Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

XLVIII

Had it been an hour or a day? Mortimer lost track of time, hanging there, feeling useless and defeated. His arms hurt.

Someone came for him at last.

The dungeon door creaked open. The newcomer took a step inside, stopped with his hands behind his back. An older man, maybe early sixties, dressed the same as Terry Frankowski had been, black suit with the red armband. He was gaunt, tall but slightly stooped, white hair and moustache, weak chin. He looked around the dungeon with clear brown eyes.

“I always thought this was a bit too theatrical.” A smoker’s voice, but kindly, like somebody’s tough, lovable grandfather.

“It’s nice,” Mortimer said. “I’m thinking of doing my summer home all medieval. So who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Ford. Jim Ford. I’m Terry Frankowski’s boss. I’d have been the one to deal with you instead of Terry but I was off taking care of some things.”

“You here for round two?”

Ford shook his head. “I’m just here to fetch you. Somebody wants a quick chat. But don’t get complacent. I was an Atlanta cop for twenty-two years, and I know how to get information out of a suspect. And there’s none of that Miranda bullshit keeping me from bringing in the thumbscrews. I figure I’ll have my crack at you sooner or later.”

“Thanks. I like you too.”

“Keep it up, smartass.”

Ford fished a ring of keys out of his pocket and approached Mortimer. Behind him two more thugs with pistols appeared in the doorway. Mortimer’s shoulders were sore as hell. He didn’t like the odds, but maybe after Ford got him out of the manacles, he could surprise them, get hold of one of the pistols…No. He was dreaming. They’d stomp him flat. All Mortimer could do was bide his time and see what they had in store for him.

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.”