Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse: A Novel

by Victor Gischler

  “Okay,” Mortimer said. “So we’ll avoid those guys.”

  Ted looked at his watch, and Mortimer was surprised to see it was a battered Rolex.

  “Okay, they should’ve changed shifts by now. Let’s go.”

  They made their way back to the path and continued up the mountain.

  “Why are we going up here anyway?” Mortimer asked.

  “The Goats have a ham radio, and we need to use it.”

  “The Goats have a radio?”

  “Well, I don’t have one,” Ted snapped. “You think I carry around a big-ass ham radio in my back pocket? Now, hike faster.”

  They hiked faster. After five minutes, Mortimer noticed Ted hanging back, glancing over his shoulder. The old man climbed atop a boulder, squatted there, looking back down the trail. Mortimer went back, asked what was happening.

  “Old Ted has the eyes of an eagle, he does. The nose of a wolf. The sharp hearing of a rhinoceros.”

  “Do you see something back—a rhinoceros?”

  “Shit!” Ted leaned forward, squinted his eyes. “Shit shit shit!”

  “What is it?”

  “Stone Mountain Goats,” Ted said. “Twenty-five. No, more like thirty of them. Coming up behind us. I can see them rounding the bend on the path below. Hell and damnation.”

  “I thought you said the path was clear.” Mortimer stood on tiptoes, tried to see the approaching gang.

  “Well excuuuuuse me. They probably saw you from one of their watch posts.” He hopped down from the boulder, ran back up the path. “Come on. We’ve got to double-time it. We’re almost there anyway.”

  “To the top? Won’t that trap us up there?”

  “Am I the guide or not? Now, come on!”

  They ran.

  Uphill.

  Each carrying two backpacks, except for Ted, who bounded ahead of them.

  Mortimer’s heart pounded, breath coming hard, lungs burning, the heavy gear strapped to his back pulling him toward the ground. Sweat in every crease. Dripping into his eyes.

  The path opened suddenly into a clearing, trees falling away on either side. The ground was solid stone spreading in every direction, sprawling views of Georgia expanding to every horizon. Directly in front of them sat a small, low building, wide windows in the front, some kind of concession stand at one time, a large antenna twenty feet high on the roof. A guy came out the front, sandwich in his hand, leather jacket covered in silver studs and a machete hanging from his belt. He saw Mortimer and his team running straight for him and dropped the sandwich, ducked back inside the building and came out with a crossbow, desperately trying to cock it, fumbling with the bolt.

  Ted pointed. “Somebody shoot that guy!”

  One of Bill’s six-shooters flew into his hand. He fanned the hammer twice, shooting from the hip. The shots cracked, echoed along the mountain for miles. Red splotches erupted in the guy’s chest, and he dropped the crossbow, twitched and fell, a dying noise gargling in his throat.

  Mortimer glanced over his shoulder. The Stone Mountain Goats were visible now behind them, a screaming mob waving blades in the air as they ran. They didn’t carry heavy backpacks and gained fast.

  “Into the building,” Mortimer shouted.

  They piled in through the front door, Mortimer and Sheila collapsing on the floor, both heaving for breath. Bill slumped against a wall, breathing hard too but also watching the Goats come at full speed. “No time to rest, folks.”

  The snack bar was similar to a Waffle House. Booths lined wide-open windows in front; a counter with stools spanned almost the entire length of the restaurant, grills, refrigerators and food prep on the other side. Where the cash register had once been sat a ham radio, all blinking lights and knobs, static leaking out of it at low volume. Wires came from the back of the radio, went up to the roof, connecting, Mortimer assumed, to the big antenna.

  A crossbow bolt streaked through the glassless window, struck with a loud thock into one of Mortimer’s backpacks. Something spilled from the hole rent in the backpack.

  “They got the coffee,” Bill said.

  Mortimer looked at the brown granules hitting the floor and felt the blood surge in his veins, a white-noise buzz of rage in his ears. “Cocksuckers!”

  Mortimer stood, brought up the machine pistol and squeezed the trigger at the onrushing mob. The little gun hissed fire, spent shells ejecting and hitting the tile floor with a tambourine tinkle. Another sound roared in Mortimer’s ears, and he realized it was his own voice raised in an improvised war cry.

  The first four Stone Mountain Goats exploded across their chests in a spray of blood. They continued forward another half-dozen steps, not realizing they’d been killed, only to fall into a heap of dead meat just outside the snack bar’s front windows. The next three behind them howled and came on undeterred. Mortimer cut one more down before the machine pistol clicked empty.

  Mortimer fumbled for another magazine.

  The other two climbed onto the window ledge, one with a hatchet raised high, the other leading the way with an improvised spear fashioned from a shovel. Drool flowed down their chins, eyes afire with narcotic insanity.

  The room shuddered with the report of Bill’s Peacemakers. The first Goat fell back, shot in the chest. The other’s head exploded, brain and blood landing wetly on the tile and wall.

  Three more crossbow bolts flew into the open window, one an inch from Mortimer’s left ear. They bounced and rattled behind the counter.

  “We’re too exposed out here,” Mortimer yelled.

  “Behind the counter.” Bill dove across.

  Sheila and Mortimer followed. Ted was already there, fiddling with the radio.

  Sheila was the first to bounce back up, spraying lead through the open front window with her MAC-10. She didn’t hit anything but sent the rest of the Goats into hiding behind rocks and trees forty yards away. The open stone ground in between was red and slick with blood and quivering bodies.

  Mortimer looked at Bill and the six-shooter in each of his hands. “You don’t like the machine guns?”

  “Can’t aim those fuckers.”

  “Give it here.”

  He slammed a fresh magazine home into his own MAC-10, held Bill’s in the other hand. Two-fisted death. That’s me.

  Ted kept twisting radio knobs, the hiss of static growing louder, then waning. “Blowfish, this is Big Ted. Come in, Blowfish. Damn it, I can’t get the frequency.”

  “Do you think he’s really calling for anybody or just pretending?” Bill asked.

  “Part of me hopes he is pretending.” Mortimer popped up, squeezed off a quick burst, sending the Goats diving for cover. Mortimer ducked back behind the counter as another bolt bounced off the back wall. “What are they waiting for?”

  “They don’t want another face full of MAC-10,” Bill said.

  “They can sit out there forever, until the rest of the Goats get here. Every minute we wait it gets worse.”

  “Let’s run for it,” Sheila said.

  Bill snorted. “You want a bolt in the ass?”

  “Blowfish, where the hell are you?” Ted smacked the side of the radio with an open palm. “Douchebags!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Mortimer yelled at the old man.

  “I’m calling a cab. Now shut up and let old Ted work.”

  “This is really—wait.” Mortimer edged up, peeked over the counter, eyes darting. “They’re doing something. Sheila, look out that side window.”

  She crouch-walked to the window, keeping her head below the counter. She popped up, looked out the small side window, then ducked again quickly. “They’re out there. Right by the wall.” She popped up and down again for another quick look. “They’re piling up dead branches.”

  “Shit,” muttered Bill. “Bonfire.”

  The radio crackled, a voice coming through the static. “Big Ted, this is Blowfish. We are a mile out. Repeat, we’re one mile out.”

  “Hot damn!” Ted yelled.


  “They’re lighting the branches out here.” A hint of panic in Sheila’s voice. “I’m serious, guys. This fire’s getting big.” The smell of smoke grew stronger.

  “Here they come,” Bill shouted.

  A half-dozen Goats screamed toward the snack bar, weapons in one hand, flaming brands in the other. The one out front carried a bucket instead of a brand, some kind of liquid slopping over the sides. Mortimer stood straight, fired two quick bursts from each machine pistol. Three Goats stumbled and went down, including the one with the bucket, but he heaved it as he went down. It flew, landed against the front windowsill with a watery metallic clung. The liquid splashed half in through the window and half down the front of the snack bar. The pungent odor hit Mortimer immediately, unmistakable.

  Gasoline.

  Ohhhhhh…shit.

  Mortimer blazed away at the other three running Goats coming fast with the fire, the machine pistols bucking and smoking. He put two down fast, but only caught the third with a grazing hit in the shoulder, a light mist of blood flying. The slobbering, crazy-eyed Goat didn’t even flinch, leapt through the front window, ignited the fire, flames spreading up the outside of the snack bar and over two booths within.

  The Goat caught himself on fire too, stood there in the middle of the sudden blaze, his pants and sleeves burning. He screamed and danced.

  Bill put him down with a shot from the Peacemaker.

  Smoke filled the interior of the snack bar, and Mortimer felt the heat wash over him. He slammed home two new magazines, cocked the machine pistols and fired at the vague figures barely visible through the thick smoke, not knowing if he hit anything or not.

  “Be advised, Blowfish,” Ted yelled into the radio mike. “Zone is hot. Repeat, zone is hot.”

  “We see your smoke,” came the voice of Blowfish through the static. “We’re inbound now. Be prepared to board.”

  A helicopter, thought Mortimer. Holy crap, the old wizard arranged a chopper. Mortimer could hear something coming, the high-pitched buzz of some engine. It was coming.

  “Time to go,” Mortimer shouted.

  Sheila coughed, wiped her red eyes. “You think?”

  “I’m ready,” Bill said.

  The flames licked higher, but the doorway was still clear. Mortimer emptied the machine pistols to clear the way, then slapped in the last two magazines.

  “Now!”

  They climbed over the counter, shrinking from the flames, snot running, eyes watering. They hit the door, out into the open. The cool air hit Mortimer, clean and fresh. He filled his lungs but didn’t have time to enjoy it. Crossbow bolts flew past his head. He blasted back at the Goats with the machine pistols, sent them scurrying for cover. They popped their heads up again, yelled obscenities, and Mortimer emptied the MAC-10s. He dropped the spent weapons clattering on the stone ground.

  “There it is!” cried Ted. He pointed into the sky behind them. “Blowfish! Blowfish!”

  Mortimer turned to look at the helicopter.

  It wasn’t a helicopter.

  The blimp floated through the smoke of the burning snack bar. Filling the sky suddenly, the hornet buzz of its tiny motor and rear propeller was a bizarre contrast to its silent, looming mass. One would almost be tempted to call it majestic.

  And one would be mistaken.

  The aircraft had probably been used for advertising, providing aerial coverage for golf tournaments and college football games. It was a ragged affair now, patched with mismatched material, netting thrown over the whole thing to help attach the thick ropes that held the open-air gondola underneath, sandbags hanging over the sides.

  As crossbow bolts bounced off the stone around his ankles, Mortimer’s disappointment at seeing the inflated monstrosity instead of a rescue chopper was the most profound of his life.

  “You must be fucking kidding me.”

  The blimp lumbered and bobbed, its descent excruciatingly slow. Figures appeared in the gondola. A top hat and a very long white scarf caught Mortimer’s attention. More lunatics. The blimp passed over them.

  And kept going.

  Ted jumped into the air, waved his arms. “Where you going? You’re overshooting. Dumb sons of bitches, you’re overshooting!”

  The blimp listed, nose dipping as it sailed past, disappearing over the other side of the mountain, down into the tourist area of the park.

  Mortimer grabbed Ted by the elbow. “Is it coming back for us?”

  Ted jerked his arm away. “It ain’t a goddamn sports car. Blowfish is awkward. A steamship could turn around faster.”

  “Decide fast,” Bill said. “We got company.”

  The remaining Stone Mountain Goats had worked themselves into a frenzy, jumping up and down, brandishing weapons, grunting like apes. Probably just snorted a few more lines of courage. The Goats must have used up the crossbow bolts, because no more flew. The Goat leader howled bloody murder, and the mob charged.

  “Follow me if you want to get off this rock alive.” Ted ran across the stone surface of the mountain toward some kind of small installation two hundred yards away.

  Mortimer, Sheila and Bill followed immediately. Mortimer pulled the .45 from his shoulder holster, racked it and thumbed off the safety. Soon Ted had pulled ahead of them, and Mortimer’s breath came short again. The Goats were gaining.

  “Drop the backpacks,” Mortimer shouted.

  They dropped the gear and picked up speed. Mortimer turned slightly, fired behind him with the .45 without aiming.

  Thirty yards out, Mortimer saw they were heading for a Swiss cable car system, a tourist ride, similar to the sky buckets back at Lookout Mountain but with a much larger enclosed gondola. The cable ran down to the tourist area at a steep angle. Ted flung open the door to the cable car and climbed in, turned and waved them on. “Hurry!”

  They rushed into the cable car. Mortimer was the last in, turned and emptied the .45 at the oncoming Goats. Two clutched their guts and pitched forward. The rest kept charging, bellowing their rage.

  “Does this thing even have power?”

  “Nope,” Ted said. “But gravity still works.”

  Ted grabbed a sledgehammer from a hook on the interior of the cable car, swung it sideways at a pin in the floor keeping a loop of cable in place. He knocked the pin out, and the cable flew out through the floor like a kid sucking up a strand of spaghetti. The car shook, slid down the cable, picking up speed.

  Mortimer looked back through the open door. The Goats stood on the edge of the mountain, shaking fists and screeching incomprehensible curses. They dwindled rapidly behind as the cable car flew faster.

  And faster.

  “Brace yourself, kids,” Ted said. “This E-ticket ride is gonna go splat.”

  Nobody enjoyed the crash.

  XLII

  When Mortimer had been in the insurance business, he hadn’t sold anything too glamorous. Residential, auto, the occasional policy on a bass boat. As he pushed himself up from the pile of bodies in the forward section of the cable car, he wondered how amusement parks and tourist attractions had ever been able to afford liability coverage. The premiums must have been murder.

  In the last sixty feet of their lightning descent, Ted had thrown the hydraulic brake, had leaned his entire body weight into the lever. A clamp grabbed the cable above, sparks flew against the hideous screech of metal on metal. They slowed, but not enough. The cable car crashed into the station, pitching them all forward into one another. They stood up now, stretched and rubbed bruises.

  “Everyone okay?” Mortimer asked.

  Bill groaned, picked up his Union officer’s hat and snugged it on his head. “Nothing broken.”

  “I’m fine,” Sheila said, but she rubbed her shoulder, winced.

  “Old Ted has the hide of an armadillo, the bones of—”

  “Don’t start,” snapped Mortimer.

  They climbed out of the cable car and looked around. Mortimer reloaded the .45, ready to fend off another band of sava
ges.

  “There.” Sheila pointed.

  Just past a budget motel, in the middle of the street, the Blowfish bobbed six feet over the asphalt, straining against a thick line tethered to a mailbox. A figure awkwardly lowered himself down a rope ladder, the man with the ridiculous scarf and top hat. He saw Mortimer and the rest, waved them on, frantic, harried.

  “That’s Reverend Jake,” Ted said. “Come on.”

  They ran to the blimp, and the man in the top hat—Reverend Jake—clapped Ted on the shoulder. “Thank Jehovah you’ve made it. Sorry to overshoot the landing zone.”

  “Dumbass.” But Ted grabbed the reverend in a tight hug.

  Jake looked past Ted at the others. “These are the ones Armageddon sent?”

  “I’m Mortimer.” He introduced Bill and Sheila.

  “Let’s get better acquainted in the air,” Jake advised. “We saw more Stone Mountain Goats and they have one of those big arrow shooters. Probably only a half-mile away by now, maybe closer, and coming fast.”

  They all climbed the rope ladder, threw legs over the side of the heavy wicker gondola and dropped inside.

  Another old man waited for them, wiry and short, barely over five feet. A full white Santa Claus beard and more white hair leaking from under a blue US Navy cap. He wore a leather bomber jacket and jeans and dirty deck shoes.

  “This is Chief Larry,” Ted said. “Our intrepid pilot, sky master, he smells the ebb and flow of the air currents, knows the mind of the hummingbird—”

  “We’re sinking.” Sheila had her hands on the rail, was looking over the side at the ground slowly coming up to get them.

  “Overweight,” Jake shouted.

  He and Chief Larry ran around the gondola, yanking on ropes and sending sandbags dropping to the pavement below. The blimp ceased its descent, but it didn’t quite rise either, hovered in place, a slight breeze pushing it in a circle.

  “Hell.” Larry grabbed a burlap sack, chucked it over. “There goes dinner.”

  Ted and Jake were already pulling at wicker chairs attached with thin rope. They tossed them over, looked around for more items to discard.

  Mortimer stood at the rail with Sheila, looked toward the end of the long road where something rolled into view at the other end of the park. He heard a revving sound, the squeal of tires.