Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse - Gischler Victor (читать книги полностью .txt) 📗

“Six months,” Floyd said. “Maybe seven.”

“It’ll be nice to get commerce flowing again,” Bobby said.

“More traffic means more people in the net?” Mortimer asked.

Bobby shrugged. “Got to earn a living.”

“Seems a little gruesome.”

“Hey, it used to be a lot worse,” Bobby said. “Back when Daddy was alive we’d rob them and strip them and kill them. But I guess Daddy finally felt guilty about that because he shot himself. That was him you saw at the desk.”

“Lovely.”

“Anyway, folks are worth more alive now with the new Joey’s. We put a sentence on them for trespassing and they work it off on the electricity bicycles. But members get a pass. You can’t fuck with the customers.”

Bobby mumbled, “Whoa,” and the mule eased to a stop in front of a relatively well-kept brick house. “Floyd, I’m dropping you off here.”

“What?” Floyd’s voice leapt two octaves.

“Damn it, Floyd, we’re the only people for ten miles with chickens. You want them stole while we’re away? Now get out of the wagon.”

“But I want to see the Joey Girls.”

“Get out!”

Floyd grumbled but got out.

In a second, the wagon was on its way again.

“He’s as good a brother as a man could ask for, but he’s hornier than a damn jackrabbit. They only got four girls at Joey’s and he’s been at each of them maybe a half-dozen times.”

Mortimer didn’t have anything to say to that.

“But overall, I guess you could say we’re relatively affluent here,” Bobby continued. “We got chickens that lay good eggs, so we can trade. We got two hogs we’re trying to breed, so if that works out we might end up being the pork barons of the whole damn state. I like to think big.”

Mortimer’s stomach growled. A plate of bacon and eggs would be heaven. And coffee. A cup of coffee.

A steak. He’d kill for a thick, red T-bone steak.

No, not kill. That kind of thing wasn’t a figure of speech anymore.

“And I might be getting a job as a Joey Girl,” Sue Ellen said.

Bobby snorted. “Hell, girl, that place is known for the hotness of its female employees. Why would they want your ugly ass?”

“You shut up, Bobby. A good brother would support his sister’s career ambitions.”

“You don’t have no tits.”

“I said shut up. You smell like cat piss. Shut up. Tits ain’t the whole package. I’m refined. I dress nice.”

Bobby nudged Mortimer in the ribs. “She found all these old clothes and thinks she’s Elizabeth Taylor.”

“I don’t even know who the hell that is.” Sue Ellen stuck her tongue out at her brother. “Shithead.” She touched Mortimer on the shoulder. “You think I’m attractive, don’t you, Mr.-hey, we never did get your name.”

“Mortimer.”

“Mortimer, you think I’m attractive, don’t you?”

Please leave me alone.

Sue Ellen shook his shoulder. “Seriously, I’m pretty, right? Alluring.”

Mortimer swallowed hard, cleared his throat and nodded. “You look nice.”

Bobby brayed laughter. “Shit, Sue Ellen, he’s a Platinum member. He could have big-titty blonde whores out the ying-yang.” Bobby nudged him again. “Eh, buddy? All them choice whores. Eh?”

“How much farther is it?”

“Oh, it’s a ways. Get comfortable.”

Clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop.

As in Spring City, the folks of Cleveland, Tennessee, had decided to congregate downtown, fleeing the exposed suburbs for the relative safety of brick buildings and narrow streets, almost like a tightly clustered medieval village behind a palisade. Even more than Spring City, the downtown had been made into a fortress, the roads blocked in a zigzag pattern with junk cars. Bobby maneuvered the mule slowly but with ease through the narrow path. A block from the courthouse, a pair of men with rifles rolled aside a barricade made of scrap iron welded to supermarket shopping carts.

One of the guards waved the wagon through. “Who you got there, Bobby? Somebody for the bicycles?”

“Not this one,” called Bobby as he eased the wagon past the barricade. “He’s got a Platinum card.”

The guard laughed. “You hear that?” He winked at his buddy. “We got us a playboy in town. Hide your daughters.”

Mortimer smiled weakly and waved.

They passed the courthouse, and Mortimer noticed two more riflemen patrolling the roof.

“What’s with all the fortification?”

“Red Stripes.”

“What do they want here?”

“Same as always,” Bobby said. “Food, weapons, clothing, women.”

“And blood,” added Sue Ellen, her face suddenly stern.

Bobby reined in the mule and they dribbled to a stop in front of a gigantic stone church. “In there,” Bobby told Mortimer. “Sue Ellen, help me carry in these eggs.”

Mortimer climbed out of the wagon, stretched and heard his joints pop. Every limb was stiff. He looked at the wide, closed double doors of the church, then back at Bobby. “In there?”

“In there.”

Mortimer pushed the doors open and stepped into the church. It was cavernous within, and the footfalls of his wingtips echoed off the high walls and vaulted ceiling. The church had been cleared of pews. There was nothing but wide-open space between him and the altar. Mortimer recalled that medieval cathedrals had no pews. The peasants had to stand and kneel on the cold stone floor. That was when people were serious about religion. Hard people for a dark age.

Mortimer felt weak from hunger and fatigue, his head slightly dizzy.

The setting sun suddenly poured its light into the far windows, a fiery orange and red coming through the stained glass. It bathed Mortimer in holy light. It warmed him, drew him toward the altar.

At once Mortimer felt leaden, the weight of his journey, the accumulated fatigue of running from danger and into danger. Replaying the past few days’ events in his mind, Mortimer could hardly believe he was still alive. Perhaps it was some form of miracle. Maybe the hand of God had directed him to this place. Maybe this was God reminding him, showing him that even in this desolate land, in these forsaken times, a higher power was still here, still taking some interest in the small creatures, this ridiculous humanity, crawling and hiding like insects over the earth.

Mortimer sank to his knees in front of the altar, the light nearly blinding him now, the setting sun at a perfect angle, streaming in, lighting up the dust motes in the air like fiery meteors burning in the atmosphere. Mortimer clasped his hands, looked up into the haunted eyes of Christ.

In that moment there was no sound. Time seemed to grind to a halt.

In the pure quiet, voices arose, perfect and clear. A hymn from nowhere, singing clear and sweet. Strange yet so very familiar. The song filled the room, filled Mortimer, lifted him up.

And then…

The figure of Christ moved. Mortimer gasped. The figure descended, floating down toward him. Mortimer’s heart froze. He opened his mouth to scream.

“Look out down there,” somebody yelled at him.

Mortimer closed his mouth, blinked, saw the men in the rafters, lowering the crucifix with thick rope.

“Stand aside, buddy.”

Mortimer stood aside. The men grunted, lowered the heavy figure little by little.

Mortimer recognized the song now. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones.

The foot of the big crucifix hit the stone floor with a loud tunk.

“Watch out for Jesus.”