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

them.”
    Lennon stepped back to the group. “Mister Corbett. The mayor is here, and he’s looking for you.”
     
    ###
     
    With nothing else to do aside from watch television and watch Meredith slowly retreat into herself like a frightened sheep attempting to hide from a hungry wolf, Jock Sinclair headed to a pub— Or “bar”, as they call them in this country, he reminded himself—down the street from the roach coach motel he was staying in. The bar was called simply Bob’s Place, and it was virtually as low-brow as the name promised. Clearly, “Bob” was into Formica-topped tables, metal chairs, and weary tile. A substandard wooden bar dominated the far wall, and its lacquered veneer was worn in so many places that it resembled a patchwork quilt.
    He bellied up to the bar and ordered himself a beer—a cold one, as they had only chilled draft available. As he sipped it, he looked around at the rest of the patrons. It was not exactly a full house, but it wasn’t empty, either. He spotted several travelers like himself easily enough, for they stood out amidst the jean-and-flannel shirt crowd of locals. Some were white, some Asian, and a handful were black, but most of the patrons seemed to be of Mexican extraction. Sinclair didn’t particularly like Mexicans, and occasionally referred to them as wetbacks, so long as he wasn’t on camera or wearing a hot microphone. He knew that he had to be careful in America, for they took their appellations very seriously. He couldn’t get away with calling a Jew a kike here, whereas in Europe it was practically expected. In many ways, America was so liberal it was almost silly, but they countered that by true stupidity from the right, such as continuing to allow citizens to own firearms. The asymmetry of it was almost astounding, when he thought about it. It was like the country was half pearl, half dung.
    “Excuse me, are you Jock Sinclair?” asked a Mexican man with thick glasses and a big, bushy mustache.
    “I am,” Sinclair said, even though he wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. But he still received a little ego recharge at being recognized, especially in such a basic establishment as Bob’s Place.

“I watch you on the television, you’re quite good,” the man said.
    “I thank you for that. And you are?”
    “Hector Aguilar,” the man said, holding out his right hand. Sinclair shook it and favored the man with a smile.
    “Please to meet you, Mister Aguilar,” he said with as much bonhomie as he could muster.
    “The same here. So how did you manage to find yourself here in Single Tree?”
    “Car troubles, of course,” Sinclair said. “My wife has a foreign import, and we can’t find anyone in town who can attend to it. Unless you happen to know someone who knows their way around a Maserati?”
    “Unfortunately not,” Aguilar said. “Hey, aren’t you friendly with Barry Corbett?”
    “I don’t know if ‘friendly’ is the term I would use,” Sinclair said before remembering that Corbett was a local. “Why, are you?”
    Aguilar snorted and shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”
    “Oh? Why is that?” Sinclair asked as innocently as he could. He looked around the bar while waiting for an answer.
    “He’s going to destroy this town financially,” Aguilar said in a bitter tone. “Did you happen to notice all the construction that’s going on around town? He has dreams of turning Single Tree into some kind of fortress in response to the emergency that’s going on, as opposed to allowing the authorities to handle it. He even intends to barricade the town from the highway, and bar people from passing through. Can you imagine the arrogance? Separating a state highway, the only road through this area that actually goes anywhere?”
    Sinclair was surprised by that. “Seriously? That’s what’s going on here?” Aguilar nodded, and Sinclair could see the man was actually angry. “Well, what do your politicians think of