Alex Lee Martinez
Gil's All Fright Diner
This book is dedicated to the following people in order of importance:
To Me, because I wrote it.
To Mom, without whom I probably wouldn't have.
To the men and women of the DFW Writer's Workshop. Their wise advice made this book better, although I'll later deny I ever said anything of the sort and claim this part of the dedication is a typo.
And to Don "The Dragon" Wilson.
In the middle of nowhere, along a quiet stretch of road, the diner dreamt of the hungry dead. And of two men.
Well, not men exactly.
Earl bounced in his seat as the pickup quaked. His beer slipped and settled in his lap. He grunted curses as he snatched up the can too late to prevent a yellow puddle around his groin.
"Hell, Duke, do you gotta hit every goddamn hole in the road?"
Duke shrugged and offered a mumbled apology.
"Yeah, well just try and watch it."
Earl reached into the pool of empty beers. "Damn it, Duke! If that's the last beer, I'm going to have to kick your ass." Like Arthur with Excalibur, he withdrew a full beer. "You got lucky." He popped it open and gulped down half its contents.
Duke grunted.
"How we doing on gas?" asked Earl.
"We got enough."
"How much we got?"
"Enough."
"Damn it, Duke, can't you just answer a goddamn question?"
Duke took a moment to lean out his window and spit. "We got enough, Earl."
The rusty gray truck bounced down the dusty road, more of a dirt trail really. Worn shocks were helpless against the rocky, hole-ridden roadway, and with each jolt, the engine rattled as if it might rip free.