Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 3): Last State

by Popovich, A. D.

  Dean looked around their small bakery. Nothing fancy. The eatery had a half-dozen tables that seated four and a row of booths next to the front glass window, all covered with red and white checkered tablecloths. The joint could seat forty or so guests, but folks usually ordered their breakfast muffins and tea to-go.

  Their eatery was the only place that served breakfast except for the hotels, and the hotels overcharged because they could. Apparently, Luther’s specialty muffins were the talk of Boom Town. The Grand Hotel wanted to sell them to their guests. Well, they could. For the right price.

  The trick was to keep the supply a tad under demand. Like that popular donut franchise used to do before they glutted the market, selling them at supermarkets and corner gas stations. The scarcity kept people coming back for more. That way, they didn’t have to keep the bakery open all blooming day, allowing Dean and Luther to enjoy the rest of their day.

  Luther emerged from the kitchen with a plate overflowing with white powdery sugar pastries. “Beignets!” Luther beamed. “My mama taught me to make these when I was a kid. My favorite. I messed around with the recipe until I found the right combo for the arid, high-desert climate.”

  “Good God, those critters melt in your mouth.” Dean took another bite. Mary would love these. Sadly, his wife had departed several years past. Meanwhile, he unwillingly abided his fate, trying to do more good than harm while waiting for the end of his term on this dying planet.

  “You joshin’ me?” Luther questioned with raised brows.

  Dean shook his head. “You’re going to make us too busy.” He would rather spend his time tinkering around fixing things than stuck in the kitchen. “Say, who’s your supplier?”

  “Met a new contact last week,” Luther informed. “I didn’t want to say anything until I got the recipe down. My smuggler bro said he can drop off a supply of the choux pastry ingredients about once a month on his way out of Last State. I’m sure it will be hit and miss. But when we got it, we sell the shit out of it.”

  “Better not let the Grand Hotel in on it,” Dean said.

  “You got that right. This is our angle.” Luther popped one into his mouth and headed for the front door.

  A heavy-bearded man had his handle on the bakery’s door as Luther flipped the OPEN sign to the CLOSED side.

  “Sorry, bro. We’re sold out,” Luther advised through the glass.

  The fellow stepped inside anyway. “I’m looking for Dean Wormer.”

  Dean scrutinized the scruffy younger man. The fellow must have just ridden in based on his dusty boots and hat. “Dean Wormer, at your service.” Dean held out his hand for a friendly shake.

  “Zachary Padilla. The Grand Hotel owner, Krasinski, sent me your way.”

  Don’t tell me Krasinski’s already reneging on the deal? Dean had his heart set on those freebie steak dinners. It’s not that he couldn’t afford it. Business was good. But having to pay for it took the fun out of his wangling. The honest-to-goodness truth was, Dean wasn’t too sure about Krasinski. Rumor had it, Krasinski had arrived in Boom Town with a pot of gold and had claimed the Grand Hotel shortly after a hella-horde stampeded through Last Chance. The proprietor deed had even been signed over to his name. No matter what the facts were, no one else had shown up, claiming the fancy-schmancy hotel.

  This Padilla fellow didn’t look like a muffins dealer. More like a weapons dealer. “Is there a problem?” Dean sensed an urgency in the stranger’s demeanor.

  Padilla glanced around the room and then at Luther as if sizing them up. He smiled and set down a leather-worn satchel on the table. “Delivery.”

  Luther opened the satchel. He let out a big grin and went into one of his fancy football jigs as if he had caught the Hail Mary pass to win the game. “You be the man.” Luther held up the bag to Dean. “Starbucks coffee.”

  “Just looking at it gives me the caffeine jangles,” Dean said. “If you’re in the market to sell coffee, The Grand Hotel can pay you four times what we can.”

  Luther laughed. “Krasinski must be messin’ with us.”

  “It’s a gift,” the good-looking stranger with the ponytail said.

  “And to what do we owe such a pleasure?” Dean inquired amicably. Beware of strangers bearing gifts, his dear ole granddaddy used to preach. But Dean wasn’t getting a bad feeling from this fellow. Not at all.

  “I’ll make us a pot of coffee,” Luther offered.

  “Another time. I’m on a tight schedule.” Padilla shifted from foot to foot and kept an eye on Main Street.

  Something was on the fellow’s mind. Dean pulled out a chair for him. They automatically sat down at the table with the pastries. Dean had an inkling something was coming down. Padilla eyed the powdery pastries longingly.

  “Help yourself. It’s on the house.” Luther pointed to the plate.

  The man took a tentative bite; powder sugar sprinkled down his shirt. “These are killer.” He cleared his throat. “There’s no easy way to say this. Last State is shutting down Checkpoint Charlie. Completely.” The ominous inflection on the last word lingered in the room.

  The significance of the fellow’s statement sent chills down Dean’s torso. Dean eyed Luther. “And, how would you know this?” Upon closer scrutiny, Dean recognized the face under the beard. Mr. Padilla was a frequent Boom Town visitor.

  “Let’s just say I’m buds with a few Enforcers.” Padilla paused. “They’re pulling out of Boom Town.”

  “You shittin’ us?” Luther yawped.

  “I’ll get to the point. I’m what you call a commodities broker. I freelance for the Elites. I acquire—things. Things they don’t manufacture in Last State. And, I dabble in the black market on the side,” Padilla gloated with a smug grin. “I traded with Boom Town regularly before the immigrant business dried up.”

  Dean and Luther were new business owners in Boom Town. Dean understood how thin the glue was that kept everything together. Most of the wild west town’s residents and guests were either smugglers or relied on smugglers to operate. Some were shysters, some squeaked out a living, and many never returned with the goods they promised. It was dangerous out there without an army of men for protection. Hence, the Enforcers.

  “We’re well aware Checkpoint Charlie stopped accepting immigrants,” Dean said.

  “To clarify,” Padilla continued, “all Enforcers this side of Last State have received orders to return to Last State.”

  “Good God Almighty! No Enforcers? We’ll be target practice!” Luther bellowed.

  “Exactly,” Padilla followed with a cocky grin.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of them closing up shop. So, why you tellin’ us?” Dean probed. His gut instinct informed the fellow was on the up-and-up. It was merely the news that was bad.

  “First of all, my men need Boom Town as much as you. My cohorts love it here. It’s the preferred safe haven for R&R between smuggling trips. You can’t do shit in Last State. Second, there’s a growing list of Last State residents, such as Enforcers, who would rather live here than under Last State’s oppressive regime.”

  “Bro, what are you getting at?” Luther pressed.

  “Once the word’s out, Boom Town is up for grabs by the first band of brothers with bigger cojones than yours. Then, it’s shit city for you, me, and my discreet business partners.”

  Dean thought about it. The fellow made an interesting point. “So, what’s on your mind? Might want to spell out the details. Leave no room for . . .” Dean paused. “Misinterpretation,” he emphasized.

  “Look, I’ve got the connections. I can hook you up with a set of renegade Enforcers.” Padilla’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “And the firepower to back them up.”

  “I’m liking the last part,” Luther said.

  “What’s in it for them, besides our infamous moonshine?” Dean asked.

  “They’ll split a ten percent cut of Boom Town’s net revenue. Give or take. No auditors. Hell, they’ll be spending most of their dinero here,
anyway. And the best part of this sweet deal,” Padilla said with boyish charm, “Last State will leave the power grid running. We’ll call it an oversight.”

  Sensing a problem, Dean pushed. “What’s the catch?” If it was one thing Dean had learned, there was always a catch.

  Padilla sighed. “I’ve got orders to pull out at zero dark thirty. I can’t organize a team until I get back. It may be two to three weeks before I can return with the Enforcers. The electricity is already a done deal.”

  “Say, what about our weapons Checkpoint Charlie confiscated upon our arrival?” Dean inquired. Last State didn’t allow civilians to own weapons. That’s what Enforcers were for. Smugglers and travelers were required to check in their weapons at Check Point Charlie before they were allowed in. Despite the whole martial law crap, things ran smoothly without every greenhorn in town discharging their weapons whenever they saw fit.

  Last State’s Enforcers patrolled Boom Town, protecting the town from marauders and hordes. Sure, Enforcers took advantage of their authority. They expected freebies every now and then. In general, Enforcers tended to be level-headed, except during a drinking binge, which was more times than he liked. Dean had discreetly sent numerous mule cabs of inebriated soldiers to Check Point Charlie’s Immigrant Station’s barracks. It saved trouble for everyone, and the CFO on duty appreciated it as well. Not to mention, the saloon owner was tired of replacing the glass in the mahogany back bar mirror after countless bar fights.

  “Now that, I can help you with. Along with ammo.” Padilla smiled. “If Boom Town can tough it out ’til I return, this will be a lucrative long-term business deal for all parties involved.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you come to me? Why not that slick wheeler-dealer Krasinski fella?” Dean asked.

  Luther grunted. Luther had an obvious dislike for the hotel owner. Although, he had never mentioned why. Dean assumed it had something to do with Last Chance and his girlfriend, Sheena, who hadn’t survived. Luther didn’t always say what was on his mind. Dean tried to keep things copacetic, especially since they were in the muffin business and shared the upstairs apartment.

  “Oh, yeah, Krasinski wants a piece of the action. He expected a cut from me. That ain’t a happening thing. I only work for the Elites and myself.” The hard, shrewd look in Padilla’s eyes erased his boyish-charm smile.

  Dean questioned with a wordless frown.

  “Krasinski and I go way back,” Padilla answered. “He’ll cave into the highest bribe. I wouldn’t call him a loyal compadre.”

  Good to know. Dean’s hunch about Krasinski had just been confirmed. “What about Mac, the museum curator? He knows about everything there is to know about this place,” Dean went on.

  Padilla shook his head. “Mac is a definite no. His health is deteriorating. For this to work for the greater good of everyone, we need a healthy, respectable person who plays by the rules. I’ve checked around. Words out, you’re the man. You’ve earned the town’s respect. People trust you.”

  “Guess you fooled them,” Luther ragged, inhaling the bag of coffee.

  “Reckon so. Say, where you off to anyhow?” Dean inquired.

  “My handler is sending me and a small security team on an expedition to various cigarette manufacturing plants in the Lost States. My point man, an ex-factory worker, knows what to look for.”

  “Texas has their own cigarette factories,” Luther stated.

  “Tobacco we’ve got. For now. But supplies like filters and wrappers were imported. Last State is out. The black market for cigarettes is worth more than gold.”

  “How’d you wind up with the job?” Luther asked.

  Padilla flashed a smug smile. “A flawless track record of getting in and out with the goods. With minimal collateral damage.”

  Dean was still pondering over the proposal. “Hmm, and you said free electricity?” Dean pressed. It sounded like an offer they couldn’t afford to pass.

  “Eventually some whistleblower will threaten to pull the plug. Then, it’s a simple matter of greasing a few greedy fingers,” Padilla said.

  “Some things never change,” Luther retorted.

  “Deal?” Padilla held out his hand for a confirmation shake.

  Dean rubbed his chin. “Well, I don’t speak for everyone. Luther and I will hash things over in tomorrow’s weekly town hall meeting.” What choice did they have?

  Luther eyed Dean. “Bro, we can’t pass up this opportunity. Ol’ Luther here don’t like cold showers if you know what I mean,” Luther said in a low tone.

  Dean returned the shake. “Not to worry, Mr. Padilla. Someone will step up to the plate. Do me a favor. Send us those renegade Enforcers as soon as you can.” Dean had a feeling they would be needing them sooner rather than later.

  “Will do. And call me Zac.” Zac offered what looked to be a genuine smile. A smile that showed he was concerned as well. Or was Dean’s gut telling him that? He couldn’t always tell the difference.

  The roar of jets vibrated the building.

  “What in tarnation?” Dean shouted. He was the first out the door.

  “Is that a Russian MiG?” Luther boomed as they ran into the middle of Main Street along with the rest of Boom Town’s residents.

  Two U.S. fighter jets zoomed after it. Dean hustled to the closest gate tower with Luther and Zac right behind him. A fiery ball exploded on the western horizon.

  “Good God Almighty! They blew up the bastard.” Luther stared in a shock and awe moment.

  From the tower’s vantage point, the downed MiG landed maybe ten miles to the west. There was nothing left but a huge fireball. “So, Russia’s still alive and kickin’?” Dean turned to Zac. The fellow seemed to be in the loop.

  “There’s a lot of that going on in the Gulf of New Mexico,” Zac said. “It’s the main reason Last State wants their Enforcers back. Security is running thin.”

  “War games?” Luther questioned.

  “Some people just don’t know when to quit,” Dean said. The two U.S. jets headed back toward them. One of them tipped its wings as it passed over Boom Town into Last State’s borders. Boom Town’s looky-loos cheered. As if things weren’t bad enough, a war with Russia was all they needed. It made him think of Kyle. He hoped his son was still alive and bunkered in tight with his Army buddies.

  “So far, we’re winning,” Zac said without much confidence.

  “Have we heard from any other countries?” Dean asked.

  “We sent a squadron of F-16s to Canada. We got shot down within seconds of crossing into their airspace.”

  “Canada shot us down?” Luther garbled in surprise.

  “We don’t think the Canadians did it,” Zac said. “Probably a rogue militia.”

  “Could be anyone,” Dean said as they scurried down the tower’s stairs.

  “I’d better go,” Zac said.

  “Thanks, bro,” Luther said.

  After their unexpected visitor left, Dean and Luther returned to the bakery. The beignets lumped in the pit of his stomach. The one great thing about Boom Town was all the security the Enforcers provided. Not to mention their guaranteed business. Sure, it was daunting with Enforcers patrolling the streets with automatic weapons, but after several marauder and horde attacks, the Enforcers were in all actuality a godsend. Their small wild west settlement on the outskirts of Zoat wouldn’t survive long without them.

  Dean and Luther sat at the booth and shared a knowing moment of now what? “Guess I should have seen it coming since they stopped taking refugees,” Dean grumbled.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Luther asked.

  “Yep, we’d better pull together our own security team on the double. Think I’ll go chat up the shop owners. Need to find out who’s a good shot around here,” Dean suddenly decided.

  Chapter 3

  Justin Chen paced the small sitting room of their cramped living quarters. “When’s dinner?” He couldn’t wait any longer.

  Ella sho
t him a scathing glare over the top of the romance novel he had interrupted her from for the umpteenth time. She shifted on the couch. “You know, it’s not that hard to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” she snarked in a don’t-mess-with-me tone.

  “Ye-ah, okay.” Justin shrugged and walked the ten feet to the balcony of their tiny T-zone apartment. He missed living in an actual house with a basement and garage full of stuff. Mainly, he missed having lots of cool stuff.

  Most of Last State’s approximate one million citizens were confined to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. The housing subdivisions and apartment complexes had been sealed off. It was still dangerous out there, and authorities were afraid the Z-virus might have mutated. They didn’t have enough HAZMAT teams to mop up the entire state, and they weren’t prepared to deal with a new strain.

  Citizens lived in the office building skyrises, which had been converted into hotel-like apartments. Except for the rich Elites—they lived in the A-zone’s fancy penthouses. The penthouses and skyrises’ first-floor levels were heavily guarded in case of an outbreak or rebel attack. And if one were rich enough and had the right contacts, one could buy their way into the upper three zones known as the ABC Zones.

  The remaining Zones trickled down to the Z-zone. Otherwise known as Zhetto, Z-zone was located in the Texan panhandle, dangerously close to the waterless moat bordering Last State. It was filled with freaking Zs. Besides keeping the bad guys out, Zoat also served as an unspoken threat: Follow the rules or get kicked out to Zhetto. Breakroom talk whispered that Zhetto was filled with dissidents.

  Each day, CitNews posted a banner diagonally across the huge public television screens mounted on the street corners, boasting how many days since the last horde attack in the inner Zones A through Y. Today it was day four hundred and something. It was such a relief not thinking about hordes every freaking second. That was the Enforcers job; they were quick to neutralize the small Infected Incidents before they reached RedDead Alert: a horde.

  Finally, the flip-flop of Ella’s shoes scuffled into the kitchen. Yes! Ella opened the fridge. He held his breath when she pulled out the ring box he had put on the top shelf. He caught the spark of happiness he’d been waiting for when Ella’s gorgeous brown eyes widened with delight as she closed the refrigerator’s door.