It was surprising how often these vids seemed to show characters sitting in diners, eating and drinking and using the setting to carry on the plot lines. In fact, it had sometimes seemed to Ryan that people in the sunny times before the long winters had spent most of their time in diners.
Now, in Mom’s Place, in the wilderness that was southern New Mexico, Ryan found himself in precisely such an eatery, perfectly preserved, like some magical hologram.
“Fireblast,” he breathed.
The building was about eighty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, with a counter running along most of one side, a flyspecked mirror behind it. Along the other wall, by the front window, were a number of small booths, with plastic tables bolted to the floor, two swivel seats on each side.
On each table was a chrome box of what looked like loose sheets of faded and brittle paper, and what Ryan knew from the vids were salt and pepper shakers.
At the back was a pair of single doors. One had a sign that read Does and the other one Bucks. He had a vague idea that these must be men’s and women’s crappers.
One by one they walked inside, standing in a huddle by the broken door.
“Think there’ll be some food?” Dean asked, but nobody answered him.
J.B. catfooted around the end of the counter and cautiously pushed at a swing door that opened into a small kitchen area. “Nobody,” he said over his shoulder. “Not a sign there’s been anyone here for years.”
Krysty stood with a hand on Ryan’s arm. “Gaia! Like some sort of museum.”
Doc sneezed. “Sorry, my friends, but I fear the powdered rocks of ages have infiltrated my poor old sinuses and given them a severe working over.” He stared around him. “I have never” he began. “This is like like some of the more atmospheric paintings of Edward Hopper. I can hardly believe it.”
The nine Native Americans had followed more slowly, not one of them actually setting a moccasined foot over the dusty threshold of the diner. They peered around with something that seemed very close to fear.
“Seems safe,” Ryan said. “Anyone wants to look around can do so.”
KRYSTY LAUGHED as she stood arm in arm with Ryan, reading the faded, hand-lettered notices pinned up all along behind the counter. “Friendliest little diner in the whole damned world,” she said. Ryan nodded.
No long hairs girls not counted.
Truckers do it all night long.
The NRA Never Rejects America.
Prices do not include tips.
If’n you don’t like it, then get the fuck out of here.
“Wouldn’t have cared too much to have met Mom,” Ryan commented. “Don’t think I’d have cared too much for eating in her diner, either.”
“They used to call me Greaseball Tanner, in my fancy dining daysthough I never got fat,” Doc said. “Just look at the menu. I have not seen so much potential heavy grease since the last time I went to mud wrestling.”
“French fries with everything” was the proud boast at the top of the menu.
“Wouldn’t mind buffalo burger, onion rings, bacon, two eggs your style and fries,” Jak said. “Wouldn’t care how had cooked.”
“How about their all-day breakfast?” J.B. asked. “Could do a job on that right now.”
“Choice from ham, link sausages, patties, eggs, mushrooms, steak, tomatoes, hash browns, corn, okra, bread, coffee. No add-ons for set price.”
The dish of the day was catfish and boiled potatoes, and at the bottom of the board was the selection of desserts.
Mildred had picked up one of the printed menus from a table, which gave amplified details of the dishes available on the blackboard. “Gets better and better,” she said. “Listen to this description of their chicken special dinner.” She took a breath and started to read. “A boneless breast of chicken has been personally selected for your dining pleasure. Our cook has coddled and cared for it, covering it in a secret blend of herbs and spices, and left to marinate for up to thirty minutes.”
“One of the all-time cordon bleu marinades by the sound of it,” Doc said sourly.
She pulled a face at him. “Miserypuss! Where was I? Yeah.” Mildred continued to read from the stained menu. “It’s served on a bed of fluffy rice with a selection of vegetables, hand-picked at dawn and prepared with Can’t read it. Buried under a seal of ancient ketchup.”
“Never mind, Mildred.” Krysty laughed. “Sounds just about good enough to read, but not good enough to eat. Reckon I’m glad that Mom’s Place is permanently closed.”
Dean had gone through into the kitchen, calling out to his father. “Looks like they just left!”
Ryan joined the boy, smiling ruefully. “Something sad about this sort of thing. You’re right.”
At a superficial glance, it really did seem that the people who’d run the diner, a hundred years ago, had just walked out for a breath of the darkening late-afternoon air, leaving everything just as it had been.
There were cups and dishes in the steel sink, the crusted food thoroughly fossilized by the passing time.
The greasy water had long, long drained away, leaving a coating of whitish scum on the dull metal.
The chopping board had been in use, though the vegetables had disappeared into a dry, multicolored smudge on the hacked wood. Knives and spoons were all around, where the dead hands had laid them down in that moment of panic that had brought word of death from the skies. Death had probably been borne on the polished wings of neutron missiles, death that had taken away the soul of every living creature and left the buildings standing.
The eight-ring stove had several pots and pans on it, all filled with a rotted powder where there had once been stews, refried beans and potatoes.
“There’s cans of food on the shelves,” Dean said, pointing to the long wall of the kitchen. “Oh, but it looks like they’ve all blown.”
They had. Every one.
Now all of the Anglos were in the room, while their Navaho colleagues stayed in the outer part of the diner, unable to conceal their unease.
Mildred and Doc were looking in the cupboards, while Jak had picked up the biggest of the serrated meat knives and was balancing it on his palm, as if he were considering adding it to his armory. “Nice,” he said, dropping it back onto one of the work surfaces.
Krysty was taking off the last orders from the spike and trying to read them. “Too far gone. Don’t seem many, like business was bad that day.”
A calendar was tacked to the inside of the outer door, showing scenes of beautiful New Mexico. It was for the year 2001, a year that was barely started when it was over.
When it was all over.
“Some brandy here,” Doc called. “Better part of two-thirds full.”
He handed it to Ryan, who glanced at it. The label was torn, but he could still read the words Emperor Maximilian. The back door was unbolted and Ryan opened it and threw the bottle into the scrub, hearing the crash as it fell.
“Why did you do that?” Sleeps In Day asked. “It is that you think we cannot be trusted with liquor.”
“No. Not that at all,” Ryan replied.
“Then what?”
“That was a hundred years old. I once got triple sick from something that old. Might taste all right, but I still figure it’s better to pass on it. We’re a small force, Sleeps In Day, and we can’t afford not to have everyone fit and well for tomorrow. You agree?”
The Navaho stared at him, then took a slow, long breath. “Yeah.”
“ONE OF THEM’S GONE,” J.B. said, beside Ryan as the one-eyed man started to unroll his blanket.
“Who?”
“Kid.”
“Man Sees Behind Sun?”
“Yeah. One that was so good at reading the trail. I noticed he’s gone.”
The two old friends kept their voices pitched low, not drawing attention to their conversation. They could easily have been discussing the rate of fire of a Mannlicher Model L against a Steyr SL.
There was no sign in the body language of either man that the news of the missing Navaho could be terminally disastrous for all of them.
Ryan glanced around the diner. The rest of the Native Americans were gathered at the end two tables, sitting and talking quietly. “They know?”
“Must do.” The Armorer shook his head, sucking air between his front teeth with a faint whistling sound.
“Gone to tell the General where we are?”
“Could be.”
“Then we chill the others right now.” Ryan stood. “Use the Uzi on them. I’ll pick up the spares with the SIG-Sauer. Not worth taking a chance.”
“You sound like Trader,” J.B. said, grinning. “If in doubt, fill the graveyard.”
“Trader kept himself alive a long time thinking like that, didn’t he?”
“Sure. Might still be this side of the black river for all we know.”