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

keep the guts of the gun cleaner, and result in fewer fouling failures. She’d told Corbett she’d never had a weapon like this one before, and she was eager to break it down, clean it up, and get it operational.
    “That’s my girl,” Corbett said as Norton climbed in beside him and slammed the door closed. The dome light faded out, and Danielle closed the box with a sigh.
    “Yeah, thanks for the goods, Barry,” Norton said as he buckled his seat belt. “Nice weapon, just like my H&K five-five-six.” Like Danielle, Corbett had gifted Norton with an identical IC-E weapon.
    Corbett sniffed as he dropped the truck into gear and pulled away from the Garcia home. A crowd of onlookers stood watching the activity surrounding the house from the sidewalks. They stirred uneasily in the darkness as the lights of Corbett’s Ford passed over them.
    “Typical that you’d buy another European piece of shit rifle, Norton,” he muttered.
    “What, only American-made ARs and 1911s for you, Barry?”
    “You know it. If it’s not made in the US of A, I’m not touching it.”
    Norton snorted and picked up his own rifle box and leaned it against the truck’s center console. “Well, I’ve heard good things about LWRC. I’ll let you know how they compare.”
    “Please don’t.”
    “Ha-ha.”
    They drove in silence for the four minutes it took to shoot up Lake View Street at a sedate thirty miles an hour. That’s how long it took to drive less than two miles, the entire distance from the southern border of Single Tree to near its northernmost tip. This is where the “poor folk” lived, in small weathered houses that faced the eastern desert. Corbett and Norton had been mostly middle class, and lived on the west side in homes that faced Mount Whitney, in the section of town that had until recently been in the process of being taken over by people from Los Angeles and Vegas looking for cheap vacation homes or investment properties that could be rented out during the winter skiing season. While homes on the west side had gone though some changes and additions, those on the east side remained mostly the same. The only alterations made to them were by the desert itself, as wood was bleached, siding was blasted and cracked, fences collapsed, and paint peeled.
    “That’s odd,” Danielle said from the back seat.
    “What is?” Corbett asked, looking around.
    “Lights are on in the house. I guess dad’s still up.”
    Corbett grunted as the truck bore down on the simply ranch house surrounded by a sagging, weary-looking split fence. Sure enough, some lights were on inside. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after eleven.
    “Maybe Martin’s watching the news,” he said. “Certainly a lot to keep a man up late at night these days, that’s for sure.”
    “I guess,” Danielle said.
    Corbett stopped the truck at the end of the driveway, and she gathered up the rifle box and pushed the right rear door open. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow. When do you expect we’ll start training?”
    “This weekend, for sure,” Corbett said. “We’ll hammer out the details after tomorrow’s town meeting. I’ll work it out with Rafael so you don’t get penalized on the job.”
    “Thanks, Barry.”
    “No problem, Marine. We’ll stay put until you get inside.”
    “Sure. Good night.” Danielle paused. “Um, good night, Mister Norton.”
    “Call me Gary,” Norton said. “For the fortieth time.”
    “All right, Gary for the fortieth time,” Danielle said, and Corbett thought he heard a slight, uncharacteristically girlish tone stray into her voice. He frowned. Good God, does Dani have the hots for Norton?
    She slammed the door closed and walked up the driveway toward the house. Corbett and Norton watched her walk up to the front door and push it open. He caught a glimpse of Martin Kennedy sitting in an old easy chair, as if watching television. He looked toward Danielle with a blank expression.