The Last Town (Book 4): Fighting the Dead by Stephen Knight Page A

eastern side of the town was the plan, preferably one that backed up to the desert. That way, if things really went to shit, he could haul ass out into the scrub. For sure, a town this small wouldn’t have a helicopter, so they’d have to pursue on foot. Or on horses, or camels, or whatever dumbass desert people did when they engaged in an overland police pursuit. He realized it wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had going for him right now. His original plan had been to commandeer some wheels and get to LA, where he had people who could put him up for a bit while he planned his next move. But after seeing what was going down in LA on the television, maybe staying clear would be a better move.
    But where will I go? he asked himself. Where’s a hood rat like me s’posed to hang, if not in the city? Am I gonna like go all dirt farmer, or somethin’?
    One thing was certain—staying in Single Tree was unlikely to be an option, not after he’d killed one of their cops.
    He crossed another lonely desert street, approaching the last line of widely-spaced houses that backed up to the desert. He loitered on the curb for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. He saw one of the houses had a shed behind it, just visible from where he stood. That might have to do, for the time being.
    As he started off for it, a battered old pickup rounded the corner at the end of the street. Doddridge froze where he was and watched as the truck hauled itself into a driveway with the squeak of brakes and creak of old shock absorbers. A man climbed out of the cab and slowly walked toward the front door. He moved with a slight limp, and he carried one of those little Igloo personal coolers in his left hand. Doddridge heard the tinkle of keys as the man limped toward the front door of the darkened ranch-style house.
    Well, one more home invasion won’t hurt, he thought, as he sprinted toward the house, barreling down on the man from behind, his feet barely whispering across dry grass.
     
    ###
     
    Corbett wanted to stay and see the man hunt through, but Lennon wouldn’t stand for it; he’d already indulged him more than enough, and when Corbett had tried to have his way, Lennon finally told him he could either drive himself home, or he’d have some of the boys tie him up and drive him back. He informed his boss that the men would then take possession of every vehicle Corbett owned so he couldn’t get anywhere other than on his two legs. Corbett had laughed at that, despite the fact he knew Lennon was dead serious. He knew if he didn’t comply, then he’d spend the rest of his immediate future under Lennon’s thumb—that was part of the deal. When it came to matters of security, Corbett had agreed to give Lennon full operational control.
    So he relented. Collecting Norton and Danielle, he returned to the waiting Super Duty.
    “Dani, Norton and I will drop you off, make sure you get home safely,” he said, hoisting himself into the big truck and kicking over its diesel.
    “I don’t think you have a lot to worry about right now,” Danielle said as she slid into the quad cab’s rear bench seat. Lying on the floor in the passenger side was a black and white box marked LWRC. She picked it up and pulled it toward her. “Especially since I have this.”
    “You still have to scrub all the cosmoline off it,” Corbett said. “It’s not ready for prime time.”
    “Oh, it will be,” Danielle said. In the rearview mirror, Corbett watched as she opened the box, and in the illumination of the dome light overhead, he knew she’d see the LWRC Individual Carbine-Enhanced rifle inside. It was covered with a ceramic cerakote finish over flat dark earth enamel. The rifle was a modernized version of the M16A3 she’d slung in the Corps, only instead of using direct gas impingement to drive the bolt assembly, the gas from each expended cartridge was directed forward against a rod which ferried the bolt assembly back and forth. This would