Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

XXXV

The light came through the barred window of the tiny cell. Cement walls and floor. Mortimer lay in the narrow, hard bunk, his head pounding some sort of rumba. His tongue tasted like a water buffalo had used it to wipe its ass. There was a hard crust around his eyes, which he wiped away with a thumb. Somebody stood over him.

Mortimer blinked. It was Lars.

“Good morning, sir.” Lars poured a slim test tube of white powder into a glass of water. It bubbled and foamed. Lars handed it to Mortimer. “I anticipated your condition. This isn’t quite the same formula as the old plop, plop, fizz, fizz we grew up with, but our pharmacists are quite talented.”

Mortimer gulped it down. For a moment, it threatened to come back up, but Mortimer held it down and belched. The concoction took the edge off his torment. He was now merely miserable. “Where am I?”

“Jail.”

“What’s the charge?”

“I’m really not at liberty to discuss it,” Lars said. “But if you can stand now, I need to escort you.”

“Where?”

“That will be made evident.”

Lars led him out of the small building, a cement bunker where Mortimer guessed they kept troublemakers out of the way of the better-behaved patrons. The bunker sat alone in the woods, a golf cart waiting for them on the narrow gravel path. In the backseat of the cart sat James, who’d let them through the gate the day before. He held his M16 across his lap and nodded a polite hello to Mortimer. Lars sat behind the wheel and gestured for Mortimer to sit next to him. They were soon zooming along the path, the gravel crunching beneath the tiny cart tires.

Shortly, they passed through an area Mortimer recognized, the sky bucket floating past overhead. Then Lars turned into new territory, a winding path along the edge of the mountain. It led them down the mountain in a gentle slope. Lars stopped the cart, frowned down into the valley, where a column of black smoke rose from distant buildings.

Mortimer shielded his eyes with his hand, craned his neck to see. “What’s that?”

“Hard to say,” Lars admitted. “We’re trying to keep control of the region, but gangs still roam the city. Not so bad as a few years ago.”

The trail ducked into the woods and came out again in a small clearing. A large L-shaped house sat on a level outcropping and commanded a breathtaking view of the valley. Three levels, constructed of wood and native stone, a wraparound porch and a balcony above. It looked old but well kept.

“That’s Cravens House,” Lars said.

“Who’s Craven?”

“Made his money in cotton and iron before the Civil War. Or maybe after. I’m no historian.”

Lars parked the cart. James climbed out of the backseat, stretched and lit a cigar.

“Where’d he get that?”

“We get tobacco shipped from Virginia,” Lars explained. “Now I must ask you to go inside, sir.”

“In there?” Mortimer jerked a thumb at Cravens House.

“Those are my instructions, sir. James and I are to wait here.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

He entered the house, stood in the foyer and waited, but nobody immediately appeared to tell him what to do. On either side of the doorway were Civil War uniforms in glass cases. Part of some tourist display, Mortimer assumed. There was a Confederate officer’s uniform and one from the Union as well.

The house smelled like roses. A bench with coat pegs, polished wooden floors. Down the hall he saw some sort of sitting area, wide windows letting in the sunlight.

He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

He heard something move in one of the rooms down the hall, rustling papers, a chair sliding back, footsteps.

A head stuck out from one of the doorways. “Oh, you’re here already. That was fast. Tate, right?”

“Right. I hope I’m not…uh…catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all, not at all. I just assumed you might need some more time to pull yourself together. Never mind. Come in, come in.” He ushered Mortimer into the little office.

He was short but not significantly so, and Mortimer thought he might have been chubby before the Fall but was now sort of baggy skinned, although he had a bright complexion and seemed in very good health. Bald. Large blue eyes and full lips. Small ears. He motioned for Mortimer to have a seat.

The office was done in French country style, and Mortimer sat on the other side of a simple desk of white wood. The office was clean, well lit, and airy; a vase filled with fresh yellow flowers sat in the corner.

“How’s your head?” the man asked.

Mortimer’s hand automatically went to the back of his head. “Oh, uh, better, I guess.”

“Nasty business, but it’s turned out okay, I suppose.”

“Sure.”

“Can I get you anything?” the stranger asked. “It’s a bit early for a good stiff drink, but we have tea and coffee. Some water?”

Mortimer sat forward. “Listen, no offense, but who the hell are you?”

“Oh, my, but of course, we haven’t been introduced.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Joey Armageddon.”

Mortimer gulped as he took the hand. “Ah. Then, yes, I guess I’d better have some coffee.”