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

by Knight, Stephen

  “Make that two. My inscrutable friend here will have the cinnamon French toast with a generous side of bacon, and toss a sprig of parsley on it so he can still claim he had an ‘all natural’ breakfast.”

  Victor frowned. “Cinnamon French toast?”

  “This time next year, you’ll look back on this moment fondly, Victor.”

  Victor shrugged. “I see your point. Have those lathered up with an extra helping of unsalted butter, would you, Miss Kennedy? I might as well sacrifice my arteries now.”

  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 lik
e 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!”

  Startled, Corbett looked up as hot coffee sloshed about in his cup. The man standing beside him had clear, blue eyes that, at first glance, seemed to be full of intelligence. Corbett knew from personal experience that the man was indeed quite clever, but the intellect presented in his gaze merely floated on a sea of icy deceit. His brown hair was going gray at the temples, and his fair skin was showing some red from exposure to the desert sun—though it had barely risen at this hour. He wore a navy blue blazer over a white collared shirt and gray trousers, with brown tasseled loafers on his feet. In his jacket pocket was a perfect, puff-folded kerchief. The man looked like he was stepping out for a casual but still dressy luncheon in Manhattan as opposed to a small, East Coast-style diner in the middle of the California desert. Hovering behind the man—whose obsequious smile was made especially brilliant by expertly crafted porcelain veneers—was an extraordinarily handsome woman who, if Corbett’s guess was correct, had a ton of money behind her. Because the man she stood behind, despite his somewhat pinched good looks and natty attire, only pursued women who could afford him.

  Oh, fucking hell, Corbett thought sourly. As if the zombie apocalypse wasn’t enough.

  “Jock Sinclair. What a … what a surprise,” he finally managed to say. Sinclair went to chortle on about some inanity or another as he seized Corbett’s hand and shook it vigorously, as if they were long-lost mates. Corbett lamented sending Lennon off to the bar with the rest of the detail, for he would have stopped Sinclair from getting anywhere near him. He glanced over at Victor, and saw the younger man carefully fold up his reading glasses and slide them inside his jacket. Victor didn’t even attempt to conceal the smirk that broke out across his face.

  “Yes, it is a surprise, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, smiling broadly. “Whatever in the world are you doing out here?” And then, he turned his head fractionally to the left, favoring Corbett with a slight, sidewise glance, as if he’d arrived at some great deduction. “Oh, but of course—you’re actually from this town, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, well … I am,” Corbett said. “So that explains my presence. What are you doing here, Sinclair? I thought you were a resident of Manhattan’s Upper West Side.”

  “We were on our way to Los Angeles when the airlines were grounded,” Sinclair said. “Oh yes, please let me introduce my wife. Meredith, this is Barry Corbett, one of America’s greatest living industrialists.” As he said that last part, Corbett detected the hidden sneer in Sinclair’s voice, the same one he had been forced to endure for almost an hour when he’d appeared on the silly twat’s television show two years ago.

  “Good morning,” the woman said, smiling perfunctorily.

  Sinclair, still smiling like a buffoon, looked past Corbett at Victor. Victor looked back stoically, the smirk gone from his face.

  “And who’s this?” Sinclair asked, the wheels in his head obviously turning as he tried to align a man of Victor’s obvious heritage with Corbett’s presence.

  “No one of consequence, I assure you,” Victor said.

  “This is Victor Kuruk, leader of a local Indian tribe. You’ll like Victor, Sinclair. He’s a self-made man of color leading the charge against white America.”

  Sinclair tittered as if that was one of the most enjoyable bon mots he’d heard in years. “Oh, is that so? Plotting your revenge here in a diner, are you?”

  “The best places to kill a man are when he’s eating or sitting on the toilet,” Victor said in a total deadpan.

  Sinclair’s smile dimmed for an instant as he processed that, then brightened as he tried amping up the charm. “Oh, is that so? Delightful! I’ve never heard that before!”

  “So, Jock,” Corbett said, “you’re on your way to Los Angeles,
are you?”

  “Well yes, once we get a few things sorted out,” Sinclair said, still beaming.

  Corbett sensed something in Sinclair’s response. Oh, here comes the ask.

  “What do you have to ‘sort out’ in Single Tree, Mr. Sinclair?” Victor asked helpfully, even though Corbett had no doubt he’d already figured out Sinclair was a hanger-on the moment the so-called “television journalist” opened his mouth. At that moment, Corbett could have strangled both of them.

  “Well, does there happen to be a Maserati dealership in this town?” Sinclair asked, glancing at Victor but keeping his gaze more or less rooted on Corbett.

  “You want to buy a Maserati?” Corbett asked. It sounded stupid, but he knew how people like Sinclair worked. To a self-styled international bon vivant like Sinclair, the zombie apocalypse would be the best time to haggle over price.

  “Actually, I need to repair one. Ours went wonky just outside of town last night.”

  “This morning,” Sinclair’s wife corrected.

  Sinclair waved off her comment with a dismissive gesture. “Yes, well, our car is duffed up, and we need to get it to a dealer so it can be looked after. I’d think that the town that gave rise to the great Barry Corbett would have one hidden away someplace, yeah?”

  Corbett looked at Victor. “Victor?”

  Victor slowly shook his head. “Closest Maserati dealership I know of in California is in Bakersfield. Have you tried calling for service? Whenever something happens with my 488, I just call Ferrari and they send someone out to take care of it.”

  Corbett had to fight not to smile. While he might have had the money to afford an Italian super car like the Ferrari 488 Gran Turismo Berlinetta, there was no way in hell he would spend it on such an item—as far as Corbett knew, other than his precious Harley, Victor drove around in a restored yellow 1978 Dodge Power Wagon Club Cab. An extremely nice Dodge Power Wagon, but hardly anything like a Ferrari.

  Sinclair’s smile dimmed a little bit at Victor’s comment. “Ah. Yes, well, we do have roadside service, but I can’t seem to get through on my phone. Our service appears to be restricted out here. I can only surmise it’s because we have a New York number.”