Odd clusters of electronics are littered around his dash. There is a tiny flat screen maybe eight inches across, which seems to operate as a GPS, a map glowing on the screen. There are several gauges that glow faintly blue. One is clearly a fuel gauge, while another has RPM in bold letters in the center. The stick shift lays loose to one side, the rubber boot around the base is missing leaving a view of the metal underneath. A closer inspection reveals several corn chips are also floating around in there. Dickey takes the loose stick in his hand and jams it into first. The tires spin and we fishtail, picking up speed quickly. He rifles through the gears, then roars past dead cars, tossing us to the side as he rarely slows down.
“Yuh, yuh, you guys thirsty?” he stammers, looking in the rear view at the girls. “There are some cold ones in the cooler.”
Stunned, I turn and peek behind my seat. Where Izzy’s legs should be lies a small foam cooler. Fitz pulls off the top revealing five oversize cans of Bud Light with actual ice melting in the bottom. Unable to speak, she takes one and hands it to me. The cool condensation on the can touches my palm and chills roll over my shoulders. Oh how I miss refrigeration. Fitz cracks one for Izzy, who pushes herself to a sitting position then Fitz takes one herself.
“You want one Dickey?” Izzy asks after a gulp that leaves her upper lip wet with foam.
“Nuh, nuh, no, thanks, I just had one.”
“I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?” Fitz sighs, after a cold sip that causes her eyes to roll into the back of her head briefly.
“Nuh, nuh, nothing good,” Dickey admits, tapping his finger on his temple then shaking his head. “Oh, there are some pretzels in the glove box.”
When I push the button on the door it pops free. An unopened bag of Chili Cheese Fritos drops into my hands. I hold them up for the girls to see and receive wide smiles in return. Dickie eyes the chips and pounds his palm on his forehead.
“Ruh, ruh, right, I meant Frito’s.”
“No worries Batman,” Fitz chirps, pulling the bag out of my hand after I grab a handful.
On the screen, a red line traces across a map. The bottom has a running banner that scrolls. Leaning down I read 442.45 miles to target. The only city name I can read from the map is Tyler, which is in Texas. In pre-apocalypse time that would be roughly six hours. I’m not sure how long it will be now.
“How long did it take to get here?” I quiz Dickey.
“Lit, lit, little over eight hours,” he answers, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them on his visor. “It takes forever driving around all the stalled ones.”
“That’s fast. We were barely making a hundred miles a day.”
“I guess people in Texas push their junk off the road before they walk away,” Izzy pipes up from the back seat.
The headlights come on by themselves, turning up the light on the gauges. The sun dips ahead, disappearing when we come upon overpasses. Dickey flips a switch on the dash and the road lights up. I had seen the big fog lights mounted on the front back home previously. Working for Lance has been beneficial to him. This reminds me of the gun. Over the driver’s seat on the roof I had seen what looked like a Gatling gun. No more than a foot and a half long, it had maybe eight barrels in a circle around a center hub. It’s a miniature version of what the movies sometimes refer to as a chain gun. I can imagine Swartzenagger or The Rock waving one around.
“What’s up with the gun mounted on the roof?”
“Aye, aye, I was trying to get that to work,” Dickey mumbles, wagging a finger over his head. “Can’t quite do it. Nowhere to put the ammo belt.”
This strikes another memory. A gun like that would have a ribbon of bullets that feed in one side so it can fire every time one of the barrels spins by the firing pin. I didn’t see any bullet ribbons on top. They would probably have to come through a hole in the roof and be kept in a crate. Since he mounted it over his own head there would be nowhere to put the ammo.
“Where did you come by that little gem?”
“Thuh, thuh, thuh,” he utters, coughing into his hand. “They got tons of them out at the Hive.”
“The place with the Inversion thing.” I suggest, looking at Izzy, who nods.
Without warning, the car swerves around a line of trucks that didn’t make it off the highway. In the fading sunlight there is a flash from the top of an overpass just ahead. A bullet slams into the windshield just to the right of Dickeys position. I flinch reflexively, my body tingling from the release of adrenaline. Dickey simply looks up as we pass underneath, then puts a thumb on the spot. I would have expected a shot like that to come through the glass or at the very least spider web the entire windshield. Certainly it was fired by a high power rifle of some kind. In this case, it left only a half dollar sized mark, the center of which bubbles out on our side of the glass.
“Guh, guh, great,” he mutters, licking his thumb and rubbing the spot.
“They wrapped your window?” Izzy asks, nodding at the glass.
“Yuh, yuh, yeah, was gonna do the whole car, but T-Buck cried poor on supplies.”
“Wrap?” I shrug.
“Look hard at the window and tell me what you see.” Izzy orders.
I don’t see anything then I squint and lean closer. There is a textured screen like effect. Running my hand over the inside glass I can feel it. Leaning back, it’s obvious to me now. Until you know it’s there it’s not noticeable.
“What is it?”
“It rolls on in a clear sheet,” Izzy explains. “You can apply it to almost anything. It’s not totally bullet proof, but it’s close.”
“Is this tour guide tech from your home planet,” Fitz jokes.
“Very funny, I need another beer,” Izzy snorts wrinkling her nose at Fitz.
There is a pause while Fitz studies her face.
“I’m hurt, feel sorry for me,” Izzy whines, puffing out her bottom lip.
We all chuckle and Fitz cracks her another; declining the remaining can and passing it to me. She holds the cooler on an angle and puts Izzy’s wrist in the cold water. She squirms at first, but then cuddles up next to Fitz sipping her beer. We fly along unmolested into the wee hours of the morning. Izzy falls asleep on Fitz’s lap and eventually her eyes go dark as well.
“How’s Graham,” I whisper.
“In, in, in the doghouse,” Dickey answers, shaking his head.
“How so?”
“Crossed Lance, nuh, nuh, now he’s on lockdown.”
“Crossed Lance?”
“Wuh, wuh, when things went sideways,” he explains, pausing and shaking his head as he sometimes does. “He took a car and drove into Abilene. Lance blew a gasket.”
“Why would he do that?” I shrug, recalling a conversation about the Fail Safe having to stay close to home. What the hell is the Fail Safe anyway?
“Went luh, luh, looking for some hooker.”
“Violet,” I blurt out then check in the backseat to see if I woke anyone up.
“Ruh, ruh, right, Violet,” Dickey nods his head and slaps his palm on the wheel. “Crazy hot old broad. Lance whacked Graham around pretty bad when he got back.”
“Did he find her?” I ask, thinking old doesn’t really describe Violet, but I have not seen her in quite a while.
“Yuh, yuh, yup, but she’s all shades of messed up,” he shares. “Looked like the lone survivor at the end of a horror movie. She and Graham are banished to the house now, not that he’s complaining,” he nods, pointing a finger at me. “If you know—”
“I get it. As long as she’s going to be okay.”
Dickey wobbles his head from side to side, and then shakes his head like a cat trying to get dry. This is good news. I hadn’t had time to think about what might have become of her. Clearly Graham couldn’t stand to think about it. What is the Fail Safe? I ponder asking Dickey, but doubt he would know. I decide to wait and ask Graham directly.
DAY NINE
We don’t make quite as good time as Dickey r
eported, but by sunrise we are sitting on the shoulder of I-67 syphoning gas from a Mercedes. Just shy of Barnhart, Texas we are within thirty miles of home. Under intense questioning from Izzy, Dickey reveals he found us by the GPS in her phone, making me glad we kept charging it in the car. Apparently, Lance told him he could come after us if we made across the Texas State line. Peddle down till we blow turned out to be a good plan.
In his trunk, Dickey has a second cooler containing ice cold water and Cokes, as well as a box holding a selection of Hostess snacks. I’m on my second Twinkie when Izzy walks me away from the others, glancing over her shoulder until we are a safe distance away.
“We need to talk about what happens when we get back,” she whispers. “Everything changes the second Lance finds out I am still breathing.”
“Right,” I grumble. “So this is over?”
“Not in the least, but we need to walk away for a while. If he even suspects, what’s been going on he’ll hurt us both.”
“What do you mean by walk away for a while? What’s your definition of a while?”
“Play it by ear, but keep your distance and I will try and stay out at the Hive,” she explains, making air quotes on the word Hive inferring it’s a dumb name.
“Fitz suggested that she and I pretend to be a couple,” I toss out, having waited for the right time to bring this up. “With her on my arm Lance might stop watching me.”
“Interesting,” she mutters, putting a finger on her lips. “How convincing would her act have to be?”
“Good question. Now that you bring it up, how convincing will you have to be with Lance?” I press her, already aware she will be warming his bed.
“Ouch,” she pouts, putting her good arm around me and squeezing. “I’ll tell Fitz to keep her knees together and whatever else needs to happen for it to look believable, I am okay with.”
“I’m not interested in Jessabelle,” I whisper, kissing her on the top of her head. “But I’d rather stay out here if the alternative is losing you to Lance.”
“You couldn’t lose me if you tried,” she whispers.
“We’ll see about that.”
A sad look crosses onto her face and she pulls me down by the shoulder and kisses me. For that moment it’s like this disaster movie we are stuck in isn’t happening, but it the kiss ends too soon. She turns me by the elbow to face the car and points. Sitting on the Mustangs trunk with her legs on either side of the gas tank opening is Fitz. Dickey is pouring from a gas can, but his eyes are not on the filler hole, rather somewhere north of the trunk and south of her waist. He slips and pours some gas on the quarter panel. Izzy rolls her eyes and starts dragging me to the car.
“I might have to explain what keeping your knees together means,” she giggles. “Your pretend girlfriend is slipping into post-apocalyptic whore mode.
I chuckle, thinking at the very least, she’s a survivor. If trauma nurse doesn’t buy her any traction she seems content to wrangle Dickey as a back-up plan. And I doubt he will mind in the least.
Act Four
Meanwhile, back at the Ranch…
The Mustang whips us down the street ending in an e-brake induced skid that lands us in front of my old house. Izzy growls at Dickey, clutching her arm, but he’s like a race car driver who just won the Indy 500. He climbs out and seeing my mother on the porch, bows from the waist. Hugs and back slaps are exchanged, but within minutes, Izzy pulls away and starts toward her place. By the time I realize this, Lance has his arm around her and is leading her inside. His posture scares me as it’s rigid and mechanical. Does he already know? I start to follow, but Fitz grabs me by the arm, pulling me back.
“Why don’t you introduce me to your mother,” she whispers through clenched teeth. When I resist, she digs her fingernails into my forearm drawing blood.
“Stop it,” I object, pushing her away.
“Man up lover boy,” she seethes into my ear, dragging me back to my house. “You want the girl, then you’re going to have to wait this one out.”
“I’ve reconsidered. I’m going to walk across the street and kill him now.”
“Not the plan we agreed on,” she argues, pushing me up the steps to my house. “You need to start acting as if you like me,” she demands, following me into the front room.
I frown and point through a window to Lance’s house across the street, then exhale hard in frustration. I know what’s going on over there and I can’t possibly pretend otherwise. Fitz can clearly see this in my expression.
“Listen up,” she orders. “Get a shower and meet me down stairs in thirty minutes.”
“Why?”
“Field trip,” she grunts, poking her index finger in my chest. “I have to separate the children who won’t play nice together.”
…
Since Dickey mostly lives at the Hive, they hand him a package and send him off soon after we arrive. Fitz drags me out of the house kicking and screaming. As she arrived without luggage she is wearing a knee length summer dress donated by my mother and brown leather sandals. Other than the purple bruises that dot her legs, she looks pretty. I ride in the backseat comforted by a cold beer while she flirts with the driver, who she refers to as Batman. It’s a two-hour drive, even at the death defying speeds Dickey drives. All of sudden he slows, turning a hard right off the divided highway.
It’s not an exit, but rather more of a gravel road recently constructed by pushing mounds of dirt up to the expressway. We park in a wide spot past the tree line. The huge jeep I saw parked in Dickey’s driveway a year before is the only vehicle parked here. He explains that the Jeep is necessary for the remainder of the trip. It’s a bumpy ride in the back hanging onto the thick roll bar overhead. Fitz sits up front, wearing sunglasses loaned to her by Batman, a hand between her knees as her dress blows about. We travel a half hour over open terrain with no sign of a road, but tire tracks galore. Eventually we roll up on a gravel road and stop.
“Puh, puh, put these on,” Dickey insists, reaching in the glove box and pulling out what reminds me of blue rubber Fit Bits. “I’d suggest you leave them on permanently.”
I start to protest, but see that Fitz slip hers on her arm obediently then wrap her arms over her knees wearing a sultry smile. I wonder if she is going to help me keep Lance off my back or cut me lose for Dickey. Can I actually trust her?
“What’s it for?” I complain, putting it on and holding up my arm.
“Tuh, tuh, Tab,” Dickey explains, driving the Jeep down the one lane road and up a steep rise. “It keeps you from getting killed.”
As we come over the rise, a huge compound can be seen in the distance, but we don’t move towards it. We pull over on the crest and Dickey shuts off the Jeep, hopping out. He helps Fitz down as if she were a princess, which is laughable; then walks us a few feet away.
“Thuh, thuh, this is the only way in,” he begins. And anyone not part of our group can’t pass this point.”
I scan the area and see nothing. It’s wide open. No one may want to come this way, but I see nothing to stop an intruder. I raise my hand as if it’s the third grade. Seeing this Dickey nods.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Ruh, ruh, right, you’ll see,” he stutters, pulling a phone out of his pocket, although it’s more like a walkie-talkie.
It beeps and then a voice drifts over it.
“Are you here yet? Cain is waiting on those chips.”
“Yuh, yuh, yeah, right. I got them, but turn on grid one for a minute.”
“This isn’t show and tell. That system isn’t live yet,” the scratchy voice echoes.
“Aye, aye, I, know, but just power it up for a second.”
“Why?”
“Bruh, bruh, brought those magazines you were asking about,” he whispers quietly into the device. There is no reply and he turns to us with a hand to the side of his mouth and whispers. “Gah, gah, gay porn.”
Fitz has to cover her mouth with a hand to stifle t
he laughter. I have to admit the situation is fairly humorous.
“Who’s with you?” the voice demands.
“Nuh, nuh, no one, just crank up the front grid.”
“And you’ll bring me the stuff?”
“Yuh, yuh, yeah,” Dickey stammers, making an okay sign with one hand. “Let’s see Goliath.”
“Fine,” the voice answers. “You got five minutes.”
Replacing the phone in his pocket, he strides to the edge of the rise, but waves us back a few steps. Fitz stops like a dog on a chain and waits with baited breath for her master to speak. I poke her in the ribs and make a kissy face but she responds by kicking me in the shin. I preferred life on the run compared to whatever this is. My thoughts are interrupted by the ground shaking.
“Ruh, ruh, right. Currently there isn’t much of a threat to the Hive, but this will change. All around the country groups are forming up and gathering resources. Eventually word will get out that we have electricity, food, water, you name it. Luh, luh, last week a group of wanderers tried to take down one of our trucks on the open highway. At some point, this castle will be stormed.”
“You sound like Lance—,” I remark, but am interrupted by a vibration emanating from the ground under my feet.
To his right, the sand heaves up and two doors fling open sending a shower of fine dust to either side. We step back, but he waves for us to relax. A tube of some kind rises out of the doors reaching a height of six feet or more. There is a hydraulic hum, then the sound of tiny motors whirring. As I stare, it comes to me what this is.
Tourists of the Apocalypse Page 20