Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse - Gischler Victor - Страница 4

He paused at the first house, stood a long time hoping for someone to come out. The dark windows without curtains looked like the wide eyes of a corpse. All quiet. The same thing with the next five houses he passed, and the sixth was hollow and blackened from fire. No people.

When he reached the Luminary Firehouse, another memory surfaced. The first Monday night of every month, the firefighters had put on a spaghetti dinner fund-raiser. It had all seemed very down-home and Americana when he and Anne had come up the mountain a few times to strap on the feedbag.

Now the idea of hot pasta and meatballs and garlic bread dripping butter almost gave Mortimer an erection. He found himself unconsciously walking toward the firehouse, the memory of fat men in denim overalls slurping spaghetti drawing him on.

He stopped short, blinked at the pale face in the window. It didn’t move, wide eyes unblinking, and for a moment, Mortimer mistook it for a face on a poster, maybe an ad for Pepsi Cola or Life Savers. It was immobile, so pale and lifeless. But then a hand appeared, a wan wave.

Mortimer felt something tighten and then flutter in his chest. This time he’d do it right. No accidental murders as with the three hunters up the mountain. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, held his hands palms-up and away from his body. “Hello.”

The face withdrew into the shadow.

“Wait!”

Mortimer fast-walked toward the firehouse, the small side door next to the closed garage. He turned the knob, entered slowly. “Hello? It’s okay. I just want to talk.” He pushed the door open all the way, the sliver of sunlight widening into a brilliant yellow cone, spotlighting the young girl backed into the corner of what must have been the firehouse office. “It’s okay,” he said again.

He looked about the shabby room. A calendar hanging faded and askew. The ratty remains of a desk against the wall. A pallet of rags and straw that must’ve been used for a bed. The girl herself was maybe sixteen, pale bruised legs coming out of a threadbare flowered dress. She stood in a pair of hiking boots at least two sizes too large. Frayed laces. A dark blue navy peacoat with holes in the elbows. Her full lower lip hung open and moist. Dark circles under green eyes. Dishwater hair. She was small and thin and the world had squashed her flat.

“I-I…” Mortimer didn’t know how to start. He wanted to do it right, remake contact with the world, and he’d start with this girl. He trembled. What to say first? What to ask?

Something struck the back of his head. Bells went off. Lights flashed. He teetered, lurched forward but didn’t go down. Another sharp shot below his left ear. He spun, saw a blur of boots, a big furry thing. Then his eyes went fuzzy and he hit the firehouse floor.

VI

Mortimer awoke naked and shivering. The girl lay on the pallet ten feet away, her legs in the air, dress up past her waist. She whimpered, her head back, glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling. A big man, maybe a full foot taller than Mortimer, grunted and heaved on top of her, thrusting mercilessly and without grace. His jeans bunched around his ankles. He wore some kind of coarse, black fur coat that made him appear like a prehistoric beast.

Mortimer twisted. His head swam. He was bound at the wrists and ankles with thin twine. He writhed, strained against his bonds. No good. The beast continued to thrust. Mortimer tried to sort out what had happened. He’d been hit from behind. He’d been too stupid and eager, let his guard down.

The Beast shuddered and howled, then pulled out of the girl with a nasty wet sound. He was flushed and sweating, rolled off her and reached for something. It was one of Mortimer’s bottles, Johnnie Walker, half full. The Beast took a swig, wiped and smacked his lips. His black shaggy hair and beard matched his coat except for the gray at his temples and the corners of his mouth.

The Beast saw Mortimer, grinned, slugged back another hit of Johnnie Walker. “Well, well. Santa Claus is awake.” He toasted Mortimer with the bottle. “Thanks for the goodies, Santa.” Another thick gulp.

The girl was already curling into the corner, smoothing the dress back over her thighs. Her face was as blank and white and distant as the moon.

The Beast lurched to his feet, reaching for his jeans, his rapidly deflating pecker and balls swinging in a salt-and-pepper thatch. “I’m glad you’re awake. Got some questions for you.” He fastened his pants, drank more whiskey and nudged the girl’s ass with his boot heel. “Sheila.”

She turned her head toward him. Her eyes remained unfocused.

“Food.”

She nodded once, got to her feet and went away.

The Beast turned his mad grin back at Mortimer. “Now we have a chat.” He stepped forward, stood directly over Mortimer. The reek off of the Beast was formidable, a yeasty, pungent cologne of sweat and grease and sex. He shook the bottle of Johnnie Walker in Mortimer’s face. “Any more where this came from?” His eyes gleamed like wet, black river stones.

Mortimer said nothing, eyes wide and round and waiting.

The Beast chuckled from deep in his throat and drank the rest of the Johnnie Walker, hiccupped and belched. He squatted next to Mortimer, sniffed. “You smell like soap, and you look clean.”

You smell like a turd covered in feta. Mortimer tried twisting out of his bonds again.

“You down from Knoxville? I hear they got power on in Knoxville, but I thought it was just talk.”

Mortimer now recognized the Beast’s black coat as a bear skin. Mortimer remained silent. This was not defiance. Don’t provoke the scary man.

The Beast tossed the bottle over his shoulder, and it clinked and tumbled without breaking. “Cat got your tongue, huh?” He unzipped his pants, fished inside and came out with his pecker. He leaned, grunted and squirted, the piss splashing against Mortimer’s face.

Mortimer sputtered and coughed. The piss was warm. An ammonia taste. It stung his eyes. He gagged, stopped short of vomiting.

The Beast laughed. “Drink up, beautiful.” He shook off his pecker, zipped up and left the room.

Once the piss cooled on his skin, Mortimer shivered.

The Beast returned and squatted next to him. He held the bubble wrap that Mortimer had used to protect the whiskey. He held it close to Mortimer’s face, turned it over. Mortimer didn’t understand what he was supposed to see.

“You taped this,” the Beast said.

Mortimer frowned. “Yeah.”

“You fucking taped it?”

“So?”

The Beast’s hammy hand swatted Mortimer’s cheek, the slap loud and sharp. A thousand hot needles in Mortimer’s skin.

“Where the fuck did you get Scotch tape, dipshit?”

“What?”

Another quick slap from the Beast, and Mortimer yelled. Ringing in his ears.

“You gonna tell me you just went down to the Walgreens and picked up some goddamn Scotch tape?”

It clicked in Mortimer’s head, a realization sliding into place, the slow understanding. Where the hell did you get Scotch tape after the apocalypse? Something so commonplace, but who would make more? Scotch tape and underarm deodorant and hairspray and antacid and toothpaste and aluminum foil and dishwashing liquid and roach spray and all of civilization’s bright conveniences. Would anyone ever make those things again?

“I found the tape in an old house,” Mortimer said. “I was scavenging, and I found it.”

“Well, ain’t you just the luckiest goddamn scavenger ever.” The Beast made a noise in his throat, then spit in Mortimer’s face. “You found tape and ammunition for both your guns and food and whiskey and…and fucking bubble wrap?” He stood, kicked Mortimer hard in the gut.

This time Mortimer did vomit. He rolled his face toward the floor and heaved once, twice. The third time brought up bile.