The Last Town (Book 6): Surviving the Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  “Catch my good side?” he snapped.

  “I’m not sure,” Sinclair replied, his face ashen. “History will likely have to be the judge.”

  “Why, Mister Corbett?” Lasher was backpedaling toward him, sweat pouring off his face.

  “Why do you think, Lasher? We need to slow them up somehow. You want to maybe see another day? Then come on, the two of you!” With that, he turned and started back the way he had come. His driver followed, looking at Corbett with a distantly shocked expression. He made no comment on what he had just seen. Lasher swore and followed. Meredith Sinclair held back, continuing to drop zombies. Corbett heard Sinclair call her name, and he looked over his shoulder long enough to ensure she was going to comply. She dropped a few more, then fell back. Doddridge lurched toward her, reaching out, but she easily avoided him.

  “Fucking bitch!” he cried. Hector blubbered for her to stop, but she kept on going as the herd of zombies to the rear crept closer. Corbett faced forward and loped to where Suzy Kuruk had just finished creating a hole through the razor wire by loosening the tension on one strand. The security guard who had been a passenger in Corbett’s Expedition climbed up onto the barrier and gripped the strand with both hands while simultaneously standing on the one immediately below it. He pulled upward, and opened a sizable gap between the two rows of wire. People picked their way across, mindful of the sharp blades that could slice them open. It was a laborious process. Corbett’s security people wanted him on the other side right away, while Corbett wanted everyone else to go. He finally agreed to cross over after Victor managed to get across without cutting himself. Corbett was surprised to find he managed it as well.

  From the north end of the road, the screaming began as the zombies made it to the men he had hobbled. Corbett didn’t try to shut it out. He heard it all as the prisoners—and Hector Aguilar—met their grisly ends. He helped the Sinclairs across, then waited for the police and the remaining members of his security team. By that time, the herd creeping up from the south was closing on their position, and Corbett joined Victor and the others at the barrier wall as they went to guns on them. Even though they had to walk right through a virtual gauntlet, there were too many zombies to hold back. They stormed the wires, clambering atop the Jersey barriers in an attempt to get at the living on the other side. Those few people still on the road were running out of time, and quickly. Mike Hailey cut himself on the arm as he crossed, but ignored the injury and turned to fight as soon as his feet hit the ground on the other side. The driver was next, and he practically swan-dived through the opening without even tearing his pants. Officer Lasher was slower, and less capable. The old cop’s hands were shaking, and he was breathing hard. Corbett wondered if he was about to have a heart attack. He cut himself badly on the razor wire, as the last member of Corbett’s security team screamed for him to move his fat ass.

  It was too late. The zombies reached them, ignoring the fusillade of fire they had to walk through. Corbett reached for Lasher’s arm and intended to yank him all the way across, razor wire be damned. Instead, the zombies got a hold of him, and pulled him back right after the security man was taken down.

  More screams filled the air, punctuated by gunfire that now no longer meant anything.

  OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA

  Reese stood on the bridge of the dive boat, leaning against the rear bulkhead as the craft approached the position of the larger boat ahead. They knew the vessel’s name was Argosy, and that it was waiting for an extraction … whatever that meant. They also knew the boat had armed men aboard, and her skipper was telling the Port Police vessel to stay clear, even after they had identified themselves as law enforcement. The Argosy wasn’t having any of that, and a second voice came over the radio with a firm edict.

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Lennon of the United States Marine Corps. If you close inside of six hundred meters, you will be fired upon and your vessel destroyed. Final warning. Turn away. Argosy, out.”

  The bridge crew all looked at each other. Bay snorted and shook his head.

  “Yeah, okay. Someone’s up to no good,” the dive boat captain said.

  “So we’re going to keep rolling up on them?” Reese asked. On one of the displays, he could see an image of the vessel ahead. It was a big motor yacht, a real gold plater. And there were definitely armed men aboard, though the forward-looking infrared camera on the dive boat didn’t have enough fidelity to make everything crystal clear. Reese thought the men carried rifles, but they could have easily been boat hooks or fishing rods. Even harpoons, for all they knew.

  “We’re going to get close enough to get a good visual,” Bay said. He stepped toward the pilothouse windows and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Out on the bow, other men were doing the exact same thing. One of them was Plosser, and Reese perked up when the tall National Guardsman started waving and yelling while looking back at the dive boat’s helm deck.

  “What the hell is he saying?” asked the cop manning the helm.

  “Got no idea, I don’t speak dog-face,” Bay said. He waved Plosser in after giving him an exaggerated shrug that basically said, Guy, what the fuck? Plosser picked his way back from the pitching bow, his face hard. He shouldered into the pilothouse a moment later.

  “Yeah, you guys might want to turn the fuck away,” Plosser snapped.

  Connor Bay looked at him with a lackadaisical smirk. “Funny, I don’t remember you being in charge, big sarge.”

  Plosser looked around the helm deck. “You guys don’t have any armor? Ballistic shielding?”

  Bates stepped onto the bridge deck, looking from Plosser to Bay and back again. “What’s going on, guy?”

  Bay clucked his tongue. “No one’s going to get shot, Plosser.”

  Plosser walked right over to him. The grizzled NCO fairly towered over Bay, even though Bay wasn’t a small man himself. “Hey, asshole? Those guys have M203s and squad automatic weapons on that boat. Since I know you’re all nautical and stuff and don’t know the difference between a SAW and a bra, I’ll spell it for you. I’m telling you they have machine guns.”

  “Oh, bullshit!” Bay turned back to the windows and peered through his binoculars again. “All I see are what might be some long-barreled ARs.”

  “Okay. I could stand here wasting time trying to make you understand the difference between shit and Shinola, or I could get to the back of the boat and potentially survive. Later, dude,” Plosser said, and with that he turned away from Bay and headed for the boat’s muster area. As he passed Reese, he said, “You might not want to stand there, Detective. The other side of the bulkhead might be a better place to be.”

  Reese looked at Bay as Plosser left the helm deck. The dive boat skipper was still looking at the big yacht ahead, but now the other men on the bow were starting to look fidgety. He saw one of them turn back toward the pilothouse and begin to motion to the right. Bay didn’t do anything for a long moment, then finally lowered the binoculars from his eyes and looked at the wet compass on the console beside him.

  “Okay,” he said wearily. “Let’s come around to two-seventy. Just in case.”

  “Well, Lennon. Your people skills suck, but you sure did a better job than I did,” Norton said. Even though he’d hailed the inbound boat several times on two different frequencies, there hadn’t been a response. It was only after Lennon had snatched the microphone away from Norton and broadcast his single message had the inbound track turned off. Norton had already started the Pacific Mariner’s engines and raised its anchors, preparing to leave the area. He could see the approaching vessel through the Argosy’s top-notch FLIR mounted on the fly bridge’s big fiberglass overhead. He recognized the aluminum-hulled catamaran as the LA Port Police boat, and he knew it had a three-knot speed advantage over the Argosy. It wouldn’t be the fastest chase in the world, but eventually, the cops would catch them. Both he and Lennon watched as the silver-gray vessel turned to starboard and tacked away from the larger yacht. Through hi
s binoculars, Norton could plainly see the legend LOS ANGELES PORT POLICE on the boat’s side.

  “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 voice 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.

  “They don’t know that.”

  “Argosy, this is Dive Boat One. Over.”

  “Dive Boat, Argosy. Send it.” Lennon rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What a bunch of Chatty Cathys these guys are.”

  “Argosy, what exactly are you recovering? Over.”

  “Tell them cocaine and Mexican hookers. They’ll probably be able to 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,” Norton advised.

  “Well, we are off the coast of California, so it might be expected.” Lennon brought the handset to his mouth again and 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.” With that, Lennon 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 replaced the handset on its hook on the left side of the instrument panel.

  “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. As simple as that.”

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  Victor led the survivors from the convoy down a parallel street, and the remnants of Corbett’s bodyguards kept him boxed in tight. He should have been thankful, but he found their 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, who had managed to tag along. Roxanne looked like she was about to have a heart attack, her giant ass sagging almost to street level, but she kept going. Corbett admired that.

  From the east, zombies moaned.

  They couldn’t see them, but Corbett knew they were there. Momentarily troubled by the barriers and razor and tanglefoot wire, but they were there. The entire operation to save Single Tree had cost him over three hundred million in cash, which was but a drop in the bucket. That it might cost over two thousand lives was a sacrifice he suddenly couldn’t stomach. Of course, there were hard points throughout the city, especially the schools. Hundreds of people had been urged to relocate to them hours ago. If they had heeded the directives to seek sanctuary there—and Corbett had no information that they had or had not—then they could survive for months, even if the stenches surrounded the facilities. The last redoubt was his hangar at the airport. It was stocked with everything two to three hundred people would need to survive, and it had been designed to withstand hurricane force winds and a magnitude 7.2 earthquake. Once his jet was towed out of it, the last preparations would be made. People would be loaded in, the thick bi-fold doors would be closed, and they would be guaranteed another three to six months of survival. The solar panels atop the structure would provide power, and the water tanks would keep everyone hydrated. 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 and had never actually considered a substantial penetration of the town. That multiple penetrations had occurred within hours of each other was more than the town and its defenders could endure.

  Retreat was the only remaining option.

  And for those left behind, some townspeople had to survive. That was Corbett’s final calling. To ensure continuity. To ensure the special quality of Single Tree managed to live on, even if he himself did not.

  So he continued moving, even though he wanted to stop and fight, even if it meant falling before the horde.

  As the team moved down Goodwin Street, passing vacant tract housing and desert rock gardens, Corbett spoke into his walkie-talkie and made arrangements. Victor had been right, 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. The second option is what worked. Randall Klaff, a hard-bitten construction foreman Corbett had known for decades, answered the call. As the team made it to the end of Goodwin, Klaff and his men were there. They didn’t bring Expeditions with climate control and leather seating surfaces. They brought rubber tire loaders, CAT 988Ks with gigantic excavation buckets. Their five-hundred-plus horsepower diesel engines throbbed, and their buckets had been loaded. Corbett wheezed out a dry laugh when he saw what lay waiting for them.

  Klaff emerged from the operator cab of one of the loaders, a bandanna tied around his neck. He was almost ten feet above ground level, and he leaned against the safety railing that surrounded the cab.

  “Mister Corbett, this is the best we could do!” he shouted.

  “Klaff, that’s going to be just fine,” Corbett shouted back. “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, looking back at Corbett. 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 lift you up and rotate ’em back. Just move with the buckets and 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 up, past the group gathering before his idling loader. “Okay, now. You’d best be moving quick. Got us some comp’ny coming.”

  Corbett turned and looked back the way they had come. A row of zombies shambled after them, still a good distance away, but close enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He turned and pushed Victor and Suzy Kuruk toward the lowered bucket attached to the hydraulic arms of Klaff’s Caterpillar loader.

  “Get in there, right now,” he ordered.

  The group split up into different elements, each heading for a different loader. Corbett, two of his security personnel, the Kuruks, and the Sinclairs got into Klaff’s loader. Everyone else headed for the remaining machines. Corbett bid everyone to sit, and a minute later, the bucket began to rise in the air. It slowly rotated—none too smoothly—and Corbett felt the onset of sudden vertigo, but the sensation passed as soon as the bucket’s ground engagement tools were pointed toward the sky. He clambered to his feet and stood up, grabbing onto the tools, which were thick blades of metal that dug into earth and rock and broke them apart so the target matter could fill the bucket. The bucket was deep, but not by so much that he couldn’t see the street ahead. He was almost twenty feet in the air, and for the moment, he felt safer than he had in
days.

  “Mister Corbett, you guys ready there?” Klaff asked over the radio.

  Corbett pulled his radio from his belt and pressed down on the push-to-talk button. “Good to go, Klaff. If the other guys are ready, let’s get rolling.”

  “Okay, you’re going to feel a little bit of bounce, so watch yourselves!” With that, the loader started moving. Klaff hadn’t been kidding. 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 sixteen to twenty ounces of styling gel. Crow’s feet lined his eyes, and his mouth seemed perennially pinched.

  “Yes?” Sinclair said simply.

  Corbett released one of the blades 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. He smiled suddenly. “Once I’m out of danger, of course!”

  Corbett laughed. Cheeky motherfucker.

  Zombies began to fill the street ahead. Klaff didn’t seem to mind, for he 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, and Corbett turned to look back. He couldn’t see much, but he saw two more bucket loads of people following him. Apparently, the zombies had met their match in the heavy-duty construction equipment.