Tourists of the Apocalypse

by WALLER, C. F.

  “Now he can’t have kids,” I assert. “After coming here, right?”

  “None of us can. Even after I did that to him, he offered to put his share aside for my parents.”

  “Technically he didn’t know about it, thus reducing the unselfishness quite a bit.”

  She frowns, illustrating that my opinion is invalid in regard to this situation. I find this occurs regularly in any relationship I have been in. Sometimes a logical answer is dismissed based on the fact that I am not a woman. This would appear to be one of those occasions.

  “Who knows about this?”

  “I’ve only told one person,” she sniffles and points a finger at me.

  “Really?”

  “Well, no one who resides in the twenty-first century,” she shrugs. “It feels good to say it out loud.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I assure her. “Consider it in the vault.”

  “It better be,” she smirks, punching me in the arm and then starts down the ladder.

  I follow and she leads me back to the golf cart, holding hands as we go. Once there, she explains that the morning shift will be coming in soon. She orders me to take the golf cart back and hope that Lance sleeps in. She fears he will be hunting her when he discovers she didn’t come home. I agree, holding her close before leaving her standing in the orange glow of sunrise. This was so much better than the recliner room.

  It’s nearly six when I get back to the main complex. Rather than go inside, I return the cart and climb in the Mustang. It’s not that I don’t like sleeping with Fitz, but after such a nice night I’d prefer not to climb in bed with another woman. Fitz can be a bit of a cuddler when she’s drunk. I manage to get an hour of sleep before she opens the door and practically falls on top of me. Once she realizes this, she crawls over me into the driver seat.

  “I have good news and bad news,” Fitz groans, looking as if she hasn’t been to bed yet. “Which do you want to hear first?”

  “Bad,” I utter without hesitating.

  “I may have been unfaithful to you last night.”

  “You mentioned good news?”

  “We aren’t really dating.”

  “Ah, good to know,” I sigh. “So this is what rode hard and put away wet looks like?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny.”

  We laugh then Dickey raps a knuckle on the driver window. Fritz cranks it down and yawns. When he gets hit in the face by her breath he backs up and scowls. Once he recovers, Dickey informs us that we are headed back in an hour and we should get a coffee and something to eat. At first we decline, but after he leaves we recant.

  There are two dozen folks who clearly work first shift inside the mess hall drinking coffee and eating eggs and toast, which seems to be all that’s available. Fritz sticks to dry toast and I go with coffee. We huddle at an empty table far away from the food line.

  “Fitzy,” three guys howl as they pass. “You rule Fitzy.”

  “You’re a legend,” I chuckle.

  “I have a legendary headache.”

  “Is one of them the bastard who jumped my pretend girlfriend’s bones last night?” I demand, then smirk.

  She looks around the room, squinting with one eye. Her hair is a tangled mess held back by a horseshoe band. The blouse and sweater she wore the last time I saw her has been replaced by a tight grey t-shirt with a huge stain in the front. There is no bra and the last time I saw her, she was wearing jeans, but now sports a denim skirt. These are certainly not her clothes. She burps into her hand then winces indicating acid bubbled up in her throat. After scanning the room a second time, she points a shaky finger at a similarly impaired guy two tables over. He’s dark skinned and I think we met yesterday. For sure he was at the pool table. His elbows are on the table as he slumps over his eggs.

  “That guy?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” she burps and pauses, pointing at a woman at another table. “And her, I think. It was dark, but probably her.”

  “You’re pulling my leg?”

  “I’m wearing her skirt,” she groans, chewing on dry toast. “Why would I lie about being easy?”

  “To honor our relationship?”

  “Right, I forgot, consider yourself honored.”

  When I don’t answer she lowers her head.

  “Seriously, I honored the crap out of you.”

  “You realize the people we know here assume I’m a putz because you cheat on me all the time.”

  “Possibly, but it’s also possible they think you’re The Man for dating me at all.”

  “Maybe,” I sigh. “Just try not to honor me so much.”

  Before she can muster a smart ass reply, the girl looks up and notices us. She winks and waves conservatively at Fitz, who nods and forces a smile, then elbows me. When I look at the apparent third wheel of Fitz’s threesome she averts her eyes and goes back to breakfast. I recall seeing her at the pool table last night and if fact, she may have been wearing a denim skirt. Good lord Fitz. We sit in silence till Dickey comes by, and then we head out to the car together. Once outside, I see Lance leaning on the Mustang.

  “This can’t be good,” Fitz whispers.

  Dickey plows ahead, reaching the car before us. They share a brief exchange which is mostly Dickey nodding and Lance talking. He passes over another envelope, then turns to us.

  “Fitz, I need you to stay and have a look at one of my guys. Took a nasty fall yesterday and I think he might have some internal injuries.”

  “No problem,” she agrees then turns to Dickey. “Gimmie a half hour and I’ll come right back.”

  “No,” Lance jumps in. “I need them to leave right now. “I’ll be driving back this afternoon. You can catch a ride back with me.”

  Fitz and I exchange a curious look then she nods her acceptance and forces a hug on me. I momentarily forget that we’re a couple. After a prolonged hug, she kisses me and leaves me with a mouthful of acid. Evil wench frenched me on purpose with her puke breath. Lance looks unconvinced, but follows her back inside. Dickey and I climb in, but Lance shouts back at us from the doorway.

  “You two be careful. We’ve had some activity overnight.”

  We both nod, not thinking anything of it. We leave by a new road recently finished. It’s bumpy, but we don’t have to use the Jeep every time anymore. The bouncing to the highway keeps me awake, but after Dickey peels onto the expressway, I fall into a light sleep. Why did Lance warn us?

  ….

  I am shaken awake by the car swerving sharply. My eyes flutter to the bright sunlight of early morning. The engine roars as Dickey watches the rear view intently. I turn to peek and see two cars following us. A gunshot rings out giving me a start.

  “What the hell Dickey?”

  “Cuh, cuh, came off the last exit ramp,” he stutters. “I don’t think I can outrun them.”

  “I thought this was the fastest car around,” I complain as the car jerks hard, nearly tossing me in his lap.

  “Buh, buh, been misfiring all morning. I think we got bad gas. Feels like there’s water in it.”

  Behind us, what looks like a new model Mustang bears down. It’s fire engine red with white stripes down the middle that come all the way down to the bottom on the bumper. The second car, an older Ford sedan, falls back in line with the first. I thought new cars didn’t run? Dickey banks hard again and I hit my head on the passenger window. Why are there so many cars to maneuver around?

  “That’s a new car,” I point out, getting no reaction from my driver. “Why are there so many dead cars on the road?”

  “Thuh, thuh, they weren’t here two days ago.”

  Another gunshot echo’s as the red Mustang bumps into us from behind, knocking me forward into the dash. Dickey swerves to the right, avoiding another abandoned car. Our pursuer clips the dead car, knocking off a side mirror. We move ahead several car lengths as the red marauder struggles to regain control.

  “How far are we from home?” I beg, thinking we can drive them in
to the road block outside of town.

  “Too, too, too far,” he exhales, moving around another obstacle. “Glove box.”

  “Huh?”

  “Gla, gla, glove box.”

  I push the button and the door flops open, dropping a handgun and two clips onto the worn floor mat. After exchanging a glance with Dickey’s copper sunglasses, I scoop up the gun and pop in a clip, racking the slide to chamber a round. Turning it sideways, I see it’s an older gun, probably a .45 cal. It’s not a WWII gun, but it’s a remake at the very least.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Whuh, whuh, whatever you Army guys do,” he yells, swerving.

  The car is gaining again and gun shots ring out. The rear hatch glass explodes, showering the backseat with tiny bits of safety glass. The red chase car hits our bumper and we fishtail. Dickey catches us before we spin as more shots are fired, but miss us. He downshifts, then slows and crosses the median without saying a word. The car bounces, bottoming out and throwing up grass clumps. We run parallel to our pursuer then start to pull away.

  “There aren’t any dead cars on this side,” I mutter. “They loaded that side because they knew we were coming.”

  “Who, who, who knew?”

  “Lance,” I growl. “He kept Fitz from coming because he set us up.”

  “Cuh, cuh, can’t be.”

  The red Mustang turns and flies across the median. They get airborne momentarily then hit the road with squealing tires. Our car sputters briefly, then speeds up again. He put water in the gas tank then sent us out here to die. I feel suddenly responsible for this. Poor Dickey is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is about Izzy and me, not him.

  “When they catch up to us keep your head down and drive straight,” I instruct him.

  “Buh, buh, better if I keep moving from side to side,” he stutters, a problem made noticeably worse under stress again.

  “Just keep it straight and lower your head,” I order, turning around and kneeling on the floorboard facing backwards. “Let the Army guy handle this.”

  Peeking between the seats, I see the Mustang flying toward us. I hold the gun in two hands and take a deep breath. Two shots echo then they hit us hard. Dickey keeps it straight and after we initially bounce forward, their bumper comes to rest on ours as we fly down the expressway like a train. Popping my head up, I see the driver wearing clear goggles grinning back at me. The passenger is getting ready to lean out with his pistol waving wildly at the window.

  “Sorry guys,” I mutter as my gun barks, unloading a continuous steam of rounds into their windshield.

  The shots echo into the small space making me dizzy for a moment. I duck down to gather myself, forearms damp with cold sweat. The driver must be holding the pedal down. Although I doubt he can see clearly through the spider webs on his bullet riddled windshield. Their bumper stays pinned to ours. More shots ring out, but my ears seem deaf and I can’t tell how many. When the shots stop, I pop back upright and fire into the driver’s window again. After a half dozen shots my gun locks open, out of bullets. The passenger is sitting on the window ledge with his gun pointed at us. I must have hit the driver as their car suddenly swerves into the median, tossing the passenger out onto the pavement. The car flips over landing on its side as it careens off a dead car onto the other side of the highway. A wall of sparks ends with the red sports car on its roof, turning slowly in a circle.

  “Oh, thank God,” I gasp, turning around and slipping back into the seat. “That was close.”

  Dickey slows and then spins around, pulling the e-brake. Before I can say anything, the tires spin and white smoke surrounds the car. We rocket back in the other direction, Dickey’s mouth’s wearing a sneer.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Aye, aye, I’ve seen that car before.

  “Where?”

  “Tee, Tee, T-Buck,” he chokes out. “He had it parked in one of the garages on the next street over. I don’t think he knew that I saw it. He had the engine out.”

  “You’re suggesting those aren’t even Road Pirates?” I ask using the designation for the gangs that patrol some roads.

  “Nuh, nuh, not, suggesting,” he glances over at me. “Flat out saying it.”

  As we close in on the man in the road who was thrown from the car, I see a beat up grey sedan parked on the other side of the expressway. Two men have exited the car and are looking at the skid marks left by the rolled red sports car. The man tossed onto the pavement struggles to his knees and turns his head slowly in our direction. I try and say something but Dickey drives right through him. He catches him with the passenger bumper, exploding the headlight and fender as the car bounces over the man’s body. We race past, then do another e-brake induced spin. It’s like the car is an extension of Dickey’s body. After executing the perfect arc, he starts back.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to get us killed.”

  “Suh, suh, send your guys after me,” he snarls. “This is my road. My frigging road.”

  As he races up to the body on the road he honks the horn before slamming on the brakes. We skid to a stop near the dead man lying at the end of a twenty-yard bloody skid mark caused by him being dragged under our car. I am worried the men will shoot at us, but they don’t appear to be armed. They are mere back up. They were sent by Lance to report on our deaths.

  Once we stop, Dickey puts a hand out the window and gives them a one finger salute. When they don’t react he shouts.

  “Thuh, thuh, this is my frigging road. I am the man out here, not you. Tell your friends this, this, this is my road.”

  They don’t reply and the tires spin and white smoke rolls. We scream down the road, shifting through every gear angrily. Once we get clear of them, Dickey slows and passes over to the correct side of the highway using a police turn around. As he weaves through the dead cars, a plume of steam begins to flow from the bent hood at the front corner. The edge of the hood is bent over as if it was a dog-eared page from a well-read book.

  “You alright?”

  “Aye, aye, I’m fine,” he stutters. “This is my road.”

  “Right, I got that. How far to our exit? Are we going to make it with that?” I ask pointing at the steam.”

  “Fuh, fuh, five miles. It’s not a problem. Engine’s full of graphite oil.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Thuh, thuh, they make it,” he explains. “More future tech.”

  “But the car won’t overheat?”

  “Nah, nah, not for a while.”

  We ride in silence the rest of the way. At the exit, the men move the saw horses and wave, but Dickey drives past without acknowledging them. I think good old Dickey just had a mental breakdown. I secretly hope he can snap back. We pull into the cul-de-sac and right up to Graham’s house. When we stop, he turns off the car aggressively. The radiator whines and steam spills out. There is a sudden boom as one of the hoses bursts, spraying green fluid all over the windshield.

  He gets out, slamming the door behind him. I crawl out and see him walk right up to Graham’s door and pound on it. When I try to follow, he turns and wags a finger at me indicating he doesn’t need an audience for this conversation. Heeding his warning, I head back to my house. I get to the porch at the same time the yelling starts. I don’t turn back; instead I slip inside the screen and smell brownies in the oven. This is going to be a can of worms.

  ….

  Lance does not turn up later that afternoon as we were lead to believe. I pray that Fitz is okay, but I’m not completely unhappy to avoid confronting Lance today. Graham gets Dickey and me alone in my room and reads us the riot act. He instructs us not to share with anyone the fact that we knew they were not run of the mill Road Pirates. As long as we play dumb, Lance and his people won’t be pressured into covering up, which might include getting rid of us. We are warned that T-Buck, Blister or any of the rest could be aware of what happened. We decide to keep it between the three of us
for now, remaining un-decided on telling the girls. For a guy who never leaves the cul-de-sac, Graham is pretty bossy about how we proceed. It’s almost like he knows what’s coming. Not regarding the rest of the world mind you, but only the people inside our small circle. What does he know that we don’t?

  We stay up late, drinking beer on my porch keeping any eye out for Lance. At some point, we individually drift off to bed, leaving the street deserted and unwatched except for the security team. For some reason they don’t leave me feeling secure anymore.

  I am jostled awake in my own bed. Remaining still, I try and fall back to sleep. I was dreaming about Izzy and clench my eyes shut, fighting to stay with her. Cold hands wind around my sides, hair tickling my neck. Shaking off the cobwebs, I realize Fitz has cuddled up next to me. She puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head.

  “When did you get back?” I blurt out, but then lower my voice to a whisper. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, go back to sleep,” she whispers in my ear. “Lance dropped me and went into town for the day. Rest up. I’ll fill you in later.”

  She has been sharing my bed since I got back here, but we almost never touch other than when she’s had a few too many. When I start to roll away, she pulls me back, wrapping me around her like a blanket. Being this close to a girl wearing only a t-shirt and panties other than Izzy makes me very uncomfortable. Doesn’t she usually wear pajama bottoms? Before I can get a word out she does.

  “Just keep me warm. I’m not starting anything,” she assures me, kissing my forearm. “Just make me feel safe until tomorrow. I just need to feel safe for a few hours.”

  That’s the funny thing about casual sex. You never really feel safe with anyone. She has by circumstance alone, become my best friend. It’s doubtful that I’ve been this close to anyone besides Izzy in my entire life. Fitz has been protecting me like body armor since our return. I don’t go back to sleep right away. The uncomfortable tension of being this close to her is praying on my mind. Eventually, sleep does find me. Did she say Lance went into town?