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

XLI

They made a wide circle around the front of the mountain where the huge stone-carved likenesses of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson kept watch over the park. East of the mountain, they found the hiking trail that wound its way over a mile up the mountain, a much gentler slope than the sheer face with the three Confederates.

They climbed, stopping occasionally for canteen breaks, pausing to listen to suspicious woodland sounds before moving on again. Gray clouds hovered and roiled, but the downpour had finally abated.

Mortimer’s instructions were clear. Stay on the path and your guide will find you. He’s a little odd but trustworthy, Lars had told them. Sure.

They were two-thirds of the way up the mountain when Bill stopped and frowned. “Did you hear that?”

Mortimer shook his head. “Nope.”

“I did,” Sheila said. “An owl.”

“It was supposed to be an owl,” Bill said. “Sounded more like a five-year-old pretending.”

The hoot came louder from the path ahead of them, and Mortimer heard it this time. Bill was right. It was the worst owl imitation Mortimer had ever heard. He thumbed off the machine pistol’s safety.

“Let’s go back.” Sheila moved close to Mortimer, whispered, “Somebody’s fucking with us.”

“This is where we’re supposed to be,” Mortimer said. “Come on. Take it slow.”

They eased up the mountain path, machine pistols held in front of them. Every few seconds they heard the phony hoot. Finally Mortimer saw him and held up his hand for the others to halt. He pointed at the shrubs, and Bill nodded, lifted his machine pistol.

Hoot. Hoot.

The stooped man behind the shrubs apparently thought he was hiding. A giraffe behind a potted fern had a better chance of concealing itself. He was old, with white hair and wearing a black overcoat unbuttoned, ratty polo shirt and khakis underneath. Scuffed loafers. He held two leaves up to his eyes and crouched lower.

Hoot. Hoot.

“Come out of there,” Mortimer called.

Hoot. Hoot. “Where’s it coming from?” shouted the old man. “Behind you? In front? Above in the tall trees? We move like the cat, like the Indian, like a ghost.” Hoot. “We have you surrounded. Throw down your arms.”

Mortimer glanced to either side. They were in no way surrounded.

“Shoot him,” Sheila said.

Mortimer ignored her. “Come out, please. Let’s talk.”

Hoot.

“Look, we can see you, okay? You’re, like, thirty feet away behind that bush. And it’s not a very big bush.”

The old man paused, then stood straight. He was tall, broad shoulders, snow-white hair and moustache. As he came closer, Mortimer saw the slight gap between his front teeth, piercing blue eyes that Mortimer found a bit unnerving.

“Ah, you have earned my respect,” said the old man. “There’s not many who can outfox old Ted. Yes, you have mighty skills and keen senses. I can see why Armageddon chose you for this mission.”

“You’re our guide?”

“I am indeed.”

Mortimer barely heard Bill mutter, “Jesus.”

“Yes, let Ted be your guide,” the old man said grandly. “Mr. Atlanta, they called me. I know the way and I know the town. Old Ted knows all, the way of the wasp and the willow, the minds of all the creepy crawlies. The song of the pigeon. I see and I hear.”

“Are you going to talk like this the whole time?”

“We must get off the path,” Ted told them. “Others use it besides us. Come. I know a place.”

He darted into the woods.

Sheila grabbed Mortimer’s arm. Tight. “He is a fucking loon. We’re not really going to let him guide us, are we?”

“I’m with Miss Sassy Pants here,” Bill said.

“I don’t have any other ideas,” said Mortimer. “Just follow him.”

A half mile away they sat in a circle of large boulders, which concealed them well enough. “We’ll wait here awhile,” Ted told them.

Ted gratefully accepted their offer of dried fruit and chunks of salami. The old man had apparently been living on rat jerky the last few days. Ted insisted that with enough seasoning it was a little like buffalo. He claimed to have a big farm out west with a giant herd of buffalo, but naturally they’d probably all been poached by now, the majestic creature vanishing from the old west a second time. Ted peppered them with relentless, fragmented stories of how he’d been “a big man” in the old days.

“I’ll be back on top again.” Ted cackled. “Slay the Czar, put a knife in his gizzard. Then old Ted will be duke of Atlanta. Emperor of Georgia!”

“You said other people use the path,” Mortimer prompted.

Ted nodded vigorously as he chewed and swallowed a slice of dried apple. “Indeed. The Stone Mountain Goats. We’re in their territory.”

“I don’t suppose that’s some sort of benign bluegrass band.”

“A gang, of course. I took one of their crossbow bolts in the ass last year,” Ted said. “Want to see the scar?”

“No!” Mortimer, Bill and Sheila said together.

“Crossbow? They renaissance fair geeks or something?” Bill asked.

“The Red Czar’s men control the inner city,” Ted explained. “He subsumed most of the gangs into his outfit and killed the rest. But he lets some gangs patrol the outlying areas for him, like subcontractors, I guess. The Stone Mountain Goats here, the Kennesaw Blades to the west. The Czar’s kinda paranoid. He lets the gangs rule themselves as long as they don’t have guns. I think he’s afraid they might band together and turn on him.” He cackled again. “Fat chance. Those motherfuckers are so disorganized, they’re like a circle jerk that doesn’t know where to aim.”

“What’s the problem, then?” Bill slapped the machine pistol hanging at his side. “If all they got is medieval bullshit weapons, we can walk right through them.”

“No, no, no. You listen to old Ted. That’s not a good idea, no, sir. They’re not so well armed but they’re ruthless cocksuckers and there’s a lot of them. Quantity has a quality all its own, as Joe Stalin said. And they’re usually so hepped up, they don’t feel the first few bullets anyway.”

Sheila raised an eyebrow. “Hepped up?”

“Sure. The Czar gives them all the crank and cocaine they want. That’s how he bribes for their loyalty. Hell, I seen a Stone Mountain Goat charge a rabid wolf with nothing but a Swiss Army knife. I mean, the wolf shredded the shit out of him, of course, but still…”

“Okay,” Mortimer said. “So we’ll avoid those guys.”

Ted looked at his watch, and Mortimer was surprised to see it was a battered Rolex.

“Okay, they should’ve changed shifts by now. Let’s go.”

They made their way back to the path and continued up the mountain.

“Why are we going up here anyway?” Mortimer asked.

“The Goats have a ham radio, and we need to use it.”

“The Goats have a radio?”

“Well, I don’t have one,” Ted snapped. “You think I carry around a big-ass ham radio in my back pocket? Now, hike faster.”

They hiked faster. After five minutes, Mortimer noticed Ted hanging back, glancing over his shoulder. The old man climbed atop a boulder, squatted there, looking back down the trail. Mortimer went back, asked what was happening.

“Old Ted has the eyes of an eagle, he does. The nose of a wolf. The sharp hearing of a rhinoceros.”

“Do you see something back-a rhinoceros?”

“Shit!” Ted leaned forward, squinted his eyes. “Shit shit shit!”

“What is it?”

“Stone Mountain Goats,” Ted said. “Twenty-five. No, more like thirty of them. Coming up behind us. I can see them rounding the bend on the path below. Hell and damnation.”

“I thought you said the path was clear.” Mortimer stood on tiptoes, tried to see the approaching gang.

“Well excuuuuuse me. They probably saw you from one of their watch posts.” He hopped down from the boulder, ran back up the path. “Come on. We’ve got to double-time it. We’re almost there anyway.”