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

Not knowing what else to do, Mortimer had pressed on, taking Anne to Ruby Falls. At least the caves would be cooler. The gift shops were filled with the bright debris of future spring cleanings.

At the end of Anne and Mortimer’s long cave tour, the music swelled, and suddenly, in the total darkness, the red spotlight had blazed forth to illuminate a pathetic trickle of water. A recorded voice boomed Behold Ruby Falls!

In the indifferent silence that followed, while the bored tour group shuffled and looked over their shoulders for the exit, Anne suddenly burst out laughing. It had all been so ridiculous, the big buildup, all for a little dribble into a puddle. Mortimer had started laughing too, and kitsch value had saved the weekend, at least a little. They adjourned to a Mexican cafe and got slightly drunk on watery margaritas. They’d had fun, but Mortimer had always been aware that in some important way, on some important level, he and Anne weren’t fully connected. Perhaps she would have thought the same about him if they’d ended up at the Shakespeare festival.

One last memory struck Mortimer with wry amusement.

The Incline was a trolley-style railroad car that climbed Lookout Mountain to the Civil War park on top. As a ten-year-old, Mortimer had ridden with his dad down the Incline to St. Elmo Station, where tourist shops and ice-cream parlors and arcades and frolicking fun in every form clustered around the foot of the mountain.

When Mortimer had returned with Anne, he’d been shocked to find the area had fallen on hard times. The streets were deserted and most of the shops had been boarded up. The once bustling tourist zone around St. Elmo Station had become a ghost town.

It was the only place Mortimer thought might actually be better off for the fall of civilization.

They still had a long walk ahead of them.

Lookout Mountain was south of the city. They hiked I-75 until it intersected with I-24, then headed west on 24. They found out quickly enough which exit to take. A large wooden sign had been erected, featuring the vivid illustration of a thrashing, large-breasted woman against a pink mushroom cloud. An arrow underneath with neatly painted lettering read THIS WAY TO JOEY ARMAGEDDON’S SASSY A-GO-GO.

Their moods picked up at the sight of the sign, and they all three exchanged sheepish smiles. It wasn’t quite like coming home, but it beat the hell out of camping on the interstate. They picked up the pace as they hit the exit ramp. They wanted a bed and a meal and a drink. Many drinks. And loud music and all the extravagant good times for which Joey Armageddon’s was famous. It was why people came from miles and miles. To lose themselves in indulgence and forget the daily horror of simply waking up every morning and living. Respite, haven, sanctuary, and yet much more than that. Something that reminded you on a primal level that it was good to be alive.

Five minutes later, a dozen men pointed automatic rifles at them.

XXIX

“Good evening, sir. My name is James. I’d like to direct you and your party through our checkpoint, at which time you’ll need to check your weapons with our clerk. He’ll be happy to give you a receipt, and you’re free to reclaim your weapons upon departure.”

The man who’d uttered this well-rehearsed speech was young, with neatly cut blond hair and a smile full of straight, white teeth. He wore impeccable black trousers, black wingtips, a starched white shirt with black tie and black blazer. He held an M16 automatic rifle on Mortimer and his companions. The men behind James were dressed and equipped in the exact same manner.

Bill clutched one of the deer rifles to his chest like he was being asked to give up his firstborn. “Like hell.”

The smile never wavered from James’s face. “I’m afraid you will be denied entrance if we are unable to secure your firearms. For the safety of our drunken, irresponsible patrons, we must forbid all unauthorized weapons. Joey Armageddon thanks you for your cooperation.”

Mortimer admired the young man’s professionalism. Mortimer was confident James would remain polite and friendly the whole time he and his chums were shredding Mortimer and his companions with a lethal rain of automatic gunfire.

He edged closer to Bill, nudged him in the ribs. “Just pretend it’s Dodge City and you’re giving up your guns to Wyatt Earp.”

Bill frowned. “Ha-fucking-ha-ha.”

“Come on,” Sheila said. “I just want to go in.”

“Okay,” Mortimer said to the guards. “We’ll check the hardware.”

James seemed genuinely delighted. “We appreciate your cooperation. Please follow the path through the gate. The clerk is on the other side.”

The gate wasn’t some half-assed blockade of dead cars like he’d seen in the small towns to the north. They’d put a cinderblock wall across the road. It was eight feet high with sporadic guard platforms on the other side, crisp men in starched shirts staring down over the sights of their M16 rifles. An iron gate swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Mortimer followed Sheila and Bill through to the other side.

It took a moment for the little village to snap into focus. Mortimer wasn’t sure what he was seeing at first, but recognition dawned in ten seconds. They were on St. Elmo Avenue, and Mortimer could see St. Elmo Station a block and a half away.

Mortimer took another few seconds to realize why everything looked so strange. It looked like an actual town, a place where people lived and worked and hadn’t endured nearly a decade of doom. If there had been cars on the road, Mortimer might have believed he’d finally awakened from a long, detailed nightmare. The village around St. Elmo Station bustled with commerce. The goods and services from various shops spilled out onto the streets, giving the place an open-air-market feel. Everything was clean and organized, the streets and buildings in good repair.

And light. With the oncoming darkness, a man walked the street lighting oil lamps set high on thin iron poles. They did not fear the dark here. There was no starvation or danger. Even the men with machine guns were courteous.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir?”

Mortimer blinked out of his stupor, turned to see a squat, round gentleman with a sweaty red face watching him expectantly.

“Sir, my name is Reginald, and I’m the master gun clerk. Please step to the kiosk.”

The gun kiosk was some kind of converted ticket booth with a kid barely out of his teens at the window. Behind the kid hung all manner of rifles and pistols. Even a sword or two. Sheila and Bill were already folding receipts and putting them into pants pockets.

Reginald said, “If you please, sir, hand your weaponry through the window to Steven. He’ll tag it for you and make out a receipt.”

He handed the kid the shotgun, then the pistol he’d taken off the Red Stripe. He felt oddly naked without the guns. They’d become an important part of his personal inventory. The kid handed him back a receipt, which Mortimer shoved down the front pocket of his jeans.

“What if I need to defend myself?”

Reginald smiled with practiced patience. “You need only defend yourself from quality service and premium female companionship. I’d surrender.”

Good suggestion.

Mortimer, Bill and Sheila made their way toward St. Elmo Station, walking in no particular hurry, craning their necks and gawking at the village. At one point, Sheila uttered a muted squeal and skipped toward a shop with dazzling women’s clothing hanging in the window. She pressed her face against the glass like a five-year-old gazing longingly at a candy store display.

Mortimer came up behind her. “Buying a dress for the ball?”

She sighed. “Not likely without money.” She brightened slightly. “But I’ll get a job as a Joey Girl again. Then I’ll get clothes even better than these.”