Tourists of the Apocalypse

by WALLER, C. F.

  “I can’t drive a stick.”

  “Wuh, wuh, who said you were driving,” he barks. “It’s my car. It’s my road.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Yuh, yuh, you’re here at my invitation,” he points out. “I’m offering you shotgun. That’s it, that’s the offer.”

  “And if I decline?”

  “Aye, aye, I’ll go without you.”

  This is odd turn of events. The more time that passes between the gruesome executions in the front yard, the angrier I become. A small part of me worries that if we leave and don’t return, Fitz and Violet will be defenseless, but then I remember that Fitz probably doesn’t need a babysitter. It’s also unlikely that the two of us will be much protection against what’s coming anyway.

  “Should we go back and tell the girls what we’re doing?” I mumble, crawling out.

  “Thuh, thuh, they have a head start, but the truck is slow,” he spells out, wagging a shaky finger, then taping the end on his forehead. “We can catch them, but we gotta go now.”

  “What else do I need to know?”

  He climbs in and points to the front of the Vette. A moment later the headlights pop up. Each one has what looks like a sack of sugar where the lightbulb should be. Grey viscus fluid runs off each one, collecting in a tray underneath. There is also a smell like paint thinner wafting off of them.

  “So, no driving at night?”

  “Sha, sha, shaped charges,” he stammers. “They are covered in fast working epoxy. I’m not sure how it works, but they were making it for something on the reactor. Put the headlights up, run into the back of something, and then hit the brake. There’s a 50-foot lead on the back. It spools out like a Taser wire then snaps when you get clear.”

  “And the charges go off?” I presume, watching the lights drop back down.

  “Cee, cee, C-4 and ball bearings,” he taps his head on the Lexan side window. “Now the back.”

  I walk behind, but don’t notice anything at first. Crouching down, the only thing odd is that the two circular tail lights have Batman bumper stickers over them. They also stick out from the bumper an inch, indicating there’s something underneath.

  “Alright Batman I give. What’s in the tail lights?”

  “Guh, guh, get in,” he orders, turning the key and filling the garage with car exhaust.

  I do as instructed, climbing up with a hand on the roll bar, then dropping into the passenger seat. There is a sawed off shotgun pinned between the door and the seat reminding me of my adventure with Izzy. He revs the engine and then slowly rolls out of the garage. We drive down the small town street picking up speed, but when we come to the first turn I feel the car lean in my direction. I put a hand on the center roll bar to steady myself as we tilt. After completing the turn, narrowly avoiding flipping over, we level out and stop leaning.

  “Thuh, thuh, the center of balance is too high with that,” he sputters pointing behind us at the gun. “Also way too heavy for the suspension.”

  “Makes it interesting.”

  We pass the entrance to our street and the urge to stop and see the girls is strong. It’s probably my last chance to see Fitz or Violet. I picture Violet standing next to her Porsche in a tight skirt, then Fitz in yoga pants stumbling down the ramp. I hope they find a way to stay safe. When we get to the entrance ramp, there’s a burning car flipped over blocking the way. One of Lance’s two helicopters is hovering over the town. He’s probably watching the camera feed in his truck. No doubt the sicko is enjoying the carnage. Dickey turns right and shoots down the service road that runs along the highway. Wind blows my hair as we rocket down the well-worn two lane road.

  In the center of the dash is a flat screen maybe eight inches across. It’s showing a fisheye view of the road out the rear of the car. When he sees me looking, Dickey taps the corner of the screen and the view switches to one from the front. I nod then he points to a toggle switch with a cover on it. A piece of tape has the words Bat signal scrawled on it.

  “Pop, pop, pop up the safety and throw the switch to arm the canister shot in the back. There’s a small pipe bomb behind either taillight. It’s loaded with ball bearings and shaped to blow out.”

  “Shredding anything behind us.”

  “Twen, twen, twenty second delay. Just arm it and wait.”

  We come up on the second entrance ramp, finding it unguarded. He rolls right through the four way stop and onto the ramp. Dickey downshifts, hitting the top of the ramp fast and getting nearly airborne as we bounce onto the concrete pavement. He reaches behind the seat with one hand and comes back with a red headset. It’s the kind they use at NASCAR races to communicate next to the roaring engines. I take it and he fishes back behind his seat until he finds a second headset.

  I pull it on and adjust the tiny microphone on a wire arm in front of my mouth. There’s a button on one of the ear muffs you hold down to speak. Dickey pulls his on over his overgrown mullet, and then retrieves his sunglasses from the pocket of his jean jacket vest. Once he puts them on he looks rather menacing. This guy is full of surprises. I remember him skulking around the neighborhood the butt of endless jokes and put downs. He’s changed radically in the decade since that. If only Jarrod could see him now.

  “Wuh, wuh, one two,” he crackles in my ear.

  “Got you,” I answer, pushing down the button.

  “Guh, Guh, gonna get really loud when we start shooting,” he explains, pointing back at the Goliath.

  No doubt he’s right. There will be a .50 caliber chain gun spinning a few feet over our heads. Leaning across the center console, I see the digital speedo reading 95 MPH. A shadow falls over the road and peeking above I see the helicopter from town passing overhead.

  “They’re going to know we’re coming,” I shout, pointing a finger up.

  He glances overhead, and then pats his hand nervously on the steering wheel. The element of surprise was probably part of his plan. I notice the tarp blowing in the wind as it’s wrapped around the Goliath. I wonder if it would work like that.

  “Will the Goliath fire in the locked down position?”

  “Thuh, thuh, the safeties won’t let it, but that’s not a problem.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Aye, aye, I didn’t load any safety protocols,” he snorts, and then points to the glovebox. “Control’s in there.”

  A controller much like an X-box or PlayStation controller falls out when I open the glovebox. There’s a thick wire covered with black electrical tape feeding back into the dash. A dozen other stray wires also fall out and tangle around my shoes. This should have a sticker that explains it’s been wired by Dickey. On the face, between the tiny joysticks, is a three-inch video screen so the operator can see where the business end is pointed. Several buttons are labeled with what looks like a seventies label maker.

  “Puh, puh, push ARM then it’s live. It’s locked down with manual clamps so it can’t pop up now. The AUTO button turns it loose on anything moving, but just fire manual in this position since the darn thing can’t move.”

  I push the arm button and there is an electric hum behind us. The turret starts to turn under the tarp, twisting the canvass. It jerks back and forth like a trapped animal then shreds the canvass. A scrapping whir fills the car as it spins up to speed. Hot air also fills the inside of the Vette as the friction builds. The chopper is dead ahead of us, a closed circuit dome under the skid sending our image back to Lance.

  “Can you catch it?” I ask, pointing up.

  He nods and downshifts, jerking the car forward. The speedo climbs to 100 MPH and we quickly close the gap before they can speed up. They probably don’t care as long as we stay in the frame. They have no idea what’s about to happen.

  “Just drive right under them and keep on going,” I bark into the wind, looking up and holding the controller at the ready. “Do not slow down for any reason.”

  Dickey flies right under them and I hit the FIRE button and h
old it down. The chattering of the gun drowns out the chopper blades and the wind noise. We throw a hail of bullets into the sky. I hold the button down and the tower of shrapnel cuts right through the thin aluminum skin. It’s more like a news chopper than a military model. It’s as if a knife sliced through it, igniting a fireball overhead.

  “Surprise,” I mutter into the headset.

  We pass underneath it before the burning wreckage slams down on the highway behind us. I feel a wave of overpowering heat wash over the opening in the roof. Pushing the ARM button again, the turret slowly spins to a stop. We share an elated glance and he gives me enthusiastic thumbs up. That was insane. I try and picture Lance watching his toy go down in flames. Instead, I see blood running down Izzy’s nose, a visual that may never leave my mind. The downside now is that they know we’re coming and they know what we have.

  “Should we unlock it now?” I wonder aloud, watching the shredded tarp blowing in the wind above.

  “Nuh, nuh, no,” he answers, shaking his head then tapping his forehead with a finger. “Makes the car unstable.”

  “Did you test any of this before now?”

  “Nuh, nuh, never had it out of the garage before today.”

  “Perfect,” I wince, thinking I might have asked this before we left the garage.

  Sailing along trying to close the gap, we pass a VW van with two women in short shorts and tank tops standing on the side of the highway. They try and flag us down, waving a pink towel. Dickey takes his foot off the accelerator, but I slap his shoulder and shake my head. These gals are bait. It’s been months since the lights went out. Someone placed them there to get anyone with a vehicle to stop. I’d bet there’s an ambush waiting in the woods behind them.

  “Ever seen that sort of thing before?”

  “Nuh, nuh, nope,” he stutters. “Pretty girls though.”

  “You are aware this is most likely a suicide mission?” I suddenly ask, having not said this out loud prior to this moment.

  “Muh, muh, my road,” he shakes his head aggressively. “Killed my friends.”

  Possibly he never got over his first mental break or more likely the day’s events have him unbalanced. Who wouldn’t have a visceral reaction to the execution of his friends? Either way, I doubt I have to mention the likely outcome of this little road trip again. I’m staying focused on seeing Lance’s bloody corpse. If I get, that then whatever happens to me is fine.

  ….

  We come over a rise in the highway and in the distance I can see the big truck. Rolling along behind it is the remaining chase car. Dickey taps my arm and points under the seat. Reaching my hand beneath, I come back with a nice set of binoculars. I lift my head out the open top and my face is buffeted with a strong wind. Collecting myself, I train the spyglasses down the road. The chase car now contains a second man, armed no doubt. Three men are visible in the back of the truck, rifles held at the ready.

  “How bulletproof is this thing?” I quiz him, tapping the button on the side of the earmuff.

  “Wuh, wuh, well the windshield is wrapped Lexan,” he explains, and then raps a knuckle on the driver’s window. “Like these.”

  “But the body’s just fiberglass,” I point out. “Even with the fancy wrap job.”

  “Ruh, ruh, right, but this car doesn’t need the body. What I mean is, the body panels will crack and fall off, but the wrap won’t let the rounds through the first few times. The car will run and drive just fine without them.”

  “They can still shoot the engine or the tires.”

  “Puh, puh, put a big steel plate over the injection system so all they can shoot is the radiator, but that’s it. The tires are the mega run flats T-Buck made. If a tire ruptures, the air hits the inside and a fluid turns hard in a split second. It’s like driving on a solid rubber tire, but we won’t have any flats per se. I had them on the Mustang too.”

  I recall him explaining this tire before. Ahead of us, the chase car slows; allowing us to catch up to it well before we get to the truck. I pull the shotgun from the door and start to stand up, but Dickey tugs on my pant leg.

  “Ree, ree, release the Kraken,” he stammers, pointing at the Goliath. “Pop open the tie down clamps and hit ARM.”

  There are two ratchet straps holding the framework to the bottom of the turret. They’re probably for stability. I loosen each one and toss them onto the road as we fly along. Dropping into my seat, I sift through the mass of wires on the floor, coming back with the controller. With one eye on the chase car, I hit the ARM button.

  “Nuh, nuh, now hit deploy.”

  I do this, releasing a shrill hydraulic howl. The turret pops straight up, then pivots like a kid’s telescope. The top has the familiar dome with the all-seeing eye glowing inside. It turns right, then left, jerking to abrupt stops. Then it does the same in an up and down orientation ending with loud clicks. Finally, the barrel begins to spin.

  We catch the chase car, but Dickey slows, keeping it in front of us. The passenger leans out and fires several shots, only one glancing off the Goliaths structure. Sitting down I see the back end of the chase car on the screen imbedded in the controller. Using the two tiny joysticks under my thumbs, I move the camera shot up and down, then realize I am actually moving the gun. Above me it whines and sputters as it locks in place, then moves again. Another series of gunshots echoes above the rushing wind. One hits the windshield, leaving a small nick.

  “Wuh, wuh, we waiting for some reason?”

  I put the back of their car in the center of the screen and push the fire button. I don’t hold it down long, only tap it. A short burst fires out hitting them and causing sparks to fly. Dickey looks over and swirls a finger to the side, indicating that I should hold the button down longer. The passenger leans out again, but I let fly with a long burst, hitting him and cutting the back end of the chase car to ribbons. He falls onto the road and we swerve to miss him. The chase car weaves left, and then hooks right and flips over, the driver side rear tire comes completely off and rolls down the road alongside us for a brief moment.

  “Wholly cow,” I mumble.

  “Stuh, stuh, state of the art bang, bang,” Dickey chirps hammering the accelerator.

  We have dropped back from the truck during our brief encounter with the chase car. As we fly along at 100 MPH trying to close the gap again, a faint engine whine can he heard. Tapping the touch screen, I see a red motorcycle race into view behind us. Two more brightly colored rice burners trail along behind it.

  “We got company,” I shout over the wind. “Probably advance scouts from that band of pirates who set up the lady trap.”

  “Scuh, scuh, scouts?”

  “We didn’t stop, but they liked the car,” I shrug, explaining my theory. “Send these bikes out to slow us down while they follow in slower vehicles.

  One of the bikes races past and cuts us off. The driver pulls a pistol and points it back randomly, firing several shots. Dickey slows slightly, but I slap the dash in an effort to keep him from letting off the gas. That is after all what they want. Pointing the Goliath with the controller, I fire a burst, but the bike is weaving and I miss three times before Dickey raps his knuckles like a nervous tick on the steering wheel.

  “Huh, huh, hit AUTO and let her off the leash.”

  “It will never hit them.”

  “Huh, huh, how do you know? You’ve never seen one in action.”

  “You have?”

  He doesn’t answer, but is right of course. I press the auto button and the turret does its right, left, up, down orientation dance. The biker gets off two more shots before the Goliath fires. It misses its target, but fires three more short bursts in succession. The bike’s pattern causes all shots to miss, but then the shots pause. The bike moves from side to side, then as if it were predicting the pattern, the gun fires a very short burst. The bike is hit in the back tire and crumples to the pavement, the driver bouncing to one side. The bike skids along, then catches the air and flies over the
top of us.

  “Whoa,” I blurt out.

  Without pause the turret points straight up, then tips backwards so it’s aiming behind us. I see a second dome containing an all-seeing eye is mounted on the underside, which is now the top. That’s a novel bit of engineering. The gun fires off burst after burst, hitting one of the trailing bikes almost immediately. Sparks fly and it flips over skidding out of sight. The last bike hits the brakes too late and is cut in two by a strafing barrage.

  “Muh, muh, my road,” crackles in my headset.

  “Apparently so.”

  The turret flips back over facing forward, but keeps moving. An armadillo on the shoulder of the highway is turned into a burst of red vapor as we fly by.

  “Auh, Auh, off AUTO bud.”

  I press the correct button and the turret stops and lowers into a holding position facing forward. Clearly if left on it would seek and destroy anything that moves. I pause and a thought pops into my head. Lance’s guys in the chase car had to be wearing Tabs. Why did the Goliath fire on them? Dickey moves around a dead car in the road, his wrap around copper glasses glinting in the sun.

  “Aren’t the Tabs supposed to keep the Goliath from shooting at people?”

  “Yuh, yuh, you bet.”

  “But it shot at the chase car? They had to be wearing Tabs.”

  “Aye, aye, I didn’t load any safety protocols,” he grins. “But take a wild guess at what that means?”

  I think on this, but can’t make any extrapolations from his comment. I shake my head.

  “Thuh, thuh, the one on the truck is going to have them.”

  “What?”

  “Saff, saff, safety protocols,” he grunts. “They can’t have it shooting at the chase car when it’s on auto. That means it won’t fire on us until they can shut them off.”

  “How hard is it to do that?”

  “Dee, dee, depends,” he mutters, tapping his palm on his forehead in a frustrated way. “Five minutes if they figure it out and re-boot the brain right away.”