The Last Town (Book 3): Waiting For The Dead (7 page)

Danielle nodded as she wrote their orders on a pad. “Sure. Half stick, or whole stick?”

Victor’s hiked his eyebrow even higher. “You must be joking.”

Danielle smiled, and Corbett thought her teeth looked brilliant against the sun-kissed darkness of her face. The small scar on her left cheekbone threw in some hard-won character.
She’s a good-looking girl, that
Dani
.

“I was,” she said.

“In that case, make it a whole stick,” Victor said, closing the menu and placing it back in the rack next to the sugar and syrup.

“Anything else, guys?” Danielle asked.

“Good to go here,” Corbett said.

“The same,” Victor added.

“Okay. Coffee’ll be right up, and I’ll get your orders in right away.” With that, she walked off. Victor leaned out of the booth slightly, watching her retreating figure.

“She’s well past your age range, Victor,” Corbett said.

“I wasn’t checking her out like that, Barry. I’m just surprised she can walk so well. Is it true that you sponsored her prosthesis?”

“Yep. She’s a Marine, and so am I.”

Victor grunted. “I was in the Air Force in the late seventies, you know.”

“Damn zoomie. Good thing you didn’t get blown up, because I’d leave you hobbling around on your stump.”

“Typical of the white man,” Victor said, affecting a hurt expression.

Corbett smiled and reached across the table, squeezing Victor’s wrist fondly. “We haven’t really talked in a long while. You’re looking better than ever. Dropping out of the rat race in Los Angeles seems to suit you.”

Victor smiled and clapped his hand over Corbett’s for a moment, an unusual display of friendship. Despite an intermittent character acting career in Hollywood that often called for him to chew up some scenery, the real Victor
Kuruk
wasn’t easily predisposed to displays of emotion. “It has been a while, hasn’t it, old friend?” Victor said. “What are you now, seventy-two?”

“Seventy-three and change. I believe we’re almost eight years apart, right?”

“A little more than that—I’ll be sixty-four next March, presuming I live that long.”

“I plan on seeing to that, Victor.”

“I appreciate that. Would this be an appropriate time to discuss things without drilling into specifics?”

Corbett nodded. “Just be mindful we’re in a room full of ears.”

“I well know you can’t awaken someone who is pretending to be asleep.”

Corbett sighed. “Another one of your Indian proverbs, Victor?”

“I’m just waiting to spring this one on you: ‘When the white man discovered this country, Indians were running it. No taxes, no debt, and women did all the work. White man thought he could improve on a system like this.’ Like it?”

“Okay. Stop that, all right?”

Victor smiled again, revealing his perfect teeth. “I haven’t even started yet. Just wait until I have another cup of coffee.”

Corbett shook his head. “Damn my life.”

Victor sobered suddenly. “I spoke with my people last night, and into this morning. They’re not dumb, and even those who don’t have television or a radio know something is going on. I didn’t completely socialize the details of your plan, but everyone understands that we’ll have to leave the reservation and move into the town. We’re ready, and we intend to come overland—the roads and the highway aren’t really useable by us right now, given the amount of transient traffic. But we need to know where to go.”

Corbett nodded. “We’ll be standing up temporary housing today, but it’s going to be a while until they’re completed. I have about a dozen pop-out trailers sitting at the high school, but I don’t think that’s going to be enough for all of you, though.”

“No, they won’t be. What about the high school itself? It has multiple rooms, shower facilities, even its own cafeteria. Perhaps we could stay there until the temporary housing is completed? I don’t mean to say we’re helpless—we can live under the sky if we need to, but I’d prefer we have some hardened shelter, if possible.”

“Agreed. I’ll speak to Booker about it—it’s not like class is going to be in session for much longer. Along those lines, I was wondering if you’d allow your police to join up with the town’s?”

Victor paused for a moment to lean back in the booth and regard Corbett over his reading glasses. “I don’t like that proposition very much. A couple of the guys in Single Tree PD are abusive. But I also don’t see much of a way around it.”

“I’ll ask Grady to tamp down on them, if you give me their names,” Corbett said.

“Santoro and Whitter, with Santoro being the bigger offender of the pair.”

Corbett considered that. He didn’t know either man, but if they were going to make things difficult, he’d have to find a means to get them squared away.

“I’ll see what can be done,” he told Victor.

“Dumping their bodies in the desert might be a great start,” Victor said.

Corbett hiked up his eyebrows. “Is it that bad?”

“No, not really. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a wish list item.”

Corbett snorted. “I hadn’t realized you were still this cold-blooded, Victor. It’s like you never grew up.”

“Some things you never leave behind,” Victor said. “Besides, I never did any time, so I don’t have much impetus to turn my back on the past.”

Corbett pointed at Victor’s hands. His knuckles still bore a series of old scars from past scrapes. “And you wear your history well.”

Victor tapped a particularly vivid scar on his right hand. “And this is the only one I’m proud of,” he said. “Want to know how I got it?”

“Sure.”

“Happened when I got into a fight with Hector Aguilar in 1980,” he said.

“You actually beat down Hector badly enough to leave a scar like
that
?”

“Not necessarily. I was winding up for a punch, and he got so scared he passed out right before I hit him. He fell, and my fist went through the window behind him. But he
did
piss himself, so it was worth the pain and blood loss.” Victor released a contented sigh. “Ah, happy memories of a tragically misspent youth. I’m sure if it happened again today, Hector would still pass out, only I’d stumble and fall over his body and wind up pissing myself.”

Corbett laughed. “Hey, whatever it takes—a man’s gotta go when he has to go, Vic.”

“Indeed,” Victor said with a wry smile.

“Coffee, boys.” Danielle appeared, sliding two cups and saucers along with a plastic coffee pot on the table. “Careful, it’s hot. Was just brewed.”

“Cold coffee’s not high on my got to have list,” Corbett said. “Thanks, Dani. And why are you here so early this morning?”

Danielle waved around the diner. “It’s hopping, Barry. You can see that, right? This zombie apocalypse stuff might be hell for the rest of the world, but for Raoul’s diner, it’s a godsend. For the next day or so, anyway.”

“Why only until the next day?” Victor asked.

“Because we’re running out of stock, and it doesn’t look like there’s any chance of us getting more,” she told him. “Every sunny spot gets dark eventually, right?” Another patron caught her eye. “Sorry, gotta jump.” And with that, she walked away from their booth. This time, Victor didn’t follow her with his eyes.

“I like her attitude,” he did say. “Anyway. She brought up an interesting point—supplies.” Victor looked at Corbett as the latter raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip. Danielle was right, the stuff was damned hot.

“What, you want me to break open the refrigerated trailers and restock Raoul?”

“Not at all. Just wondering how we’ll be doing on that front. We have some substantial supplies, but not enough for the entire town—my people would be lucky to make it through the winter, and by then, it’ll all be gone. We’re willing to share, of course.”

“I have enough to keep the town going for over a year,” Corbett said. “But face it, not everyone’s going to make it. So we might be able to eke out a bit more as time goes on.”

“And do you think we’ll last that long?” Victor asked. “You’ve seen the images coming out of New York, yes? The streets, shoulder to shoulder with the dead?”

“That’s New York. We’re in a better position. We’ll button up the approaches, and we’ll stand up our defenses—that’s one reason why the housing will take so long to tend to, we need to get the fortifications stood up, or at the very least, the first tier. Once we provide some measure of protection for the town, we’ll be able to start up other operations while the second and third tiers go up. We’re a long way from LA and Las Vegas, so we’ll have some time, but the next week is going to be critical.”

Victor nodded. “Los Angeles is going to go down hard, it seems. The San Fernando went from bad to worse, and the east side is headed for the same thing. Orange County is bottoming out, as well. But I’m more worried about Las Vegas—it’ll take some time for the dead to make it here from Los Angeles, but from Vegas? It’s a fairly straight shot across the desert, and I’m presuming things like Death Valley aren’t going to mean much to people who are already dead.”

“Preaching to the choir.” Corbett looked up over Victor’s shoulder as the couple sitting in the booth behind him rose and headed for the cashier’s station. The man was a sallow-faced, hipster-looking guy with low-rise jeans, leather loafers, and an expensive-looking sport vest over a short-sleeved polo shirt. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, like he was coming off a tremendous vodka bender. His dark hair was spiky, and Corbett couldn’t tell if that was intentional or just from a lack of grooming. His companion was shorter and heavier, an effete man with a full beard and a shaven head that at the moment bore quite a bit of stubble. His eyes were bright and panicked behind his small, trendy glasses. He wore a gray jogging suit, though Corbett figured the only time he actually ran was when he needed to get to the bathroom in a hurry.

The taller man stopped short and turned back to Corbett. “Excuse me. We overheard some of your conversation. Would either of you know anything about San Francisco?”

“What about it?” Victor asked.

“Is it … is it still there? Is it safe?”

Victor exchanged looks with Corbett. Corbett shrugged. Victor shook his head slowly, like some wizened Native American shaman.

“Sorry, boys. We don’t know. Not a lot of news about San Francisco—that doesn’t mean anything, it’s just that SF doesn’t get that much airplay out here in the desert.”

“Larry, let’s just go,” said the shorter man in the jogging outfit. He reached out and took the taller man’s hand, pulling him away. Once their backs were turned, Corbett shook his head.

“Damn, I could never like faggots,” he said.

Victor cocked a brow. “It’s the twenty-first century, Barry. If you keep using language like that, people will think you’re just a simple knuckle-dragger.” Just the same, Victor watched the two men settle their tab with the plump woman behind the register as Corbett sipped more coffee. He scowled, but it wasn’t because of the hot liquid. Corbett knew he was a man of many faults, and his disdain for homosexuals was one he would never be able to get over.

“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Victor said.

“You know someone in town? Wow, you really get around,” Corbett said, looking into his coffee cup.

Victor said, “Hey, Barry, he’s—”

A hand suddenly descended on his shoulder, and a loud British accent filled his ears, drowning out Victor’s words. “Barry Corbett! Imagine meeting
you
here!”