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

Mortimer’s grin wilted as he thought of Anne. Had she performed on the trapeze? Who were these women? Wives and sisters and daughters. Mortimer didn’t want to think about it. Thinking about it would ruin it.

A stunning, thin brunette with aquiline features handed Bill and Mortimer a drinks menu.

“I don’t see any of that Freddy’s crap,” Bill said.

“Good.” Mortimer pointed to the Jack Daniel’s on the menu. “It’s only six dollars a bottle. Do you think that’s a misprint?”

“Must be fake stuff they’re just calling Jack Daniel’s,” Bill said. “I’m game if you are.”

They ordered a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and the waitress said she’d return with food menus.

Bill looked at Mortimer for a long second, then said, “You haven’t mentioned your wife.”

“She’ll keep.” Mortimer smiled. “I had an epiphany.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that, but you’re not puking so much.”

Mortimer cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“When we first met,” Bill said. “Seemed like you were puking all the time.”

“Give me a break.”

The waitress arrived with a bottle of Jack and two tumblers. They declined ice, and she poured three fingers of Jack into each glass.

“Are you ready to order?”

“It says steaks on the menu,” Mortimer said.

The waitress nodded.

Mortimer asked, “Real steak? Not rat steak or steak made from couch cushions or Soylent Green or something? Steaks from actual cows?”

“Rib eyes.”

“Two steaks, potatoes and whatever vegetable is most fresh,” Mortimer said.

She wrote it down and went away.

“Real steaks.” Bill whistled. “Do I want to know how much that’s going to cost? An arm and a leg, I bet.”

“Two arms and three legs,” Mortimer said. “But I don’t care.”

They drank. Their eyes got big and they looked at the glasses and at the bottle.

“Is it just me,” Bill said, “or is this Jack Daniel’s fucking fantastic?”

“It’s not just you. Do you think it’s real?”

Bill shook his head. “It’s too damn cheap. Maybe we’re just used to that Freddy’s stuff.”

They both laughed.

“I don’t know.” Mortimer grinned. “That Dishwater Lager grows on you.”

“One time I had something called Freddy’s Dung-Brown Tequila.” Bill made a gagging face. “It seriously tasted like ass. I mean it. Sweaty ass.”

They both drank the Jack Daniel’s again. It was just as good the second time.

Mortimer felt pleasantly warm. It started in his belly and spread through his limbs, lightened his head. He looked up, smiled at one of the trapeze girls. He tapped his foot to a song called “I Touch Myself” and tried to remember the group.

The waitress dropped by for a visit, put a soft hand on Mortimer’s shoulder. “The chef will put your steaks on the grill soon. Everything okay here?”

Mortimer said, “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Anne Tate. I’m told she works here.”

A light came on in the waitress’s eyes. “Oh, yeah. I think I know her.” A slight frown. “But it’s been a while since I’ve seen her. They employ so many people here. I can ask.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’m sort of…an old friend.”

“No problem.”

“Hey!” Bill held up his tumbler, swirled the amber liquid. “What is this stuff?”

The waitress looked at him like maybe it was a trick question. “Jack Daniel’s.”

“I know. I mean who makes it? It practically tastes like the real thing.”

“It is the real thing,” she said. “The distillery never closed. You can read about it here.” She turned the bottle around so the back label faced Bill.

“I’ll be damned,” Bill said. “They still make the stuff.” He squinted at the label’s small print.

“Read it,” Mortimer said.

XXXIII

Jack Daniel’s: The Tradition Survives

Much blood has been spilled to preserve the smooth-sipping Tennessee whiskey you’ve enjoyed through good times and bad. Governments might rise and fall, but the recipe for your favorite adult beverage has remained unchanged even when the world as we know it has been through the wringer. You can count on our seasoned and indestructible distillers to continue bringing you the finest whiskey in what’s left of the known world.

A mere three months after the Fall, humanity quickly discovered it did not want to endure the end of all civilization sober, so raiding parties at the Jack Daniel’s distillery were frequent and disruptive. The owners soon gathered the remaining distillery employees into a fighting militia known as the Jack Squad. With the help of some intrepid local NRA enthusiasts, Fort Lynchburg was built and defended. The fort almost fell to a band of wild Civil War reenactors who had replaced their muzzle-loaders with army-surplus M1 rifles. At last, General Ira “Stonewall” Weinstein surrendered his sword before being hung from a Kentucky Fried Chicken sign, where his bones still hang today as a reminder for those who’d fuck with the producers of the finest, smoothest liquor ever made by true Americans.

So challenges may come and go, but Jack Daniel’s pledges to keep using only the best, purest ingredients available. Unlike those responsible for the short-lived resurgence of Sam Adams beer, Jack Daniel’s promises to use pure spring water, free of radioactive or other toxic materials.

So whether you’re fleeing violent rape gangs, remembering those lost loved ones, or daydreaming of a future where wild dogs no longer roam the streets, we hope you’ll keep making Jack Daniel’s your preferred beverage.

XXXIV

“Pour me another one.”

“Right.” Bill grabbed the bottle, splashed more Jack into each glass. “I have to admit, things have been interesting since I hooked up with you.”

“‘May you live in interesting times,’” Mortimer said. “That’s an ancient Chinese curse.”

“Yeah, I guess. Some of it’s been a curse,” Bill admitted. “Like almost getting eaten and losing my guns and my hat. Stuff like that. But a lot of it’s good too. I like drinking well and eating well and sleeping indoors with flush toilets and electricity. I like Joey’s. But it’s expensive.”

Damn right.

“I’m sort of painfully aware that you’ve been floating me this whole time, and I don’t like feeling that I’m not contributing my fair share.”

“Don’t forget you saved my life,” Mortimer said. “That’s your fair share and then some. When you found me I was on a leash.”

“Yeah, but you saved my life too,” Bill reminded him. “I expect a couple of fellows pal around long enough they’ll save each other pretty regular. No, I need to pull my weight…although I sure as hell won’t say no to that steak when it arrives.”

Mortimer grinned. “Okay, so starting right after you finish your steak, what do you propose?”

“You’ve got the capital and I have the knowledge,” Bill said. “I’m a hell of a good shot when I have my pistols, and I know my way around the country. You sold that stuff to the Spring City Joey’s store for a bundle, and you’re sitting on a pile of cash. But even so much money will run out eventually. You’re going to need to figure some way to earn a living, and I’m tired of not always knowing where my next meal’s coming from. I have a few ideas where we might be able to make a good haul. You outfit us for the trip, and I’ll lead the way. We split fifty-fifty.”

“What kind of haul?”

“Fair question.” Bill tossed back the rest of his Jack and eyed the bottle, which they were consuming at a surprising rate. “What do people want? Guns, food, booze, clothing, a safe place to live.”

“Right.”

“But things are getting better, and I think if we put our heads together we can figure out the next level of things people will need.”

Mortimer slurped Jack Daniel’s. “Next level?”

“Like…hell, I don’t know. Like if everyone is dying for a Pepsi Cola and willing to pay big money for a Pepsi Cola, and then they finally start getting Pepsi Cola on a regular basis, then the next thing is they want ice for their Pepsi Cola.”