Victor Gischler - Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

“Thanks.”

“Try not to die, Mortimer Tate.” And then he was gone. Atlanta’s old, gray ghost.

Mortimer watched and waited for an hour. He told himself he was trying to get the lay of the land first, familiarize himself with troop movements before going in. Who was he fooling? He was trying to get up the courage.

Mortimer took a deep breath, walked out the front door and crossed the street.

When there had been sucha thing as television, Mortimer had watched a show called Cops. In this show, police officers habitually wrestled perpetrators to the ground, where they would hit face-first-often on cement-and then have their arms pinned painfully behind their backs in preparation for a pair of handcuffs.

Mortimer knew exactly what that felt like now.

When Mortimer had crossed the street and casually announced he wanted to see the head honcho, the guards on duty had been momentarily frozen by his audacity. They recovered quickly and gang-piled him, leaving his bottom lip swollen and bloody, various bruises along the length of his body.

His hands were tied behind his back.

He was searched.

He was disarmed.

He was taken to a very small room just inside the CNN entrance and put in an uncomfortable chair, a guard standing in front of him, stone-faced, arms crossed, a pistol in a shoulder holster.

Mortimer waited for half an hour before another man entered the room. He stood medium height, medium weight, brown hair of a medium shade, but his eyes were blue and active, giving Mortimer a quick appraisal. He wore a well-cut black suit with a black tie. The red armband the only splash of color. An eel-skin briefcase in his grip.

“Hello.” Too cheerful.

“Hi,” croaked Mortimer.

“Throat a bit raw? Want some water?”

“Please.”

The man left, came back thirty seconds later with a glass, tilted it to Mortimer’s lips. Mortimer drank.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m Terry Frankowski. We’re going to be spending some time together, so I hope you’ll call me Terry.”

“Okay.”

“So let’s have your story, Mortimer. I hope I can call you Mortimer. Mort?”

“Mortimer is fine. How do you know my name?”

“We found your Joey Armageddon’s Platinum membership card among your belongings,” Terry said. “Now, let’s get down to business. Ready?”

“Sure.”

Terry cleared his throat. “I’m a member of the Czar’s intelligence organization, but, to be perfectly honest, my specialty is analyzing data. I’m not usually involved with interrogations, but I was the only one around, and, well, beggars can’t be choosers. Am I right?”

“I’ll try to go easy on you.”

“Ha. That’s the spirit,” Terry said. “We’re going to get along. I can tell.”

Terrific.

“Now, I’ve got a list of questions and procedures here, so that should help things along.” He produced a pencil and a clipboard from his briefcase. “First question: are you here to kill the Czar?”

“Actually,” Mortimer said, “I think I can save us some time. If I can just talk to the Czar-”

Terry tsked, sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah, the thing is, I just have this list of questions, and I’d feel better if we just got through them. I’m a rules kind of guy, and, look, I’m going to be square with you, okay? I’m a little out of my comfort zone, so I really think I should stick with the format.”

Mortimer said nothing.

“Let’s skip ahead,” Terry said. “Are you here to steal gasoline or sabotage Red Stripe gasoline supplies?”

“No.”

“Super. Now let’s-” Terry consulted the clipboard. “Oh, wait. It says here not to believe you and in parentheses it says slap face. ” Terry tsked again. “I guess we can skip that. Things are going well enough, don’t you think?”

The stone-faced guard cleared his throat, shook his head.

“Oh.” Terry seemed disappointed. “Rules are rules.”

Terry leaned forward, swung his hand in a wide arc and caught Mortimer’s face with a loud, stinging slap. Lights danced in front of Mortimer’s eyes. He tasted blood, his cheek having caught on some teeth.

Terry flipped a page on the clipboard, then another page, reading ahead. “Oh, dear. Looks like we’re in for a long day.”

Mortimer assumed the dungeon hadnot been installed as part of the CNN Center’s original design. He hung from a damp stone wall, held there with manacles and heavy chains.

Terry hadn’t enjoyed a moment of the interrogation, but he was very conscientious about his job, had even taken twenty minutes to find a hand-rolled cigarette among the troops so he could burn Mortimer’s forearm as the clipboard instructed. There had been more slaps and punches in between predictable questions.

Mortimer told him everything he could without giving away the show, sticking as close to the truth as possible. Yes, he was a Platinum member. Yes, he’d recently been to the Armageddon’s on Lookout Mountain. Yes, he’d busted out of jail and escaped south. Had he been part of the recent disturbance at Stone Mountain? Huh? Who? What are you talking about?

Mortimer answered question after question, many seemingly irrelevant. But Mortimer had his chance too, made sure Terry knew that Mortimer had valuable information and was looking to trade. He’d talk only to the Red Czar himself.

So they’d put him in the dungeon.

He hung there, shoulders aching.

Waited.

He was half asleep, in a daze, when he heard the dungeon door creak open. He didn’t open his eyes right away. If they were coming to dump more punishment on him, maybe they’d leave him alone if they thought he’d passed out.

He heard movement, somebody close to him. He felt a soft hand on his face, a cool, wet rag dabbing at the corners of his mouth. He felt something being applied to the cigarette burns on his forearm, a salve of some kind. Instant relief.

Mortimer chanced opening one eye, looked down at the top of a woman’s head, rich brown hair with three thin strips of gray radiating from her part down the center. She stooped over a bucket, wrung out a rag in clean water.

He was so thirsty.

“Who are you?” His voice so hoarse and dry.

“How disappointing. You don’t recognize your own wife,” Anne said. “It’s only been nine years.”

“Anne?” Mortimer blinked, looked intoher pale blue eyes. She smiled. The gray in her hair told the years, a few more laugh lines at the eyes. But her tan face glowed smooth and young like on their wedding day, lips full, posture firm and athletic. She wore a heavy brown robe, looked like a medieval monk. She was okay. She looked good and she was okay. He’d come so far. She was okay.

He started to cry.

Anne’s smile fell. “What are you doing? Don’t do that.”

The tears came hot and fast, sobs wracking his body, rattling the chains. He tried to talk, tried to tell her everything he felt upon seeing her, the love and regret and fear and so many things mixed together that not even he understood fully. He couldn’t speak, could only gulp for breath between great heaving sobs, snot running over his lips.

Anne wiped at a tear in the corner of her own eye, wiped the snot off Mortimer’s face with the rag. “You were always a sentimental jerk.”

“S-sorry.”

“What are you doing here anyway?”

She really didn’t know? “I came for you.”

“Me? Are you crazy?”

“You’re my wife.”

“That was nine years ago.” Disbelief in her eyes. “I’m not your wife anymore.”

“I never signed the divorce papers.”