Author: Stephen Knight
Date: 2014-11-17 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Zombies; Horror
Description: A new miniseries set in the time of THE GATHERING DEAD! The dead have risen, and all across the United States, cities are becoming hunting grounds. New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles...all are falling victim to hordes of carnivorous corpses who want only one thing: to devour the living. As the rest of the country flails about, trying not to be submerged beneath the tidal waves of the dead, the people of Single Tree, California are faced with a choice: either isolate the town from the rest of the country, or meet a grisly demise. Led by billionaire Vietnam veteran Barry Corbett, the tow
Rights: Copyright © 2014 All Rights Reserved

THE LAST TOWN #2

PREPARING FOR THE DEAD

By Stephen Knight

Copyright © 2014 by Stephen Knight

Kindle Edition

SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

“Hiya, Max.”

Max Booker looked up from the swath of papers that littered his desk. While serving as the mayor of a town as miniscule as Single Tree, California, wasn’t a very stressful job, it was a bit hard on the eyes. The local government was small, which meant that Booker had to get involved with the finances behind every decision the town council brought up for a vote, as well as smooth any feathers which might get ruffled when he let an initiative’s champion know that there just wasn’t enough money in the coffers for his or her pet project. Single Tree was hardly a wealthy town, but at the same time, it wasn’t broke. Booker’s mission was to definitely try and provide the former without incurring the latter.

He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and blinked a couple of times. When he saw Barry Corbett standing in the doorway to his office, he put down his pen and got to his feet.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Booker said, putting his palms on the desk. “Barry, did you somehow manage to get permission for airport construction without the town knowing about it?”

Corbett smiled slightly. “Yes, and no,” he said, cryptically.

Booker waved him inside. “Maybe we should talk about that.”

Corbett stepped inside the office, and another man followed him in. Booker recognized Gary Norton—hell, his older brother Warren had gone to high school with him—but they hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since Norton had built a new house next to his parents’ home several years ago, when Booker had first been elected mayor. The town’s planning and zoning board had taken issue with the house’s design, citing the fact that it was widely divergent from the rest of the houses on the street. That it was a corner lot caused even more consternation. Folks in Single Tree loved the money people like Norton spent, but they didn’t want their town transformed into Hollywood East, either. There was also some fear that Norton might want to establish another gigantic mansion like Corbett had, only much closer to town. That hadn’t been the case, but Booker and Norton had to ride through the P&Z gauntlet anyway.

“Well, hi, Gary,” Booker said.

“How are you, Max?” Norton responded.

“Gary, maybe you could get the door,” Corbett said as he slid into one of the two visitor chairs facing Booker’s desk. Booker watched as Norton closed the door and ambled to the last empty chair. He settled into it slowly, his face a blank mask.

“So what’s happening here, guys?” Booker asked. “Both of you here together? Doesn’t seem like this is a normal occurrence.”

“It’s not,” Corbett said. “Have a seat, Max. We have some talking to do.”

The unease Booker felt when the two men walked into his office blossomed into full-on suspicion. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sit down, Max,” Corbett said. “And you might want to tell Mary Ellen to hold your calls for a bit, we’re going to need some time.”

Booker eased himself back into his chair. “Well, we’ll see about that. I’m pretty interested about what’s going on at the airport, Mister Corbett. Seems like you might know something about that.”

Corbett made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Yeah, yeah, I really did get authorization to install an instrument landing system, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. That work is going to be postponed.”

“How could you get that kind of arrangement made without us knowing about it?” Booker asked.

“Max, Single Tree does not own the airport. The city of Los Angeles does. Los Angeles is a little different than Single Tree, in that you can actually buy off politicians and the like without doing anything more than handing over money. The Federal Aviation Administration is a tougher nut to crack, but at the end of the day, the administration does what it’s told to do, and I have enough cash lying around to buy some influence. So there’s how Single Tree’s airport managed to get an ILS. With me so far?”

Booker took off his glasses and tossed them onto his desk. “Mister Corbett … what the hell are you trying to pull? I’m impressed with your ability to corrupt politicians, but what does this have to do with our airport? Is there a point to this?”

“Well, yeah. Initially, I wanted an ILS dropped in for safety reasons—there’s a lot of high terrain around here, and even though my pilots are the best and they have the best gear available to them, I want to be able to access the airport when some weather closes in. But that was a few months ago. Now, things are a little bit different.”

“In what way?”

“Max, have you been watching the news?” Norton asked.

“You’re talking about the plague? The one that came from Saudi Arabia, or Russia, or wherever the talking heads on TV decide it came from next?”

“I am,” Norton said.

“We are,” Corbett added.

Booker looked from Norton to Corbett. “Okay, I’m going to presume we’re no longer concerned with the ILS installation at the airport. Now we’re about to move on to the plague, and you’re both going to explain to me why that is. Is that right?”

“Correct,” Corbett said. He looked at Norton. “You mind if I carry this on a bit longer?”

“Not at all.”

Corbett looked back at Booker. “Max, listen. This is going to be tough for you to deal with. Just keep in mind that my concern is the town. Nothing else. If things are heading the way I think they are, only the town and the people matter. I’ve been here for my entire life, off and on, even though I have the ability to go anywhere and do anything. It’s always been about the town. The community. The people.”

“Running for office, Mister Corbett? I don’t think you can buy off this electorate. You might have been born here, but you’re not from here any longer,” Booker said, and he couldn’t control his acidic tone. Even though he had no personal unpleasant experiences with Barry Corbett, he was ideologically uninclined to trust men of great wealth. In Booker’s mind, men like Corbett presumed the preservation of that wealth eclipsed all else. While Booker didn’t feel money was the root of all evil, the old man had just told him he’d used it to corrupt the political process, and that pissed Booker off something fierce.

Corbett only smiled at the jibe. “Thanks for the feedback. Anyway, yes, this is about the plague. Whatever’s happening out in the world is something we’re not going to be able to control. Moscow is about to be overrun by millions of walking dead. The Middle East is going under. There’s some sort of massive firefight going on inside western China. Israel is in complete lockdown. Europe is about to pull the pin and follow their example, though getting the Europeans to do anything unanimously other than awarding more paid time off is going to make that kind of tough. Rio is on fire, and not just because the women are so gorgeous, but because a lot of them have turned into carnivorous corpses. There are breakouts in LA, New York, Miami, and several other cities—everywhere there’s a major airport. And tomorrow, the US economy officially tanks. Per barrel prices of oil will hit two hundred twenty-three dollars, and that’s just at the market open.”

Booker took it all in stride. He’d certainly been aware of what was going on in the world, and he didn’t doubt that things were dire. Just the same, he didn’t—he refused—to buy what Corbett was telling him.

“Nice story,” he said. “Is that what you tell the Republican and Tea Party Super PACs?”

Corbett smiled again, but this time there wasn’t a ray of friendliness in it. “Just to get this out of the way, Democrat and far-left organizations love my money probably more than those on the right. Just in case you were wondering, since I’m pretty sure you haven’t made much in the way of donations to alternate parties.”

“Say it isn’t so,” Booker said.

“So listen, this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to call an emergency meeting of the town council, one that’s closed to the public. We’re going to tell them what’s happening, and that the town is going to be protected—but we’re going to be a little light on the details. With your permission, I’ll get with the police and fire department and square them away later today. They’ll have to be our partners in this. The rest of the town doesn’t need to be pulled into the fold just yet, but eventually, they’ll start asking questions. Those questions might lead to some unwanted investigations, so”—Corbett continued speaking even as Booker held up a hand, trying to get a word in—“we need to get things moving fast, and get the big ticket items developed quickly so they can be finished before things really hit the fan.”

“We should talk to Victor Kuruk, too,” Norton added, and Booker wondered just why in the hell the leader of the Indian reservation to the town’s south should be involved.

“Good point, hadn’t thought of that,” Corbett said. “They’re good people, mostly, so we shouldn’t leave them out in the cold if we can help it.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Booker snapped.

Corbett and Norton looked at him squarely. Booker kept his eyes on Corbett, so he was surprised when it was Norton who finally spilled the beans.

“Max, it’s come down to this: the zombie apocalypse is starting, and we need to fortify this town to keep our people alive.”

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

“What do you mean, all flights are cancelled? This is outrageous! Do you know who I am?”

The ticket agent manning the desk at the gate looked harried as hell, but as soon as Sinclair played the celebrity card, his eyes narrowed into slits and he clenched his teeth. He glared at Sinclair and, for a moment, the talk show host feared the younger man was actually going to hit him.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” the man said. “You’re Jock Sinclair, that lobsterback blow-hard who keeps telling Americans they’re just a bunch of gun-toting assholes who shoot kids and blow up other countries. By the way, your flight’s cancelled.” He pointed at his nametag. “My name’s Juan Vega, the one from New Mexico, not the one from California. There are two of us here with that name, so make sure you mention the right guy when you call customer relations.”

“I God damn will!” Sinclair fairly shouted. He couldn’t believe the nerve of the little worm. A common worker? Standing up to me?

“Jock,” Meredith said softly, tugging at the sleeve of his navy blue blazer.

Sinclair ignored her. “How can all the flights be cancelled?” he said to the ticket agent. “Tell me that again, how can every flight out of Las Vegas be cancelled?”

“Because the FAA has called for a full ground stop, just like after 9/11,” the young man said. “You remember that, right?”

“Remember it? I lived through it! While you were still probably sucking your mother’s sagging tits in Mexico, I was living through the attack on New York!” Sinclair said. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt a surge of heat course through him like an electric shock. From the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the passengers who were to fly to Los Angeles easing away from him.

“Jock!” Meredith said again, her voice louder.

“I said New Mexico, not Mexico,” the ticket agent said. “Hearing counts, my limey friend.” He looked away from Sinclair as another customer approached, asking him the same questions Sinclair had. Sinclair was about to have another go at the young man, but a much bigger individual in a cowboy hat stepped in front of him.

“You’re done here, Hollywood,” the man said.

Sinclair glared at the taller man, but allowed Meredith to take his arm and lead him away.

“We need to get out of here,” she said, being the voice of reason she usually was. As they walked away from the gate, joining the rest of the flow already on their way to McCarren International Airport’s baggage claim area, Sinclair saw several people glancing at them. Not because of his celebrity, damn it, but because of Meredith’s beauty. Even though she hadn’t been a supermodel in almost twenty years, her height, poise, tawny blond hair, and the aura of elegance she emanated demanded attention. Not that Sinclair gave a damn—he hadn’t married her for her looks or her mind, but for her family’s money. While Sinclair earned an average of two million dollars per year—nothing to laugh at, considering he had been born to lower-class stock from East Sussex, England—Meredith Thorn was potentially worth hundreds of millions of dollars, thanks to the hard work of her grandfather and father, titans in the New York real estate scene. Meredith’s fortune allowed Sinclair to call the thirty-third floor of 15 Central Park West his principal residence. That he lived in a high floor of the limestone-clad tower known as one of New York’s most prestigious condominiums was a dream he never thought he could realize.

But Meredith was a weary soul, and she liked changes in latitudes. While Sinclair was happy to stay in New York where he hosted his weekly hour-long syndicated television show, The Sinclair News Hour, Meredith wanted to travel. It was a pain in Sinclair’s arse, having to leave New York once a month for quick getaways to places like Seattle or Hawaii or Vancouver. It wreaked hell on his broadcasting schedule, but since Meredith had access to the family jet, Sinclair found he could tolerate it. After all, almost nothing beat flying in style in a luxurious Bombardier Global XRS, even if it was just to Canada.

But for this trip to Vegas, the jet hadn’t been available. Sinclair grudgingly allowed himself to be mistreated by the airlines, and for his trouble, he was now ensnared in what appeared to be a complete shutdown of all air travel. There were a couple of silver linings to the situation, however. One was that Meredith owned another condo in Vegas, and the other was that Sinclair was actually scheduled to broadcast from Los Angeles that very night. While not being able to catch a plane to LAX was quite inconvenient, they would be able to drive to the City of Angels in just a few hours.

It took over an hour to get their luggage reclaimed from the grounded jet, and then they had to try and find ground transportation to Meredith’s condo at the Mandarin Oriental. That was another ordeal in and of itself, as Sinclair and Meredith had to compete with thousands of other stranded fliers. Sinclair spent over an hour trying to find a cab or limo or even a bus with little results. It wasn’t until Meredith tried that a vacant cab suddenly appeared, driven by an athletic black man with a smile that seemed to be a yard wide. His grin diminished substantially when Sinclair climbed into the vehicle after Meredith, and when it became clear Sinclair wasn’t just sharing the ride, the driver became downright surly as he drove them back downtown. He also drove more slowly than necessary in a bid to drive up the meter. Sinclair stiffed him on the tip for that.

“So what will we do now?” Meredith asked as they entered the lobby.

“What do you mean? I have to work tonight,” Sinclair said. “I’m due in Los Angeles by five.” He hadn’t been unaware that the world was starting to stumble across a rough patch, and he wanted to take advantage of it to try and pump up his ratings. He was down in almost every major market, and while no one had threatened to not renew their syndication contracts, Sinclair could feel the pressure building. He had decided to shoot a special in Los Angeles, where gun violence was at an all time high. While he was reviled by the NRA and gun-toters of all stripes, Sinclair had a personal hatred for guns and the invariable loss of life they fueled. And all the American nitwits could come up with was they were protected by the Second Amendment of a historical document created by a bunch of wig-wearing insurrectionists. Sinclair had a word for his opposition: Pikers.

“I don’t think it’s safe to go there,” Meredith said. “Things are getting weird now, Jock.” As she spoke, the pop-pop-pop of distant gunfire sounded. Sinclair and the doorman standing nearby turned and looked out the lobby windows. There was nothing to be seen other than a FedEx delivery truck sitting in the circular driveway—the taxi was long gone. The driver paused momentarily as he unloaded his vehicle, looking south. The gunfire sounded quite distant, and it ended as quickly as it had begun. Just the same, Sinclair felt a bolt of alarm run through him. Jock Sinclair had no use for guns of any kind, and hearing them in action somewhere in the city came quite close to terrifying him.

“You may be right,” he said to Meredith after a moment, and was surprised to hear his voice was quaver-free, “but I’m not sure Las Vegas is going to be any safer. We should leave. Now.”

“I need to use the bathroom, and then I need to call my parents and let them know,” Meredith told him. “I couldn’t get through on the cell, so I want to go upstairs, Jock.”

“Well, be quick about it,” Sinclair snapped. “I’ll get the car and bring it around. Rafael, help me load the bags when I come back?”

“Sure thing, Mister Sinclair,” said the uniformed doorman.

Sinclair left without thanking him and strode to the door that led to the parking garage. Meredith clucked her tongue, and he broke stride.

“What?” he asked.

“Aren’t you going to see me upstairs?” she asked, a slight, petulant tone in her voice.

Sinclair snorted. “You know the way.”

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Reese had to admit, the National Guard guys seemed to know what they were doing. As they made it back to the stationhouse with several Guardsmen in the Humvees and the rest on foot, Reese couldn’t help think that he was surrounded by a bunch of bad asses that made even the SWAT guys look like wusses. With their helmets, packs of gear, tactical vests, chest protectors, assault rifles, and even pistols and grenades, the Guardsmen caused quite a stir as they double-timed it back to Hollywood Station.

If nothing else, at least I get to arrive in real man style, he thought as he alighted from one of the Humvees when it came to a halt in the precinct parking lot.

“Whoa, the Marines have landed,” said the desk sergeant at the front when Reese led the Guard command element inside.

“I take offense at that,” Captain Narvaez, the commander of the Guard unit, said.

“These guys are Army National Guard,” Reese told the sergeant.

“Yeah, I know,” the sergeant responded. “What do you need, Reese?”

“Need to find Pallata and figure out how we’re going to put these guys to use,” Reese said. “Where is she?”

“Command post, in back,” the sergeant said. “How many guys you got with you?”

“Eight right now, with another ninety coming in,” Narvaez said.

“Ninety? Well, shit, what do you guys think this is, Anzio Beach?” the sergeant said, laughing. Reese didn’t get what was so funny, especially since the stationhouse was buzzing with activity. Cops were coming and going, and sirens wailed outside. Citizens were already queued up at the front door, either coming to file complaints or seeking some degree of safety from the deteriorating situation that loomed outside. While Reese hadn’t seen a lot of action just yet, Narvaez had informed him on the short drive from the parking garage on Ivar Street that the city was beginning to unravel. He’d even shown him some pictures he’d taken from the Black Hawk that had transported them from Griffith Park to the top level of the parking garage. Most had shown fires and terrified Los Angelinos trying to get out of the city. All the major freeways were already clogged up, and the bigger surface streets were, as well. Reese didn’t know how the LAPD was going to be able to get anything done.

“Maybe you should come with me, and leave the rest of your guys here,” Reese said to Narvaez.

“I’d like to bring Plosser with me,” the captain said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a tall man with broad shoulders and a dull expression on his face. The man’s insignia had a lot of chevrons on it, but Reese didn’t know shit about Army ranks, as he had never served in the military. “He’s my senior NCO, we’re kind of joined at the hip.”

“Yeah, okay,” Reese said. He looked at one of the uniformed patrolmen who had accompanied him to the parking garage to link up with the Guardsmen. “Bates, you’re ex-military, right?”

LAPD Patrol Sergeant Bates was almost as tall as Narvaez’s NCO, and he had the same kind of bland look to him. Reese knew it was an act—in real life, Bates was a cut-up who could have been a stand-up comic if he hadn’t already been a committed cop.

“Yeah, Army,” Bates said.

“You stay here with the troops, then. Try and, uh, liaise with them or something, while me, Captain Narvaez, and Sergeant Plosser go meet with Pallata.”

“That’s First Sergeant Plosser, sir,” Plosser said.

Reese spread his hands. “Hey, whatever.” He looked at the rest of the soldiers, standing in the middle of the lobby like an island of utility uniforms. “You guys just vamp for a bit, but do what Bates tells you. Keep your weapons slung, you’re in a police department precinct headquarters, and having guys standing around with guns makes people nervous.”

“Hell, we let you do it, Reese,” the sergeant behind the desk said as he reached over to answer a ringing phone. “Tell Bullet Nips we say hello,” he added before he snatched up the phone and brought the handset to his ear. Bullet Nips was Captain Miriam Pallata’s nickname, on account that one of the cops had come across her Facebook page and found a photo of her in a wet bikini. Even though Reese tried to steer clear of ridiculing senior officers, he had seen the photo, and the nickname was apt. Pallata had nipples the size of .45 rounds.

“All right, all right, enough of this bullshit. Let’s go, Captain. You guys will need to leave your weapons out here, can’t bring them with you to where we’re going.”

“Uh, not a problem,” Narvaez said, though Reese understood it was, in fact, a problem. Just the same, both he and Plosser handed their assault rifles and pistols to some of their teammates.

“Good to go,” Narvaez said.

“The vests,” the sergeant said. “Can’t go walking around with magazines of ammunition strapped to your chests, gents.”

Narvaez and Plosser exchanged glances. The first sergeant shrugged and removed his tactical vest, handing it off to one of the men. Narvaez did the same.

Reese walked toward a steel door that the desk sergeant buzzed open for him. He led Narvaez and Plosser through it and heard it slam closed behind them as they walked down the corridor. The cops in the area all looked at the two soldiers with suspicious eyes—the LAPD wasn’t used to having troops roaming the halls wearing combat gear, even if there were no weapons present—and Reese found himself repeating, “They’re with me.” It didn’t stop the stares.

Reese led them through the stationhouse to where the command post was set up. It was a fairly large room with several workstations set up, and two large monitors on the wall which conveyed all manner of information: location of patrol units, unit status, video feeds from cameras installed throughout the district, and information on other first responders, including the fire departments and emergency medical services. Just a quick glance at the screens told Reese all he needed to know. There was a hell of a lot going on in Hollywood’s area of operations, and the district wasn’t even a hot one yet.

He found Pallata at one of the desks, talking with other senior members of the watch. Pallata glanced over at him as he walked up, still talking, and Reese watched as she flicked her eyes from him to the uniformed Guardsmen beside him. Reese waited for her to finish up while Narvaez looked around the center, hands at his sides.

“I guess it’s old school to you, huh?” Reese said.

Narvaez shook his head. “Man, we’re so behind the times from a technology perspective, you’d be amazed.”

Pallata turned to them finally. She was a short, busty woman with dark hair and skin, and chocolate brown eyes a man could lose himself in. Reese knew that for a fact, since he’d spent some time looking into them when they were sleeping together, about a million years ago. Actually, it had only been ten—since then, they’d both gone their separate ways in the LAPD, finally coming together again at Hollywood Station, where she was the vice commander. She’d never mentioned their old affair, and neither had he. The past was the past.

“What’ve you got for me, Reese?” she asked, looking more at Narvaez than him.

“Meet Captain Bobby Narvaez, California Army National Guard. Captain, this is Captain Two Miriam Pallata, second in command of the Hollywood Division,” Reese said, getting the introductions out of the way.

“Ma’am,” Narvaez said, sticking out his right hand.

“Hello, Captain—thanks for coming in,” Pallata said, shaking his hand. She looked at Plosser, standing behind Narvaez. “And who’s this?”

“First Sergeant Dean Plosser, my senior noncommissioned officer,” Narvaez said.

“First Sergeant, how do you do,” Pallata said, shaking hands with him as well.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Plosser said, and Reese saw he did a full visual surveillance routine of Pallata’s rack. He tried not to roll his eyes.

“Seems that Narvaez is bringing in an entire company with him, not just a dozen or so troops like we thought,” Reese said. “We’ll need to know what to do with them.”

“How many men, Captain?” Pallata asked.

“Just under a hundred,” Narvaez told her. “We were plussed up at the last moment, seems that the AG wants to surge as many troops into the Los Angeles basin as possible, and we were the designated team for your district.”

“AG?” Pallata asked. “The only AGs I know of are attorney generals.”

“Adjutant General in this case, ma’am. The ranking member of the California Army National Guard. A two-star named Braden,” Narvaez explained.

“We need to know what to do with these guys,” Reese said, steering the conversation back on track. “We didn’t know so many were coming, and we need to figure out where to put them.”

“Well, we unfortunately don’t have room here,” Pallata said. “You could muster here, Captain Narvaez, but as far as accommodations go—”

“I was actually thinking about that on the way in, ma’am. I’m presuming there’s no hotels nearby that we could take over, so I was thinking we could just camp out in the garage. Thing is, we’d need latrine resources, as we don’t have anything with us other than personal sanitation gear,” Narvaez said.

“So all you need are shitters, and you’re messed up by not having any,” Pallata said, and Reese smiled inside. Old Miriam was still sharp as a tack.

“Basically, yes,” Narvaez said. “We can get latrine resources allocated to us, but we need to know where to put them, and we need to know when. It seems like the parking garage is good enough for the moment, but we need authorization to set up there.”

“I get it, Captain. I know who to call. How long will it take to get whatever you need brought in? We’ll make sure you have the space allocated. It’s not like anyone’s going to be using the parking garage right now, anyway.”

“A couple of days, maybe,” Narvaez said. “That kind of stuff isn’t exactly part of our normal load-out on this mission. A lot of logistical supplies are still in the rear area, waiting for deployment.”

“Well, you can use our facilities here for as long as you need them,” Pallata said. “We’ll handle the conflicts as they arise. Reese, can you see to that?”

“Sure,” Reese said.

“Captain, when will the rest of your men arrive?” Pallata asked.

“Inbound now, might even be at the garage already,” Narvaez said. “Logistics aside, do you have a mission for us yet, ma’am?”

Pallata nodded. “Absolutely. We need to keep Cedars-Sinai operational. We have a good number of our patrol officers there for security. Can your guys take over?”

“We can do that,” Narvaez said. “You envision us just keeping the peace, or …?”

“More like ‘or’ at the moment,” Pallata said. “Right now, all the area hospitals are busy. Cedar is getting busy as hell, lots of injuries coming in. And, uh, lots of zombies.” She shook her head. “Zombies … can’t believe I just said that.”

“Yeah, things are a bit different these days, ma’am,” Plosser added.

“So ma’am, I need some more guidance on this,” Narvaez said. “Are we to secure the hospital and use force to ensure it stays that way, or are we just making our presence known? A lot of my guys have combat experience, and more than a few are police officers from other jurisdictions and municipalities, so keeping the peace won’t be a big stretch for us. But we need to know what you envision us doing if things get hot. Because from the looks of things”—here, the Guard officer turned and pointed at the monitors on the wall—“it looks like hot is going to be the average temperature soon.”

“Do what you have to in order to keep the hospital operational,” Pallata said. “I don’t see you opening up on civilians, but if that means you have to shoot some zombies, you do it.”

Narvaez looked back at Plosser. “First Sergeant?”

Plosser nodded. “I’m good to go on that, sir.”

Narvaez turned back to Pallata. “We’ll have liaisons on-site, correct?”

Pallata looked at Reese. “Go with them, Detective. You’re our point man.”

Awesome, Reese thought.

SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

“So, are you going to be working at the film festival?” Suzy asked, looking over her plate of spaghetti. Her deep, dark eyes locked onto Mike Hailey’s blue gaze and demanded his complete attention. Since the only thing that competed with her was his bacon cheeseburger, she won, hands down. But then and again, she always did, as far as Hailey was concerned.

“I am,” he said. “I’m still the low man on the totem pole, so I get all the scut jobs.” As the newest patrolman to join Single Tree’s small police force, Hailey had to work all the thankless jobs, such as traffic control during the annual film festival held in Single Tree. In years past, it had never been that big of an affair, but as more Hollywood talent found their way to the desert hamlet, the event was beginning to grow. It was one of the town’s biggest attractions during the fall, and Hailey had already been nominated for the job.

Suzy smiled and pouted her lips. “Poor boy,” she said, with a light laugh. Hailey laughed back, and she reached across the table and touched his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll come and keep you company … in between watching movies.”

“How sweet of you,” Hailey said. “You already have tickets?”

“The tribe gets a couple dozen, and I just happen to have two,” Suzy said, squeezing his hand again before leaning back in her chair. “Victor gave them to me. He told me to take you, if you weren’t working.”

Hailey raised his brows. “Victor told you to take me?” Suzy Kuruk was the tribal leader’s niece, and also one of his subordinates. Hailey had nothing against Victor, who was pretty much a decent enough guy, even though he played the stoic Native American part to the hilt. But that he would be suggesting his twenty-year-old niece cavort with a white man from Single Tree seemed out of character for him.

Suzy straightened the collar on her khaki reservation police uniform. “He likes you,” she told him. “He thinks you’re respectful toward him, not like some of the other town cops. He appreciates that.”

Hailey felt his brow furrow, as if of its own accord. “Why wouldn’t anyone be respectful toward your uncle? He’s the leader of the tribe, and also the head of the reservation police.”

Suzy shrugged. “Your chief always treats him like a civilian, not like a police officer. So do a lot of other guys, like Whitter and, ah, what’s the tall guy’s name? Santoro?”

“Yeah, Wilbur Santoro. I can see why Victor doesn’t like him, he really is a dick.” Hailey looked up as Danielle Kennedy approached their table. She walked almost without a limp now, he saw, courtesy of the new prosthetic leg she wore. She was a few years older than he was, had graduated from high school and gone off to join the Marines while he was still in middle school. His only real memories of her from his youth was when she babysat him and his brother. One night, she’d allowed him to stay up with her and watch Halloween on cable, which had terrified him so badly that he hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Just the same, he never told his parents, for they would have been angry that their nine-year-old boy had been subjected to such fare.

“How are the lovebirds doing?” Danielle asked, smiling down at them. “Everything all right? Mike, you want another Coke?” She pointed at his almost-empty glass.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said.

“Not eating much of your cheeseburger,” Danielle noted. “Does it taste worse than usual, or is Suzy spending too much time flirting with you across the table?”

“I don’t flirt,” Suzy said, smiling. “I only arouse.”

Danielle laughed. “Okay, I’m going to leave that one alone—”

Hailey’s radio chirped, and he reached for it with a scowl. “Sorry,” he said to the two women.

“Hey, I’m cool with it,” Danielle said. “How about you, arouser?”

Suzy shrugged as she loaded up a fork with spaghetti. “It is what it is,” she said.

*

Four minutes later, Hailey was pulling a department Excursion to the curb in front of Single Tree Pharmacy, the town’s only full-service drugstore. The owner, Hector Aguilar, was standing out front with a trio of lanky, dark-skinned teenage Indian boys. The boys looked downcast and sullen, while Aguilar looked pissed off, which wasn’t unusual. Aguilar was one of the bitterest individuals Hailey knew, an expert at alienating almost everyone in the town. He wore a white pharmacist’s smock over his street clothes, and his thick-rimmed glasses were perched on the tip of his narrow nose. He was a short, portly individual who always seemed to be on the verge of exploding into a flop sweat.

“I want these boys arrested!” Aguilar snapped as soon as Hailey stepped out of the SUV.

“On what charge, sir?” he asked.

“Theft!” Aguilar held up several magazines in his hand. “They were walking out of the store with these!”

Hailey sighed and took the magazines from Aguilar. Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler, one issue each. He looked at the three boys, the oldest of which was maybe thirteen. None of them would meet his eye. Hailey had to fight not to smile.

“Still no Internet at the reservation, boys?” he asked, good-naturedly.

“This is not funny,” Aguilar barked. “They were on their way out of the store with goods they hadn’t paid for, not to mention they were in possession of age-restricted items!”

“Boys? Is this true?” Hailey asked.

The three boys looked at each other, and the eldest made a noncommittal noise that could have been affirmation, denial, or something in between. Hailey fought not to smile once again.

“Well?” Aguilar said. “Aren’t you going to read them their rights, or something?”

Hailey handed the magazines back to the drugstore owner. “You really want me to arrest these kids, Mister Aguilar?”

“Absolutely!” Aguilar almost shouted. “Theft is a serious crime!”

“We were still in the store,” the oldest boy said softly.

“What was that?” Hailey asked.

The oldest boy looked up. “We were still in the store,” he said again. “We hadn’t left yet.”

“Oh, really?” Hailey looked at Aguilar. “Sir, did these boys leave the premises with your property?”

“They were headed for the door when I stopped them,” Aguilar said, as if talking to an idiot.

“Sir, were they still in the store when you stopped them?” Hailey asked again.

“What difference does that make? Intent is intent!”

“Yeah, okay,” Hailey said. He motioned the boys toward the Excursion. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Don’t you want to take my report?” Aguilar asked.

“I’ve got what I need,” Hailey said, “and you have your merchandise. Right?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ve got it, sir. The department will be in touch.” Hailey turned and led the boys to the SUV, then pulled open the rear door. “Climb in, guys,” he said.

“I want them prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law!” Aguilar said. “To the fullest! Do you understand me?”

“That’s up to the Inyo County prosecutor, but I’ll pass that on,” Hailey said. “I’ll copy you on the paperwork, Mister Aguilar. Don’t worry about that.”

“I’ll be following up with your chief,” Aguilar said, a menacing tone in his voice. “Just to let you know.”

“And I’m good with that,” Hailey said as he motioned the three youths into the back of the vehicle. “Just to let you know.”

Aguilar started walking toward him, his brows knitting. “Now just one second—”

The door leading into the pharmacy flew open behind him, and a heavy Hispanic woman in her late forties practically exploded out of the opening.

“I had to call nine-one-one!” she shouted.

“What?” Aguilar turned back, and his tone of voice indicated he was even more annoyed, now that a good rant had been derailed. “Ernesta, what are you talking about?”

“Mister Whittaker collapsed! I think he had a heart attack!” the woman said, her eyes bright with panic as her ample bosom heaved beneath her white lab coat. “Lou is giving him CPR right now!” She looked past Aguilar and saw Hailey standing by the police SUV, still holding the door open for the three Indian youths. The boys stood fixed in place, looking from Hailey to Ernesta and Aguilar and back again.

“Officer, can you help?” she asked him.

“Guys, you get out of here,” Hailey told the boys as he slammed the door closed and reached for the radio transceiver on his shoulder. They looked at him for a moment, uncertain of what to do, then took off down the street.

“Hey!” Aguilar shouted.

Hailey ignored him as he headed for the door while speaking into his radio. “Three to central—you have a call for medical at the pharmacy? Over.”

“Three, this is central. Roger, we have a call for that address. I was just going to notify you. Over.”

“Central, this is three. I’m on it. Over.”

“What about those kids?” Aguilar asked as Hailey pulled open the door and stepped into the pharmacy. The pharmacy owner cut off his employee as he hurried after Hailey. “You’re letting them get away!”

“Mister Aguilar, I think you have more important things to worry about right this second,” Hailey said, looking around. He spotted a small crowd around the pharmacy desk in back, where customers could pick up their medications. He hurried in that direction, with Aguilar and the clerk in tow. Aguilar was still muttering something about Hailey letting the Indian youths beat feet, but Hailey was no longer interested in much of what the pushy pharmacy owner had to say.

At the end of the aisle, an elderly man lay on his back, his plaid shirt opened to expose his fish-white belly and chest. A middle-aged assistant pharmacist was applying CPR, pushing up and down on the old man’s sternum with substantial vigor. Hailey noticed an automated external defibrillator sat on the carpet next to the two men, and he realized he had left the SUV without grabbing the unit’s AED. Even though it wasn’t necessary at the moment, he still felt a small flush of embarrassment at the oversight.

Hailey pushed past the three or four people standing around, one of whom was Old Man Whittaker’s wife. She held her hands clasped in front of her as if praying, her lips moving silently as her still-bright blue eyes remained rooted on her husband’s motionless form. Hailey turned and motioned for Ernesta to pull the old woman away as he took a knee next to the stricken man and the assistant pharmacist. Ernesta got the message, and she put a hand on the old woman’s arm and steered her away. She stopped ten feet away and dug her heels in.

“Not going any farther,” she snapped, then went back to praying.

“Officer, can you charge up the AED?” the pharmacist asked, puffing a bit from the strain of compressing the man’s chest. “I’ve got to get him some air.”

“You got it,” Hailey said, and reached for the AED. It was a blue Philips HeartStart, the same model that was in the back of his SUV, so he already knew what to do. He pressed the power button and pulled the unit open, exposing the pads inside. As he did this, the assistant pharmacist began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Hailey had to hand it to the guy. He wouldn’t have wanted to do that himself.

“I’ll … I’ll get the resuscitator,” Aguilar said, and he left the group to head back behind the pharmacy counter. In the distance, a siren sounded. From the tone, Hailey could tell it was another police unit, not the town’s only ambulance.

The AED chirped, and then began issuing verbal instructions on how to place the pads. Hailey didn’t wait to listen to the automated instructions. He began attaching the pads to the man’s chest as the pharmacy assistant finished with his assisted breathing and sat up.

“Okay, let’s shock him,” he said, wiping his mouth.

Old Man Whittaker bolted upright then, startling everyone. Hailey instinctively lurched away, and he fell on his ass, his back slamming into the side of a display. Packages of condoms pelted him, and he wondered if he should pick up a few boxes, in case he met up with Suzy later. The assistant pharmacist laughed and grabbed Whittaker’s shoulders as his wife sobbed.

“Hey, hold on there, fella!” the assistant pharmacist said, laughing again. “Got some juice in you for a guy whose ticker just stopped!”

Whittaker’s head snapped toward the pharmacist, and for a moment, the old man just stared up at him. Hailey pushed himself back to his haunches, and he thought the expression on the old man’s face was odd. Blank, sort of shell-shocked, without any sort of awareness of what had just happened. Hailey wouldn’t be surprised if the old man didn’t remember a thing, and any second now, he was probably going to ask who the hell had been hitting him in the chest with a sledgehammer.

Old Man Whittaker asked no such thing. He just grabbed the assistant pharmacist’s head with both hands and pulled him close, as if to give him a bear hug, or perhaps a kiss on the cheek. Instead, he sunk his teeth into the man’s neck and ripped out a huge chunk of flesh. The pharmacist let out a scream that quickly turned into a gurgle as a small fountain of blood covered his chest and Old Man Whittaker with crimson droplets. The old man actually chewed the flesh in his mouth and swallowed it convulsively before pulling at the pharmacist again, his mouth opening wide, exposing blood-stained teeth. The pharmacist tried to tear himself out of the old man’s grip, mewling like a lost kitten as he pressed his right hand against the horrible wound in his neck. Blood pulsed between his fingers in arterial spurts. The old man hissed and redoubled his attempts to pull the man toward him.

“Oh my God!” one of the onlookers screamed. “Oh my God!”

The assistant pharmacist looked at Hailey with bright, horrified eyes. Blood was seeping past his lips, and bloody bubbles emerged from his nose. The cast in the man’s eyes said everything.

Help me.

Hailey reached out and grabbed the old man’s shoulder, pulling him away from the pharmacist. From the corner of his eye, he saw Aguilar reappear then, holding a manual resuscitator in his hands. He dropped it when he saw what was going on, his mouth falling open in shock.

The old man fought against Hailey, still lunging toward the assistant pharmacist with a single-minded determination that reminded the young police officer of one of those sharks he saw on TV, during Shark Week. Hailey pulled harder, dragging the old man away from the pharmacist as the latter rolled away and collapsed onto his back at Aguilar’s feet. The pharmacy owner looked down at him, eyes wide behind his thick glasses, as if unsure of what to do. Hailey moved to put the old man in a headlock, wondering how he could restrain him long enough to slap the cuffs on him. Those thoughts disappeared when the man suddenly forgot all about the injured pharmacist and latched onto his arm like some sort of demonic leech. Hailey felt the man’s teeth on his wrist, and he released him long enough to pull his arm away. Too late—the man’s jaws closed on the fabric of his sleeve and for a long moment, his teeth held Hailey’s arm in place.

Hailey pulled away with all his might, but the man (He’s a zombie now! a small part of his mind screamed) wouldn’t relent. He—it—grabbed onto Hailey’s arm with both hands while growling deep in its throat. Hailey pulled again, lurching backward, and he was able to rip his arm out of the zombie’s grasp. He saw two broken teeth fly through the air and bounce when they landed on the carpet. Hailey kicked at the zombie with all his might, trying to push it back, but he missed. The zombie lunged toward him with a hiss, arms outstretched like some ungainly bird attempting to take flight. There was no glimmer of intellect in the ghoul’s eyes, nothing that indicated a human being was still in residence. Hailey floundered, trying to put as much distance between him and the zombie as he could. At the same time, he reached down with his right hand, going for his service pistol.

He didn’t make it. The zombie landed on top of him like a linebacker from the Green Bay Packers sacking a quarterback deep in the pocket. Hailey reached up and grabbed it by the neck with one hand, trying to push its head upward and keep it out of biting range. That was a mistake. The zombie turned its full attention toward his hand and grabbed his wrist with a grip that felt like a vise. Hailey let out a strangled cry as he twisted, trying to free his arm, but to no avail.

Something went BOOM right then, and the zombie jerked backward as its forehead dimpled inward, like an eggshell that had been pierced by a pin. Hailey took the opportunity to push the zombie off him, and it collapsed onto its side and lay still while he flailed to his feet. He pulled his weapon then and trained it on the motionless corpse with trembling hands. They were shaking so much it took almost heroic concentration to keep the pistol’s front sight rooted on the sprawled figure.

“Mike! Mike, are you all right?” someone asked. He recognized the voice. It was Suzy. He risked a glance behind him, and he saw her standing off to the right, her pistol in both hands. Behind her was none other than Single Tree’s police chief, Craig Grady. He had his pistol out as well, though held in a low-ready state.

“I’m fine,” Hailey said, and his voice was barely audible to him above the ringing in his ears. Beyond the dead man, the assistant pharmacist was writhing on the ground, his hand still pressed against the wound in his neck. Ernesta approached him with a wad of gauze in one hand. Aguilar just stood where he was, watching the man bleed all over the carpet, a look of shock etched into his face. Old Man Whittaker’s wife was shrieking, her hands clamped across her mouth. None of this was lost on Hailey, but one thing stood foremost in his mind.

Single Tree had just been subjected to its first zombie.

And, if the news reports were correct, the assistant pharmacist was on his way to becoming the second.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

“You know, for a division that’s supposedly not caught up in the whole zombie apocalypse thing, Hollywood is pretty messed up,” Captain Narvaez observed as he and Reese returned from conducting a perimeter check around Cedar-Sinai Hospital. As the day had worn on, Reese noticed that Narvaez and his Guardsmen were losing their casual, business-as-usual air. Everyone was staying eyes out, with weapons always at hand, locked and loaded. There had been some discussion about that. At first, Reese and his superiors hadn’t wanted the National Guard unit to deploy with their weapons. They were afraid that might make the wrong impression, especially since all the local television stations had crews onsite, not to mention the large assembly of bloggers and podcasters—“free-range journalists,” the cops called them. Cameras were everywhere, and the official response to the zombie outbreak was all on the record. Everything was being recorded.

The first thing the Guardsmen had to do was fortify the entrance to the emergency area. Too many vehicles and unaffected pedestrians were getting inside, prohibiting emergency crews and paramedics from doing what they needed to do. It didn’t help that there were dozens—maybe even hundreds—of medical cases that required attention. With resources strained to the breaking point, the local police presence wasn’t enough to compel the crowds to remain orderly. The Guard’s arrival and immediate insertion into the situation helped stabilize things almost immediately. While people were willing to challenge the LAPD, challenging armed soldiers was a different story. That wasn’t to say peace descended upon the hospital, but order made a guest appearance. At least for a time.

But the wounded and sick kept coming. Reese heard that those patients who had bite wounds, whether from humans or animals, were being kept in the crowded isolation ward. He tracked down a harried ER doctor and asked him if that was the case. When the doctor had confirmed the information, Reese asked him how the patients were being triaged.

“If they report being bitten or have a bite wound, that’s all we need,” the doctor said.

“Okay. How are they being segregated?”

“Isolation ward,” the doctor said, before being called away to assist with another arrival.

That bothered Reese. He saw children were being brought in as well, and if they conformed to the metrics that required isolation, off they went. He didn’t like that, and he made a mental note to track down a hospital administrator and find out if there was more to the plan than he had been told.

“Hey, Reese … you with me?”

Reese turned back to Narvaez. The National Guard officer stood next to him, but wasn’t looking at him. He was eyes out, which wasn’t surprising, given that they were just outside the emergency ward entrance. Ambulances pulled in and out. There was still a lot of activity, despite the troops enforcing strict traffic control.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” Reese told him. “I guess things are getting out of hand.” He had to raise his voice to get the last part out, due to a low-flying helicopter thumping past overhead.

“We have to fortify our positions,” Narvaez said. “I can’t see us leaving this place, it’s too vital, and there’s too much going on. I’m going to have some sandbags and concertina wire brought in. There’s not enough security here, we have to beef it up.”

“You can’t turn the hospital into an armed checkpoint, Narvaez.”

Narvaez glanced at Reese, then adjusted his sunglasses. “I want to put my guys in MOPP gear, too. Word is this infection gets transmitted through body fluids, like saliva and blood, but I’ve heard people can turn after they die, too.”

Reese frowned. “Wait a minute. I just saw on the news back at the stationhouse that only people who die from the virus turn. And if they bite someone, then that person can turn, too. But nothing about people who drop from other causes getting up to grab a mouthful of person.”

“I’ve heard differently,” Narvaez said.

“Yeah? From who?”

“My battalion commander, who heard it from a pal deep inside Big Army,” Narvaez said. “So just to be safe, I want to put my guys in protective gear. You might want to pass that back to your people, so they can take some precautions themselves.”

Reese shook his head. “Narvaez, you guys start putting on space suits and gas masks, people are going to freak.”

An ambulance pulled in, lights flashing. Another stopped on the street, waiting for the first unit to clear the bay. The driver hopped out of the first ambulance and looked around a little frantically, but no one from the hospital came out to meet him. Narvaez waved a few of his men toward the ambulance.

“Guys, go see if you can help that guy out, all right?” He looked back at Reese. “So let ’em freak. I’ve got troops to protect, so they can enact their mission.” He pointed to the vehicle entrance. “We need to close the north tower drop-off, so we can restrict traffic flow here. We’ll also need to set up a position outside, establish a triage center out on George Burns, so patients can be evaluated before they come into the hospital. Critical care cases should be the only ones admitted, people with less than life-threatening issues should be taken care of elsewhere.”

“Captain, I’m not so sure you’re the guy who should be making those decisions,” Reese said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hospital behind them. “Let’s let those folks figure out the best way to treat their patients. That’s not the National Guard’s job.”

“Listen, Detective, you want this place to stay open? Because you need to take a look around and figure out how this is going to happen. You may not see things the same way I do, but to me? Cedar-Sinai is a cunt’s hair away from being shut down. Too many patients, not enough resources, not enough beds—”

“Captain!”

Narvaez turned as one of his troops waved his left arm in the air. With his right, the soldier kept his M4 assault rifle leveled at the back of the ambulance that had just pulled in. The soldier next to him had his weapon pulled back to his shoulder, in a fighting stance. Both men backed away as a third man tumbled out of the back of the ambulance. He wore a paramedic’s uniform, and his shirt was splotched with blood. The paramedic held his right wrist in his left hand, and even from where he stood, Reese could see blood seeping into the gauze compress the paramedic was holding against his wrist. The driver came around the front of the vehicle and took the other man by the arm, leading him away.

“Let’s check this out,” Narvaez said, heading toward the ambulance. He pulled his M4 into his hands as he moved, not waiting for Reese to chime in. Reese sighed and hefted the twelve-gauge shotgun he had been issued before leaving the stationhouse. He flipped off the safety tang and followed the National Guard officer, making sure he kept the shotgun’s barrel low.

“What’s up?” Narvaez said, coming to halt beside his troops. He looked into the ambulance.

“Check this shit out,” one of the soldiers said.

Narvaez laughed. “Oh, fuck me,” he said, chortling.

Reese rolled up and looked into the ambulance as well. A figure lay strapped into a gurney, thrashing against the restraints. It was a bloodied woman, who had probably still been alive when the ambulance crew had picked her up. She must have turned into a zombie on the way in, for she stared at the four men with hollow, vacant eyes, moaning and hissing as she struggled against the belts that were designed to hold a patient in place while in transit. The zombie didn’t even seem to realize they were there. It just tried to climb off the gurney with all its might. The scene was both horrifying and hilarious.

Reese’s backup, Sergeant Bates, sauntered up to the ambulance with a shotgun of his own. He peered inside the vehicle and grunted.

“Well, at least it’s on wheels,” he said to Reese. “We could roll it back to the stationhouse and leave it in the men’s locker room. You know at least a couple of the guys will try and take a crack at it.”

Narvaez turned away from the ambulance and looked toward the paramedics, who were standing nearby. The driver was inspecting his coworker’s injured wrist.

“You two! Stay right where you are!” he yelled, then nudged one of the soldiers in the side. “Lopatnikov, go keep an eye on them. That guy’s been bitten, so stay sharp.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier said, not exactly thrilled with the duty.

Narvaez turned back to the restrained zombie, then looked at Reese. “Reese, we good to shoot this thing?”

“Uh, maybe we should get it out of the ambulance first?” Reese said.

Narvaez shook his head. “Fuck that.” He reached up to the front of his helmet and pulled the bulky set of plastic goggles strapped there over his eyes, then moved past Bates and hauled himself into the back of the ambulance. He motioned the other soldier to move closer, and the soldier did, his M4 still shouldered and held on target.

“Narvaez, hold on!” Reese said. “We need a doctor to tell us if that lady’s really a … a zombie.”

The thing in the gurney redoubled its efforts to slip its bonds as Narvaez drew closer to it. It lunged in his direction with enough might to make the ambulance rock on its suspension. Narvaez braced himself against the opposite side of the vehicle and shouldered his rifle, then looked back at Reese.

“Detective, does this thing look at all normal to you?” he asked. “What do you think a doctor’s going to say—‘Don’t worry, she’s just pissed off’?”

“You can’t just shoot her,” Reese said, and his objection sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. As he stood there, watching the thing in the gurney thrash about madly in its attempts to get to Narvaez, he could clearly see there was no humanity left in the woman’s body. It was just a vessel now, a vessel filled by a never-ending, insatiable appetite.

“Your captain said differently.” Narvaez kept his rifle trained on the zombie. “Look, you want me to let the stench go, Detective? Would that make you feel better?”

Reese didn’t say anything.

“Do it,” Bates said. “Get it over with.”

Narvaez pulled the trigger, firing a single shot into the thrashing figure’s head. The ghoul strapped into the gurney stopped moving, sinking back onto the gurney’s frame like a marionette whose strings had been cut. There was no death rattle that Reese could hear, no indication that a life had just passed. The corpse just went back to being a corpse. Narvaez eased toward it a bit, rifle still held at the ready. After inspecting the body for a few moments, he sidled back to the ambulance’s open door and hopped out. Releasing his rifle, he raised his goggles and slipped them back in place across the front of his helmet. There was no joy in his face, but Reese found he was suddenly angry with the Guardsman.

“So what about that guy?” he asked, pointing at the wounded paramedic who stood nearby, cradling his injured wrist. Both he and his unbitten partner stared at the soldiers and police officers with shocked expressions. “You going to shoot him, too?”

Narvaez looked over at the paramedics with a grim expression. Rifle fire crackled in the distance, and the ROVERs Reese and Bates wore squawked as police officers reported another engagement with the dead.

“Not right now,” Narvaez said. “But we’ll probably have to later.”

SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

The afternoon was bright and hot when Norton and Corbett stepped out of the town hall building, and Norton slipped on his sunglasses against the glare. He looked around, and saw that North Jackson Street was the usual happening scene it always was. An elderly Mexican couple shuffled into the air-conditioned senior center next door. Across the street, a middle-aged man Norton didn’t know was hooking up a Triumph outboard fishing boat to the trailer hitch on the back of his dusty pickup. Norton watched that for a moment, intrigued that someone who lived in a desert at the foot of a mountain range would own a boat. The man had a scraggly beard and a straw cowboy hat on his head, and wore faded jeans and a clean white T-shirt. He looked toward Norton, then touched the brim of his hat. Norton nodded back, and the man went back to securing the little fiberglass boat’s trailer to his truck.

“I guess going out on a boat is as good a response as any,” Corbett said. He waved a leathery hand about as a fly zipped around him, making miniature strafing runs at his face.

“So what’s the plan?” Norton asked. In the distance, he heard a siren wail. Probably some out of towner cracked up his car while burning up Main Street, which doubled as a two-lane state highway that cut through the town’s center.

“We meet back here at eight o’clock, like Max said. Then we suffer the glares and unbelieving guffaws from the resident Indignation Society when we make our pitch,” Corbett said. The older man put his hands on his hips and stretched. “Damn, all this sitting is screwing up my back.”

Two fit-looking men stepped out of the black Ford Expedition SUV that was parked a few spaces down from Corbett’s hulking truck and Norton’s old Jeep Cherokee. Norton recognized them from the airport. Part of Corbett’s crew.

“So who’re those guys you brought with you?” he asked. “Bodyguards?”

“Yes, actually,” Corbett said. “They’ll be useful when the shit hits the fan.”

“Let me ask you something?”

Corbett looked at him, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. “Yes, Norton, I did watch Khe Sanh. It was okay, except for the parts with the dink whores. I don’t know why you left them in.”

Norton snorted. “That wasn’t it. My question is, what are you going to do if the shit doesn’t hit the fan?”

Corbett shrugged. “Probably pay a hefty fine to Inyo County. And go ahead and put in that ILS at the airport. But do you think things are going to end up fine and well, Gary? After what you saw in Los Angeles?”

Norton sighed. “I’d be surprised if everything worked out all right.”

“Hope for the best, expect the worst,” Corbett said. He waved the men away, and they climbed back into the running SUV. Its air-conditioning system left a puddle of moisture that slowly oozed across the hot blacktop. Corbett reached into his pocket, and his big blue Super Duty pickup roared to life, its diesel engine cackling lightly beneath the expanse of its hood. The truck’s AC came on with an audible click.

“Anything you think we need to go over before the meeting?” Corbett asked. “I want to head home and take a nap. Don’t sleep so much at nighttime these days, so I usually conk out for a couple of hours in the afternoon after the Dow closes.”

“You have a detailed plan?” Norton asked.

“Yes. You have a secure e-mail account?”

“Well, nothing the NSA couldn’t get into. I can give you either my production company address, or one from Gmail. Take your pick”

Corbett grunted. “Huh. Send it to Gmail, and the next thing you know, it’ll be all over Google for everyone to see. I’ll trust your corporate account.” He pulled out his smartphone. “What is it?” He typed in the address as Norton read it off, confirmed it, then put the phone back in his pocket.

“Check out what I’ll be sending you. All PDF files, password-protected. Password is ‘semper dash fi.’ You can remember that?”

“Semper fi with a dash between the words. Sure, I can remember that,” Norton said.

“All right, then. See you later tonight.”

“Sure. By the way, I left the ‘dink whores’ in because the cable company wanted them. People like some titillation with their war stories,” Norton said, as Corbett turned toward his truck.

“The only people who want titillation with their wars are those who’ve never had to carry a gun,” Corbett responded without breaking stride. He walked to the idling truck, pulled the driver’s door open, and climbed in. Norton watched the old man throw the big truck in reverse, back out of the parking space, and take off down the street. He was shadowed by his bodyguards in the Expedition, who took off after him without sparing Norton so much as a parting glance. Norton stood there in the bright sunlight and watched as the vehicles turned right on Main Street and disappeared from view.

So, I’m finally quit of Barry Corbett. I wonder just what the hell I’ve gotten myself into, here.

Walking to his old Jeep Cherokee Chief, he dug around in his pocket for the keys. Unlike Corbett, his ride didn’t have a remote starter, so he’d have to turn it over and drive with the windows cranked open for a while until the air-conditioning could catch up. The vehicle was a little dirty; even though he left it in the hangar, there was still a fine patina of dust spread across its firecracker red paint that hadn’t lifted off during the drive up from the airport. He decided he’d take it over to Watson’s Self-Serve Car Wash for a welcome home bath, then get on home. He unlocked the Cherokee and slid into its hot interior, thankful that it had cloth seats instead of vinyl. It cranked up right away, and after switching on the air-conditioning, he cranked down the driver and passenger side windows. The Cherokee had been bought new in 1979 by his father, and it had been passed on to Norton in his senior year in high school. Even though it was severely dated by modern standards, Norton still felt a small thrill every time he climbed inside the trusty four-wheel drive. It was like he was a teenager all over again, and Norton relished the feeling. Being forty-nine going on eighteen wasn’t so bad.

He backed out of the parking space and accelerated toward Main Street, the Cherokee’s big tires whirring across the cracked blacktop. He heard more sirens, and as he drew close to the intersection, he saw a couple of cars and a battered pickup truck pull to the right. A moment later, an ambulance sped past, headed south. Norton wondered what was going on, and a small worm of dread squirmed about in his belly.

Take it easy, Hoss. Someone just got hurt in a fender bender, or something, he told himself as he brought the Cherokee to a halt at the intersection and flipped on the right turn signal. After making sure the approaching lanes were clear, he made his turn and headed north up Main Street. Traffic was a bit thicker than what he thought was normal, but that happened fairly often. Main Street was part of US Highway 395, an artery that ran from north to south, connecting Single Tree with Inyo County and the rest of the great state of California. It wasn’t unusual for a good amount of traffic to roll through the town, and while occasionally inconvenient, it was mostly a good thing. Single Tree needed the dollars that travelers left behind while purchasing gasoline or food. But given what was happening in the rest of the world, Norton wondered if this time there wasn’t a more insidious reason behind the increased traffic.

After watching LA dissembling from a helicopter and joining forces with Corbett to try and save Single Tree from a threat he still couldn’t completely believe in, Norton found he was one worked up guy. For years, his existence had been a mostly peaceful one. Sure, there had been times of great stress—Hollywood was a shark tank, after all, not to mention going through not one but two disastrous marriages. But in the end, Norton had risen to a level where he was finally above most of it. Secure in his career, he had made big, big bank, so much so that he could maintain a lavish lifestyle for the rest of his days without having to worry about anything, even if he lived to be a hundred twenty years old. He would have been content to spend his days putting together a show or two while loafing around his coastal home and building up some hours flying around the country. It had been a solitary life, but Norton found he preferred it that way. And while he was never lacking for companionship when he desired it, Norton preferred making movies, driving fast cars, shooting guns, and piloting boats and airplanes to dalliances with women. He shook his head at the thought. Remaining untangled with women had removed a huge amount of complexity from his life. He wondered if he would ever be able to reclaim his old life, now that things had taken a dramatic change for the worse. Norton almost wished Walid hadn’t called and jarred him out of his otherwise serene existence.

But then, I’d be zombie chow eventually, wouldn’t I? Despite everything, Norton realized he wouldn’t have stood a chance of getting out of Los Angeles if Walid hadn’t given him a call, and there was some irony there. He, a resident of the freest nation in the world, had to be told the truth by a man who lived in one of the most restrictive societies on the planet. It was an interesting turn of events.

After getting the Jeep washed, he drove back to his home on Bush Street. His house was on a corner lot, and he had bought the neighboring lot from a resident who had moved back east. Combining them, he had built a modern but understated craftsman bungalow style residence, complete with a swimming pool and two-car garage that was heated in the winter. Solar panels graced part of the roof, generating enough charge to heat the water and keep the pool pump running, but not much else. The house was big for the area, almost two thousand five hundred square feet, but not so huge that it overshadowed the rest of the neighborhood’s ranch-style homes. Originally, he had wanted to make it two stories, but the town zoning board wouldn’t hear of it, so he had settled on a single-floor residence. In the end, he didn’t mind. Twenty-five hundred square feet was more than enough for one man, especially when he only lived there for less than two months a year.

After dumping his luggage inside and taking the time to ensure the firearms were locked up in the master bedroom’s gun safe, he stepped back out into the hot day. His original home was next door, and he could see two cars in the driveway, which meant his parents were both at home. He sauntered across the grass, still green and lush thanks to the automatic sprinkler system he’d put in, and let himself inside the house after knocking once on the front door.

“Hey, guys, it’s Gary,” he said as he stepped inside.

His father waved at him from the couch in the living room, which was just off the entry hall. Arthur Norton was a thin man in his late seventies who wore wire-rimmed bifocal glasses perched on the tip of his nose. His steel gray hair was neatly combed, and there was nary a whisker on his chin that Norton could see. His father was the type of man who shaved every day, whereas Norton had no problem going a week without shaving if it suited him. The older man had a bandage across the top of his right ear, and Norton frowned a bit when he saw that. He closed the door behind him as he walked into the living room. From deeper in the house, he heard his mother talking, probably on the phone.

Arthur motioned toward the flat-screen television. “New York City’s on fire!” he said.

“What happened to your ear?” Norton asked.

“What? Oh, some skin cancer, nothing major,” his father said. “You hear what I said? New York’s—”

“On fire, yeah. I heard. LA’s headed that way, too. That’s why I’m here. Dad, do you guys still have all that emergency food I bought for you guys a while back?”

Arthur seemed not to hear. He stared at the television. Norton walked over and sat down on the other end of the big couch and glanced at the screen again. Sure enough, the NBC affiliate in New York was broadcasting helicopter footage of a gigantic fire that was raging across the tip of Manhattan. It looked like the area had been bombed, and for the second time in his life, Norton saw the World Trade Center area was again on fire. The skyscraper formerly known as the Freedom Tower now belched black smoke much the same way the Twin Towers had done fifteen years earlier. It was a depressing sight.

“This is huge, son,” Arthur said, his voice full of emotion. “Huge.”

“Dad, the food. You guys still have it, right?”

Arthur finally tore his eyes away from the television. “What food?”

“Those six big buckets of food that I put in the third bedroom a couple of years ago?”

“Oh, those. No, they’re out in the garage. Your mom didn’t like them in the closet.”

Norton put his face in his hand. “Dad, that stuff needs to be kept in a temperate environment. Extremes ruin the lifespan.”

Arthur waved Norton’s words away. “A little heat isn’t going to hurt anything, Gary. It’s all vacuum sealed. Everything’s fine. So what was this you said about Los Angeles? Did you know the governor called up the National Guard? I heard the airport’s closed, too. Did you drive in?”

“All the airports are closed, and I got here a couple of hours ago. And yes, I know about the Guard being called up. And in a couple of days, Los Angeles is going to wind up just like that.” Norton pointed at the fiery devastation on the TV.

“Really,” Arthur said, his voice small. “So this isn’t just another scare, like the bird flu or Ebola, this time?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Are your cars gassed up?”

“We going somewhere?”

“Dad, no. I’m just trying to figure out how you guys are squared away. Are the tanks full? Is there enough food in the house?”

“Well, sure, we have enough food,” Arthur said. “Your mom’s not into cooking much anymore, so most of it’s frozen or in cans.” He turned from the television and looked at Norton directly. “So, you think this is going to be something serious and long term?”

Norton nodded. “I think so. That’s why I’m here. Honestly, I think I was lucky to get out of LA when I could.”

Arthur regarded the television for a moment, then picked up the remote and muted the sound. He turned to his son and looked at him through his glasses.

“So tell me about Los Angeles,” he said.

Norton gave him the Cliff’s Notes version of his helicopter flight to Burbank, and told him of the congestion at the airport. His father nodded when he told him the FAA had grounded all civilian aircraft.

“I heard that, it’s on the news,” he said, pointing to the muted television.

“There’s more,” Norton said. He went on to tell his father about Barry Corbett’s plans to try and harden the town. When he heard that, Arthur smiled and shook his head.

“Barry always had a streak of altruism in him, even when he was a kid,” Arthur said. “But now I know what all those trucks are doing lined up on the side of the road down by the airport.”

“Oh my God,” his mother said from the kitchen. “Are you sure?”

Norton and his father glanced toward the kitchen, and Norton thought his mother had been listening to their conversation. Instead, she was still on the phone. Norton exchanged glances with Arthur, then turned back to the kitchen.

“Mom, everything okay?” he asked, raising his voice.

Beatrice Norton appeared then, stepping into the kitchen doorway. She held a yellow trimline phone to her ear, and her blue eyes were wide. She wore a simple blouse and a long skirt. Its hem almost brushed the top of her sandaled feet. Her gray hair was impeccably coifed, as always. Norton thought not for the first time that his mother made a great physical match for his LL Bean-clad father.

“Wallace Whittaker’s dead,” she blurted. “He had an episode in the pharmacy while waiting for his heart medication, then he attacked the pharmacist. The police shot him!”

“The police shot him?” Arthur asked incredulously. “Wally’s eighty-eight years old!”

“I know, it doesn’t make any sense, but—”

Norton waved for his mother to be silent. “Mom! You said he tried to bite the pharmacist?”

“Yes. I’m on the phone with Lyda Whitman, she saw it all! She says Wally collapsed, they were giving him CPR, and then he just sat up and went berserk!” With that, Beatrice turned away and walked back into the kitchen, animatedly talking into the 1970s-era phone.

Norton turned back to Arthur, and the older man leaned back against the sofa’s overstuffed cushions and regarded the silent television for a moment.

“Well, I guess Single Tree has its first zombie,” he said. “Maybe Corbett’s not just being altruistic. Maybe he’s right.”

ON THE ROAD, CALIFORNIA

The trip to Los Angeles had started out reasonably enough, despite the traffic on the highway. But as Jock Sinclair navigated the Maserati Ghibli westward toward the City of Angels courtesy of Interstate 15, things became more chaotic. While the eastbound traffic back toward Las Vegas was mounting, so was the traffic to the west. Sinclair had driven this particular route several times in the past few years, and it was unusual for there to be much traffic at all out here in the middle of the American desert, unless there was an accident or something similar. The radio wasn’t of much help. Even the Sirius news stations were covering the goings on in New York and Europe, with a smattering of tidbits about Asia and the Middle East. It appeared Russia and great swaths of China had gone dark, despite the Russians launching perhaps the biggest artillery action in history to try and defend Moscow. And the reports that the Russians had been trying to stop a horde of zombies was enough to make Sinclair smirk as he squinted against the setting sun.

Zombies? Has the entire world gone completely mad?

Ensconced in the comfort of the Ghibli—a car Sinclair merely tolerated, as he felt an Aston Martin would have been much more sensible—it was easy for him to pooh-pooh the world’s troubles, despite the traffic. Now, with Las Vegas almost three hours behind him, he had calmed down a bit since he and Meredith had set out. Perhaps, he was beginning to think, he had overreacted in insisting they leave Las Vegas that very minute. With things being what they were in Los Angeles, it would have made more sense to try and launch his broadcast from the local television studio. And with traffic being what it was, making it to Los Angeles in time was now simply out of the question. Sinclair had tried to call his superiors at the cable news network to inquire as to alternatives, but his voice mails had gone unreturned. That was troubling. Even calling through the switchboard and selecting random extensions hadn’t netted him a single answered call. Likewise, his attempts to contact his people in Los Angeles had failed as well.

“Jock, maybe we need to go somewhere else,” Meredith said finally, as the car rolled forward at speeds alternating between twenty-five miles per hour and a dead stop. “We could go up to San Francisco.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stupid twat,” Sinclair snapped. “I realize you love San Francisco, but it’s a town full of faggots and people with oatmeal for brains.” The fact that it was a chilly city that reminded him a little too much of Britain went unsaid.

“It could be safe there,” Meredith said. “We haven’t heard anything about San Francisco on the radio, maybe everything’s still normal there.”

“Yes, normal with a possibility of being buggered,” Sinclair said. “We’re going to Los Angeles, Meredith. End of discussion. Now I suggest you lean back and enjoy the ride. You’ve certainly done enough of that in your life, haven’t you?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Meredith glare at him. “You’re a complete prick, Jock,” she said.

“Where you see a prick, I see a man who is sensibly dedicated,” Sinclair shot back. He glanced at the integrated GPS display in the Maserati’s Italian leather-wrapped dashboard. “We’re just outside of Victorville, so it won’t be long now.”

“Jock.” Meredith’s tone indicated that she was trying hard to come across as reasonable. “What if what we’re hearing on the radio is true? LA’s in lockdown. The National Guard has been called up. What if, even if we did get in, it turns out that this … this plague they’re talking about is really happening, and what if it’s even worse than they say it is?”

“Why don’t you leave the thinking to me, since I’m much better at it,” Sinclair said, shutting her down immediately. Meredith didn’t have much stomach for fighting—decades of living the good life after having been born into money had seen to that—but the truth of the matter was, Sinclair didn’t have a clue about what they would do if what she brought up actually came to pass. While he was as cutthroat as anyone, Sinclair’s survival skills were more oriented toward ingratiation and subterfuge, not outright conflict. He was a civilized man, and he’d never had to resort to uncivilized tactics, not even in barbaric nation states like Texas.

Another radio report from Los Angeles came on then, this time detailing how the US Navy was about to establish a blockade of the conjoined ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach. Sinclair didn’t like what he heard, but he listened to it anyway as Meredith made another fruitless attempt at reaching her family in New York. Sinclair gripped the wheel, mentally cursing the thick traffic ahead of him, and despairing at the barely moving convoy of traffic headed east. He knew that if they made it into Los Angeles, there was likely no chance they would be able to make it out.

*

An hour later, Sinclair leaned forward in the Maserati’s driver seat. A collection of flashing lights lit up the three-lane highway ahead, and traffic cones had been set out, funneling the oncoming traffic toward the next exit. A dozen of the California Highway Patrol’s finest stood amidst the cones, waving people toward the rightmost lane. They wore face masks, and had bags strapped to their thighs. Sinclair knew these contained gas masks, something that had become fairly present in post 9/11 New York. Also on scene were several military vehicles that even Sinclair recognized as Humvees, crewed by soldiers in full uniform. The concrete barriers that made up certain segments of the central divider between the southern and northern travel lanes had been removed, and as Sinclair watched, the CHP allowed a Ford Flex to make a U-turn and attempt to merge into the northbound traffic, just ahead of a hulking truck hauling a Walmart trailer.

“My God, they can’t seriously be forcing us off the highway here,” he muttered. “We’re in the middle of nowhere!”

“They’ve been saying that Los Angeles is closed to ground traffic for the past hour,” Meredith said, pointing to the multifunction display in the center of the Ghibli’s dashboard. It was true. Sinclair hadn’t missed those reports over the radio. From experience, he knew how often the media messed up even the most basic items of information, and he’d been driving on blind faith that they’d messed this one up, too.

“Yes, I was just hoping we might be able to get closer, thank you very much,” he snapped.

“Closer to what?” Meredith shouted suddenly. Sinclair jumped in his seat. Meredith wasn’t the screaming type, that sort of drama was beneath her. “Just how far into hell did you want to drive us, Jock? Halfway? All the way? Do you even have a plan, or are you just blowing hot air out of your ass, like normal?”

Sinclair was momentarily taken aback by her outburst, and then he realized Meredith was frightened almost to death. As well as she should have been. The radio, which Sinclair was depending on for information, was full of nothing but bad news. The Bluetooth smartphones weren’t very useful any longer, as neither of them had been able to make any calls of consequence due to congestion on the wireless networks. The only thing that could have made things worse would be if the emergency broadcast system was activated, and Sinclair didn’t doubt that was eventually going to be the case.

“I’m sorry,” he said through gritted teeth, an admission he’d almost never had to make in the past under any circumstances. “My plan was to get us back to Los Angeles. Somewhere civilized, where there’s a large law enforcement community—”

“We had that back in Las Vegas!”

“—but now that things are obviously taking a turn for the worse, we’ll exit up ahead and see if we can’t make it north.” He paused to clear his throat. “To … to San Francisco.” He pointed at the GPS display. “We’ll try and make it to the Barstow Highway, and cut across to the coast. If we can’t, we’ll take Interstate 5 up and find our way to San Francisco from there. We’ll only stop for petrol and food, but it’s probably best not to stop for long. Whatever this, this pandemic might be, it could very well be airborne, and they just haven’t mentioned it yet.”

“Jesus,” Meredith said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It might not be that bad,” Sinclair said, trying to force some comfort into his voice. “But it’s obvious now, we need to avoid people. People are spreading this kind of, uh, infection that makes them attack each other. We need to stay mobile.”

“What if we can’t stay mobile, Jock? What then?”

“Well, we fight, of course.” Sinclair hit the turn signal and looked over his right shoulder, trying to merge toward the exit. It was going to take some doing without rubbing paint with another vehicle.

“Fight?” Meredith snorted. “Jock, the last time you had a ‘fight,’ you were knocked almost unconscious by a forty-five-year-old television car show host.”

“That was not a fight, he sandbagged me!” Sinclair shouted as anger surged through his veins. A pickup truck in the lane next to him leaned on the horn as the Maserati began drifting into it. Sinclair pulled the wheel to the left and edged away from the other vehicle, scowling as the Mexican man in the truck shouted at him.

Meredith shook her head. “It’s times like this that a gun would be a good thing to have,” she muttered.

“A gun?” Sinclair said. “A gun, you said? Dear Meredith, haven’t you of all people come to realize just how much pain and suffering the ‘Amurican’ love affair with the gun has caused? Tens of thousands of deaths are caused every year—”

“Jock, save it,” Meredith said, and there was a great weariness in her voice. “I know how you feel about guns. But right now, a gun would be a good thing to have, no matter what your views are.”

Sinclair snorted and shook his head. “A gun. Really, Meredith. Sometimes, you’re just so basic.”

She glared at him but said nothing further, silently seething beside him. Sinclair ignored her, and concentrated on merging into the traffic headed for the off ramp.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

The first few hours of his tour with the National Guard at Cedar-Sinai had been, for the most part, largely uneventful. Reese had been able to take enough time to suck down some of the coffee donated by the Starbucks across the way in Beverly Center and some sandwiches and pizza someone had brought over from the California Pizza Kitchen. Whereas Bates roamed the hospital with a team of Guardsmen—he was a patrolman, after all—Reese stayed put near the emergency room entrance with Narvaez and his senior officers, who had commandeered a portion of the sidewalk and roadway beyond to serve as an impromptu command post. Narvaez coordinated his troop movements from a Humvee studded with antennas that had been parked at the curb. Even though he was supposed to represent the LAPD at the hospital, there wasn’t a lot for Reese to do. Anything that required the attention of uniformed police was handled by Bates, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to determine exactly when to appear whenever he was needed.

That wasn’t to say Reese didn’t have any interactions with people outside of the National Guard. Sirens wailed all across the city, and every few minutes, an ambulance of the paramedic unit would roll in with new patients. Not all of the patients were victims of zombie attacks. Several had actually fallen prey to vanilla criminal activity, such as assaults and home invasions, the numbers of which had increased substantially as Los Angeles grappled with the threat growing within the city. As the zombie infestations grew, law enforcement resources were being put to the test. Reese already knew the 911 call centers were overloaded, meaning that hundreds if not thousands of people in need were being left to their own devices. Once a patient had been identified as a crime victim, Reese interviewed them and took their information, writing it all down on a notepad he carried. By the time the sun had set, the notepad was already half used, and he wished the department had issued a tablet of some sort for this kind of mission. His right hand was already suffering from a severe case of writer’s cramp.

Reese was helping himself to another cup of tepid coffee when one of the senior nurses approached him. She was a short, sturdy black woman with salt and pepper hair and big eyes that were magnified by Coke-bottle glasses. Reese watched her approach, noting the jitteriness in her gait.

“Excuse me, are you with the LAPD?” she asked. She wore a long-sleeved shirt under her green medical scrubs, and she hugged herself as she looked up at him, as if trying to ward off a chill.

Reese wondered why she would ask the question while he was standing around wearing a ballistic vest clearly marked as POLICE. Just the same, he fingered the badge hanging from his neck by a lanyard.

“What can I do for you?”

“We have several cases that are terminal,” the woman said. “In fact, we have one that might have died by the time it took me to leave the ward and come to you.”

“Ah.” Reese adjusted his vest and looked around. “Okay. People who had been bitten?”

“Yes. And some who weren’t. Traffic accident for one, a shooting for another.”

“Okay. And you have them isolated, right?”

“They’re in isolation, yes, but it’s not like a prison,” the nurse said. “If they really wanted to, they could get out. If they, you know … wake up.”

Reese didn’t like that. “Listen, you guys need to harden that part of the hospital. You have armed security inside?” he asked, while reaching for his radio.

“We have security, but right now, there’s only one man in that area …”

“Narvaez!” Reese shouted. He pulled his ROVER close to his face. “Detective Four King to One Frank Three. Over.”

Captain Narvaez hurried up, following by two Guardsmen. “What’s up, Detective?”

Bates’s voice came over the radio. “Detective Four King, this in One Frank Three. Over.”

“One Frank Three, I need you back at the command post. Over.”

“Detective Four King, we’re on the way.”

“Sir, you have something for us?” Narvaez asked. He looked from Reese to the hospital nurse and back again.

“We have folks in the hospital who are turning,” Reese said.

“Okay. We knew that would happen,” Narvaez said, and his right hand moved along the frame of his M4, coming to a rest on the weapon’s pistol grip. “How many?”

Reese looked at the nurse, who said, “Maybe about fourteen.”

Reese was surprised at the number, and so was Narvaez. “Fourteen?” the Guard commander said. “We’ve seen like maybe seven or eight cases come in through emergency. How can there be fourteen?”

“They come in through different parts of the hospital,” the nurse said. “Some of them were here undergoing treatment for another illness, and … well, they got sick.” She stopped for a moment, then looked at Reese directly. “There’s actually more than fourteen. Fourteen patients are likely to turn, but I’ve been told we have almost thirty people who are potentially … infected.”

Jesus. “All of them are in isolation, right?” Reese asked.

“No. The ward is full. We’re isolating them in different areas of the hospital.”

Reese did an epic face palm. “Do you know where in the hospital these other cases are?” he asked. An LAPD squad car rolled up then, and Sergeant Bates emerged from behind the wheel. Three other police officers stepped out of the vehicle as well. The squad car was a full house. Reese waved him over, and Bates sauntered toward them, hitching up his heavy patrol belt.

“I don’t know exactly where all of them are,” the nurse said.

“Well, holy jumping shit, ma’am, who does?” Narvaez asked.

“The chief of staff’s office is—”

She was cut off by gunfire from somewhere inside the hospital. Gunfire that, if Reese was correct, came from above them.

SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

“Well, if it isn’t my billionaire guardian angel,” Danielle said as Corbett perused the menu before him.

“Hello there, Dani,” he said, tilting his head to the right a bit so she could kiss his cheek. “How are things?”

“Same as always,” she told him, putting her hands on her hips and she stood beside the booth he sat in. “You know how things are in Single Tree—nothing happens until the snow falls. Didn’t know you were in town. What brings you back here?”

Corbett spread his hands. “What, you don’t watch the news?”

Danielle nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. The world’s going to hell, I guess. Looks like New York got hit pretty hard. Are things headed south in Dallas, too?”

“Actually, Dallas was fine when I left. Now that the FAA has shut down the airspace, maybe it’ll stay that way for a while longer. But I decided I’d be better off here than there.”

“Huh. Why’s that? Single Tree is so boring, even the zombies wouldn’t pay attention to it?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Corbett jerked his thumb toward the window beside him. The diner faced the main drag, and there were more than a few cars and trucks tooling past in both directions. It was almost six o’clock, and darkness was slowly uncoiling over the town. The traffic flow was unusual for this time of year.

“Seems like Single Tree is kind of popular these days,” he said.

Danielle looked around the diner. It was only half full. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Seems to me most people are staying home for dinner tonight.”

“Business off?”

“Well, just for today,” she said. “Yesterday, it was normal. Today, it’s been off.”

“Talked to your father earlier today,” Corbett said. “His tanks are getting sucked dry. Says he had to put in an emergency request for more gas and diesel, but he’s not sure anything’s going to be available.”

Danielle ran a hand through her short brown hair. “Really? I think he just got a delivery.”

“Three days ago, he said. As of then, he had about forty-seven thousand gallons of product available. Now, he has a little over fifteen thousand.” Corbett pointed out the window again. “They’re the ones who are taking it. All the transients. People out of Los Angeles and Las Vegas, each trying to get to someplace where they’ll feel safe. Though I don’t know what qualifies as ‘safe’ right now.”

“Well, if you need some gas, Barry, I can get you squared away,” Danielle said.

Corbett smiled. “Thanks, Marine, but I’m good. Believe me.”

“Okay, but if times get tough, keep me in mind. I owe you and all that.”

“Thanks.” Corbett looked up at her critically. “Well, I see no engagement rings or anything of the sort, so it looks like you’re still on the market. Maybe you should let your hair grow out a bit, slap on some nail polish, and stop dressing like such the tomboy, huh?”

She laughed. “Not happening. Besides, no one’s very interested in a peg-leg.”

Corbett clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Self-pity, Marine? Really?”

“Reality, Marine … reality,” she replied. “No one in a one-horse town is interested in a one-legged girl. Except for maybe Willy Simmonds, and he’s a known deviant. I’m not missing out on anything, anyway.”

Corbett grunted and looked down at the menu again. He wasn’t terribly hungry, but he knew it would be a long night. He needed something.

“So what’ll it be?” Danielle asked, her pad at the ready.

“Tomato soup and a grilled ham and cheese,” he said.

“What, shouldn’t you be watching your cholesterol level?”

“Cholesterol isn’t the thing that’s going to kill me.”

Danielle smiled. “And to drink?”

“Unless you guys suddenly received a liquor license while I was away, just water will do.” Corbett looked out at the traffic moving past the diner. “Though Lord knows I could use a couple of bottles of tequila, right now.”

*

Gary Norton was among the first to arrive at the town hall that night, and he let himself into the meeting hall. Single Tree’s major, Max Booker, was there, along with Chief Grady, the head of the town police. They sat at the curved table at the front of the room, and they looked up expectantly when Norton walked in. Booker got to his feet and leaned to his right, as if trying to look past Norton.

“It’s just me,” Norton said.

“Well, where’s Corbett?” Booker asked.

Norton shrugged. “He’ll be here, Mayor. Where do you want me?”

“Are you going to be, well, presenting anything?”

Norton shook his head. “Only my award-winning smile.”

Booker returned to his seat, a disappointed look on his face. “Just take a seat wherever, then.”

There were three rows of auditorium-style seats facing the curved desk, behind which the town council would sit. Norton sat down in a second row aisle seat and leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the seat’s narrow confines. It was an impossible task.

The rest of the town council slowly entered the chamber. Norton groaned when he saw Hector Aguilar head toward the front of the room. The pharmacy owner shot him a nasty look, then descended upon Chief Grady like a vulture swooping down on fresh roadkill. Grady leaned back in his seat and steepled his hands before him. Norton wondered if the chief was praying that Aguilar would leave him alone. If so, his prayers went unanswered.

“Chief, I want to talk to you about one of your officers,” Aguilar snapped. “He released three shoplifters today!”

“You mean after he shot Wally Whittaker?” Grady said. “He told me about it. I thought it was kind of odd that you didn’t mention it then.”

“Well … well, we’d just had a shooting, for God’s sake! Of course I wasn’t going to bring it up!”

“Hector, sit down,” Booker said.

Aguilar glared at the mayor. “I have legitimate business to discuss here, Max.”

“Not now, you don’t,” Booker said. “Sit down, or leave the chamber.”

Aguilar blinked behind his glasses. “Excuse me?”

Booker looked at Aguilar evenly. “I didn’t stutter, Hector. Sit quietly or leave. Your call.”

Aguilar laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t believe you have much authority over me, Max. I’m a sitting member of the council, a representative of the town. You don’t tell me what to do!”

“He does tonight,” Grady said. “Sit down, or I’ll escort you out.”

A middle-aged woman named Gemma Washington took her seat beside Grady. She looked at Aguilar as she lowered her heavy frame into the chair, then nudged Grady with one pointy elbow.

“If he resists, will you promise to shoot him?” she asked.

Grady smiled. “We’ve had enough shooting in this town for one day.”

“Well, get ready. There’s more coming.”

Everyone looked to the door as Barry Corbett stalked through it like a hungry lion scouring the savanna for prey. Three men followed him, one carrying a box. Norton recognized them from the airport. Part of Corbett’s security detail. He wondered why old Barry had brought them inside. As he approached Norton’s seat, Corbett stopped short and looked down at him.

“You read my e-mail?” he asked.

“Yep. Quite the eye opener. Seen the news about New York?”

“I have.”

“Then I hope your guys are starting work, because LA’s starting to go the same route.”

“Excuse me, just what is this about?” Aguilar said. He turned to Booker. “Do you mean to tell me that Corbett called this ‘special session’ tonight?”

“No. I did,” Booker said. “But Mister Corbett has some specific agenda items that he’d like to discuss.”

“What agenda might that be?” Grady asked. There was no trace of confrontation in the police chief’s voice, and Norton figured it was a fair question.

“I’ll have that socialized in just a moment.” Norton turned to the man behind him holding the box, and he pointed at Norton. “Mister Norton will need one, then distribute a copy to everyone else in the room.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. He put the box on the floor, pulled off the lid, and handed Norton a thick, spiral-bound document before moving on. Norton paged through the heavy document. It was a printout of everything Corbett had sent him via e-mail, plus an executive summary titled PREPARING SINGLE TREE FOR THE APOCALYPSE. He chuckled quietly when he saw that.

As the rest of the documents were being passed out, the door to the chamber opened again. Norton turned and watched as Victor Kuruk eased into the room. The leader of the Paiute-Shoshone reservation that sat between the town of Single Tree and the airport was a solid sort of guy, and he dressed the part: faded jeans, well-worn work boots, and a long-sleeved denim shirt rolled up at the elbows. He carried a leather jacket over one arm, and his long, silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was maybe ten years younger than Corbett but he carried himself like a much younger man. Norton knew he was a favorite among the Hollywood elite when it came time to casting calls for older, wise-looking Native Americans, and Victor had made a good chunk of change appearing in everything from television commercials to feature films. He also had a magnificent speaking voice, a rich baritone that was as flexible as a yoga instructor. That gift had made him a millionaire. As if those accolades weren’t enough, Victor had written several nonfiction books about the regional Native American population that had been picked up by the University of California Press. But like everyone else who called the Single Tree vicinity home, success hadn’t been enough to dislodge Victor Kuruk. Even if home was a small reservation community with a population of less than four hundred.

“Hello, Victor. Thanks for coming,” Max Brooks said with a wave.

Corbett cracked a small smile. “Fashionably late as always, Vic.”

“I had trouble deciding what to wear,” Victor replied.

“What were the choices, denim and flannel?”

Victor nodded. “It’s a bit nippy out tonight, but still not really cold enough for flannel. In the end, it wasn’t that tough of a choice, which is too bad. I wanted to show off my latest shirt from Lands End. How is everyone?” he asked, as he sauntered down the aisle.

“Doing fine,” Corbett said. “Grab a handout and have a seat. We have some territory to cover, and it’s going to affect your people, as well.”

“Is this meeting about how we’re going to handle the zombies?” Victor asked. He regarded one of Corbett’s men with hooded eyes as the man handed him one of the spiral-bound books. He turned his dark eyes back toward Corbett. “I see you’ve brought some help.”

“Have a seat, Vic,” Corbett said again.

Victor nodded to Norton as he walked past and settled into a seat in the first row. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on.

“Gary, why don’t you come up and join the rest of us,” Corbett said.

Norton waved the suggestion away. “I’m fine where I am. I like being closer to the door, just in case Hector starts agitating a little too furiously.”

Aguilar glared at him, and Norton shot him the finger. “That’s the number of friends you’ve made over the years, including yourself,” Norton said.

“Outrageous!” Aguilar shouted. “This man has no right to be here!”

Booker got to his feet. “Gary, knock that off right now!”

“Yeah, I’ll handle the confrontations for the moment if you don’t mind, Gary,” Corbett said. He turned back to Booker. “We have everyone present, correct?”

“Everyone is here. As mayor of the town of Single Tree, I call this emergency meeting of the town council into session,” Booker said. “Just some comments before we begin. Earlier today, Mister Barry Corbett and Mister Gary Norton paid me a visit regarding Single Tree’s level of preparation for what’s happening across the country. As everyone is aware, there’s a virus out there that, uh, apparently … well, anyone who dies from it seems to, uh, reanimate.”

“We’ve seen the news, and I’ve seen it for myself,” Aguilar said. “I think it’s a bunch of hooey, but something’s definitely happening. What does this have to do with us meeting here?”

Booker sighed and turned toward Corbett. “Well, Barry, I guess I’ll just turn it over to you.”

Corbett nodded. “Thanks, Max. Folks, in the handout I’ve provided, you’ll find detailed plans to harden this town and fortify it against the coming threat. We’ve already seen how the major cities are faring—New York’s gone, Boston and DC are faltering, and even out here, Los Angeles and San Diego are starting to pop apart at the seams. Whatever this affliction is, it seems that it does enable the dead to walk, and the dead apparently want only one thing: to devour the living. It sounds stupid and it sounds dopey, but there it is. We’re all living in a world where George Romero is the resident god.”

Paper rustled as the people on the council thumbed through their handouts. Norton did the same, even though he’d already reviewed the information on his laptop. The handout was at least a hundred pages long. It included aerial maps of the town and surrounding vicinity, construction diagrams, lists of accumulated materials, inventories, labor projections … everything except for costs. Norton knew that was because Corbett had already bought and paid for everything, and for a billionaire facing the end of the world, getting repayment was low on the list of priorities.

“Mister Corbett, this is … this is certainly an interesting bunch of documents you’ve handed out,” Chief Grady said. “It’s quite thorough.” He looked up from the binder. “If I were to consider this a master plan for defending the town, would I be correct?”

“Yes, Chief. You would be correct. I wanted to bring this to you earlier today, but Max preferred you find out with everyone else.”

Grady nodded and paged through the document some more. “So, uh, you’re basically talking about digging several trenches around the town and erecting steel plank walls topped with concertina wire. And inside the town, you’re talking about erecting additional defenses, so that different parts of the town can be isolated from each other. You’re also talking about building tunnels and bunkers and what have you. Installing underground fuel tanks for gas, diesel, propane, natural gas … all of that.”

“Again, correct.”

Aguilar barked out a laugh. “This is ridiculous! You want to tear up the entire town? For what reason? We have police to protect us, and Inyo County has more!” He slapped his binder closed and laughed again. “You’re crazy, Corbett. You’ve got paranoid dementia.”

Norton spoke before Corbett could respond. “Hey, Hector? Just to get this out of the way—fuck you. Like usual, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I flew all over Los Angeles today, from the Pacific Coast to Burbank. That place is falling apart. I watched zombies try and take down a bunch of firemen. I saw all sorts of disasters in the making. From the news, we know that pretty much every major city that accepts international traffic is taking it right in the shorts. New York City is down for the count. Boston. Miami. Makes sense, because this thing has been tearing through Europe and Asia for weeks now. The government’s been playing it down, trying to keep the peace, keep everyone calm, keep everyone compliant. Well guess what? They fucked up. They fucked up so bad that whatever it was that made most of Europe go dark is here. Right now, it’s making itself a nice little home in the US of A, and going from what I’ve seen, we’re going to be on our own pretty soon. So you don’t want to deal with it, you stupid Mexican fuck? That’s awesome. Get the fuck out of here and let the rest of us get to work, okay?”

Everyone gawked at him, including Hector, whose eyes were wide and bright behind his glasses. Even Corbett and his Marine pals looked impressed. Norton found he was standing on his feet, and he hadn’t just spoken the last few lines, he had shouted them, firing them across the room like they were bullets. He was angry, and he didn’t quite know why. And bubbling away beneath the anger was fear. He knew where that came from. He had glimpsed perhaps only the tiniest glimmer of the hell that was building outside Single Tree, and that had been enough. Gary Norton was a believer. The zombie apocalypse was coming, just as Barry Corbett had said.

“Uh, thanks for the support, Norton,” Corbett said finally. “Really, you should try out for a cheerleader squad or something.”

“I’ve never been so offended in my life,” Hector said, his voice barely a gasp. “You vile, racist little man—”

“Oh, Hector, he’s right. Just shut the fuck up,” Gemma Washington said. “Let’s hear what Corbett has to say. You’ll get your turn, don’t worry.”

Corbett nodded to her. “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned to Norton. “Like I said earlier, I’m in charge of agitating at the moment. Got everything off your chest?”

Norton sank back into his seat, mortally embarrassed by his outburst. “Yeah. Yeah. I apologize for that.”

“No need to apologize, Norton. You’ve got it all on the ball, and you’ve seen more of this than we have.” Corbett turned back to the town council. “Okay. Getting back to it. Yes, Aguilar, I might be overreacting. But I don’t think so. We’ve seen a good share of civilization drop off the map, and now it’s here, all around home plate. We have to start making preparations. I’ve been doing a lot of legwork, and I’ve been talking to a lot of people all over the country. Non-military government services are failing. The markets are collapsing. Transportation is grinding to a halt—we already know that air travel is no longer available, which means that people aren’t going to be able to get their Amazon packages and Omaha steaks for a while. Pretty soon, grocery stores will be running out of goods, everything from free-range chicken and eggs to underarm deodorant. Ammunition is pretty much gone, and I’ve been provided with evidence that local police forces have walked into dealers and helped themselves to as much as they could carry, which was pretty much all of it. Up north, in Idaho, Montana, the Dakotas, Minnesota, people are already doing what I’m suggesting we do here. Winter’s coming, and those people up there don’t have a lot of time to prepare, so they’re starting right now. Down south, it’s more or less the same thing. South Texas is pulling its shit together, and the Texas legislature has, I’m told, already decided to activate the entire National Guard. I’ve also heard that if the president decides to federalize those troops, the governor will not recognize the change in status.

“The East Coast is getting hammered the hardest. From Miami to Boston, things are going bad. Manhattan and DC are basically tits up. The government is still throwing a lot of resources at them, but it’s too late. I’ve been told that there is activity as close to us as Las Vegas, which is not surprising, as it’s a destination for transients and foreign nationals who were likely infected before the quarantines went up. Basically, this is like the Ebola scare of a couple of years ago, only much, much worse.” He looked at Grady and Aguilar. “And I heard we had a deadrise already, right here in town. Old Wally dropped dead in your pharmacy, Aguilar, then reanimated and took a chunk right out of one of your employees. By the way, Lou’s in isolation up in Bishop, at Inyo County Hospital. Along with eighteen others. That’s eighteen people already, folks.”

“But how did Whittaker get bitten?” Gemma asked. “This disease, it’s transferred through bites, from exposure to an infected’s bodily fluids. How did he get it?”

“Yeah, let’s talk about that real quick,” Corbett said. “When Norton said the government was soft-shoeing it, he should have been more direct. The government’s been outright lying. We’re all infected. Whatever this virus is, we all have it, and when we die, we’re going to reanimate, and the newly arrived dead will have a hankering for meat. Unfortunately, burgers from Carl’s Jr. aren’t going to satisfy that special craving.”

“Wait, wait! Stop right there!” Chief Grady raised his hand, motioning Corbett to stop talking. “How do you know this? That everyone’s infected?”

“Because I heard it from the chief of the global health security branch at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta,” Corbett said.

“And why would he tell you?”

“For a couple of reasons. One, because I contribute almost sixty million dollars a year to healthcare research organizations he chairs, in addition to his duties at the CDC. And because he needed my help, Chief Grady. I sent a plane for his family that transported them to Minneapolis. Which, incidentally, is how I know the city is fortifying itself for whatever comes their way. Commercial flights have been packed solid for five days, and he wanted to ensure they got to where they needed to be. The information paid for their passage.”

“You trade in lives now, Barry?” Booker asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Corbett shook his head. “Protecting women and children is in my DNA, Max. But the good doctor felt indebted, and I accepted his offer of information. And it was crucial information—if I didn’t know that, I might not be here.”

“This friend of yours, is he a smart guy?” Victor asked. “I mean, smart enough to maybe unravel what’s causing all of this?”

“I know where you’re going, Victor. Yes, he might be, but he needs the facilities at the CDC. I offered to transplant him north with his wife and family where he could continue his research up at the Mayo Clinic, but he needed to defer his departure. Unfortunately, the FAA and Department of Homeland Security sanitized the airspace, so he’s stuck in Atlanta. Nothing more I can do, none of my pilots are going to risk a Sidewinder missile up the ass. I do have contingency plans to extract him, if at all possible, but for now he’s probably pretty safe.” Corbett turned back to Booker and the rest of the town council. “All of this aside, and getting down to brass tacks: I fully expect the lion’s share of government services, excluding the military, to fail in two to three weeks. We’re already seeing an increase in traffic through town, as people try and get to wherever it is they’re headed. All those transients are consuming resources we need, and they pose a risk toward accelerating infection here in town. We can’t allow that to continue.”

Booker shook his head, incredulous. “So what are you proposing, Corbett? That we somehow close US 395?”

“That’s on page eleven of the planning guide I handed out. I have enough demolition explosives to take out both ends of the highway on either side of town, and we can use heavy construction equipment to dig trench lines wide enough to keep anyone from driving around. At the same time, we’ll need to dig trenches around the town to slow down anyone who tries to get in on foot.”

“And what about the people who manage to get past the trenches?” Booker asked.

You’re not going to like that answer, Max, Norton thought.

“We throw up concertina wire barriers until we get the steel fencing in,” Corbett said. “And if anyone gets through those … well, we’ll have to decide on that later.”

“You plan to kill them,” Grady said.

Corbett looked at him. “I prefer nonlethal methods, but some people won’t be easily dissuaded.”

“I thought you said protecting women and children was in your DNA,” Gemma said. Her eyes were hard and bright beneath her graying brow.

“It is,” Corbett said. “But only God can save everyone, and He’s apparently got a lot on his plate right now.”

Grady shook his head, absolutely gobsmacked. “So who do you think is going to do this work, Corbett? The Single Tree police?”

Corbett pointed to the three men with him. “These men, and the twenty others who came with me, are ready to do the heavy lifting. In return for my sponsorship, which includes keeping their families safe for as long as I can.” He paused for a moment. “And myself, of course. I’ll do what it takes to protect the town.”

Victor Kuruk closed the binder on his lap and got to his feet. He took off his glasses and regarded Corbett directly. Corbett, Norton noticed, did not meet his gaze.

“That would be an incredible burden for any man to carry,” Victor said after a long moment. “Even for you boys, wouldn’t it? Killing defenseless families who are desperate for shelter, safety?”

The oldest of the three men Corbett had brought with him looked at Victor. He was in his fifties, and he had a face that looked well worn and well traveled. From the way he carried himself, it was easy to see he had been a career military man. In fact, he reminded Norton of what Corbett had been like a couple of decades in the past.

“Sir, for my family, I will do anything,” the man said. “If this comes to pass, then I’ll be ready to do whatever it takes to protect them. I will not like it, I will try and avoid it, and I will never look forward to it. I understand it will eventually be my undoing, because there are some things I will never be able to forget. But for my family, I would sacrifice myself in a heartbeat.” He motioned to the two men beside him. “As will they. As will Mister Corbett. And, if you’re truthful with yourself … so will you.”

“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.”

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Reese 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

Table of Contents

Title Page

1. Single Tree, California

2. Las Vegas, Nevada

3. Los Angeles, California

4. Single Tree, California

5. Los Angeles, California

6. Single Tree, California

7. On the Road, California

8. Los Angeles, California

9. Single Tree, California

10. Los Angeles, California