The Last Town (Book 2): Preparing For The Dead (10 page)

“How touching,” Aguilar said.

The old Marine merely looked at Corbett and said nothing further.

Victor wasn’t done. He walked toward Corbett, slipping his glasses into his shirt pocket.

“Barry? No big words, now. Do you absolutely believe these things are going to happen?”

“They already are, Victor,” Norton said. “Corbett’s not lying to anyone. He’s offering the town a lifeline. But in order for it to be any good, we have to take it. Now. Tonight.”

“What work is that?” Booker asked. “Blowing up highways? Blowing away kids?”

“I have construction equipment ready to go,” Corbett said. “We can start work on the trenches tonight. Right now. All I have to do is give the crews the word. We have all the records, we know where every pipe and conduit is. At the same time, we can start shutting down Main Street. Close the gas stations, the restaurants, the shops. We start conserving what we have and make the town as inhospitable as possible. Don’t give people a reason to stop, but give them every reason to keep on driving.” He turned to Victor. “Yes, Victor. I expect this to come our way. I hope it doesn’t, but I don’t see any way around it. We need to be prepared. Are you in?”

“Of course I am,” Victor said, surprisingly.

“
What
?” Aguilar said. “Seriously?”

Victor nodded. “Seriously. I might live on a reservation, but I’m not an idiot. And my people suffered centuries of violence—you might have noticed the reservation is for Indians, and not white people. I’m not interested in seeing my community come to further harm. So yes, I think the Paiute-Shoshone people will take up Mister Corbett on his gracious offer.” He looked at Norton. “You too, Gary?”

Norton nodded with a sigh. “All in.”

Victor looked at the mayor. “Max?”

Booker motioned to the others seated at the table with him. “Yeah, we’ll have to discuss this. Privately.” He put a hand on Grady’s arm. “Chief, you should stay, if you don’t mind.”

Grady nodded. “Yeah. Sure thing.”

“Where can I reach you, Barry?” Booker asked.

“I’ll be out front.” With that, Corbett ambled up the aisle, heading for the door. His escort followed. They left the empty box behind. Norton rolled up his copy of the document and got to his feet, brushing the palm of his hand against the butt of the pistol, making sure the Shield was still properly seated in the Kydex holster beneath his shirt. Victor waved him out ahead of him, so Norton mounted the aisle and walked after Corbett and his entourage, with Victor bringing up the rear.

*

“You all right?”
Corbett asked in the entry foyer outside.

“What do you mean?” Norton said as the door closed behind them. Victor stopped a few feet away, slowly pulling on his leather jacket. He zipped it up halfway, then reached inside it and pulled out a silver cigarette case.

“I mean I thought you were going around the bend in there,” Corbett said. “But of course, Hector does that to everyone.”

Norton sighed and pulled on his own jacket. “No, that was just me having my first hissy fit in about fifteen years.”

“Next time, just plug him,” Victor said. “What are you carrying, anyway?”

Norton looked at him. “Huh?”

Victor patted the small of his back. “You were printing.”

“Oh. Smith. Shield, in nine millimeter.”

Victor nodded sagely as he popped open his cigarette case. “Ah. Such a cute little gun. Shall we step outside?”

“Yeah, let’s.” Corbett led the way, as always.

Outside, the night was deep and dark, and a chill wind clawed at them with cool talons as the group emerged from the warmth of the town hall building. The parking lot was empty save for Norton’s Jeep, Corbett’s pickup, and his escort’s SUV, which was manned by a single guard.

“Victor, did you walk here?” Norton asked.

“I rode my horse. It’s down there.” Victor pointed to the far end of the parking lot, and in the darkness, Norton saw a burly Harley Davidson XLCH.

“Horse, huh?”

Victor pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his case and put it between his lips. “A modern day horse. Cigarette?”

Norton waved the offer aside. Corbett shook his head as well. Victor looked over at his bodyguards, but they moved fifteen feet away, giving the men some privacy. Victor shrugged, placed the cigarette case back in his jacket, and lit his smoke with a bright Zippo lighter.

“So, Barry. It seems to me that my people might be better served relocating closer to town. I would guess the smaller our footprint, the less spread out our defenses would need to be,” he said after taking a long drag on his cigarette. He exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke that drifted away from them, roiling in the nighttime desert breeze.

“That would make more sense, but I am prepared to make two camps,” Corbett said. “We need to keep the airport clear, anyway.”

“But how would we get to it?” Norton asked. “And why?”

Corbett tapped the binder Norton held. “Page seventy-four. Thought you’d read that.”

“Uh, read? Yes. Memorized? No.”

“Airport’s the last stand,” Corbett said. “If things hit the shitter, there won’t be many of us left, anyway. We can fly out to the coast.”

“You have another plan?” Victor asked.

“Gary has a yacht,” Corbett said.

Norton shot the older man a sidelong look. “Damn, how did you know that?”

“I have resources. I just wish it was a bit bigger,” Corbett said, staring off into the darkness.

“How big is it, exactly?” Victor asked.

“Eighty-five feet,” Norton told him. “Pacific Mariner. Sleeps twelve in staterooms, but it could hold maybe two or three times that number if people aren’t particular.”

“If it comes to that, we won’t be,” Corbett said. “Is it in good shape?”

“What do your sources tell you?”

“That you don’t take it out that much, since you need a couple of crew to come along, but that it seems to be mechanically sound and fit for maritime duty.”

“Uh-huh. And how do you propose we get there?”

Corbett continued staring into the darkness. “We have these things called airplanes, Gary.”

“Those things called airplanes need runways, Barry.”

“You’ll need to consider getting your feet wet, Norton.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Victor said. “But I’ll be sure to carry my swimming trunks with me, just in case.”

“Sounds like a plan, Victor,” Corbett said. “Thanks for getting onboard with this, by the way.”

Victor took another drag. “It’s better to have less thunder in the mouth, and more lightning in the hand.”

“Is that a Paiute-Shoshone proverb?” Norton asked.

Victor took another hit from his cigarette and exhaled another cloud of smoke. “It is now. Will one of you let me know their decision?” He nodded his head toward the town hall building behind them.

“We will. Taking off?” Corbett asked.

“Yes. I figure one more peaceful night with my wife won’t be such a bad thing, after all.” With that, the solid-looking Native American sauntered down to his waiting motorcycle.

“You know, never really talked with Victor much before,” Norton said, watching as the man put his helmet on his head before straddling the Harley. “He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“He was an ass kicker before he got discovered,” Corbett said. “Now instead of punching people’s lights out, he actually talks. I hear it happened after he went to some Los Angelino dentist and got himself some new pearly whites. He’s a cheap bastard, won’t risk anything happening to them.”

Norton laughed. “Really.” In the darkness, Victor’s Harley roared to life, and the headlight snapped on.

“Really. Take a look at his knuckles next time.” Corbett watched as Victor sped off into the night, his motorcycle bellowing. “A real ass kicker forty years ago, for sure.”

R
eese stayed close
to Bates as they led five National Guardsmen through the hospital, shotguns held before them. Progress was slow. Not only did they not know exactly where they were needed, the gunfire and screams had ignited a panic. People were everywhere in the corridors, seeking some sort of safe haven. Rooms were on either side of the group as they moved. Those with closed doors were of little concern. Those with open doors had to be swept, in case a threat lay within. No one wanted a zombie to get in behind them. Usually, pasty-faced patients looked back at Reese as he stopped at each doorway, sweeping the barrel of his shotgun across the room. Sometimes, the rooms were empty. But so far, no zombies had presented themselves, which suited Reese just fine.

He shouted to one of the hospital staff as the team pushed through the corridor, wending their way around patients, many of whom weren’t mobile enough to get out of the way. They ended up getting plastered against the walls or knocked to the floor, which added to the pandemonium.

“Where’s the problem?” Reese bellowed at a male nurse.

“Up there, outside of the isolation ward!” the man shouted back. He was pushing a bed down the corridor as fast as he could. IV trees hung on the bed, and a sallow-faced old man lay within its confines, eyes half-closed.

“Where’s the isolation ward?” Reese asked, but the nurse just kept going.

“Up here!” cried another nurse, just ahead of Bates. She led another nurse by the arm. Both women’s scrubs were dappled with dark blood. Reese noted the second nurse was injured, bleeding badly from a wound in her thigh. The woman helping her turned at the waist and pointed up the hall. “There! Right there!”

“This looks kind of fucked up,” Bates said over his shoulder as he advanced, the butt of his shotgun pulled tight against his shoulder.

“All you people, get out of here!” Narvaez shouted behind Reese, his voice muffled by the face mask he wore. “If you can’t get out, get into a room and close the doors! We’ll come for you when it’s safe!”

The crowd thinned out. Reese stepped out from behind Bates, his shotgun held at low ready. He was sweating heavily beneath his armored vest, and he wondered how Narvaez and his men were holding up. They wore complete Mission Oriented Protective Posture suits, gear that would serve to ward off infectious, chemical, and radiological agents. Reese had worn the police variants himself on previous occasions, and found the gear to be hot and uncomfortable. It also reduced vision and hearing and restricted movement. The Guardsmen must’ve been going through hell.

As he came around Bates, the double doors to the isolation ward slowly swung open. A bloodied figure emerged from the hallway beyond, its eyes vacant, its pace slow but steady. An IV needle was still stuck in one arm, held fast by surgical tape. Also present was the line, still attached to the empty plastic bag that the ghoul dragged along behind it. When the zombie saw the two police officers, it let out a slow hiss and leaned forward as it padded toward them. The doors slowly swung closed behind it, but not before Reese could see at least a dozen more walking corpses. They were crouched over a motionless figure, tearing at it with their hands and teeth. The man on the floor wore a dark blue uniform, and he was surrounded by expended nine-millimeter cartridges.

“Come on, shoot it!” Narvaez yelled.

Bates raised his shotgun and fired, obliterating half of the zombie’s head as it reached toward him. The body toppled over onto its back and lay still.

Bates looked back at Reese. “So are we going in, or are we waiting for them to come to us?” he asked. His voice was calm, almost conversational.

Reese regarded the closed doors before them. He swallowed, even though his mouth felt devoid of even a droplet of spit.

“Let’s go and kick some zombie ass,” he said. With that, he advanced toward the doors, shotgun held at ready. Bates moved beside him, and Reese could hear the footfalls of the Guardsmen behind him. Without asking if anyone was ready, he reached out with one hand and pulled open one of the doors. The zombies were already massing on the other side, having finished with the security guard they’d taken down earlier.

As if of one mind, they surged toward Reese like a fetid tide of rot, hissing and moaning.

TO BE CONTINUED