by Sean Hazlett
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to the Mojave Desert
Series 1, Episode 4
by Sean Patrick Hazlett
Published by Promethium Press
Kindle Edition
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide Series Copyright © 2017 Stephen Lawson.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to the Mojave Desert Copyright © 2017 Sean Patrick Hazlett.
All rights reserved.
Cover art and logo by Preston Stone Copyright © 2017 Stephen Lawson
All rights reserved.
For series information, author/artist bios, interactive maps, pictures, and upcoming releases, visit tpatg.com
For an interactive map of this episode, visit The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Map of the Mojave Desert
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide: Series 1
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Louisville Copyright © 2017 Stephen Lawson.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to St. Louis Copyright © 2017 David VonAllmen.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Utah’s Deserts Copyright © 2017 Dustin Steinacker.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to the Mojave Desert Copyright © 2017 Sean Hazlett.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Los Angeles Copyright © 2017 Jake Marley.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Seattle Copyright © 2018 Philip Kramer.
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This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons either living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
Dedication
To my daughter, Erika, a trueborn child of the Mojave Desert. She may have all the answers today, but that knowledge will dissipate with wisdom and time.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
I. Showdown at the Spearmint Rhino
II. Regimental Rendezvous
III. Ritual
IV. Desert Devils
V. Mayhem at the Mad Greek
VI. Sailing on the Santa Ana Winds
About the Author
Acknowledgements
I want to thank all the teachers and writers that helped me along the way, or, barring that, did not discourage me when they should have. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Umile, was instrumental in encouraging me to write my first fantasy stories. I want to thank internationally best-selling novelist David Vann for having patience with my early writing as a Stanford undergraduate. He never discouraged me and always provided productive critiques that helped me improve my work. The late Jeff Carlson inspired me to write fiction after sharing his wisdom and experience. He also graciously took the time to critique one of my first stories, pointing out all my rookie mistakes. I’m also thankful that Writers of the Future editor, David Wolverton, discovered and recognized my work. Mike Resnick has also been instrumental in supporting my early writing career by encouraging me and buying my stories. I also want to thank award-winning author and editor, Nick Mamatas, for his unvarnished and relentless critiques of my stories in one of his fiction writing classes. Most people hold back their criticism, but Nick never sugarcoated his feedback. Because of it, he made me a better writer. I doubt I will ever reach Nick’s bar for excellence, but he definitely set a high standard. I want to thank Stephen Lawson for bringing this series to life and for fostering an environment where up-and-coming writers have an opportunity to shine. Lastly, I would like to thank my ever-patient wife, Claire, for sacrificing her weekends to edit my stories.
I. Showdown at the Spearmint Rhino
Tony “Six Fingers” Genovese fiddled with the piano wire in his pocket while Shelia and Tina gyrated naked around two center-stage poles. The club stank of stale sweat and cigar smoke poorly masked by the scent of roses. A blue haze made the air shimmer like a translucent curtain in a cool breeze. To Tony’s right, sat Vinny “the Brute” DeMarco, a seven-foot bear of a man. As far as Vinny knew, it was just another Tuesday afternoon at the Spearmint Rhino. But Tony had other plans.
From his cozy black-and-white polka dot lounge chair, Tony dabbed his balding pate with a handkerchief. It was hotter than a devil’s dong, and Tony was sweating his nuts off.
Dirk was rocking on the keys; Stew was jamming on the bass; Linus on guitar; Marty on the drums; and Laurie on vocals. They were banging out some pre-invasion ditty called “I Touch Myself.” It gave Tony a solid chub just listening to it. And based on the puddle of drool pooling at Vinny’s feet, Tony was pretty sure it gave Vinny a real hard-on too.
Tony leaned in toward Vinny. “I hope you’re saving these memories for the spank bank.”
Vinny grunted in response. This one, he was a real piece of work. Fucked one of the boss’s girls and thought no one would notice. Stupid shit. As usual, Tony had to clean up the mess.
On second thought, he supposed it wasn’t all that bad. By offing Vinny, Tony would earn his button the right way, not like the chump sitting to his left, Bobby “Three Eyes” Bompensiero. You see, Bobby had bought his button. He had a real knack for running schemes that made the boss all kinda dough. Schemes where Bobby always came out on top. A real prodigy, that one.
Tony made sure to ply Vinny with all the Scotch he wanted. Hell, it was Vinny’s last night on Earth, so Tony made sure the bartender kept the old bottles of Johnny Walker Blue flowing.
In the middle of the song, Laurie sauntered provocatively up to Vinny.
Bobby winked at Tony.
It was time.
Tony made the sign of the cross, kissed the crucifix on his gold necklace, and stood up. Then he slipped behind Vinny and started ripping out the man’s throat with piano wire. Vinny was a beast all right. He thrashed like a madman; his eyes bulged like a tuna’s. Tony strained to keep control. Vinny’s hot blood ran down Tony’s ringed fingers as Vinny struggled to push off the wire.
Just when the fight in Vinny had all but died, a flash of lightning coursed through the dusty air. A naked teenager materialized between Shelia and Tina, his face blank with confusion.
“The fuck?” Tony said, just before realizing he’d relaxed his grip. Vinny elbowed him in the nose, knocking Tony on his ass. By the time Tony had stumbled back on his feet, Vinny was long gone.
The music and dancing ended abruptly. Everyone was looking at Tony like he had a dick growing out of his forehead.
Tony was ready to shit his pants. He’d had a nice clean hit, and some rando popped up out of nowhere and fucked it all up.
Wiping his bloody nose with his handkerchief, Tony stomped up to the strange teen. He grabbed the kid by the throat, carried him across the room, and slammed him against a wall. “You better start talking fast, kid, before I crush your windpipe.”
“Ah...um....” the scrawny kid croaked.
“Who the fuck are you and how the hell did you zap into my strip joint?” Tony relaxed his grip slightly.
“My...my name’s Thursday Forrester. I’m trying to get to Seattle. Is this Seattle?”
“Kid, you’re about as far away from Seattle as a bear is from a butterfly. How the hell did you get here?”
“Where?”
“Vegas, you dumb
fuck. Where else?”
The kid looked real confused. Not a good sign for him, especially since Tony was still deciding whether this cat would live or die. And right now, Tony was pretty sure it would be the latter. It sure as hell didn’t help that the kid had interfered with the DeMarco hit.
Taking a deep breath, the kid said, “Please. I need to get to Seattle soon or I’ll die.” Then his eyes widened with a look of distress as he patted his naked back. “Where’s my satchel? My guidebook! No. No, it can’t be.”
The boy was needy, and the last thing Tony wanted right now was another whiny little bitch in his life. Tony lifted the kid by the throat so his feet dangled an inch above the floor. Then, he began choking the life out of him.
The rail-thin kid kicked and flailed. He didn’t stand a chance against Tony’s six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound frame.
Tony felt a tap on his shoulder. “Wait!”
He turned his head, his hands still firmly gripping the kid’s neck. Bobby stood firm, his arms crossed.
“Why?” said Tony.
“This kid might have some value.”
The boy sputtered and gasped as Tony continued to strangle him. “How so?”
“Think about it. That boy materialized out of nothing. There’s some serious tech behind that. You kill him now, and we lose any information related to it. Could you imagine how powerful the Five Families would be if we had that kinda tech?”
Scratching his temple with his left hand, Tony considered Bobby’s words. He had a point.
“Plus,” Bobby continued, “you’re gonna need some good news to balance out the bad. Imagine how Milano’s gonna react when he hears Vinny DeMarco’s still kicking.”
Tony looked back at the kid, whose face was now as blue as a patron’s balls after a lap dance, and lowered him until his feet touched the ground. “That true you can point us to the tech that got you here, kid?”
The boy coughed and rubbed his neck, then nodded.
“What was your name again?”
“I think he said ‘Thursday’” Bobby interrupted.
Tony toyed with his crucifix. “Well, from now on, it’s ‘Milkshake’, ‘cause you’re gonna be my golden ticket, kid. Now if you wanna live, Milkshake, there’s two things you gotta do.” Tony held up his index finger. “Number one: I wanna know everything you know about whatever tech got you here.” Tony raised two fingers like a peace sign that was anything but. “Number two: you’re working for me for the foreseeable future.”
Milkshake shook his head. “Please, I don’t have much time.”
Tony clenched his fist. “What do you mean you don’t have much time? Your choices are either share the info and work for me or take a dirt nap. Pick one.”
“You don’t understand. I’m infected with something.”
“Whoa!” Tony stepped back, his hands in the air. “This thing contagious?”
“Don’t think so. It’s a long story, but the bottom line is I was exposed to a virus in Louisville, Kentucky. Caught it from a black balloon. The balloon had a note attached to it. Said if I didn’t reach Seattle within three to four months to get treatment, my lungs would shut down. I’ve been trying to get to Seattle ever since.”
Tony frowned. “So you’re saying you can only work for me for a few months or so?”
Milkshake nodded.
Tony smiled. A month wouldn’t be a problem. With the kinda work Tony planned for Milkshake, the kid wouldn’t last that long anyway. It was a win-win. “I’ll tell you what, kid: one month plus the info on the tech. Then you can go on your merry little way to Seattle.”
Milkshake hesitated. “Please, I need as much time as possible to get back on course.”
Scowling, Tony got in Milkshake’s face. “I don’t think you fully understand all the ins and outs of this particular situation, kid. You’re either in my program or in a hole six feet deep. Catch my drift?”
“I understand,” Milkshake said in a tone indicating anything but enthusiasm.
“Good,” said Tony. “Now tell me about the tech.”
“I don’t know much. But if you get me a new guidebook, I’ll write it all down for you. I’ll also write about my travels from Kentucky.”
Tony folded his arms. “Fine, but give me the broad strokes now.”
“My last stop was in Tempe, Arizona, where I stumbled upon a strange car powered by alien tech. The vehicle seemed to invite me into it. So I took a risk and stepped inside. It drove me west until I pressed a blue button on the dashboard. Half a heartbeat later, the air crackled, then a hole opened up and sucked me in. Next thing I knew, I was standing bare-nekkid in a strip joint. I can’t explain how the vehicle worked, but I can tell you roughly where it was heading.”
Tony stared at Milkshake, considering his words. Satisfied, he yanked the cloth off a table. “Now cover yourself and let’s go meet the boss.”
Tony, Milkshake, and Bobby stepped out of the Spearmint Rhino and into the blistering heat. A shiny golden building with the word “Trump” stamped on it towered above the strip club. Milkshake winced at the desert sun’s brightness. Tony chuckled, then made a big show of putting on his shades. For Tony, it was just another scorching day in Sin City.
Tony kept his head on a swivel. He hoped Vinny was long gone by now, but he could never be too sure.
A stretched white humvee limo chassis with thick wooden-spoke wheels hitched to a team of six horses waited for them. A thin, well-endowed blonde clad in a white tailcoat and top hat, sat on a velvet chair welded to the humvee’s hood. Tony opened the door and Bobby climbed in. He shot Milkshake an impatient glare. “You gonna get in or what, kid?”
Milkshake stumbled in and Tony followed, shutting the door behind him. Tony thumped on the roof with his hand. The driver took firm hold of the reins and yelled, “C’mon, git!” The humvee carriage lurched and then rumbled forward at a steady pace.
“You taking me to your clan chief?” said Milkshake.
“My what?” Tony jerked his thumb toward Milkshake and grinned at Bobby. “Check out Kunta Kinte over here.” Tony looked back at Milkshake with a more serious expression. “This is Vegas, kid. We don’t have any of that primitive clan shit. The Five Families have always run this town. They ran it from the shadows before the invasion and they’ve run it out in the open ever since.”
“You’ve got more than one chief?”
“’Course not, kid. We don’t have any chiefs. A group of five bosses run each of the five families: Bonanno, Colombo, Gambino, Genovese, and Lucchese. To keep things civil, each of the families loans some of their members to other families and vice versa. Keeps the peace.”
“Like hostages?”
Tony rolled his eyes and then held out his hands, palms facing outward. “Easy, kid. We’re not barbarians. Think of it like an apprentice program. It’s like being on layaway. Folks go to other families to see how business gets done. Then, after they become good earners, they return to their families with new skills.”
Milkshake looked dubious, but said nothing, so Tony continued, “During the war, the aliens destroyed all legitimate government, while we waited in the shadows, profiting from a brisk black market. We organized our muscle through several safe houses centered on a massive underground parking garage at the Neonopolis. We also operated supply depots in the city’s flood tunnels. But we had to be careful any time it rained, because one flash flood could wipe out our merchandise in minutes. Soon, without any civil authorities, things really turned savage. By then, the aliens had all died off. From what, nobody knew.
“So one by one, we retook the hotels on the strip, starting with the Stratosphere and working our way down to Mandalay Bay. Then we took McCarran Airport and didn’t stop until we pushed southwest out to Primm and southeast all the way to the Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. A lot of good men and women died to make it happen, but we got it done. Now, we’re kings. We decide who lives and who dies.”
Milkshake furrowed his brow. “You said there were
Five Families. Which one do you work for? What about the others?”
“I run with the Genovese family. My pop was the boss till Mickey took over. Word has it, my pop got killed in a desert expedition, but I have my suspicions. Anyway, my family conducts its business in the Excalibur, a couple blocks west of the old airport.
“To answer your question about the other families, all you need to know is that the Bonnanos are the most powerful. They live like kings over there,” Tony pointed ahead at two glimmering golden buildings looming over the city, “up on the north end of the Vegas Strip in the Wynn and the Encore. Back in the day, they were five-star hotels. The Bonnanos have converted the old golf course to a farm, so they’re also well provisioned.”
The humvee carriage turned right onto the Vegas strip. Then it lumbered past a riot of gaudy and glitzy buildings until it reached a massive complex teeming with turrets and bright red, gold, and blue towers like a castle from some medieval fairy tale.
“What about water? How could anyone survive out here?” said Milkshake.
“It wasn’t all unicorns and rainbows. That’s for damn sure,” Bobby replied. “If our grandparents had been stupid and killed all the scientists and engineers we’d captured at Nellis Air Force Base and UNLV, the local university, we would’ve perished. But they didn’t. Instead, they’d pressed the scientists and engineers into service of the Five Families.
“Of course, not everyone cooperated with this program. A few UNLV professors led by Ingrid von Fürstenberg resisted. A visiting sociology professor from Heidelberg University, she’d come to the States to study Nahuatl languages. Turns out, she was more stubborn than a goat. Her rebels put up quite a fight until we drove them out into the desert. The men and women who’d remained ultimately designed and built the Lake Mead irrigation system that feeds the city to this day. Vegas is now a literal oasis in the desert. We aim to keep it that way.”