ensure the personal possessions he kept aboard were in good shape. He had clothes and toiletries and clean linens for the king-sized berth. If all went well, he looked forward to sharing it with Danielle Kennedy, presuming she somehow survived the onslaught of thousands of zombies and a planned ocean landing in a Gulfstream jet. Norton had already crashed his own bird. He figured it was a rare honor to watch an even more expensive jet meet its end from the flybridge of his own yacht.