Other stories, while unconfirmed, were widely believed nevertheless. The most popular rumor claimed Atlanta was the headquarters of the Red Czar. Furthermore, the Czar himself was credited with killing all the gang chiefs in the city one by one, by challenging them to duels, beheading them with a fireman’s axe and putting their heads on spikes as a warning to any who might defy him.
“And that’s what you’ve gotten us into,” Bill said.
“How the hell was I supposed to know?” Mortimer pushed aside a tree branch, followed the narrow game trail. “It’s not like anyone pulled me aside and said oh, by the way, the city of Atlanta is now instant death, so don’t go there, whatever you do. Next you’ll tell me they don’t make Coke anymore.”
“Ha ha. I’m serious about this, man.”
“I heard there’s a rapist grizzly bear,” Sheila said. “He escaped from the zoo, and he catches people camping and rapes them from behind.”
“Oh, now, come on!” Another branch slapped Mortimer in the face. Fucking bullshit map. Where the hell’s the road?
“I don’t know about no rapist bear,” Bill said. “But I know people who go there don’t come back.”
“And how do you know that?”
“A friend of a guy of somebody I talked to in Nashville.”
“A friend of a guy of somebody you talked to, huh?” Mortimer squinted at the map, hoped he hadn’t gotten them lost.
“I’m just saying it would have been nice if you consulted me first is all,” Bill said.
“Me too,” Sheila said.
“I couldn’t very well consult you from my prison cell.” To Sheila Mortimer said, “And what are you even doing here? I thought you were going to try to talk them into letting you be a Joey Girl.”
Sheila made a disgusted sound. “I had a change of heart about that. I don’t want any sweaty men climbing on me unless I say so. A whore is a whore no matter how fancy. I want to kick ass and explore like you guys.”
“Did you hear that, Mort?” Bill asked. “We kick ass and explore. I think we should put that on our business cards.”
Sheila stuck out her tongue.
Mortimer stopped, sat down on a log, dropped his gear. They each carried two backpacks stuffed with supplies, and Mortimer wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Spring had definitely come early. “Take five.”
Sheila and Bill dropped their backpacks too, sat on the ground, visibly relieved.
“When do we find the road?” Sheila asked.
“Not much farther.” I hope. Mortimer swigged water from his canteen. “Okay, let’s redistribute some of this stuff.” He clapped his hands. “Gather ’round, kids. Christmas time.”
He opened three backpacks before he found what he was looking for, a slightly dented Union cavalryman’s hat, blue with gold trim. He handed it to Bill. “Not quite like the one you lost, but it’s the best I could do on short notice.”
“Whoa.” Bill took the hat, tried it on. It fit well. “Hell, now I do look like George Custer. Where’d you find it?”
“Museum display. But wait, there’s more. Armageddon said he’d get whatever I needed for the journey, so I put in an order for these.” Mortimer went into the backpack and came out with a pair of pistols with belt and holsters, handed them to Bill.
“Oh, my,” Bill said, taking the pistols. “Oh, my goodness.”
Mortimer wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the cowboy’s eyes go watery.
Bill cleared his throat. “These are beautiful.” The .45-caliber Colt Peacemakers were handsomely made, well oiled, the finish a deep blue. He strapped them on, performed a couple of experimental quick-draws, a wide grin splitting his face.
“I hope these are to your liking,” Mortimer said. “Of course, I didn’t have time to consult you…”
“Oh, hell.” Bill looked mildly embarrassed. “You know I’m not going to let you run off into danger all by yourself.”
The backpacks also contained three .45 MAC-10 machine pistols with shoulder straps and extra magazines and two .45 automatics with shoulder holsters. He handed the weapons around, and they spent a few minutes strapping them on and getting the feel.
They continued to search the backpacks until they found food, and Mortimer was delighted to discover a pound of ground coffee and a small supply of cigars. When Armageddon paid them the twenty thousand, Mortimer would damn well lay in a supply of coffee, whatever the cost.
They ate, drank more water from the canteens.
“Okay,” Mortimer said. “Let’s get moving.”
The road was only another ten minutes’ march. They checked the map again and set off. They were armed, fed and headed to Atlanta.
In the time before chaos and destruction, one could streak down I-75 from Chattanooga to Atlanta in under two hours. Now the world was again an enormous place, and from Lookout Mountain, via the zigzag “safe” route Lars had outlined on the map, the forbidden city of Atlanta was a good week’s hard hike.
The fourth day, it began to rain and didn’t stop. They shivered in the bone-numbing cold. Staying dry was an impossible task. They tried to stay positive. Mortimer and his companions trudged on undaunted, spirits refusing to be dampened.
XL
“My spirits are fucking dampened,” Sheila said. “And I hate you.”
Mortimer wiped rain from his eyes with a dirty hand, left a smear of mud across his face. “Try to remember that nobody invited you.”
Even with the camouflage rain ponchos, they were all cold, soaked and miserable. Sheila especially had been vocal about her discomfort. They’d slogged the old, muddy Forestry Service road that roughly paralleled Highway 78 until they’d hit a little-known entrance into Stone Mountain Park. They lay under a dripping hedgerow and watched the Stone Mountain Inn through a pair of small binoculars.
“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Bill said.
“We’re already past today’s rendezvous time for our contact, and I’m not sleeping in the rain one more night.” Mortimer scanned the plantation-style hotel, broken windows, thick vines growing up the brick. “And it looks deserted to me.” They hadn’t seen a single person for two days, not even at a distance.
“I suppose I would like to dry out,” Bill admitted. “See the chimneys? Some of those rooms have fireplaces.”
“Somebody will see the smoke,” Sheila said.
Mortimer made one more quick scan with the binoculars. “It’ll be dark in an hour, hour and a half at most. Nobody will see the smoke then, and we’ll cover the windows.”
“I’m sold,” Bill said.
“Me too,” said Sheila, “and I want my own room away from you dickheads.”
Bill snorted. “I second that emotion.”
“You snore!”
“Okay, shut up,” Mortimer said. “We’ll take one last look and listen, then dart across the open area and hit that door fast.” The front door was off the hinges, only darkness beyond.
They dashed across the overgrown parking lot and into the door without incident. The place smelled old and mildewed, vines creeping into the open doorway. Debris, old cans, torn drapes, broken bits of furniture. Upstairs and away from the entrance, Mortimer lit a small kerosene lantern. Flashlights were easy to come by. Batteries weren’t.
The first half-dozen rooms they investigated were too demolished to occupy. In one room, they found a relatively undamaged queen-size mattress, which Mortimer and Bill carried to a nearby suite while Sheila held the lantern. Broken glass and crushed beer cans littered the fair-sized fireplace. They cleaned it out and built a fire of busted furniture. They had to search five more rooms before finding another serviceable mattress.
“I think two is enough,” Mortimer said. “Two can sleep while the third is on watch.”
“Right,” Bill said.
Sheila nodded. In spite of her earlier claims, she wanted to stay close to the group. They were far from friendly territory. Bill strung up a thin rope across the room, and they all change
d into dry clothes, hanging the wet ones on the line.
They ate a cold meal of sausage and stale bread. They didn’t talk. Fatigue had sapped them of the will to socialize, and they’d heard all of one another’s conversation by now anyway.
Bill picked up the lantern, stretched, his joints popping. “I’ll scout the rest of the hotel, make sure we don’t have any surprise roommates. Then I’ll take first watch if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” Mortimer said. “Wake me when it’s time.”
When Bill left with the lantern, only the orange coals from the fire lit the room, making everything look like a vague monochrome dream. He sprawled on the mattress, weary.
He was almost asleep when he felt the mattress shift, Sheila’s warm body sliding in next to him. She wore only dry panties and a clean white T-shirt. She smelled like girl sweat and sausage.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah.”
Her hand went to his crotch. “I can do things. If you want me to.”
Yes please. “You don’t have to.”
Her hand slid up to his chest, and she nestled her head into his armpit. “I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“I mean all the time, even out in the forest with nobody around. I’m afraid something could happen. I don’t know what.”
“You don’t have to come with us,” Mortimer said. “We’ll give you some of the food. You could head back. Or wait here. The hotel seems safe enough.” Although he could not promise he’d be able to come back for her.
“No, that’s worse. I tried that at the firehouse. At least this is my choice. I can’t just be nowhere doing nothing, right? A person has to be about something. I’m more afraid of not being about something than I am of anything else. No, I’m going with you. I can help. You’ll see.”
Soon he felt her breathing become steady and deep. The rhythm of it put Mortimer to sleep too.
A gentle nudge on the shoulder woke him. Sheila still lay with an arm across his chest.
Bill squatted next to him, whispered, “Sorry to disturb…uh…whatever it was you were doing.” He spared a glance for Sheila. “Your watch.”
“Okay.”
Bill flopped onto the other mattress as Mortimer pulled on his shoes and strapped on the .45. He looked down at Sheila one last time, so innocent and adolescent in sleep. She was neither, and Mortimer needed to remember that. What am I going to do with you?
Sheila was right about one thing. You had to be about something. Mortimer had come down the mountain because he couldn’t hide in his cave any longer. He needed the world. Needed to see it, be part of it again. And it occurred to him he couldn’t hide atop Lookout Mountain either, drowning himself in Armageddon’s decadence, because eventually the world would come looking. Better to march out and meet it halfway.
The night passed without trouble. The next day, they climbed Stone Mountain.
XLI
They made a wide circle around the front of the mountain where the huge stone-carved likenesses of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson kept watch over the park. East of the mountain, they found the hiking trail that wound its way over a mile up the mountain, a much gentler slope than the sheer face with the three Confederates.
They climbed, stopping occasionally for canteen breaks, pausing to listen to suspicious woodland sounds before moving on again. Gray clouds hovered and roiled, but the downpour had finally abated.
Mortimer’s instructions were clear. Stay on the path and your guide will find you. He’s a little odd but trustworthy, Lars had told them. Sure.
They were two-thirds of the way up the mountain when Bill stopped and frowned. “Did you hear that?”
Mortimer shook his head. “Nope.”
“I did,” Sheila said. “An owl.”
“It was supposed to be an owl,” Bill said. “Sounded more like a five-year-old pretending.”
The hoot came louder from the path ahead of them, and Mortimer heard it this time. Bill was right. It was the worst owl imitation Mortimer had ever heard. He thumbed off the machine pistol’s safety.
“Let’s go back.” Sheila moved close to Mortimer, whispered, “Somebody’s fucking with us.”
“This is where we’re supposed to be,” Mortimer said. “Come on. Take it slow.”
They eased up the mountain path, machine pistols held in front of them. Every few seconds they heard the phony hoot. Finally Mortimer saw him and held up his hand for the others to halt. He pointed at the shrubs, and Bill nodded, lifted his machine pistol.
Hoot. Hoot.
The stooped man behind the shrubs apparently thought he was hiding. A giraffe behind a potted fern had a better chance of concealing itself. He was old, with white hair and wearing a black overcoat unbuttoned, ratty polo shirt and khakis underneath. Scuffed loafers. He held two leaves up to his eyes and crouched lower.
Hoot. Hoot.
“Come out of there,” Mortimer called.
Hoot. Hoot. “Where’s it coming from?” shouted the old man. “Behind you? In front? Above in the tall trees? We move like the cat, like the Indian, like a ghost.” Hoot. “We have you surrounded. Throw down your arms.”
Mortimer glanced to either side. They were in no way surrounded.
“Shoot him,” Sheila said.
Mortimer ignored her. “Come out, please. Let’s talk.”
Hoot.
“Look, we can see you, okay? You’re, like, thirty feet away behind that bush. And it’s not a very big bush.”
The old man paused, then stood straight. He was tall, broad shoulders, snow-white hair and moustache. As he came closer, Mortimer saw the slight gap between his front teeth, piercing blue eyes that Mortimer found a bit unnerving.
“Ah, you have earned my respect,” said the old man. “There’s not many who can outfox old Ted. Yes, you have mighty skills and keen senses. I can see why Armageddon chose you for this mission.”
“You’re our guide?”
“I am indeed.”
Mortimer barely heard Bill mutter, “Jesus.”
“Yes, let Ted be your guide,” the old man said grandly. “Mr. Atlanta, they called me. I know the way and I know the town. Old Ted knows all, the way of the wasp and the willow, the minds of all the creepy crawlies. The song of the pigeon. I see and I hear.”
“Are you going to talk like this the whole time?”
“We must get off the path,” Ted told them. “Others use it besides us. Come. I know a place.”
He darted into the woods.
Sheila grabbed Mortimer’s arm. Tight. “He is a fucking loon. We’re not really going to let him guide us, are we?”
“I’m with Miss Sassy Pants here,” Bill said.
“I don’t have any other ideas,” said Mortimer. “Just follow him.”
A half mile away they sat in a circle of large boulders, which concealed them well enough. “We’ll wait here awhile,” Ted told them.
Ted gratefully accepted their offer of dried fruit and chunks of salami. The old man had apparently been living on rat jerky the last few days. Ted insisted that with enough seasoning it was a little like buffalo. He claimed to have a big farm out west with a giant herd of buffalo, but naturally they’d probably all been poached by now, the majestic creature vanishing from the old west a second time. Ted peppered them with relentless, fragmented stories of how he’d been “a big man” in the old days.
“I’ll be back on top again.” Ted cackled. “Slay the Czar, put a knife in his gizzard. Then old Ted will be duke of Atlanta. Emperor of Georgia!”
“You said other people use the path,” Mortimer prompted.
Ted nodded vigorously as he chewed and swallowed a slice of dried apple. “Indeed. The Stone Mountain Goats. We’re in their territory.”
“I don’t suppose that’s some sort of benign bluegrass band.”
“A gang, of course. I took one of their crossbow bolts in the ass last year,” Ted said. “Want to see the scar?”
“N
o!” Mortimer, Bill and Sheila said together.
“Crossbow? They renaissance fair geeks or something?” Bill asked.
“The Red Czar’s men control the inner city,” Ted explained. “He subsumed most of the gangs into his outfit and killed the rest. But he lets some gangs patrol the outlying areas for him, like subcontractors, I guess. The Stone Mountain Goats here, the Kennesaw Blades to the west. The Czar’s kinda paranoid. He lets the gangs rule themselves as long as they don’t have guns. I think he’s afraid they might band together and turn on him.” He cackled again. “Fat chance. Those motherfuckers are so disorganized, they’re like a circle jerk that doesn’t know where to aim.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Bill slapped the machine pistol hanging at his side. “If all they got is medieval bullshit weapons, we can walk right through them.”
“No, no, no. You listen to old Ted. That’s not a good idea, no, sir. They’re not so well armed but they’re ruthless cocksuckers and there’s a lot of them. Quantity has a quality all its own, as Joe Stalin said. And they’re usually so hepped up, they don’t feel the first few bullets anyway.”
Sheila raised an eyebrow. “Hepped up?”
“Sure. The Czar gives them all the crank and cocaine they want. That’s how he bribes for their loyalty. Hell, I seen a Stone Mountain Goat charge a rabid wolf with nothing but a Swiss Army knife. I mean, the wolf shredded the shit out of him, of course, but still…”
Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse: A Novel Page 18
