Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse: A Novel

by Victor Gischler

  Ford unlocked him, and Mortimer collapsed to the floor. He could hardly lift his arms.

  “Take a minute,” Ford said. “Try to work the circulation back in.”

  Mortimer moved his arms, slowly at first, rubbed the shoulders. The hot tingling flooding back into his limbs was sudden, excruciating murder.

  “Feels nice, don’t it?” Ford said. “On your feet, man. Time to go.”

  Mortimer didn’t see much of the CNN Center. They walked down a short hall and stepped directly into an elevator. Up.

  They have power. I wonder what the source is. Solar? But if they can get gasoline, maybe they can run the generators.

  The elevator opened at last.

  “This is your stop,” Ford said.

  Mortimer hesitated, then stepped off the elevator. Ford and his thugs didn’t get off. The doors closed, and Mortimer was alone in a small foyer, only a single door across from the elevator.

  He walked through the door into a large office area that had been transformed into the burlesque of a throne room. Four Red Stripes stood on either side of the room in straight lines, holding their rifles at attention. On the far side of the room was an enormous chair covered in red velvet, trimmed in gold. A large flag behind the throne, white with a red stripe.

  The man sitting in the throne stood to face Mortimer. He wasn’t ten feet tall, not even eight. But he was seven feet if he was an inch, and when he smiled, Mortimer saw the man’s teeth had been filed to points. He wore a leather vest, no shirt, muscles rippling like Conan. He had a square, Frankenstein face, greasy hair. He carried a wooden club like a caveman’s. He wore a necklace of human ears and noses.

  Mortimer gulped.

  “Who dares come to see the Red Czar?” His voice was thunder.

  “Uh…Mortimer Tate.”

  “Oh, right through there, then.” The giant pointed at a door off to the right.

  Mortimer hesitated. “What?”

  “You want to see the Czar?”

  Mortimer nodded.

  “Right through that door. Off you go.”

  Mortimer’s eyes shifted to the door, back to the giant. He edged toward the door. Nobody stopped him. He walked through, shut the door behind him.

  At first, Mortimer thought he was in some kind of enormous kitchen, long countertops, sinks, refrigerators, bubbling vats. A second look, and it seemed more like a laboratory, with beakers and test tubes. Mortimer also noticed a shortwave radio hissing in the corner. It was tempting to run to it and call for help. Bunsen burners heated some of the larger beakers. A chemical smell, yeasty and pungent but vaguely familiar. Many of the vats were labeled.

  FREDDY’S DISHWATER LAGER.

  FREDDY’S PISS YELLOW.

  FREDDY’S TOOTHACHE MUSCADINE.

  FREDDY’S DRY-HEAVE BRANDY.

  Mortimer scratched his head.

  “Welcome to my little playroom, Mr. Tate,” said a voice behind him.

  Mortimer spun, startled. A small man stood before him, a head shorter than Mortimer, bland, pale face, hair a mouse brown. Lips a bit too pink, smile way too happy.

  “I’m the Red Czar,” he said. “But please call me Freddy.”

  XLIX

  When Mortimer recovered, he said the following: “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not,” the little man said.

  “But you’re the guy who makes all the booze and beer and everything,” Mortimer insisted. “You can’t be the Czar. That’s…that’s…you can’t be the Czar.”

  Freddy frowned. “What did you expect?”

  “Ten feet tall with shark teeth.”

  Freddy chuckled. “Oh, you mean Horace out there in the throne room. Yes, it’s good to perpetuate a certain image. The fear has been a useful tool, and just between you and me, I have a weak spot for that sort of thing. The dungeon too. I used to play a lot of Dungeons & Dragons.”

  “How…why…?” Mortimer shook his head, gathered himself. “So what are you? A brewer who has taken up conquest as a hobby, or a warmonger who just likes to make shitty alcohol on the side?”

  “It’s a long, astounding tale of amazement and wonder.” Freddy looked at his watch. “But since I’m launching an offensive tomorrow to smash Joey Armageddon out of existence, I don’t really have the time to do the story justice.”

  “But why would you want to destroy Armageddon? He sells all of your booze in his clubs.”

  Freddy’s face hardened. “He sells it because my Red Stripes control the supply routes. Any of his precious microbrew he tries to deliver gets captured by my men. Then only Freddy’s beer and liquor get through. Stupid Marx thought the means of production was the key. He was a fool. It’s always been about distribution. Only I am able to mass-produce enough product to keep his growing franchise supplied. Well, it’s not good enough. I want the whole thing, soup to nuts. I’ll take over his clubs and I’ll run it all.” There was a gleam in Freddy’s eyes as he spoke of his intended conquest. An evil gleam.

  Mortimer noticed a particularly long test tube on the counter close to him. He remembered Armageddon’s instructions. Kill the Czar if possible. He edged toward the test tube. If he could break it off, maybe he could take out Freddy with the jagged end.

  “Besides,” Freddy said. “You think Joey Armageddon is such a good guy? Those club owners sitting like kings while the whole town bows down to them. Armageddon like an emperor on top of his mountain. It’s positively feudal. He has everyone hypnotized with tits and ass.”

  Another two feet and he could make a grab for the test tube. If he jammed it right in Freddy’s throat…

  But Freddy was watching him. Mortimer had to keep up his end of the conversation. “So what am I doing here?”

  “We know you escaped from Armageddon’s jail,” Freddy said. “My people say you might have useful information.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Mortimer said. “I thought I might be able to trade the information.”

  “For what?”

  “Maybe I want to move up in the world. Maybe I want to be on the winning side. And maybe I thought I could trade the information for my wife.”

  “From what I hear, she’s not exactly poised to fly back into your arms.”

  Mortimer shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

  “I’m not,” Freddy stated. “I launch my assault tomorrow. Armageddon will be crushed, and his ridiculous clubs and all of their resources will belong to me. Once I control the region, the rest of the continent will kneel before me. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  We’ll see about that.

  Mortimer reached for the test tube. Froze. Slowly pulled his hand back.

  The automatic pistol in Freddy’s hand was pointed directly at Mortimer’s stomach.

  Freddy smiled. “I seem harmless, don’t I? I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know.”

  “Let’s work something out,” said Mortimer. “I can tell you about Armageddon’s defenses.”

  “Hmmmmmmm, no, I don’t think so,” Freddy said.

  “You know I can. You have spies who can confirm it.”

  “I have many spies that tell me many things.” Freddy looked past Mortimer. “Isn’t that right, Lars?”

  Mortimer turned. His mouth fell open.

  “My apologies, Mr. Tate,” Lars said. He also trained an automatic pistol on Mortimer’s midsection. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve been in the Czar’s employ the entire time.”

  “An IRS auditor.” Mortimer spat. “I should have known.”

  “I wanted to talk to you face-to-face,” Freddy said. “There was a chance you really did have some useful information, but now it’s obvious you were merely a pawn in one of Armageddon’s feeble schemes. He must be desperate and weak, so I’m launching my attack immediately to take advantage.”

  Mortimer said nothing, exhaled slowly. For nothing. I came all this way, was beaten and burned, all for nothing. My wife doesn’t want my help, and I can’t do a damn thing against the Czar.
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  But he had to try. “I have information. Stuff Armageddon didn’t know about. You’ve got to listen to me.”

  “You’ve grown tiresome, Mr. Tate,” Freddy said. “Lars, please escort Mr. Tate to the elevator, where Jim Ford is waiting to take him to the dog pit.”

  “Now, hold on,” Mortimer said. “I think you’d better—wait. Dog pit?”

  Lars lifted his pistol. “This way if you please, Mr. Tate.”

  Lars took Mortimer back to the elevator. Jim Ford, Terry Frankowski and a brace of goons waited for him. Lars motioned him aboard the elevator, offered him only a slight nod of the head as the doors closed and the elevator began its long descent.

  “So I hear you’re for the dog pit,” Ford said. “Good. The boys can use a little entertainment.”

  Mortimer said, “I don’t suppose the dog pit is your colorful name for the local sports bar.”

  They all laughed at that.

  “No, it’s an actual pit,” Terry said. “About twenty feet deep.”

  “With dogs,” added Ford. “Rottweilers. Usually a half-dozen or so.”

  Terry’s hand shot out, poked a finger at the button for the third floor.

  Ford said, “We’re supposed to head straight for the dog pit. What the hell are you doing?”

  “I forgot something in my office,” Terry said. “It won’t take but a second.”

  “The hell with that,” Ford said. “Get whatever it is later.”

  Terry sighed. “I’ve already pressed the button.”

  “Just let the doors open and close again, and we’ll be on our way,” Ford said.

  The lights on the display counted down, seventh floor, sixth floor, fifth floor…

  When the button lit up for the fourth floor, Terry grabbed Mortimer’s wrist. When the light blinked for the third floor, Terry dropped, pulled Mortimer down with him right as the elevator doors slid open.

  Jim Ford had just enough time to say, “Aw, hell—”

  Ted and Reverend Jake on the other side of the door let loose with a pair of machine pistols, spraying the interior of the elevator at chest level. The blaze of slugs shredded meat, and the Red Stripes convulsed in place as the bullets hit. Blood rained down on Mortimer’s head and back. Bodies fell on top of him.

  He shoved them off. “What the fuck?”

  Ted and the reverend each got an arm and pulled him up. Reverend Jake looked down at the bodies. “God have mercy on your black-hearted souls.”

  “Terry is our man on the inside,” Ted explained. “He helped organize your escape.”

  “Sorry I had to burn you with the cigarette,” Terry said. “I had to keep up appearances.”

  “No problem.” Mortimer kneed him in the balls.

  Terry whuffed air, bent in half, groaned. “Okay. That’s cool. I deserve that.”

  “Did you get close to him?” Ted’s eyes were wild with hope and anticipation. “He sent for you, right? Did you kill him?”

  “I never had a chance,” Mortimer said. “The Czar’s been one step ahead the whole time. He knew who I was. He knew everything.”

  “Shit. You didn’t find out anything?”

  “He didn’t spare me a lot of time,” Mortimer said. “He’s too busy getting ready for his big attack tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Ted and the reverend said together.

  “Spawn of Satan,” the reverend said. “He barely has enough gasoline. We thought for sure he’d wait another week, maybe even two.”

  “We’ve got to get word to Armageddon,” Ted said. “And we’ve been standing here too long anyway.”

  They shoved the dead Red Stripes into the hallway and took the elevator. Ted pressed the button for the roof.

  “Wait,” Mortimer said. “My wife! The Czar has my wife and a bunch of other women held captive. We can’t leave them.”

  “No time,” Ted said.

  “I’m not leaving without them,” Mortimer insisted.

  “They’re all the way at the top of the other tower,” Terry said. “We’d never make it.”

  “It’s not negotiable.” Mortimer reached for the Stop button.

  Mortimer felt sudden fire explode against his ribs. His limbs stiffened, then went loose, his brain going to fuzz, little lights in front of his eyes.

  Mortimer tried to talk. “You f-fuckers…what…the…?” Drool down his chin. His eyes lifted, barely registered the buzzing stun gun in Ted’s hand. Again? Those fucking things hurt.

  “Sorry,” Ted said. “But your pals said you might be stubborn.”

  The door opened, and they half-dragged, half-carried Mortimer across the roof.

  Mortimer’s fried brain registered night. He’d been hanging in the dungeon longer than he’d guessed. The second thing he noticed was the Blowfish on the far side of the roof, bobbing in the gentle breeze.

  As they lifted him into the gondola, Sheila appeared, looking horrified.

  “What did you do to him?”

  “He made a fuss,” Ted said. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

  Mortimer lay flat on his back in the gondola. “Where’s…B-Bill?”

  “Too much weight,” Ted said. “He was mighty pissed about being left behind. We needed somebody to guard the blimp while me and the reverend came for you, and your little girl here don’t weigh a thing.”

  Frantic movement, men pulling lines, tossing over sandbags. Mortimer felt the Blowfish lift. Subtle movement. They were letting the Blowfish drift on the wind, probably didn’t want to risk the angry whine of the little engine.

  Sometime later, Mortimer heard Ted say, “Okay, we’re out far enough.”

  He heard the engine crank, and they pointed the Blowfish north.

  Mortimer got to his feet, leaned over the side of the gondola, felt the cold air on his face. His whole body throbbed.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Sheila asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “When you feel better, remind me to kick your ass.”

  Mortimer nodded. “Right.”

  They’d replaced the blimp’s ham radio, and Reverend Jake turned knobs and shouted into the microphone. “Blowfish to Joey One. Come in, Joey One.”

  Through the static came, “Joey One here. Go ahead, Blowfish.”

  “Black Bart plans to stampede the cattle in the morning. Repeat, it’s on for tomorrow morning. You’ve got to mobilize right now.”

  “We hear you, Blowfish.”

  Mortimer watched the dark, dead city slide by beneath them. Somewhere down there, he’d abandoned his wife.

  L

  They eventually put down in a secure field north of Kennesaw just before dawn. Ted’s underground comrades were there to light the landing zone and provide food. Mortimer sat in a big tent, a blanket around his shoulders, spooning pea soup into his face. He felt like a disaster victim getting Red Cross relief.

  Ted perched on the picnic bench next to him, slurped soup. “Beats the hell out of rat jerky.”

  “All these people to land a blimp?” Mortimer said. “You’ve set up a whole camp.”

  “This is rendezvous point Alpha,” Ted told him. “We’ve been gathering and stockpiling supplies and keeping them hidden for months. That way Armageddon’s forces can mobilize quickly. We’ll supply them when they breeze through here right before hitting the Czar.”

  Good, thought Mortimer. Because if they’re heading back to Atlanta, I’m hitching a ride.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the son-of-a-bitch, one-man-army superhero.”

  Mortimer looked up, saw Bill scowling down at him, the Union officer’s hat back on his head.

  “I know, I know,” Mortimer said. “I already got an earful from Sheila.”

  “This partnership isn’t going to work if you keep running off all by yourself and hogging all the fun.”

  Mortimer lifted his right hand. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Okay, then. Follow me. I’ll show you something.”

  Mortimer followed Bill o
ut of the camp. He still clutched the blanket around him. They’d taken his jacket back at the CNN Center. Bill led him up a steep embankment, and they found themselves overlooking Interstate 75, twelve empty lanes that had often been bumper-to-bumper back in the day.

  Bill pointed south toward Atlanta. “Watch for it.”

  Nothing at first, then Mortimer saw it, a flash of light, then another, a rapid-fire series of orange-white bursts. Every fourth or fifth flash, a faint pop reached them.

  “Ted’s underground folks,” Bill said. “They’re trying to fuck things up a little, maybe throw off the Czar’s timetable. Ted said a team was going to try for the gasoline, maybe blow up their supply, but he doesn’t think it’ll work. Too well guarded. There’s a lot of people dying tonight.”

  “It’s a real live war, isn’t it?” Mortimer said. “Not like a rumble between two street gangs. It’s a war.”

  Bill nodded. “Yup. And I don’t think we can sit this one out. He’s the bad guy, and he needs to be stopped. It’s that simple.”

  “Yeah.” Mortimer wasn’t so sure it was that simple, but Anne was back there, and that was enough. Whatever his wife—former wife—might have said, Mortimer simply wasn’t going to leave her to rot.

  Bill handed something wrapped in cloth to Mortimer. “Here, take this while I’m thinking of it. Managed to scrounge it up. Wouldn’t want you running around naked.”

  Mortimer unfolded the cloth. A .38-caliber revolver, very similar to the police special he’d been so fond of. And a clip-on holster for his belt. “Thanks.”

  “Can’t have you guarding my back with nothing but witty rejoinders,” Bill said.

  Mortimer checked the load, clipped the revolver to his belt. “I guess we’re committed to fighting for Armageddon. If he loses the war, we don’t get our twenty thousand dollars.”

  They waited, the flashes above the city fading and finally stopping altogether. Dawn erupted red over the horizon like a bloody prophecy. The morning was damp, and a thick fog rolled in, gathered around Mortimer and Bill, sucked them in, cutting visibility to fifty feet in every direction.