Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

THE LOST CITY OF ATLANTA

XXXIX

It was already a notorious place of legend and peril throughout the new world.

Atlanta.

Just the name of the place sent shivers through some of the old-timers. Mothers frightened naughty children by threatening to send them south to Atlanta. Stories became more colorful in the telling and retelling. The Headless Zombies of Buckhead was a favorite tale for those who enjoyed loose talk in saloons, as was the myth of the entire Braves baseball team turning cannibal and roaming the city in search of people to deep-fry in hot canola oil. It was generally understood that the ghosts of Delta flight attendants haunted the airport, and that anyone spending the night in or near the airport experienced vivid, disturbing dreams often resembling footage from Airport 1975. It was commonly known that various gangs, almost like tribes, ruled sections of the city. This was not uncommon for many metropolitan areas where food shortages were sudden and devastating, a situation that encouraged the strong and ruthless to prey upon the weak. No citrus had come up from Florida for years, nor anything else from merchants traveling in or too close to the forbidden city.

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.