The Last Town (Book 4): Fighting the Dead (15 page)

Corbett blinked. “Regional planner? Is that more or less effective than a community organizer?”

Norton snorted. “I have no idea.”

“Well, how the hell did he manage to do that?”

“His kid is in the ham radio club at school. Apparently, he managed to get word out that way.” Norton shook his head. “Damn, I didn’t even know ham radios were still a thing of the present. What next, Heathkit makes a comeback?”

Corbett leaned back in his chair, peering out the folding glass wall behind Norton that overlooked the landscaped backyard, the high fence surrounding the property, and the peaks of the mountains beyond. He had always known Aguilar would be a burr up his butt, but he’d dismissed the outspoken pharmacy owner as being nothing but a bloviating gas bag who was more into attracting attention than anything else. That he had managed to get through to someone in a supervisory position at the county level at a time when communications were failing was certainly innovative, if nothing else.

“Well, I can’t see Inyo County getting too involved with what we’re doing down here,” he said finally. “I’m sure they’ll blow a lot of sunshine up Hector’s ass, but they have problems of their own. Bishop is probably running out of food by now, which makes it even more necessary for us to sever the links leading to town.”

“I get that,” Norton said. “I understand what has to be done. A lot of the townspeople will too, but I want to tell you, once they see a bunch of starving kids trying to get through the wire ... well, that’s going to be tough to take. I’m not sure I could handle it, either.”

“Same here.” Corbett smiled when Norton looked at him without saying anything. “What? Did you think I could just turn that off? Did you know that I spent over eighteen million dollars last year providing emergency food relief to poor families in Los Angeles, Riverside, Houston, and Dallas? I set up nonprofits specifically to combat hunger, and I self-funded all of them. Who do you think fed more kids last year, me or Save the Children?”

Norton raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy there, boss. I’m making no judgments, here. If you really were the evil right wing privateer everyone likes to think you are, then you sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging out here. You’d be in a bunker somewhere brewing a nice cup of tea made from the tears of starving orphans.”

“Who says I don’t, damn it?” Corbett said with a laugh. Norton smiled a bit and looked down at the planning documents before him, essentially a series of PowerPoint slides that had been printed out. Norton would show the full presentation on the big screen at the town hall later that day. Corbett couldn’t tell if Norton was nervous, but he suspected making the sales pitch to a captive audience was something he could handle.

“How’re your parents doing?” he asked.

Norton shrugged. “My dad’s good, though once the news stops coming through, I’ll have to find him something to keep himself occupied. My mother still thinks everything’s going to be fine. She and her friends are having a game of bridge tonight—want to stop by?”

Corbett snorted. “I’ll take a rain check on that one.”

“So you’ll be around if there are questions I can’t handle, right?” Norton asked, tapping the presentation before him.

“You know it,” Corbett said, “but the less I say, the better. I want you to handle this dog and pony show, Norton. You have the pretty face I don’t, and this is as much about identity politics as it is saving the town.”

###

The meeting had gone as well as could have been expected. Several hundred people had shown up, and the council chamber was standing room only. Norton delivered the presentation with a polished ease that impressed Corbett more than he would have thought possible, and took some time to add context by relating his escape from Los Angeles, so many days ago. He covered the important topics of the zombies that had arisen in the town, the death of Chief Grady and the appointment of Victor Kuruk as Single Tree’s acting top cop, and the apprehension of the three remaining escaped convicts. Norton answered questions directly and succinctly, without stumbling, and gave the impression that he knew what he was talking about. Corbett gave himself credit for that last one. After all, he’d spent hours prepping Norton and getting him up to speed.

In the end, the people did want to hear from him, so Corbett had to address the assemblage. Yes, he was paying for everything. No, he didn’t expect or want the town to reimburse him for expenses. No, he was not “taking over” the town from its elected leaders. Yes, he would obey every law and regulation.

“At the end of the day, folks, this is about the town, not me,” Corbett said. “Most of you have known me for a long time. I keep to myself, and don’t get involved in disputes unless I absolutely have to.”

“What about the outsiders who are already in town? The ones who can’t get out?” someone asked. “What happens to them?”

Corbett turned and looked at Max Booker, sitting at the long table on the stage.

“We’ll allow them to stay,” Booker said, looking at Corbett. “They’re Americans, and hospitality and charity are part of who we are.”

Corbett nodded without comment.

“And what about those you turn away?” asked a loud British voice. “What about all those families, trying to get to safety? Leaving them to the tender mercies of the zombies is essentially a human rights crime, isn’t it?”

Corbett sighed and looked into the audience. Jock Sinclair stood up near the middle of the sea of people in the auditorium, wearing a dark blazer over what appeared to be an immaculately-pressed white shirt. He was holding something in his hand—a smart phone, held straight out from his body.

“Excuse me, sir,” Booker said, noticing the phone as well. “Are you recording this session?”

“Yes, I am,” Sinclair said. “I’m Jock Sinclair, host of
The Sinclair News Hour
, and I’m making an official record of what is happening here.”

“There’s no
video taping
allowed in this building,” Booker said. “That’s clearly posted in the lobby.”

“I’m a credentialed journalist, and I’m exercising my First Amendment rights,” Sinclair countered.

“Jock, you’re not even an American,” Corbett said.

“Thankfully, your Constitution doesn’t discriminate,” Sinclair responded. “Or so I’ve been told. Though I’ve also heard some animals are more equal than others, right, Barry?”

“Look, I have to ask that you stop recording,” Booker insisted. “If you don’t, you’ll be escorted out.” As he said that last, Booker looked over at Victor, who sat at the end of the table in Chief Grady’s chair. Victor looked at Sinclair with emotionless eyes.

“What do you have to hide here?” Sinclair asked. “If the world is truly coming to an end, wouldn’t a record be perhaps useful for whatever future generations might survive?”

“Let him record,” Hector Aguilar said, smiling broadly beneath his thick mustache. He was enjoying Sinclair’s showboating, which didn’t surprise Corbett at all.

“I agree,” Corbett said, taking delight in the puzzled look that blossomed over Aguilar’s features when he realized Corbett was backing him up. “Let the man make his ‘official record’ of what we do here.” He turned back to Sinclair. “With regards to your question regarding human rights, that might be better directed toward the federal government. After all, the feds are the ones who are supposed to provide protection for the citizens of this nation, and they’re failing miserably. We’ve had escaped criminals enter our town, we’ve had zombie attacks, and we have critical supply issues … but no assistance, from either the federal, state, or county levels. If we’re going to survive, it’s obvious that we need to make some hard choices.”

“And those choices involve sending innocents into harm’s way,” Sinclair said. “Not judging, by the way … just asking,” he added, with a supercilious smile.

“I’m sure your intentions are nothing but noble, Mister Sinclair,” Norton said dryly from the stage before Corbett could respond. His comment brought a brief moment of laughter from the crowd, and Sinclair smiled with them. The smile was expertly faked, Corbett knew. Men like Sinclair never appreciated being laughed at. “But we have to embrace reality here,” Norton continued when the laughter had stopped. “We either try and save more people than we can support, which means in the end everyone dies, or we save just enough to make it through the coming year. It really is an either-or situation.”

“Certainly, you would agree that those you turn away will face nothing but the greatest of hardship,” Sinclair pressed. “Women. Children. Entire families will be wiped out.”

“And your solution to that is for the town of Single Tree to commit suicide, Mister Sinclair?” Norton asked. “To commit seppuku in a demonstration of supporting the common good? We have women, children, and entire families here, too. Because of Mister Corbett’s boundless generosity”—Corbett cringed at the term, and he could tell Norton had delivered the line just to needle him a bit—“the families of Single Tree and our neighbors from the nearby reservation will have a chance at survival. Is it your recommendation that we allow ourselves to die as well, starving to death behind the walls we’re building around the town? Because if you are, Mister Sinclair, I’ll personally make sure you don’t get another thing to eat, starting right now.” Norton finished that off with a winning smile of his own, which resulted in a loud round of applause.

Sinclair looked flustered for a moment, then recovered and shook his head. “I’m only asking the questions that I feel need to be answered,” he protested. “How you proceed is up to you and the people of Single Tree. Switching gears somewhat, is it true that you believe arming the entire town is a necessary step? Aren’t you concerned about having so many military assault rifles in untrained hands?”

Corbett took a deep breath, but again, Norton beat him to the punch. “Let’s be clear about some things with regard to that,” Norton said. “We have in our community several dozen people who are former military, including veterans from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, not to mention previous conflicts. As you might expect, all of those people have more than a little bit of practical experience handling weapons. They, along with the consultants Mister Corbett has brought in, will form the training cadre that will instruct those civilians who are competent enough to bear arms. Those under eighteen years of age are not eligible, and Chief Kuruk and the rest of the law enforcement staff will determine if other factors might be involved that would prevent someone from legally possessing or being afforded the opportunity to legally possess a firearm. All of that was covered in the presentation you just saw, so I’m a little perplexed by your question.

“With regards to the notion that we’re handing out ‘military assault rifles’, I need to tell you that the term ‘assault rifle’ is made entirely from whole cloth. There is no specific weapon classification called assault rifles. That little nugget was made up by the anti-gun lobby in order to sow fear, and it’s something you and your fellows in the media willingly perpetuate. I’m aware of your stance on gun ownership, Mister Sinclair. I find it interesting that you stand before us in the guise of exercising your First Amendment rights, but will instantly seek to reduce the citizens of Single Tree from exercising their Second Amendment rights. While this is California, the most liberal state in the union and one that’s not exactly hospitable toward firearm owners, the town of Single Tree is historically a frontier town. We know our weapons, and we know how to use them, as they are tools that feature prominently in our history.”

Another round of applause. As Corbett looked across the crowd, he saw Danielle Kennedy sitting in the second row, next to her father. She was smiling as she applauded, and her eyes were locked onto Norton. He had to smile at that a bit.

“Very well,” Sinclair said, though not without a trace of disappointment.

“At this time, I’d like to ask if any of our residents have anything further to add,” Booker said. He waited for a time, and when no additional queries seemed to be forthcoming, he nodded. “Then at this time, the council believes the townspeople of Single Tree are in agreement with the plans set forth by Barry Corbett and company, and that those plans will continue as discussed. Many thanks to Gary Norton for his presentation. This meeting is adjourned.” Booker picked up a gavel and rapped it on the sound block before him.

And with that, the power went out. The crowd inside the big room released a startled gasp. The emergency lights snapped on, their battery-powered lamps providing pools of illumination that was just enough for people to be able to find their way to the doors.

“Okay, folks, let’s take it easy!” Booker shouted before the rising chorus of confused, fearful voices could take control. “Just make your way to the doors and out into the lobby. Take it easy, don’t push, don’t shove! Be mindful of the elderly and the young ones!”

Victor snapped on the flashlight that hung from his belt, and played the beam over Corbett. “Yep, still dog-butt ugly, even in the dark.”

“Stop screwing around, Victor!”

“Officers in the back, use your flashlights to assist!” Victor said. More flashlight beams cut through the darkness. Corbett was surprised to see the doors to the room were already open to the lobby, but the sun was going down behind the mountains. The light outside was tepid and wan.

He made his way toward Victor and Norton, carefully picking his way through the gloom. “Vic, you need to get officers out on the highway,” he said.