Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse: A Novel

by Victor Gischler

  Mortimer’s stomach pinched. “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Just for an hour.”

  “No.”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “I said no.”

  Bill dropped the rope, turned on Mortimer, pointed at him. “Listen, pal. The only people who don’t want to go to Joey Armageddon’s are those who’ve never been to one. Ten minutes. You won’t be sorry.”

  Mortimer admitted to himself he’d like to see downtown, the little Norman Rockwell Main Street, the storefront where he’d sold insurance. He wondered if he’d recognize the town he’d lived in. His old house had waited nine years. It could wait a little longer.

  “Okay,” Mortimer said. “Lead the way.”

  “You’ll love it.”

  “Just pull the sled.”

  Spring City was the kind of sleepy small town high school kids vowed to leave for the big city. Before the Fall there had been a bank and a post office, various stores. A blinking stoplight. Old men had stood in front of the greasy diner, thumbs hooked in denim overalls as they discussed the Volunteers’ football season and the doings at the First Baptist Church. A Laundromat. Feed store. Hardee’s.

  Now, as Mortimer and Buffalo Bill pulled the sled toward the old armory, vague faces watched them from dirty windows. There was an eerie caution in their expressions. Mortimer asked Bill if they should be worried.

  “Not in town,” Bill said. “We’re safe enough. I think they have a militia here.”

  A militia. The idea made Mortimer feel nervous instead of safer.

  The armory had been transformed. A sign above the double doors in bright pink, professionally stenciled, not the rough spray-paint job they’d seen on their way in, declared the place JOEY ARMAGEDDON’S.

  Mortimer raised an eyebrow. This had been a place for high school dances, city league basketball and town hall meetings. What was it now?

  They walked inside, Bill leading the way, excited like a little kid going to a birthday party. Mortimer did not recognize the interior of the armory. Tables and chairs were scattered throughout it, a hodgepodge mismatch of booths and other furniture clearly looted from various restaurants and pubs. At the far end of the auditorium, a long pine bar; behind the bar and slightly elevated, a stage. What looked like two enormous birdcages flanked the stage on either side. Strings of unlit Christmas tree lights crisscrossed the ceiling, hanging low.

  “Will the sled be okay outside?”

  “Nobody pulls shit within five hundred yards of a Joey Armageddon’s.” Bill beelined for the bar.

  Mortimer followed.

  As he approached the bar, Mortimer noticed a dozen men at a pair of picnic tables along the far wall. They wore dirty clothes and spooned a thick, brown stew into their scruffy faces. Next to the picnic tables was a line of stationary bicycles, a cumbersome wad of wires and cables leading from the bicycles to a metal box.

  He caught up with Bill at the bar, where the cowboy had caught the bartender’s attention.

  “Is the beer cold?” Bill asked.

  “Sure,” said the bartender. He was fat and bald, a large tattoo of a black spider in the middle of his forehead. “The kegs are outside in the snow. Cold beer in summer, that’s the real trick.”

  “Great. You have the house special microbrew? Chattanooga Brown?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Ran out three nights ago, and the Red Stripes are fucking up the supply wagons coming north. We got Freddy’s Piss Yellow.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Remember Pabst Blue Ribbon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not that good.”

  “Two mugs,” Bill said.

  Spider-face leaned on the bar. “Let’s see the color of your money, friend.”

  Bill put the silver coins on the bar. Spider-face took one and pushed the rest back. He pulled the tap and filled two mugs with foamy, bright yellow liquid and set the mugs in front of Bill and Mortimer.

  “You got any rooms?” Bill asked.

  “Five coins a night.”

  Bill frowned. “That’s pretty steep. It’ll clean me out.”

  “That’s with electricity and plumbing. You’ll think you’re at the fucking Marriott.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  Spider-face shrugged and went about his business.

  Bill lifted his mug. “Cheers.”

  Mortimer tasted the Freddy’s Piss Yellow. It tasted more or less like beer. Beer somebody had used to wash his balls. But after his third sip, Mortimer felt his headache ease a little. Hair of the dog.

  “Can I see one of those coins?”

  “Sure.”

  Mortimer turned one of the coins over in his hands; it was heavy, maybe lead or nickel with a shiny silver coating, smaller than a silver dollar but bigger than a fifty-cent piece. Primitive stamping. It had ONE ARMAGEDDON DOLLAR on one side, a picture of a mushroom cloud on the other.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Armageddon dollar,” Bill said.

  “Yes, the words Armageddon Dollar printed on one side tipped me off.”

  “They’re used as currency at all Joey Armageddon locations.”

  “The place has its own money? How many locations are there?”

  Bill shrugged. “If I were you, I’d exchange that sled of trade goods for Armageddon dollars right away.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “For one thing, carrying a bag of coins is easier than pulling that damn sled everyplace. Which, by the way, is getting kind of old.”

  “What if I want to shop somewhere other than Joey Armageddon’s?”

  Bill chuckled, sipped beer. “There isn’t anyplace else.”

  Mortimer asked Spider-face where he could trade his goods for money. The bartender pointed through a door.

  “Be right back,” Mortimer told Bill.

  Mortimer went to the sled, made sure no one was looking, then took one of the Johnnie Walker bottles from beneath the tarp and carried it back inside, went through the door the barman had indicated.

  A small man sat behind a wire-mesh cage, a little window in front of him, like a bank teller. Sitting on a stool in a corner was a three-hundred-pound black man in army fatigues and a purple fez. He looked grim and dangerous. The M16 machine gun in his arms didn’t help him look any friendlier.

  The white-haired man behind the cage wore a thick pair of glasses, a pencil behind his ear. He regarded Mortimer with little interest. “Yes?”

  Mortimer cleared his throat. “I’m here to trade.”

  The white-haired man yawned. “Buying or selling?”

  Mortimer put the Johnnie Walker on the counter. “Selling.”

  The man’s eyes slowly widened. “Is that real?”

  “Yes.”

  “We had someone in here before.” A warning tone in the man’s voice. “He drilled the top and filled the empty bottle with home mash. After we beat him, the mayor sentenced him to a month on the bicycles. I’ll ask you again. Is it real?”

  “It’s real,” Mortimer said. “As are the other thirty-five bottles out on my sled.”

  “Thirty-five?” The man trembled. “Mister, if you’re telling the truth, you just became the richest man in town.”

  “I have other things too.” Mortimer listed the items.

  Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead as he copied the list into a little notebook with his pencil. “Can I get your name?”

  “Mortimer Tate.”

  “I’m Silas Jones, Mr. Tate. And may I say you are a most welcome and valuable customer here at Joey Armageddon’s.”

  The tally came to seven thousand Armageddon dollars, and Mortimer took the Emperor’s Suite on the second floor of the brick building attached to the armory. Two rooms, a double bed in each. A bathroom.

  Mortimer Tate took his first crap on a working toilet in nine years.

  He took a shower. A hot shower. Dried himself with a clean towel. Put on a terry cloth robe. A knock on the
door.

  It was the clerk, Silas Jones.

  “I trust everything is to your satisfaction, Mr. Tate.”

  “Completely.”

  “I have been authorized to give you this.”

  Silas Jones handed him a pink card. It had been laminated. On the front was a mushroom cloud exploding upward into a pair of breasts. On the back were Mortimer’s name and the words Platinum Member.

  “What’s this?”

  Jones gasped. “What’s this?” He looked surprised. “Why, Mr. Tate, this is one of the most sought-after status symbols of the new world. This is a Joey Armageddon’s Platinum membership. It entitles you to special treatment at any of our fine locations.”

  “How many locations is that?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Jones. “Last count was something like twenty. I think.”

  “What kind of special treatment?”

  “Alas, I don’t know that either, since I myself have not been fortunate enough to achieve Platinum membership.”

  Uh-huh.

  Buffalo Bill emerged from one of the bedrooms. He wore only his boots, his hat and a towel. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s like Bucking-ham fucking Palace.” Bill was middling drunk, having worked halfway through a complimentary bottle of Freddy’s Piss Vinegar Vodka. (Bill had asked for a bottle of Major Dundee’s Slow-Motion Gin, but the most recent shipment was rumored to have been hijacked by Red Stripes.)

  Bill slung an arm around Mortimer’s shoulders. “I saved this motherfucker’s life. Best thing I ever did.” He slurped vodka, gagged, and it trickled down his chin.

  Silas Jones cleared his throat. “Quite.”

  Bill sniffed one of his own armpits. “Damn, I stink. Better shower.” He stumbled into the bathroom.

  “Mr. Tate, if I may offer a suggestion,” Jones said. “You are now in possession of a staggering number of Armageddon dollars. You’ll probably want to take steps to secure their…uh…security.”

  “Is there an open bank in town?”

  “The First Armageddon Bank of Spring City is an authorized subsidiary of Joey Armageddon’s Sassy A-Go-Go. I happen to be the head teller.”

  “Thanks. Sign me up. Where can I get some food?”

  “The kitchen downstairs at Joey Armageddon’s will be open in an hour.”

  “I’d like some new clothes.”

  “The selection downstairs in the trading post is top notch, and Joey Armageddon’s has a tailor on call. I can send a runner for him if you need alterations.”

  “So is Joey Armageddon’s the only store in the world or what?”

  “Mr. Tate, with all due modesty, I think you’ll come to find that Joey Armageddon’s is the world.”

  X

  Mortimer left Buffalo Bill snoring in the Emperor’s Suite and smelling like Dial soap.

  The Emperor’s Suite had come with Dial soap and Pantene shampoo and a small tube of Aim toothpaste. The suite was normally one hundred Armageddon dollars a night. For Platinum members it was only sixty.

  Mortimer trudged the ten blocks from the armory to his old neighborhood. He wanted to find his old house before nightfall. A few people passed him on the street. Nobody said hello, but nobody seemed terrified either.

  Some houses looked perfectly normal. Others were clearly abandoned, and a few had been burned down to the foundation. But there was something else. Mortimer couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He stood in the middle of the street, turned three hundred and sixty degrees trying to figure it out.

  No cars. None driving, none parked in the driveways or along the streets. The gas might have gone stale, but where did the cars go?

  He kept walking.

  He turned onto his street, spotted his house about halfway down. It came into focus as he trudged closer. The windows were dark, but so were all the windows along the street. No power. His house looked dirty and unpainted. The shrubs grown long and wild. It hadn’t been such a bad house, three bedrooms, two baths, a fireplace. Now the gutters hung loose at one end. He stood watching the house for ten minutes but didn’t see or hear any signs of life.

  He climbed the three steps to the front porch. The wood creaked under his boots. Someone had painted graffiti on the front door, a blue circle with a triangle of three dots inside. Some gang?

  Concern for Anne suddenly welled up inside him. What had happened to her? Did she make it okay when the world went crazy?

  He knocked on the door. It felt strange, even after all this time, to knock before he entered his own home. He pushed the door open and entered.

  The living room was nearly barren, a sofa with stuffing oozing out of the cushions and a beanbag. He stood there trying to remember the good times with Anne, long nights in front of a cozy fire. Mortimer’s eyes grew misty as the past formed a picture in his mind.

  The old screaming woman with the frying pan in her hand broke the spell.

  “Whoa!” Mortimer flinched, backed away.

  She was wild eyed, gray hair exploding in all directions. She rushed at Mortimer, the frying pan swinging savagely. Mortimer threw up his arms, tried to duck away. A glancing blow on the tip of his elbow shot hot pain up his arm.

  “Lady, please. Jesus!” Mortimer attempted flight, tripped backward over the beanbag.

  The old lady loomed over him, mouth a feral, toothless grimace, ragged dress billowing around her like the tattered cape of some obsolete superhero. “My house. The place was empty, so I puts my mark on the door. Them’s the rules.” She lifted the pan over her head for a killer blow.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He reached into his pocket, came out with a handful of coins and tossed them at the old woman’s feet. “Here, take them.”

  She stepped back, blinked at the glittering coins on the floor. “Are those…?” She knelt, picked one up and held it in the light. “It is. Armageddon dollars!” She scooped them into her trembling hands. “Thank you. Oh, my God. Thank you.”

  Her head came up suddenly and she met Mortimer’s gaze, one eye half-milky with cataracts. “Wait a minute. I know what this is about.”

  “It’s not about anything.” Mortimer struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry I barged in.”

  “A strapping young buck like you. I know what you want from a woman.”

  “Oh, shit.” He backed away, headed for the door.

  The old woman ripped open the front of her dress, buttons flying. “Take me, you randy bastard. I’m bought and paid for.” Her breasts flopped into the open like deflated hot-water bottles.

  Mortimer screamed and dashed for the door, made it outside and kept running.

  “You goddamn pussy,” she called after him. “Come back here and deliver the sausage!”

  XI

  Back in the Emperor’s Suite, Mortimer found Bill’s vodka bottle. Empty. He sniffed, and the fumes scorched the inside of his nose. “Hell.”

  Bill walked in from the other room, tucking in his shirt. He looked alert and no longer smelled like a campfire after his shower. “Sorry, all gone.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Sounds good. Let me get my boots on.”

  Mortimer squinted at the empty vodka bottle. “You can handle it?”

  “I never get sick,” Bill said. “Or hung over.”

  “Come on, then.”

  They went downstairs. Things had changed with evening. Half the scruffy men along the far wall now pedaled stationary bikes while the other half sat on them and leaned on the handlebars. All huffed breath. Sweaty. Christmas tree lights zigzagged the ceiling of the hall. It looked like a dystopia-themed high school prom. Music leaked tinnily from unseen stereo speakers.

  “That sounds familiar,” Mortimer said. “What is that?”

  “It’s Tony Orlando,” Bill said. “‘Knock Three Times.’”

  Mortimer shook his head. “Jesus.”

  “No, Tony Orlando.”

  A bell went off, like a doorbell chime. The resting guys on the stationary bicycles started pedaling, and the half who
’d been pedaling rested. The Christmas tree lights dimmed momentarily during the changeover, Tony Orlando’s voice stretching into slow motion, then picking up speed again.

  Talk about a shitty day job, thought Mortimer.

  A man appeared in front of them wearing the worst tuxedo in history, neon orange with a ruffled shirt. He sported a handlebar moustache, and his slicked-down hair was meticulously parted in the middle. It looked like he’d escaped from a psycho ward’s barbershop quartet.

  “Gentlemen?”

  “I want to get a drink,” Mortimer said.

  He sniffed. “We’re switching over to our dinner shift. You’ll have to wait.”

  Bill stuck a finger in his face. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I am Emile, the maître d’, and I’m sorry, but—”

  “Show him the card.” Bill elbowed Mortimer.

  Mortimer produced the Platinum card. “This?”

  Emile’s eyes widened; the ends of his moustache twitched. “Sir!”

  The maître d’ turned abruptly, snapped his fingers. Burly men appeared from nowhere. They frantically prepared a table down near the stage, white tablecloth, a candle. Emile ushered them to the table. There was much bowing and hand wringing.

  “I humbly and abjectly apologize most profusely,” Emile said. “I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Tate.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Of course, of course. You are obviously a most generous and forgiving—”

  “He told you to forget it, friend,” Bill said. “Now rustle us up a bottle before I stomp your foppish ass.”

  Emile’s smile strained at the edges. “Yes. Certainly.”

  “Bring us some vodka and some clean glasses.”

  Emile left, bowing and muttering under his breath.

  “You don’t have to be so hard on the help,” Mortimer said.

  “Hey, you’re an important guy now. You can’t let these peons piss on your boots.”

  Mortimer blew out a ragged sigh. “I need that drink.”

  Bill leaned forward on the table, lowered his voice. “You okay?”

  “I went to my house.”

  Bill nodded. “Let me guess. Your wife wasn’t there.”