Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

XVI

Soft voices woke him. Mortimer’s eyes pried themselves open. Darkness. He blinked a few times, and shadows took shape. The bonfire had dwindled, but there was just enough light to see after his eyes had adjusted. His subconscious had mercifully padlocked the nightmares into an unused corner of his mind. Still, a vague dread weighed heavily on him.

He lay perfectly still, listened. The cannibals’ party had waned and finally petered out. But those voices, somewhere close in the night. He tilted his head only slightly. The voices were just around the other side of the stump, two women.

The first voice: “I’m so tired. Some party.”

The other: “Yes. Roger’s sleeping it off.”

“Isn’t it your anniversary? I thought Doris was on guard duty with me tonight.”

“She’s not feeling well, and Roger couldn’t get it up anyway. He had so much fermented blood.”

“I get a little tired of the fermented blood sometimes.”

A pause. “Really?”

“It seems so long since I had a nice glass of wine or a Dr. Pepper.”

“You really don’t like the fermented blood? Seriously?”

“Oh, I like it. Don’t get me wrong. The fermented blood is great. Love the fermented blood, but…”

“A little bit overkill with all the human flesh and everything?”

“Exactly. Sometimes I’d trade it all for a nice green salad and a glass of Shiraz.”

“I hear you. But you wouldn’t give it up. The blood and the human flesh and the whole lifestyle. You don’t mean that, do you?”

“No, of course not. All my friends are here.”

As the women spoke, Mortimer had stealthily slunk around the stump, froze when he saw a pair of slim legs wearing pink-and-black cowboy boots stretching away from the stump. The women appeared to be leaning against the stump, facing back toward the compound. They probably should have been facing out instead. A little luck at last. Now Mortimer could slink away without their seeing. He prepared to do just that, when one of the women stood and stretched.

“I’m going to take a wee-wee. Back soon.” She picked her way through the bushes and out of sight.

Mortimer changed his plan, hardly even thought about it.

He circled the stump and grabbed the remaining woman, pulled her toward him. She drew breath for a scream, but Mortimer quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. His other arm went around her throat. She struggled, kicked.

Her hands came up, tried to claw his eyes, but he pulled her down, squeezed. He wanted to end it quickly, crushed her windpipe with his forearm. She went stiff briefly, then limp in his arms. He put her back in front of the stump, arranged her to look as if she’d curled up asleep. A crude spear leaned against the trunk and he grabbed it, darted back to his hiding place on the other side of the stump.

His hands shook; his breathing was shallow, verging on hyperventilation. He’d never killed anyone with his bare hands before. Up close. A woman.

He held the spear, squatting and ready to spring.

A long way off an owl hooted.

The other woman returned.

“Jesus, Lydia, you’re not supposed to sleep on guard duty. What if…Lydia?”

Mortimer went for her, spear held out front. He saw this one’s face and almost balked. She looked young, dark hair in a ponytail, expression wide-eyed and innocent like the naïve daughter on a feminine hygiene commercial. Her mouth fell open, and Mortimer struck.

The spearhead caught her square in the throat. Blood bubbled out of her mouth. He yanked out the spear, stabbed her again in the chest. She sank to her knees, coughed more blood and fell on top of her friend.

These hadn’t been the cannibals Mortimer had expected, not drooling savages with bones through the nose. They could have been members of the PTA. Soccer moms. God, forgive me.

Then he remembered the grotesque cookout only a few hours earlier.

He knelt next to the bodies, searched them. The one he’d speared had a good bowie knife with an eight-inch blade. He took it, strapped it to his belt. He coveted their dry clothing, but they were both too small. He checked their pockets, had hoped for the miracle of a book of matches. No luck.

Without thinking, Mortimer headed for the sleeping camp.

There was a gap in the bone fence wide enough for one person to walk through at a time. Mortimer went in, crouching low and grasping the spear with tight, nervous hands. The stench of scorched flesh mixed with campfire smoke still hung in the air.

In the dim, dirty orange light, Mortimer now saw a line of shabby huts on the other side of the compound, crude dwellings pieced together from mismatched scraps of wood. His eyes darted in all directions. Presumably, there were other guards. Mortimer kept to the shadows as he crept toward the poles where the limp bodies of his friends were still tied.

He went to Bill first, lifted his head, slapped his face lightly. Come on, man. Wake up.

Bill’s eyes creaked open slightly, regarded Mortimer at half-mast. When Bill saw who it was, his eyes shot open with surprise and hope. He opened his mouth to speak, and Mortimer put a hand over it, shook his head. Bill’s eyes slowly moved back and forth. He remembered where he was and nodded his head.

Mortimer sliced through the ropes with the bowie knife, and Bill collapsed to the ground. He silently began to rub the circulation back into his legs and wrists.

Tyler’s bright, clear eye was already open and alert. She wordlessly urged Mortimer to hurry. He cut her down, and she fell also, a grimace across her face as she bit back a groan. Being tied to a post for hours obviously hadn’t been very comfortable.

Mortimer freed the two muscle guys. One of the big men wept openly, and Mortimer shot him an angry glance, mouthed the words Shut up. Soon they were all on their feet, headed back for the gap in the fence.

Yells from behind, the whole camp suddenly and angrily rousing from sleep.

“Run!” Mortimer shouted.

He sprinted for the fence, the others staggering behind. Soon they were in the forest, running blind, tree branches lashing them in the darkness. Mortimer stumbled, righted himself, kept running. He risked a glance over his shoulder.

The glow of torches, shouts of pursuit.

“Scatter!” Bill yelled.

Mortimer didn’t wait to see where the others went. He picked a direction and ran, his arms and legs shouting hatred at him, his face and arms stinging from a dozen shallow cuts. He ran until the glow of torches faded. He ran until the shouts faded to a muffled murmur and then finally to nothing at all, until his own breathing and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears were the only sounds in the world.

And then he ran some more.