The Last Town Read online

  “That’s it,” Marshall said. “Get with your supervisors, get your assignments, and get on duty. Be careful, people. Be very, very careful.”

  DALLAS, TEXAS

  Well, this isn’t getting any better.

  Like millions of people across the globe, Barry Corbett had watched the news intently when the apparent pandemic broke, first in Russia then across a large swath of Europe before cementing its hold in the Middle East, where resources were too thin to combat it. Once that happened, a mass migration took place. Infected denizens from countries like Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and Qatar spread to different parts of the globe, seeking safety. Many made it to the United States before quarantine zones were established, mostly on the East Coast. After a brief respite, Russia had once again found itself under attack, not by the virus that had killed ten percent of those it infected but by the reanimated, carnivorous corpses of those who had died.

  Corbett understood immediately that the epidemic was nothing like any that had come before it, and he had started preparing for the worst. Whatever had begun in Russia would be impossible to contain in an era of jet travel coupled with weak-willed governments suddenly faced with the distasteful requirement of implementing strong-arm tactics to keep their territories safe. Not that harsh, unrepentant measures were guaranteed to be successful. The Russian authorities fought valiantly against their new microscopic foe as only the Russians could, but it was obvious early on that they were doomed to failure.

  Currently, millions of reanimated dead were marching on Moscow. More troubling were the substantial infestations occurring inside the continental US. New York City and Washington, DC, were large focal points because of the cosmopolitan nature of those cities. In Dallas, where Corbett currently resided, there was no news of any infection, though the authorities were maintaining a high degree of vigilance. Los Angeles and San Francisco were also reporting outbreaks, though they were substantially smaller than those back east. Corbett wasn’t taking anything for granted, however. If things spiraled out of control in other cities, it wouldn’t be long until the infection managed to get a toehold in the Lone Star State.

  Corbett picked up his desk phone and dialed a single digit. When the call was answered, he said, “Let’s get things moving. We’re on.”

  He hung up and turned to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. Standing on the seventieth floor of the Bank of America Plaza building, he had a commanding view of the skyline and the surrounding area. All looked peaceful at one thirty in the afternoon, and for a moment, Corbett allowed himself to grieve. He would miss Dallas. Other than Single Tree, it was the only place he had felt at home. And zombies, of all things, threatened to rip it all away.

  His grief didn’t last for long. He had things to do, and emotion just got in the way. He informed his secretary he was heading for the airport and asked her to contact the aviation department and ensure his plane was ready. He then told her to go home and to get somewhere safe for the next week or so until things either blew over or disintegrated entirely.

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Norton spotted his Embraer Phenom 100 as Simpkiss maneuvered to land on the ramp. The small six-seater jet had been towed out of its hangar and was parked on the apron in front of the fixed-base operator facility. Norton hoped it was already fueled.

  “Okay, you’re good to go,” Simpkiss said as soon as the landing skids made contact. “You know the drill: get your bags and walk directly out from the helicopter. Don’t go near the tail.”

  “Jed, you still going to make your pickups?” Norton asked.

  Simpkiss sighed heavily over the intercom. “Yes.”

  Norton nodded. “All right, man. Best of luck to you. If things go pear-shaped wherever you are, I’m in Single Tree. Airport prefix is O-26, and the main runway’s in great shape, over six thousand feet long. It’s on the San Francisco sectional charts.”

  “Cool. Thanks for the information,” Simpkiss said. “Best of luck, Gary.”

  Norton shook his hand then removed his headset. He got out and retrieved his stuff from the back. With a final wave to Simpkiss, he jogged toward his plane, towing his bags along. Behind him, the helicopter rose into the air.

  Norton lowered the plane’s boarding ramp and heaved his bags inside. After checking with the FBO attendant to ensure the jet had been fueled, he began the preflight process, which took only ten minutes. The operating checklist was contained on both sides of a laminated card Norton could slip into his shirt pocket. The airplane was hooked up to a ground-power unit, and Norton notified the attendant to stand ready to remove the plug once the right engine spooled up. He then pulled the ramp door closed, locked it, then returned to the cockpit. After exchanging a thumbs-up with the attendant, he switched on the batteries and rotated the right engine igniter to Start. The number two engine groaned as it turned over, then the sound rose to a muffled shriek. Norton gave the attendant another thumbs-up, and the man pulled the power umbilical from the jet. As soon as the attendant was clear, Norton cranked up the number one engine. Once it was online, he did a final system check and was ready to roll.

  Traffic was plentiful at Bob Hope, not just in the air, but also on the taxiways. It took him almost forty minutes to line up for takeoff on runway eight, sandwiched between two Southwest 737s. After a five-minute wait at the threshold, he was finally given clearance to take off and climb to an initial altitude of two thousand five hundred feet for the usual ELMOO 6 departure, then to four thousand prior to his final departure point. At that time, he would be free to climb to twenty thousand feet and make his way across the state to the Mojave at four hundred fifty miles per hour. He would be in Single Tree in less than thirty minutes.

  Norton found he couldn’t get there fast enough.

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  “Hey, Rod. We’ve got us a lot of trucks pulling in,” Enrico said.

  Rod Cranston didn’t look up from his Kindle Fire. He’d been engrossed in some slippery-wet monster porn story, and it was all he could do to pause to eat something. “What, FedEx or UPS or something?” he asked.

  “No, no, man. Real trucks. Tractor-trailer rigs.”

  “How many are we talking about?” Cranston asked, eyes still on his screen.

  “Fifteen, twenty, maybe.”

  Cranston grunted, much like the Sasquatch in the story as it heaved itself into a willing human woman. He licked the sweat on his upper lip.

  “Rod!” Enrico yelled. “They’re filling up the entire parking lot, and there are more of them on Main Street.”

  Cranston barely noticed Enrico’s shadow fall across him as the man came over and stood next to him.

  “Whoa, that’s some pretty weird shit, Rod,” the younger man said, reading over Cranston’s shoulder.

  Cranston switched off the tablet and slipped it into his desk drawer, feeling both embarrassed and a little pissed off. “What the hell are you going on about, boy?” he snapped, running a hand through his red hair. Cranston was a beefy man in his late forties, and he’d been the airport manager of Single Tree’s small uncontrolled airport for almost a decade. While it didn’t pay much, it was an easy job. Single Tree didn’t get much in the way of traffic, even after Barry Corbett had cut a deal with the city of Los Angeles to extend the main runway another few thousand feet. In fact, Corbett and that prick Gary Norton, whom Cranston had grown up with and always kind of hated with his gussied-up pretty-boy looks and his little personal jet, were the only ones who used the airport with any regularity.

  Some transient aircraft would buzz in a couple of times a week, and a few of the locals had planes, too. Doc Weinstein had a doctor killer, a two-year-old Bonanza G36, Pablo Jimenez had a spiffy little Pitts aerobat that spent most of its time in the hangar, and Gerald Potter had a Cessna 185 in a T-hangar. Potter had died two months before, and Cranston still had to figure out what to do with the plane since the old codger apparently didn’t have any next of kin who gave a damn.

 
Enrico pointed out the dusty window behind him. Cranston turned in his squeaky office chair. There were at least a dozen tractor-trailer rigs out in the south lot, many hauling sixty-foot covered trailers, and others with construction equipment: bulldozers, cranes, even a road grader. What the hell?

  “There a construction project going on I don’t know about?” he asked.

  “Well, there must be one going on that I don’t know about,” Enrico said. He was a skinny, gawky Mexican kid who would probably be working at the airport for the rest of his life, pumping fuel and removing trash and patching up the taxiway. Cranston didn’t mind him, which was unusual since he pretty much disliked all the Mexicans in town.

  “All right, whatever. Let’s go and see what’s going on.” With a heavy sigh, Cranston got to his feet and left the office, taking his customary huge strides.

  Enrico followed, essentially caught up in the bigger man’s wake as he plowed through the exit door and into the hot, dry day outside. Cranston winced at the bright sunlight and realized he’d left his sunglasses on his desk, along with his cap. He hoped he wouldn’t need to stay outside for very long. Doc Weinstein had warned him to start wearing hats and sunscreen after he’d had that tiny chunk of skin removed from his left ear, on account it had gone all cancerous.

  A short, wiry man with a weathered face and pale-blue eyes that seemed to dwell deep within his head hurried over to them. He sported a thick handlebar mustache and had on a faded denim shirt and equally worn blue jeans. His dun work boots had seen better days too, and Cranston wondered if the guy had driven a truck from wherever he’d come from or just walked. A grimy white cap with a Cabo Yachts logo adorned his head, holding his frizzy brown hair at bay. Cranston figured the guy might be anywhere from forty to sixty.

  “You Roderick Cranston?” the man asked. His voice was a bit on the harsh side, probably from a lifetime spent smoking cigarettes.

  “Yeah, I’m Cranston. Who’re you? What’re all these trucks doing here?”

  “I’m Bill Rollins. And these here trucks”—Rollins turned and waved at the idling rigs behind him—“are a gift from Barry Corbett.”

  “Barry Corbett done gone and gave me a dozen or so tractor trailers? Hey, that’s great. But why? See, I’m not some little girl who had her leg blown off, so I’m wondering why Old Man Corbett would feel inclined to be so generous toward me.” Cranston shaded his eyes with one hand and looked at the nearest truck. Emblazoned on the driver’s door was the logo for Alamo Power, one of the old man’s energy companies.

  “Well, I’m not so sure it’s meant for you specifically, Mr. Cranston, but you are the designated initial recipient,” Rollins said. “We’ll be parking forty-two rigs here, so I was wondering if you could get these cars moved out of the lot. We know some of the payload is going to have to go in the desert, but we really need the hard stand for the heavy equipment.”

  Cranston chuckled. “Forty-two? Is that all? Listen, Rollins, I don’t own this property. And neither does Corbett. I’m pretty sure he can’t park his trucks here without some sort of permit from Los Angeles, or maybe Inyo County, and—”

  Rollins pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it over. “Hey, we’re in luck. Parking permits from the city of Los Angeles. Mr. Corbett has entered into an agreement with the city to install an entire category-three instrument landing system on this airfield.”

  “What?” Cranston smirked. “I do believe I smell bullshit in the air. I never heard anything of this!”

  “No, sir, Mr. Cranston. There is not a whiff of bullshit here. In fact, Los Angeles has been in receipt of the environmental notification forms for quite some time, and after some negotiations with the Inyo County environmental agencies, the project was approved two months ago.” Rollins smiled beneath his big mustache, and his teeth were blazingly white. “As a bonus, we’re even going to improve the taxiway and pour some new helipads for you. I’m happy to make your acquaintance, as I’ll be the project manager.”

  Cranston laughed. “You’re good, Rollins. You’re good.” He opened the envelope and pulled out several dozen pages on the city of Los Angeles letterhead. “Very professional. But I’m sure very phony, too.”

  “Yeah, I was told you’d probably say that. I was told you were kind of a prick, too. Seems like both tellings were correct. You might want to contact your mayor or first selectman or whatever it is you have in this piss-poor town of yours, because they’ll probably want to know about your desire to torpedo the airport upgrade project. I’ll be waiting in my truck while the rest of the boys tie up a California interstate just because you don’t know the difference between shit and Shinola.”

  Enrico chortled, and for a moment, Cranston just gaped at Rollins. The smaller man just turned back to his truck and climbed into the cab.

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Reese saw the first of the National Guardsmen as they hopped out of an Army UH-60 Black Hawk that settled onto the top floor of a parking garage. As he stood there, battered by the helicopter’s rotor wash, he spotted another Black Hawk orbiting overhead, running a racetrack pattern around Hollywood. Reese wondered just how many soldiers would be joining the LAPD.

  A short, swarthy man in a full Army Combat Uniform jogged toward Reese, a dozen Guardsmen behind him. Reese and the three uniformed patrolmen waited, squinting against the dust the Black Hawk kicked up as it rose into the air and roared away from the parking garage. The Guardsman had subdued captain’s insignia on his helmet and uniform, and he carried an assault rifle and a gigantic rucksack that looked almost as big as Reese’s first apartment out of college. He was a fit-looking white guy in his late thirties, and he wore the most god-awful eyeglasses Reese had ever seen.

  “Hi, sir. I’m Captain Bobby Narvaez, Alpha Company, First Battalion, 184th Infantry Regiment. Are you Officer Reese?”

  “I’m Detective Three John Reese, Los Angeles Police Department, Hollywood Station homicide desk,” Reese said, realizing his response wasn’t nearly as impressive as Narvaez’s introduction.

  Narvaez extended his hand, and Reese shook it. The soldier’s grip was strong as he pumped Reese’s arm three times.

  “Good to meetcha, Detective. In about three hours, we’ll have around ninety troops on station. Will you guys have room for all of us?”

  Reese wasn’t expecting that. “Uh, I don’t know. That wasn’t already arranged?”

  “Only a platoon was supposed to arrive, but we got new orders to field the entire company,” Narvaez said. “Not from nothing, but if we know where our home turf is, things will be easier.”

  “I’ll find out about that.” Reese had to shout the last couple of words as the second Black Hawk came in to land. While it settled onto the parking lot, he saw two more helicopters, twin-rotored CH-47 Chinooks, flying toward the area.

  “Those are carrying our Humvees,” Narvaez said, following Reese’s gaze. “Two in each bird. The aviation guys used to sling ’em underneath, but it makes the Chinooks too slow. Turns out the special operations aviation guys load them inside, so we clipped the tactic from them.”

  “Okay,” Reese said.

  “You hear about New York?” Narvaez shouted as the second Black Hawk disgorged more Guardsmen onto the concrete. One of his men waved them over, and the new arrivals hustled toward the group as the Black Hawk powered up and pulled out.

  “What about it?” Reese asked.

  “Lower Manhattan’s on fire. Good-bye, Occupy Wall Street. They’re starting to move federal troops into the city now because the NYPD and the Guard units down there can’t keep the stenches back.”

  “Stenches?”

  “Yeah, it’s what we call the zombies.”

  Reese snorted. “Zombies, Captain? Really? You mean this isn’t just a bath-salt epidemic?”

  Narvaez frowned. “Detective, are you plugged in to what’s happening in the rest of the world at all?”

  Reese shrugged. “Hollywood’s my beat.”

  “Huh.
Okay. Well, anyway, Europe is about to tip over into the Dark Ages all over again. Russia’s pretty much gone. There’s a huge artillery fight going on outside of Moscow. Back east, there are substantial infestations of stenches in just about every metropolitan area, but New York City has it the worst in the nation. Two days ago, everything was under control, and the NYPD and New York Guard were exterminating the stenches wherever they found them. Then the balloon popped, and now there are thousands of them in the city, maybe even hundreds of thousands, by now.”

  “No shit?” Reese wasn’t particularly interested, and the new information did nothing to diminish his anxiety. As a homicide detective, Reese had pretty much seen it all. Solving homicides required attention to detail and a mastery of several disciplines, including investigatory and forensic. Zombies or “stenches” weren’t something Reese had any experience with. Until that guy ate his baby…

  “Yeah, no shit,” Narvaez said. “Air travel in the east is shut down. There’s a ground stop at every airport. I would imagine that’s going to be nationwide in a couple of hours. Airplanes are probably the best way to spread infected persons around the country, you know?” He pointed toward the first Chinook as it slowly advanced toward the parking garage. “Okay, you guys might want to stand back a bit. These Chinooks have a rotor wash that moves at about a hundred ten miles an hour. Let us get our vehicles out, then we’ll figure out the surface movement to your police station.”

  “Surface movement?” Reese asked. “We can just drive or walk there, Captain.”

  “Nothing’s as simple as that, Detective. Once you have the military in the mix, everything gets complex.”

  “Good to know,” Reese said, thinking that things were complex enough already.

  SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

  Norton had just watched the lone FBO attendant at Single Tree’s airport tow his Phenom into the hangar, and he was preparing to follow the guy in to do a final inspection when the roar of approaching jet engines caught his attention. He turned at the hangar threshold just in time to see a Gulfstream G650 coast in on its incredibly wide wings, its big flaps lowered like two tapering billboards to slow the massive jet so it could land. The engines went from a roar to a full-on bellow as the massive jet’s thrust reversers activated. With judicious braking by the pilots, the sleek sixty-seven-million-dollar aircraft slowed to taxiing speed well before it reached the end of the runway and executed a smart one-hundred-eighty-degree turn so it could cruise back to the taxiway. Its landing lights gleamed in the late-afternoon sun.