Empire Of Salt
For Yvonne
An Abaddon Books ™ Publication
www.abaddonbooks.com
First published in 2010 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.
Editor-in Chief: Jonathan Oliver
Desk Editor: David Moore
Junior Editor: Jenni Hill
Cover: Mark Harrison
Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece
Marketing and PR: Keith Richardson
Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley
Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley
eBook production by Oxford-eBooks
Copyright © 2010 Rebellion. All rights reserved.
Tomes of The Dead ™, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-84997-174-4
MOBI ISBN: 978-1-84997-175-1
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
A
s a reader and a writer I always read the acknowledgements. It takes so much to write a novel, more than any one person can do alone. My first and last thanks go to my wife, Yvonne Navarro. Not only is she an inspiration, but her experience and insight helped me put our heroes in increasingly bloodcurdling predicaments. Thanks to my mom and dad for not buying me that Atari system I so desperately wanted, and for forcing me read everything, and often. Thanks to my children for being the inspiration for two of the main characters. I spent many weary hours trying to keep you alive. And thanks so much to Jonathan Oliver for being there to answer questions, for trusting in me, and for allowing this lone voice in the desert to be heard so far afield. Lastly, thanks to the real people of Bombay Beach and the Salton Sea. This novel is entirely fictional except for those locations. I can't imagine that there is a real zombie factory. I've exaggerated the destitution and devastation of the communities surrounding the Salton Sea. The people who live there are of hardy stock and not easily dislodged from the places they love. This book is meant as homage to them, sometimes tongue-in-cheek, celebrating their ability to survive, even in the face of such desperate odds.
"S
orry, Frank. No more fish."
Frank stared over his empty beer glass at Lazlo Oliver, the bartender and owner of the Space Station Restaurant. Frank's used car salesman expression melted. His eyes narrowed. His grin receded, exposing a mouthful of broken and grimy teeth. "What do you mean, no more fish?"
"No more. Sorry, Frank." Lazlo squared his shoulders. At six foot three, he was a big man and, for all of his seventy years, still in pretty good shape. He hoped there'd be no trouble, but with Frank you never knew. Sometimes the drunk would teeter off into the night, and sometimes he'd go off like a roadside bomb. One just never knew.
"But it's fresh fish. It's real fresh, Laz." Frank reached down and jerked a string of tilapia from a battered Styrofoam cooler and held them over the bar. The years slipped away as he grinned like a teenaged boy, proud of a day's catch. A full head of unruly brown hair atop a creased and creviced deeply-tanned face - somewhere between a hard-drinking thirty and sixty - told this man's tale as someone who'd spent his life in the sun.
Lazlo examined the milk white eyes of the three tilapia, mouths gaping around the waxed yellow stringer. The scales were still a mosaic of bright greens. Sometimes Frank would get red tide fish he found rotting on the beach and try and pass them off as freshly caught. Not this time. These had been caught this afternoon, probably between Frank waking after passing out last night and this evening's dinner and beer. Such was Frank's drunken cycle: drink, sleep, fish, drink, sleep, fish.
"Listen, Frank. I'd love to take your fish, I really would, but I have three freezers full of the damned things and, if I were to bet, half of them would be from you. Honestly, Frank, I have fish coming out my eyeballs."
Frank looked back and forth from his fish to the bartender at this unfathomable turn of events. For a moment he seemed as if he was going to cry. His mouth formed a little circle.
Lazlo stepped away and wiped down the bar. Gertie was in the kitchen. By the looks of it, she had almost finished closing down for the night. Business had been brisk until dark, then had fallen off like usual, leaving only locals and the occasional tourist too stunned by the reality of the Salton Sea to know that they never should have stopped here.
He poured a fresh beer for Andy, their local daft. The man claimed to be a rocket scientist but looked more like a mad scientist. The only thing more guaranteed than Frank trying to trade fish for beer was Andy sitting in his usual spot, mumbling to himself, doodling in his little notebook as he sat with his ever-present tortoiseshell glasses and clothes - a wrinkled conspiracy of a white laboratory coat over an Hawaiian shirt, shorts and flip flops.
JosÈ sat by the door. Laz didn't know if the man was illegal or not, but he was the all_around handyman no one could do without. He didn't talk much and had a haunted look in his eyes. Whatever the reason for the expression, the rail-thin Mexican took his own counsel.
