Victor Gischler - Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

Jimmy turned abruptly down a cross street. The Mustang never wavered, pushed the gas hard and came up behind Mortimer fast. Tyler turned, accelerated, turned again, zigzagging through what had once been a middle-class neighborhood. Malcolm had been right. The big bruisers had speed and muscle but couldn’t maneuver so well, and every time Tyler took a sharp turn, the Mustang lost twenty yards.

But the muscle car made up for it on the straightaways, the big engine howling as the Mustang pulled within three feet of the Cooper’s rear bumper, the faceless assailant in the passenger’s seat shooting wildly.

Sheila had her hands over her eyes.

Tyler was a taut, wired mass of muscle and sinew. She jerked the wheel suddenly, and the Cooper whipped into a circular driveway. Tyler tapped the brakes, slowed the vehicle only slightly, and the Mustang shot past on the street. Tyler stomped the accelerator.

She shot out of the driveway, back onto the street, right behind the Mustang.

“Blast ’em,” she shouted at Mortimer.

He popped out of the moonroof and unleashed the H &K, emptying a full clip in three seconds, ejecting it and slamming in a new one. He puffed the cigar like a lunatic locomotive. The Mustang had been modified for attack, not defense, and the exposed rear window presented an irresistible target. Mortimer fired, and the glass shattered. He fired again, and a neat row of holes appeared along the roof with metallic tunks.

The Mustang slammed on the brakes.

“Shit!” Tyler hit the brakes too.

Not fast enough. The MINI slammed hard, crunching the front end. Mortimer pitched forward, managed to hang on instead of flying over the MINI’s hood. The cigar flew out of his mouth. Tyler threw the car into reverse, backed up at full speed, headlight glass and the front bumper on the ground in front of them.

By the time the Mustang made its slow turn, the Cooper was flying back the way it had come. Soon the muscle car was on the Cooper’s bumper again. Tyler resumed the zigzag strategy, but finally made a wrong turn into a cul-de-sac.

“Oh, fuck,” Sheila said.

Tyler didn’t slow down, aimed the Cooper at a narrow opening between a brick house and a wooden fence.

Mortimer tensed. “We won’t fit. Turn it around. We won’t fit.”

“We’ll fit, God damn it!” Tyler’s grip on the wheel was iron, her whole face clenched and covered with sweat.

They flew up the driveway, across the yard and through the gap, each side clearing by less than an inch. Mortimer looked back, expecting the much wider Mustang to slam on the brakes.

The muscle car exploded through the fence, splintered planks sailing in every direction.

The Cooper scooted across the backyard, the Mustang gunning its engines behind, plowing jagged grooves into the soft lawn, kicking up dirt. The Cooper crossed over an already-down chain-link fence into the neighboring yard, dodging debris. The Mustang collided with patio furniture behind them, disintegrated ceramic pots, scattered pieces of a plastic swing set.

Mortimer emerged from the moonroof long enough to blaze half a magazine at the pursuer, bullets ricocheting in a shower of sparks. Tyler drove through a side yard, raced down another driveway and into a different cul-de-sac. Tyler stomped the gas.

A machine-gun burst from the Mustang shredded the Cooper’s back right tire. The car skidded into a drainage ditch at full speed; the front end smashed into a telephone pole with a pop-crunch. This time Mortimer did fly, headfirst, forward and at an angle over the passenger side. He tried to roll with it, landing on grass and ending in a tangle of shrubbery.

He looked back, saw the Mustang rolling slowly, coming to a stop forty feet from the Cooper’s rear bumper. It sputtered and conked out. There was a long moment of silence. Then the Mustang tried to crank the engine. It wouldn’t turn over. It cranked again. Nothing.

Mortimer spotted where he’d dropped the H &K five feet away. He belly-crawled toward it through the grass, wincing at his sprained knee. He had minor cuts and bruises along his whole body. Forget it. Go for the gun.

The muscle car tried to crank one more time, and when it didn’t, both Red Stripes climbed out, leveled their guns just as Mortimer reached the H &K. He pointed it with one hand, squeezed the trigger, let off two small bursts. He missed high, but sent the Red Stripes ducking behind the open car doors. Mortimer fired one more burst before the gun clicked empty. He felt at his belt for a fresh magazine, couldn’t find one.

Shit.

Sheila rose through the moonroof, hair disheveled, bright blood streaming from her nose. She lifted her.45 automatic, fired five times fast.

They all heard the high-pitched revving of another car at the end of the street, accelerating, approaching fast. Machine-gun fire. The two Red Stripes looked at each other, turned and abandoned the Mustang, running full speed back among the houses. A second later, another MINI Cooper screeched to a stop next to the Mustang. A familiar face and a familiar blue Union officer’s hat stuck through the moonroof.

“Over here.” Mortimer stood and waved.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Mortimer limped to the other Cooper. The knee sprain was minor. He bent to look into the driver’s-side window. The kid behind the wheel was eighteen, twenty at most, red hair, freckles, buckteeth and leather driving gloves. “You Jimmy?”

“Yes, sir. What happened?”

Mortimer shook his head. “They just stopped. Maybe they threw a rod.” Mortimer didn’t exactly know what that meant, but he’d heard gearheads say it.

He limped to the Mustang, slid in behind the wheel. The interior smelled like beer and cigarettes. Mortimer turned the key in the ignition. The engine wheezed and strained but wouldn’t turn over. He checked the gas gauge. The needle was square on the E.

He limped back to Jimmy’s Cooper. “Can you get the rest of the battle on the radio?”

“Can’t do it,” Jimmy said. “I’m only rigged to hear the boss and the rest of the cars in my group. Group leaders get all the frequencies. You’ll have to use Tyler’s radio.”

Mortimer went back to the wrecked Cooper, opened the driver’s-side door.

“Oh, no. Damn.” He sighed. “Damn.”

Tyler was hunched over the steering wheel, half out of her seat, forehead smashed against the windshield. Mortimer eased her back into the seat. Her eyes were vacant, dark blood down both sides of her face. Mortimer felt for a pulse even though he knew there wouldn’t be one.

“She hit so quick I don’t think she felt a thing,” Sheila said from the backseat.

Mortimer reached past Tyler’s corpse, flipped the switch for the radio. He put on Tyler’s headset. The confused chatter of battle assaulted him. He blocked it out and, into the microphone, said, “Malcolm, this is Mortimer Tate. You still out there?”

Confused static. Then:

– “I don’t have time for you, Tate. I’m in the middle of a battle.”

Explosions and gunfire in the background had almost drowned out Malcolm’s voice.

“They’re short on gas, Malcolm. You hear me? All that armor and those big V-8 engines. They’re sucking gas fast. Are you getting this?”

A long pause.

– “Okay, you heard the man,” Malcolm said. “We’ll do a dog-and-rabbit on them. Let’s run them dry, people. Engage only enough to get them to chase you.”

“Good luck.” Mortimer took off the headset.

He went back to the other Cooper. “Jimmy, I need a lift. There’s something I have to do.”

“No way, man,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got to get back to the fight. Those are my people.”

Mortimer started to protest, then stopped himself. It was the kid’s right to get himself killed if he wanted. He looked at the wrecked MINI up against the telephone pole. “You think we can get that thing running?”