Victor Gischler - Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

“It’s a real live war, isn’t it?” Mortimer said. “Not like a rumble between two street gangs. It’s a war.”

Bill nodded. “Yup. And I don’t think we can sit this one out. He’s the bad guy, and he needs to be stopped. It’s that simple.”

“Yeah.” Mortimer wasn’t so sure it was that simple, but Anne was back there, and that was enough. Whatever his wife-former wife-might have said, Mortimer simply wasn’t going to leave her to rot.

Bill handed something wrapped in cloth to Mortimer. “Here, take this while I’m thinking of it. Managed to scrounge it up. Wouldn’t want you running around naked.”

Mortimer unfolded the cloth. A.38-caliber revolver, very similar to the police special he’d been so fond of. And a clip-on holster for his belt. “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you guarding my back with nothing but witty rejoinders,” Bill said.

Mortimer checked the load, clipped the revolver to his belt. “I guess we’re committed to fighting for Armageddon. If he loses the war, we don’t get our twenty thousand dollars.”

They waited, the flashes above the city fading and finally stopping altogether. Dawn erupted red over the horizon like a bloody prophecy. The morning was damp, and a thick fog rolled in, gathered around Mortimer and Bill, sucked them in, cutting visibility to fifty feet in every direction.

“Does this help us or hurt us?” Mortimer asked.

“Hell if I know,” Bill said.

A long way off, Bill heard it first. “You hear that?”

“No…wait. Yes,” Mortimer said. “Engines?”

“I think so.”

“Damn, which direction? Is it coming from the city?” If the Red Stripes were coming, Mortimer needed to warn Ted and his men.

“I can’t tell,” Bill said. “Damn fog’s too thick.”

“It’s getting louder.”

Bill drew his six-shooters. “Get ready to haul ass.”

From the north, Mortimer saw them, like bright demon eyes in the fog, a single pair at first, then another, then ten, then a wall of headlights coming down the interstate. Vague blurs emerged from the fog, took shape. Cars.

Mortimer spotted a familiar figure in the lead car. The roof had been cut from the vehicle, a machine gun mounted in the backseat. The man stood in the passenger seat, head and shoulders above the windshield, resplendent in a crisp uniform and pink beret.

“General Malcolm!” Mortimer shouted.

The black man’s head yanked around, spotted Mortimer. He picked up a headset, shouted something into the microphone, and all the cars slowed to a halt.

“Is that you, Tate?”

“Yeah.”

Mortimer and Bill climbed the guardrail, jogged to the general’s car. “What is this?”

“It’s a Toyota Prius,” Malcolm said. “We knew fuel would be an issue, so we only scavenged automobiles that would make the gasoline stretch. We have sixty-one total cars in the attack group. Fifty-one hybrids and ten MINI Coopers. We’re the most eco-friendly assault force in history. Are you here with the underground?”

“Yeah. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Even as Mortimer spoke to General Malcolm, members of the underground emerged from the fog with gas cans, ammunition and food, beginning the resupply of the attack force.

Ted appeared at Mortimer’s side. “It’s all going just like you wanted, General.”

“Many thanks,” Malcolm said. “Tell your people to hurry. The closer we can get under cover of this fog the better.”

“Right.” Ted rushed away to orchestrate the resupply.

Malcolm turned his hard gaze on Mortimer. “You’d better be right about the Czar’s attack today, Tate. We’ve committed all our forces. It might be crippling to us if you’re wrong.”

“Can you use a couple more hands?” Bill asked.

“The MINI Coopers are short on gunners. They’re in the rear. But you’d better hurry. I’m not waiting one more second as soon as we’re gassed up and ready to go.”

“Understood.”

They jogged toward the rear of the column. The sight of fifty-one hybrids in a row with heavy machine guns mounted in the backseats was not something Mortimer had ever expected to see. It was nice to know he could still be surprised.

“You dickheads!” screamed a voice behind them.

Mortimer looked over his shoulder, saw Sheila running to catch up.

“Were you just going to leave me?” she yelled.

“Hey, you got to go on the blimp rescue instead of me, ” Bill shot back over his shoulder.

They found the Coopers bunched at the back of the attack force, looking tiny and ridiculous. But they were functioning automobiles. As far as Mortimer was concerned, they might as well have been Cadillacs.

“Who’s in charge here?” Mortimer shouted at the first line of Coopers.

A square-jawed man stuck his head out of the driver’s side of the lead car. Three-day stubble, a cigar smoldering in his kisser. “I’m in charge of Yellow Group. What do you want?”

“Malcolm said you guys might have a job opportunity.”

“Not us. Try Blue Group.”

They went to the next line of MINI Coopers and yelled for the leader.

The driver’s door of a glossy blue Cooper opened, and a lithe woman stepped out. She wore leather, hair standing up in wild burgundy spikes, a black patch over one eye. “Well, you just never know who you’re going to meet along a sorry stretch of highway.”

It took Mortimer a split second to recognize her. “Tyler!”

Bill whooped, and they rushed forward, shaking her hand and patting her on the back. She held up her hands, fended off a flurry of confused questions.

“One at a time.”

“How did you get away from the cannibals?” Bill asked.

“Same as you two,” Tyler said. “I ran my ass off and didn’t look back.”

Mortimer grinned. “So you decided to sign on with Armageddon, eh?”

“I’ve always worked for Armageddon,” Tyler said. “Who do you think owned the Muscle Express?”

A man popped his head through the sunroof of another Cooper, holding a set of headphones to one ear. “They’re starting engines, boss. We’d better crank ’em up.”

“Good seeing you’re alive,” Tyler said. “Got to go.”

“Wait,” Mortimer said. “Malcolm said you might have room for us.”

Tyler nodded. “I have room in my car. Jimmy needs a gunner too.” She pointed to the Cooper all the way at the end of the line.

Sheila elbowed her way into the conversation. “Me too.”

“Don’t need anyone else,” Tyler said.

“I’m not being left behind.”

“You can sit in the passenger side of my car,” Tyler said. “But if you get in the way of my driving, I’ll pull over and dump your ass on the side of the road.”

Bill laughed. “That’s the charm school dropout I remember.”

The semithunderous whine of fifty-oneToyota hybrids and ten MINI Coopers flying south on I-75 was surprisingly impressive. Mortimer had not traveled this fast in years. Even the Muscle Express hadn’t topped more than forty miles per hour. The MINI Cooper, with the steely-eyed Tyler behind the wheel, ate up the highway at seventy.

“Isn’t this a little fast for this fog?” Mortimer asked.

“Advance scouting reports the road clear of debris,” Tyler said. “General Malcolm is hoping those underground people really threw off the Czar’s schedule. If we swoop in fast enough we might catch them before they’re set. Here, you’re going to need this if you want to follow the play-by-play.” She handed a set of headphones back over her shoulder.

Mortimer put them on, adjusted the microphone in front of his mouth.

Tyler’s voice crackled in his ear. “The radio has been rigged with a few different settings. Right now we’re just talking to each other. I can flip a switch to talk to the five Coopers in Blue Group, or I flip another switch and get the whole attack force, or hear Malcolm’s orders or whatever. It’s all plugged into the car’s electrical system.”