Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse: A Novel

by Victor Gischler

  Paul’s head flopped, and his chin hit his chest. The bloodflow had slowed to a dribble. The former Red Stripe sat in a pool of his blood so big and round, it seemed impossible that it had all fit inside him. Paul had drained and looked shriveled. A raisin that had once been a grape.

  “I never seen anybody bleed out that quick before,” Bill said. “Must be some kind of world record.”

  “Good.” Sheila turned her back on the mess and began to pack.

  Mortimer stood a little while, feeling vaguely sick. The copper smell of blood mixed with coffee and pine.

  They finished gathering their gear and followed Sheila back to the road. They walked a long way in silence.

  XXVII

  They walked for two days toward Chattanooga, looking for human settlements but finding none. There was only the long broken highway and the occasional dead automobile. They saw people in twos and threes once or twice in the distance but paid them the courtesy of leaving them be. Once, a line of Red Stripes sent them into a ditch, where they watched and waited as the column marched past.

  They said little to one another. An uneasy pall hung over the trio. To Mortimer, Sheila now seemed like something alien and dangerous. Equally disturbing was how Bill took the episode in stride, almost as if a young girl hadn’t blown a stranger’s testicles into hamburger at all.

  Mortimer realized his problem had nothing to do with Bill or Sheila. They knew how to conduct themselves in this shattered world. Mortimer didn’t. But he was learning. Violence is the way now. It gets you what you want. Solves your problems. What could we have done with the guy anyway? Let him go? No. Squeeze a trigger and the problem goes away.

  Mortimer considered his brief interrogation of the Red Stripe. Somewhere a ghostly, mysterious leader pulled the strings of a reluctant army. This too must be part of the natural order. It was too much to hope that the world might be left to heal on its own. Society had always been defined by its antagonists. The Greeks fought the Romans and the Romans battled the barbarians. Now the desperate and bedraggled refugees of a broken civilization had the Red Stripes to deal with. It depressed Mortimer to think that conflict was the natural state of the universe. It all started with a Big Bang, and it would just bang and bang and bang until it banged itself out.

  No wonder Nietzsche said people would need to invent God if He didn’t exist.

  Stupid Kraut.

  Who decided to invent Nietzsche?

  One of Anne’s books. She had so many egghead books, wanted to go to the University of Memphis to study philosophy, but Mortimer had talked her out of it. He had talked her out of so much. Talked her out of living. Oh, God. No wonder she’d left him.

  Nine years to figure that out.

  Jesus.

  That night they made camp in the middle of Interstate 75, the husks of old cars on three sides of them providing shelter from the wind. Over a modest campfire, Bill fried the last of the suspicious sausages Sheila had liberated from the Joey’s pantry.

  “I should have asked him if anyone else made it out,” Sheila said.

  Mortimer looked up. He’d been nodding off. “What?”

  “The Red Stripe. Whatshisname.”

  “Paul,” Bill said.

  “I should have asked Paul if any of the other girls made it out. I tried to find them before we left, but I guess they were with clients. I hope they’re okay.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.” Mortimer didn’t believe it for a second.

  “Sure.”

  For a moment, she seemed to want to say more, but maybe she didn’t know how. She rolled over and went to sleep. After a while a sound like soft crying came from her side of the campfire, but it was difficult to tell over the howl of wind through the busted-out car windows.

  They next morning they started walking again, every muscle in Mortimer’s body groaning from sleeping on the ground.

  By midday he spotted the remains of Chattanooga’s insignificant skyline, humping up from the horizon like the yellowed bones of some long-lost skeleton rising from the dead.

  XXVIII

  Sheila told Mortimer this: The Chattanooga Joey Armageddon’s (the Joey Armageddon’s, the first, the prototype, the home office) was at the top of Lookout Mountain.

  This is what Mortimer knew about Lookout Mountain:

  When he was ten years old, his father had taken him. There was a legitimate Civil War memorial at the top, a historical landmark, flags, cannons, etc. Additionally there were a few cheesy tourist destinations in the area. Ruby Falls, a long cave with an underground waterfall at the end. The proprietors shone a red spotlight on the rushing water to give it the “ruby” effect. At certain times of the year, the underground river that fed the falls slowed to a sad trickle. But nobody wanted to go to a tourist attraction called Ruby Trickle. Another place: Rock City was a collection of unique rock formations connected by flimsy bridges and walkways. Ceramic gnomes had been placed strategically to heighten the cheese factor. To a ten-year-old Mortimer it had all seemed like a magical land of wonder and enchantment.

  As an adult, these wonders were much less wondrous. One Labor Day weekend, a year after his wedding, Mortimer had taken Anne to see the sights. He’d talked her out of attending a Shakespeare festival.

  Anne had not been amused. It was a blisteringly hot day, and she was dirty and sweat-stained by the time they’d finished touring Rock City. Even Mortimer wondered why he’d thought the trip would be a good idea. Looking around he’d seen only families. Moms and dads with two or three kids on the loose. The realization had hit him palpably in the gut that a hot summer day among ceramic gnomes might not have been his father’s idea of a good time. The things parents did for their kids.

  Not knowing what else to do, Mortimer had pressed on, taking Anne to Ruby Falls. At least the caves would be cooler. The gift shops were filled with the bright debris of future spring cleanings.

  At the end of Anne and Mortimer’s long cave tour, the music swelled, and suddenly, in the total darkness, the red spotlight had blazed forth to illuminate a pathetic trickle of water. A recorded voice boomed Behold Ruby Falls!

  In the indifferent silence that followed, while the bored tour group shuffled and looked over their shoulders for the exit, Anne suddenly burst out laughing. It had all been so ridiculous, the big buildup, all for a little dribble into a puddle. Mortimer had started laughing too, and kitsch value had saved the weekend, at least a little. They adjourned to a Mexican café and got slightly drunk on watery margaritas. They’d had fun, but Mortimer had always been aware that in some important way, on some important level, he and Anne weren’t fully connected. Perhaps she would have thought the same about him if they’d ended up at the Shakespeare festival.

  One last memory struck Mortimer with wry amusement.

  The Incline was a trolley-style railroad car that climbed Lookout Mountain to the Civil War park on top. As a ten-year-old, Mortimer had ridden with his dad down the Incline to St. Elmo Station, where tourist shops and ice-cream parlors and arcades and frolicking fun in every form clustered around the foot of the mountain.

  When Mortimer had returned with Anne, he’d been shocked to find the area had fallen on hard times. The streets were deserted and most of the shops had been boarded up. The once bustling tourist zone around St. Elmo Station had become a ghost town.

  It was the only place Mortimer thought might actually be better off for the fall of civilization.

  They still had a long walk ahead of them.

  Lookout Mountain was south of the city. They hiked I-75 until it intersected with I-24, then headed west on 24. They found out quickly enough which exit to take. A large wooden sign had been erected, featuring the vivid illustration of a thrashing, large-breasted woman against a pink mushroom cloud. An arrow underneath with neatly painted lettering read THIS WAY TO JOEY ARMAGEDDON’S SASSY A-GO-GO.

  Their moods picked up at the sight of the sign, and they all three exchanged sheepish smiles. It wasn’t quite like coming h
ome, but it beat the hell out of camping on the interstate. They picked up the pace as they hit the exit ramp. They wanted a bed and a meal and a drink. Many drinks. And loud music and all the extravagant good times for which Joey Armageddon’s was famous. It was why people came from miles and miles. To lose themselves in indulgence and forget the daily horror of simply waking up every morning and living. Respite, haven, sanctuary, and yet much more than that. Something that reminded you on a primal level that it was good to be alive.

  Five minutes later, a dozen men pointed automatic rifles at them.

  XXIX

  “Good evening, sir. My name is James. I’d like to direct you and your party through our checkpoint, at which time you’ll need to check your weapons with our clerk. He’ll be happy to give you a receipt, and you’re free to reclaim your weapons upon departure.”

  The man who’d uttered this well-rehearsed speech was young, with neatly cut blond hair and a smile full of straight, white teeth. He wore impeccable black trousers, black wingtips, a starched white shirt with black tie and black blazer. He held an M16 automatic rifle on Mortimer and his companions. The men behind James were dressed and equipped in the exact same manner.

  Bill clutched one of the deer rifles to his chest like he was being asked to give up his firstborn. “Like hell.”

  The smile never wavered from James’s face. “I’m afraid you will be denied entrance if we are unable to secure your firearms. For the safety of our drunken, irresponsible patrons, we must forbid all unauthorized weapons. Joey Armageddon thanks you for your cooperation.”

  Mortimer admired the young man’s professionalism. Mortimer was confident James would remain polite and friendly the whole time he and his chums were shredding Mortimer and his companions with a lethal rain of automatic gunfire.

  He edged closer to Bill, nudged him in the ribs. “Just pretend it’s Dodge City and you’re giving up your guns to Wyatt Earp.”

  Bill frowned. “Ha-fucking-ha-ha.”

  “Come on,” Sheila said. “I just want to go in.”

  “Okay,” Mortimer said to the guards. “We’ll check the hardware.”

  James seemed genuinely delighted. “We appreciate your cooperation. Please follow the path through the gate. The clerk is on the other side.”

  The gate wasn’t some half-assed blockade of dead cars like he’d seen in the small towns to the north. They’d put a cinderblock wall across the road. It was eight feet high with sporadic guard platforms on the other side, crisp men in starched shirts staring down over the sights of their M16 rifles. An iron gate swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Mortimer followed Sheila and Bill through to the other side.

  It took a moment for the little village to snap into focus. Mortimer wasn’t sure what he was seeing at first, but recognition dawned in ten seconds. They were on St. Elmo Avenue, and Mortimer could see St. Elmo Station a block and a half away.

  Mortimer took another few seconds to realize why everything looked so strange. It looked like an actual town, a place where people lived and worked and hadn’t endured nearly a decade of doom. If there had been cars on the road, Mortimer might have believed he’d finally awakened from a long, detailed nightmare. The village around St. Elmo Station bustled with commerce. The goods and services from various shops spilled out onto the streets, giving the place an open-air-market feel. Everything was clean and organized, the streets and buildings in good repair.

  And light. With the oncoming darkness, a man walked the street lighting oil lamps set high on thin iron poles. They did not fear the dark here. There was no starvation or danger. Even the men with machine guns were courteous.

  “Sir? Excuse me, sir?”

  Mortimer blinked out of his stupor, turned to see a squat, round gentleman with a sweaty red face watching him expectantly.

  “Sir, my name is Reginald, and I’m the master gun clerk. Please step to the kiosk.”

  The gun kiosk was some kind of converted ticket booth with a kid barely out of his teens at the window. Behind the kid hung all manner of rifles and pistols. Even a sword or two. Sheila and Bill were already folding receipts and putting them into pants pockets.

  Reginald said, “If you please, sir, hand your weaponry through the window to Steven. He’ll tag it for you and make out a receipt.”

  He handed the kid the shotgun, then the pistol he’d taken off the Red Stripe. He felt oddly naked without the guns. They’d become an important part of his personal inventory. The kid handed him back a receipt, which Mortimer shoved down the front pocket of his jeans.

  “What if I need to defend myself?”

  Reginald smiled with practiced patience. “You need only defend yourself from quality service and premium female companionship. I’d surrender.”

  Good suggestion.

  Mortimer, Bill and Sheila made their way toward St. Elmo Station, walking in no particular hurry, craning their necks and gawking at the village. At one point, Sheila uttered a muted squeal and skipped toward a shop with dazzling women’s clothing hanging in the window. She pressed her face against the glass like a five-year-old gazing longingly at a candy store display.

  Mortimer came up behind her. “Buying a dress for the ball?”

  She sighed. “Not likely without money.” She brightened slightly. “But I’ll get a job as a Joey Girl again. Then I’ll get clothes even better than these.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “What gets me about these clothes is that some of them are only pretty,” she said. “Not made to keep you warm or dry. Just to be pretty. Can you believe they’d make clothes just for that? I guess they used to all the time.”

  Anne had always wanted the most impractical clothing and loathed Mortimer for pointing that out. “Every girl should have at least one dress just to be pretty.”

  Mortimer didn’t know if he quite believed that, but it was the right thing to say. A smile flickered across Sheila’s face, and for an instant the hardness fell away and she wasn’t a teenage whore and killer. She was just a young girl looking at pretty dresses in a shop window.

  They realized they’d lost Bill. It was bound to happen, so many things to catch the eye and turn the head. Soon Sheila was off looking into another store window. Without vehicular traffic, the middle of the avenue had become a sort of town square. A man played a banjo while a small monkey performed acrobatic feats. Mortimer was glad the monkey hadn’t been eaten. How many escaped zoo animals roamed the countryside? A few yards down, another performer juggled flaming batons. Someone else dealt three-card monty. He smelled cotton candy and some kind of meat on a stick.

  He realized he didn’t have any money but hoped he could get the same credit here he’d gotten at the Joey’s in Cleveland. He really wanted to sleep indoors tonight. It would be a great gift to Bill and Sheila to buy them both a big dinner, a few bottles of wine. Hell, maybe he’d even get Sheila a new dress for the occasion. Mortimer admitted to himself he was thinking about everything except why he’d come all this way in the first place.

  Somewhere at the top of Lookout Mountain his wife, Anne, waited.

  Now that he was here, the idea of marching up to her and saying, “ Hi, honey, it’s me, your husband. Long time no see,” seemed ludicrous. A juvenile part of him did relish the surprised look he hoped to see on her face, but mostly he didn’t know how she would react, and that made him nervous.

  But Mortimer owed her something. He couldn’t articulate what that might be, not exactly, but he needed to see her, and he honestly believed she’d want to see him. Sure she would. They were married after all.

  He was stalling. Was it possible Mortimer no longer wanted—or needed—to see Anne? He’d come down the mountain alone. It might only be natural for him to seek out his wife. To connect again with the world via the only person he could think of who might want to see him. But Mortimer wasn’t alone anymore. He counted Bill as a friend. Sheila…well, he didn’t know what to think of Sheila and her “apology.” She was more than an acquaintance
but not quite anything else, yet Mortimer still felt he wanted to call Sheila friend. Even if she was a scary, ferocious demon child.

  So what did he want from Anne? What did he think she might want from him? He stood in the town square, eyes going unfocused as he thought hard about it, jugglers and monkeys and cardsharps plying their trades around him. He blotted them out. Something was coming to him, some significant thought coalescing from all the loose ends knocking around in his head.

  Sheila emerged from the crowd to stand next to him, tentatively touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Shhhhh. Don’t talk,” Mortimer said. “I’m having an epiphany.”

  He had come all this way, fueled by the misguided notion that he still loved Anne, that he needed to find her again, win her back somehow. What he really wanted was to stem his abject loneliness, the hollow ache that had clawed and gnawed his gut for nine years, until finally he had to fill that burning hole with…something. His desperate mind grabbed for something familiar and had latched on to the memory of Anne. Mortimer had not wanted to march into the gray unknown of a shattered world without a destination, without hope of the familiar, so he’d fabricated the myth of Anne and their possible reunion.

  But Mortimer found that he wasn’t alone. He had Bill and Sheila and a Joey Armageddon’s Platinum card. He was doing all right. He was reinventing himself in a new context. This different, surprising, shocking world might disgust him, confound him, bruise and terrify him, but so far it had not knocked him down, not so badly that he couldn’t find his feet again. Mortimer Tate could stand up. He did not need his ex-wife.

  He thought maybe that he loved her still but wasn’t in love with her. Is that what women meant when they said that bullshit? Yes, Mortimer understood now. His mind had broadened to understand this simple truth. All it took was the end of the world.