The Last Town (Book 4): Fighting the Dead (8 page)

“Area’s pretty secure,” Bates said once Reese had rolled down the window. “According to Morton, there hasn’t been a shitload of activity. Seeing as how the piles of dead stenches aren’t much more than three deep, I guess he’s telling the truth.”

“Is he taking command up here?” Reese asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I was told.” Bates turned his back to the RV and took a long look around, keeping the M4 he carried in a low ready state. He wore a tactical helmet with the visor raised. Traffic still moved leadenly along the Hollywood Freeway overpasses that were only a hundred or so feet away. A long line of Army Black Hawk helicopters buzzed past, heading toward the San Fernando Valley.

“Plosser, is Morton a decent commanding officer?” Reese asked.

“Yeah. He spent fifteen years active duty. He’s a cavalry officer. Leading a battalion of infantry must be a downer for him, though,” Plosser responded.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Plosser waved the comment aside. “Don’t worry about it. Yeah, Morton can get shit done. He’s a hard charger, but he’s not stupid.”

Reese looked down at Bates. “Bates, you want to step inside?”

“I’m good.”

“All right, suit yourself. What’s the plan?”

Bates pointed up the line of waiting vehicles. “They’re opening up the gates they set up to let us in. FEMA’s already set up in the lower parking lot. We’re going to be moved up the Bowl Road to Lot A. After that, not sure.”

“Who’s the operational leader?”

“Law enforcement side?” Bates shrugged. “Probably someone with the LASD.”

Ahead, vehicle engines revved as the column slowly began to move past the fortified entrance. Civilian traffic had been restricted the lane farthest from the Bowl, and Reese regarded the idling cars and trucks full of frightened civilians.

“Bates, hop in,” Reese said.

Bates waved him away. “You go ahead, I’m going to scout around and see if anyone from Hollywood’s here. I’ll meet you in the CP later.” With that, the tall patrol sergeant slapped the side of the RV and walked away, heading toward the rear of the column.

Crazy bastard,
Reese thought, running a hand over his head. His hair felt lank and greasy, and he could smell the stink emanating from his armpits. He wondered if the smell would keep the zombies at bay when the bullets ran out.

###

Before they were allowed into the secure area around the Bowl, the LAPD and Guardsmen escorting them had to pass through several checkpoints. Each man and woman was thoroughly searched for bites, and had to provide detailed answers regarding any injuries that were discovered. They then had to scrub themselves with water and bleach, a painstaking process that was not only smelly, but uncomfortable. The bleach burned Reese’s skin and stuck in his nostrils, searing the back of his throat. At least he had found an antidote to his body odor.

Someone had brought fresh tactical uniforms, and Reese found one that almost fit, though he had to roll up the sleeves and work on making sure the trousers remained bloused in his boots. He reclaimed his detective ID and body armor, though the Guardsmen running the site weren’t eager to hand him back the M4 he had liberated from the hospital. One of Morton’s officers passed the word that the colonel himself had authorized the temporary transfer of the weapons, thought the soldiers manning the checkpoints were dismayed to find out that several forms hadn’t been provided making the transaction legal. Reese and the rest of the cops found the abject adherence to process somewhat humorous. It seemed that red tape wasn’t something cops had to cut through all the time, either.

When they were considered decontaminated, they were allowed into the fortified areas around the Bowl. There was another decon area set up, reserved for civilian refugees, and the line leading into it was long and seemed to hardly move at all. Officials from FEMA oversaw this one, and they were just as meticulous as the Guard had been. The problem was the civilians weren’t necessarily interested in waiting, and there always seemed to be some commotion going on. Reese was watching the FEMA and the few Los Angeles sheriffs on site try to manage the situation when Morton appeared at his side, towering over him in his battle gear.

“Detective, maybe your guys can help out with the civilians,” the big lieutenant colonel said. “You guys should know a thing or two about crowd control, right?”

“I was kind of hoping we might be able to get some food and rest before we got back to it,” Reese said, and he heard the simpering tone behind his words.
Fuck, I sound like some spoiled brat whining after he’s been told to go to bed.

Morton snorted. “Yeah, that’d be nice. But I’m told we have about five thousand inside already, and we have at least that many outside waiting to get in. So no one takes a break.”

“Fantastic,” Reese said.

“You know what the capacity is in this place?” Morton asked.

“About eighteen thousand in the seats. How many troops are here?”

“A full battalion. Five hundred and twenty-seven, with another two companies inbound. The sheriff in charge told me he has eighty or so guys working for him, and about another forty to fifty LAPD have shown up. There’s a captain here named Fontenoy. You know him?”

“Her. She’s a second stick over at Wilshire Station. You know where she is? I should check in with her.” Aside from seeing her name on department org charts and what he’d heard from some fellow cops, Reese didn’t know much about Fontenoy at all.

“She’ll be up in Lot A,” Morton said. “I haven’t introduced myself to her just yet. What do you know about her?”

Reese shrugged. “Heard the cops out of Wilshire think she’s was a dimwit, and an incubating political stooge who has her nose fairly far up the backside of the mayor’s office. I guess she’s one of those diversity types, always going on about inclusion, etcetera.”

“Yeah, that should come in handy,” Morton said. “Listen, I guess she’s going to give you your final taskings, but I really need your guys out on the street helping out with the civilians. You’re the ranking guy from your station, right?”

“I guess.”

“Can you put your men to work, then come with me to meet this captain? We’ll want to check in with the sheriff’s guys, too.”

“What’s the point? What if Fontenoy just pulls them off?”

Morton smiled stiffly. “She won’t. Trust me.”

SINGLE TREE, CALIFORNIA

Corbett climbed out of his big Super Duty pickup, followed by Gary Norton and Danielle Kennedy. He’d been meeting with them at Norton’s residence to go over what the coming days would bring, and had just been briefing Danielle on the role he had fashioned for her when Walt Lennon informed him that there had been a shooting, and that convicts were apparently on the loose somewhere in town. He’d brought this information to Corbett in a bid to keep him locked down, but when Corbett found out that Chief Grady was one of the victims, there was no way Walt was going to be able to keep him hemmed up inside his house.

“Not safe,” Lennon kept repeating. “Listen to what I’m saying: escaped convicts who are armed. They are at large, which means no one knows where they are. Dead policemen. This is not something you should be exposing yourself to.”

“Walt, sometimes leadership requires risk. You might have learned that if you’d stayed awake during your officer training classes,” Corbett had said, and that was that. No matter how hard Walter Lennon pushed in his role as chief protector, Barry Corbett was still the boss. He got what he wanted, even if it meant Lennon or one of his men would have to take a bullet over it.

And that meant yet another Expedition rolled onto the scene, this one carrying six armed retired Marines who had seen battle in Iraq and Afghanistan and knew their way around killing people who they deemed threatening. Corbett knew he was perfectly safe in their presence, and that Norton and Dani would be, as well. By the time they arrived at the small house on the edge of town, there were three cops there and a gaggle of onlookers, many who stared at Corbett with a mixture of relief and apprehension when he arrived with his entourage.

“Victor, what are you doing here?” Corbett asked, when he saw his friend talking with two of Single Tree’s finest. He recognized Santoro, the beefy cop Victor had told him was a grade A pecker. It made sense—Santoro was a relative of Hector Aguilar, and peckerdom ran strong in that family like the Dark Side of the Force ran through the Sith.

“Barry? What are
you
doing here?” Victor looked past him at Walter Lennon, who sighed and spread his hands.

“My question exactly,” Lennon said, then turned away from both men as he kept eyes out, like any good Marine would do. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Danielle was doing the same, head on a swivel, scoping out the houses that faced the street, their facades illuminated in strobing blue and red emergency lights. Norton stood beside her, hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable and out of place.

“I heard we might have lost the chief, and I wanted to get the information first hand,” Corbett said, stepping closer to Victor and Santoro. For all the stories that he’d heard, Santoro seemed suddenly meek. He looked up at Corbett, and Corbett looked back. For certain, he could see a little bit of the Aguilar bloodline in the chunky cop’s face. Olive complexion, thick-framed glasses, a busy dark mustache that sat above his lower lip like a caterpillar on a campout.

“Wilbur, is it?” Corbett asked.

Santoro nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m Officer Santoro,” he said, and a little bit of prideful arrogance crept into his voice.

“You next in line?”

Santoro seemed caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“Grady’s dead, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So are you next in line? Who leads the department now?”

Santoro shuffled his feet. “I’m the senior officer on the force right now, so yeah, I’m technically in command.”

“Good to know.” Corbett turned to Victor. “Vic, tell me what happened.”

Santoro held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Mister Corbett, but—”

“Santoro, how many prisoners are dead in Estelle’s house?” Corbett asked.

“Two, but one has been taken into custody.”

“And how many more are on the run?”

“That would be two, Barry,” Victor answered. “As best as we can figure. Estelle confirmed she saw five men, and we can account for three.” He turned back to Santoro. “By the way, I’ll need my cuffs back.”

“Santoro, how many officers are on duty at the moment?” Corbett asked.

“All of them,” Santoro answered. “Three of us are here, though one was involved in the incident. The rest are heading this way to search for the convicts.”

“We don’t know if they’re together, Barry,” Victor said. “They might have split up.”

“Are reservation police assisting?”

Santoro didn’t seem to like the question. “I’m not sure we’re going to need—”

“We are, in that I arrested one of the convicts and Tribal Officer Kuruk engaged the others, along with myself and Chief Grady,” Victor said, and his voice was stone cold. “Officer Santoro here seems to think that Single Tree’s small department can handle this situation without further assistance from us, but I have five officers already looking in the desert.” Victor nodded down the street, and Corbett looked in the indicated direction. He saw flashlight beams sweeping the scrub.

“Good,” Corbett said. “Walt, call in some of the guys. They should take direction from”—he looked back at Santoro for a long moment, then at Victor—“Tribal Police Chief Kuruk. Have them bring the dogs.”

“That means we’ll have to pull bodies off the construction details,” Lennon said. “The guys who are off will need a bit to get spooled up before they can step off. And it’ll take some time to get the dogs down here.”

“Understood,” Corbett said. “Do what you can, when you can.”

“Mister Corbett, this is a police matter, and I think I’ll be making the decisions,” Santoro said, though without a great amount of confidence in his voice.

“I think you’ll have some degree of input, Officer Santoro, but no one’s made you chief of police just yet. Vic, do you have enough time to walk me through the Cliff’s Notes version of what happened?”

“Sure. But important matters first—you don’t happen to have any of your revered flasks on hand, do you?”

Corbett started to respond with a needling remark about Indians and firewater, but Victor did look like hell. His hands were trembling, and his face had that cast to it which was a combination of numb shell-shock and nervous jitters. Corbett figured anything that might have knocked Victor’s carefully cultured stoic aura off balance was probably nothing but bad news.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the lid, and held it out to Victor. “It’s only Hennessey, nothing to get too excited about.”

Santoro looked on in distaste as Victor took the vessel without comment, took a long pull, then handed it back. Corbett recapped the flask and slipped it back inside his jacket. “More when you need it,” he said. He noticed for the first time the knuckles on Victor’s right hand were bloody, and he pointed them out. “Fisticuffs? At your age?”