The Last Town (Book 1): Rise of the Dead (7 page)

Well, this isn’t getting any better.

Like millions of people across the globe, Barry Corbett had watched the news intently when the apparent pandemic broke. First in Russia, then across a large swath of Europe before cementing its hold in the Middle East where resources were too thin to combat it. Once that happened, a mass migration took place. Infected denizens from countries like Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and Qatar spread to different parts of the globe, seeking safety. Many made it into the United States before quarantine zones were established, mostly on the East Coast. And after a brief respite, Russia found itself once again under attack—this time not from the virus which killed ten percent of those who it infected, but by the reanimated, carnivorous corpses of those who had died. Corbett understood immediately that this epidemic was nothing like any that had come before it, and he had started preparing for the worst. He had felt that whatever had begun in Russia, it would be impossible to contain in an era of jet travel coupled with weak-willed governments suddenly faced with the distasteful requirement to implement strong-arm tactics to keep their territories safe. Not that harsh, unrepentant measures were guaranteed to be successful. The Russian authorities fought valiantly against their new microscopic foe as only the Russians could, but it was obvious early on to Corbett that they were doomed for failure.

Now, millions of reanimated dead were marching on Moscow.

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

Corbett wasn’t planning on waiting for that to happen.

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

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

His grief didn’t last for long. He had things to do, and emotion just got in the way. He informed his secretary he would be heading for the airport, and asked her to contact the aviation department and ensure his plane was ready. He then told her to take the rest of the day off, and to seriously consider going somewhere safe for the next week or so, until things either blew over or disintegrated entirely.

LOS ANGELES, CA

Norton saw his Embraer Phenom 100 personal jet from the helicopter as Simpkiss maneuvered to land on the ramp. The small, six-place jet had been towed out of the hangar and was parked on the apron in front of the fixed-base operator facility. Hopefully, it was already fueled.

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

“I’m not, believe me. Jed, you still going to make your pickups?” Norton asked the older man.

Simpkiss sighed heavily over the intercom. “Yes,” he said, reluctantly.

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

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

The two men shook hands, and Norton removed his headset. He exited the idling JetRanger, opened the left rear door, pulled out his bags, then secured the door when he was done. With a final wave to Simpkiss, he picked up his bags and jogged toward his plane. Behind him, the JetRanger’s engine picked up, and the helicopter rose into the air.

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

There was plenty of traffic at Bob Hope, not just in the air but on the taxiways. It took Norton almost forty minutes to line up for takeoff on runway 8, sandwiched between two Southwest 737s. After a five-minute hold at the threshold, he was finally given clearance to takeoff and climb out to an initial altitude of two thousand five hundred feet for the usual ELMOO 6 departure, then to four thousand prior to his final departure point. At that time, he would be free to climb to twenty thousand feet and make his way across the state to the Mojave at four hundred fifty miles per hour. At that speed, he would be in Single Tree in less than thirty minutes.

Norton found he couldn’t get there fast enough.

SINGLE TREE, CA

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

Rod Cranston didn’t look up from his Kindle Fire. He’d been engrossed in some slippery-wet monster porn story, and it was all he could do to pause to eat something. And work? Forget about that.

“What, FedEx or UPS or something?” he asked.

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

“How many are we talking about?” Cranston asked, still not looking up.

“Fifteen, twenty, maybe.”

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

“Rod! They’re filling up the entire parking lot, and there are more of them on Main Street,” Enrico said. Cranston barely noticed Enrico’s shadow fall across him as he stood over his desk, looking down at him.

“Whoa, that’s some pretty weird shit, Rod,” the younger man said, reading the Kindle over Cranston’s shoulder. Cranston switched off the tablet and slipped it into his desk drawer, feeling both embarrassed and a little pissed off.

“What the hell are you going on about, boy?” he snapped, running a hand through his red hair. Cranston was a beefy man in his late forties, and he’d been the airport manager of Single Tree’s small uncontrolled airport for almost a decade. While it didn’t pay much, it was a fairly easy job—Single Tree didn’t get much in the way of substantial traffic, even after Barry Corbett had cut a deal with the City of Los Angeles, the airport’s owner, to extend the main runway another few thousand feet. In fact, it was mostly Corbett who used the airport with any regularity, touching down in his fancy Gulfstream 650, and that prick Gary Norton whom Cranston had grown up with and kind of always hated, with his gussied-up pretty boy looks and his little personal jet. There were some transient aircraft that buzzed in maybe a couple of times a week, and two of the locals had planes, too—Doc Weinstein had a doctor killer, a two-year-old Bonanza G36, and Pablo Jimenez had a spiffy little Pitts aerobat that spent most of its time in the hangar. And oh yes, Gerald Potter had a Cessna 185 in a T-hangar as well. Potter had died two months before, and Cranston had to figure out what the hell to do with the plane since the old codger apparently didn’t have any next of kin who gave a damn.

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

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

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

“All right, whatever. Let’s go and see what’s going on.” With a heavy sigh, Cranston got to his feet and left the office, taking his customary huge strides. Enrico followed, pretty much caught up in the bigger man’s wake as he plowed through the exit door and into the hot, dry day outside. He winced at the bright sunlight, and realized he’d left his sunglasses on his desk, along with his cap. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a long, drawn-out affair. Doc Weinstein had already warned him to start wearing hats and sunscreen, ever since he’d had that tiny chunk of skin removed from his left ear, on account it had gone all cancerous.

They were met by a wiry man with a weathered face and pale blue eyes that seemed to dwell deep within his head. He sported a thick handlebar mustache and wore a faded denim shirt and equally faded blue jeans. Both garments showed more than a little bit of wear. His dun-colored work boots had seen better days too, and Cranston wondered if the guy had actually driven a truck from wherever he came from, or just walked it. A grimy white cap that read CABO YACHTS adorned his head, holding his frizzy brown hair at bay. Cranston figured the guy could be anywhere from forty to sixty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rollins pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it over the Cranston. “Hey, we’re in luck. Parking permits from the City of Los Angeles. Seems that Mister Corbett has entered into another agreement with the city to install an entire category three ILS on this airfield, and the city has decided to allow it.”

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