Tourists of the Apocalypse (22 page)

“I’m guessing you’re not going to stop and ask directions,” I blurt as she down shifts and hits the gas.

“Past here we turn left, then a straight shot to the highway?” she states, but it’s more a question as the song
Back in Black
begins.

“It’s safe to assume there is at least one other direction with an exit. This is like a
Keep
at a castle. Once we are in however, there is no way to know what will happen,” I bark over the whistling wind.

“Agreed,” she nods, upshifting and honking the horn. “You might want to get the shotgun handy.”

I pull the shotgun from between the seatback and our backpacks as they lay in the back seat. Four men stand guard at the gates, all wielding hand guns. Several warning shots are fired as we approach, but between the horn honking and the radio it’s hard to tell. One more aggressive shot hits the windshield, leaving a spider web. Caught a bit by surprise, they have to scatter to either side and Izzy crashes through the saw horses. We travel one block and I point frantically that this is the turn.

Cranking the wheel with the knob, she skids us sideways until we stop. We narrowly avoid the rear tires hopping the curb, but the car jolts as they hit it. Our car is pointing down the correct street now, but the motor rumbles and stalls. It’s either her letting out the clutch too soon or just a low idle, but we are sitting ducks just the same. In the silence of the stalled engine the AC/DC song blares. There are people holding their children against the walls of buildings wearing shocked faces. Looking across Izzy, I see the men at the barricade dusting themselves off and heading this way.

“Well,” I shout, waving a hand at the dash. “Let’s go.”

Nodding, Izzy turns the key. The motor cranks slowly, but doesn’t fire. With wide fearful eyes she cranks it again. A gun shot echoes down the valley of two story buildings, hitting the tailgate. I’m thinking hard, but all I can imagine are the two batteries under the hood. Scanning across the dash, I don’t see anything helpful, but then I notice the ripped carpet around the shifter. Pulling it back there is a suicide switch labeled
BAT2
. When I swing the brass colored guillotine like handle down there is a spark. Izzy cranks the motor, which turns very quickly now. A glance in the side mirror shows black smoke puffing out of the exhaust pipe. A second shot rips into the front fender just as the engine roars to life.

“Giddy up,” Izzy shouts, slamming the shifter into first leaving two long black marks on the pavement.

As we race down the street, a group of three men wielding baseball bats step off the sidewalk. Izzy choses to avoid some families caught in the wrong place at the wrong time to the left, but then can’t avoid the bat wielding men. The first guy swings his bat and connects with the windshield, but it strikes the post at the corner and the barrel flies back, striking him in the teeth.

“He clearly never played mailbox baseball,” I wince.

“Do something about this guy will you,” she barks, nodding her head at my side.

An older man wearing overalls and a green cap is winding up with a huge hammer. I stick the business end of the shotgun out the window as we pass. He fails to throw the implement, but shouts something foul.

A half block away is an identical barricade as the last, only with all the noise they are pushing a neon green Kia Soul across the part previously blocked by saw horses. I only know the vehicle’s name from commercials where Hamsters dressed like teenagers dance around. I put a hand on Izzy’s arm and squeeze, not wanting a head on collision minus a seatbelt. She spins the knob and the car turns sideways, tires screeching. Once stopped, she pulls the shifter into neutral, grinding the gears as she pushes it down with both hands.

“What gives?” I blurt out, but duck when a brick hits the car from above, tossed from a rooftop.

“Just hang on,” she orders, punching the gas with one arm over the seat.

We travel slowly at first as she lines the car up, but then she’s wide open in reverse leading up to the car recently pushed across the gap. In an odd moment all I hear is
Shook Me All Night Long
on the CD player as we hit the Kia in the passenger door and drive it 20 yards down the road. We wind up sideways having pushed the hamster mobile onto the curb, then into a telephone pole. The Kia flips when it hits the lip of the curb and is now roof to the pole, underside facing us through the tailgate.

The long window in back on the driver side blows out and showers the inside of the car with safety glass. Other than the windshield, the only windows left are the four manual roll ups in the doors and they are all rolled down. The car has stalled once again and Izzy cranks it over and over. The man at the barricade steps out and fires a shot that passes through the windowless back of our vehicle and strokes the underside of the Kia. I see the black smoke in the side mirror leaving me hopeful it will start.

I lean the shotgun out the window and fire, not really trying to hit him, but hoping he will dive for cover and he does. The car roars to life, blowing black smoke out both tail pipes.

“Go, go.” I shout over the engine noise.

“Yeah,” she smirks, turning the wheel and rolling the car slowly away from the accident scene.

The Kia we had pinned between our tailgate and the pole falls over the minute we move. The roof is bent in like the letter U on top. Several gunshots echo as we escape down the street, but none strike us. The wind howls through all open window frames, blowing glass shards out the back.

“How far to the highway?” she inquires.

“Two or three miles according to Donna.”

“How’s the back end looking,” she chuckles. “She’s still running straight, but there’s a tremor in the wheel now.”

Looking out the back it’s obvious there’s some damage. The sections that make up the fold-down seats are jumbled and out of their tracks. The rear tailgate is bent in, although I doubt you could crash through it given its thickness. The window frames are out of round, leaving little doubt the frame is tweaked.

“Looks good,” I assure her. “Nothing to worry about”.

She bobs her head, keeping her eyes on the road. We pass a half dozen cross streets, then come upon an overpass. The highway runs over this road with entrance and exit ramps on either side. Another barricade covers the ramp on our side. They are probably keeping anyone from getting off the highway here as well.
This is a well-organized community
. Izzy slows and looks over at me.

“Well navigator,” she sighs. “What say you now?”

“We are north of the highway so a left turn is west,” I think out loud. “Hang a left at the service road. It will run parallel to the highway.”

“Then what?”

“Drive till we get to another entrance.”

With no other plan to work with, she slows, cranking the wheel to the left. We skid, a maneuver I am used to by now, and pass within ten yards of the armed team manning the ramp. There are no radios so they have no idea who we might be. I wave as we pass, seeing the confusion in their blank stares. The service road weaves around as it follows the highway. At one time this was the main road no doubt. It’s quiet country today and we pass no houses for several miles.

“You do a lot of driving in the future,” I inquire, turning sideways in the seat and leaning my back on the door.

“No, electric cars are expensive. I mostly rode a bike.”

“You drive like a mad woman.”

“Out at the worksite, T-Buck and I race sometimes,” she admits. “It’s a big dust bowl with nothing for miles. We turned a few fast laps before I left. That’s why I had the keys to his Mercury.”

“What on Earth are you building out there?” I groan. “A big concrete bunker or what?”

“Oh, we got a few concrete buildings, but that’s not what they need.”

“Enlighten me?”

“
Inversion Reactor
,” she discloses, leaning her head down and widening her eyes as if this should mean something.

I shrug for lack of an answer.

“What the world needs now is power and lots of it,” she suggests, waving around at the wilderness. “They had it up and running a month ago, although only feeding at 5%. When it’s done it could power a dozen New York cities. He who has the electricity, controls the technology and he who controls that dictates the future.”

“Nice, what powers it?” I ask. “Uranium?”

“Lord no,” she balks, shaking her head. “I’m not a techie, but I’ve been out to the site quite a bit. It’s a huge depression in the ground like half a sphere. Then there’s a ball that sits inside and turns. The depression is covered in pure silver. It’s huge, nearly a hundred yards across.”

“But what powers it?”

“Sunlight I think,” she suggests, and then pauses, “and water. There’s plenty of radiation, but no plutonium or anything.”

“Virtually unlimited power,” I mutter. Why running at only five percent?”

“We can’t get enough water out there,” she groans. “Some ranchers are giving us fits over water rights. We tried trucking it in, but we need too much.”

“To do what? Cool the Inversion thing?”

“Not really. To run an
Inversion Reactor
safely you need a man-made lake sitting next to it,” she explains and waits for me to nod acceptance, which I do. “The reactor is underground and if the cooling system fails, the lake empties into the ground and prevents a large explosion.”

“Interesting, so you can’t get your hands on enough water in the middle of dusty old Texas?”

“That’s correct.”

I ponder in silence for a bit and then we come upon an entrance ramp. We approach slowly, looking for barricades or traps, but see none. When we start up, there is a woman hiking back in our direction from the highway. As we pass, I recognize her.

“
Yoga Pants
,” I blurt out. “Stop the car.”

“Huh,” Izzy groans, hitting the brake and stopping us with a jerk.

“
Yoga Pants
,” I repeat, stepping out onto the entrance ramp and looking back.

She turns slowly, looking as if she might make a run for it. Then over a minute’s time she begins wagging a finger at me. Izzy climbs out on her side and a smile breaks across her face.

“You clowns,”
Yoga Pants
shouts. “Thanks for nothing yesterday.”

“Sorry about that,” I offer, walking in her direction. “Can we give you a lift now?”

“Hold on Romeo,” Izzy orders. “Who said we are picking up strays?”

“If this is some sort of three-way thing, then I’m not into it,”
Yoga Pants
mutters, half joking, half not.

“How did you get away from your fan club?” Izzy smirks. “Your future looked grim in the truck as your prom dates drove by.”

“I think they were waiting to stop for the night before the real fun began,” she rolls her eyes and puts a finger down her mouth in a pretend barfing gesture.

“So they didn’t?” I ask, but my voice trails off before I can say the word rape.

“No, thankfully,” she shrugs. “I got felt up in the truck mind you, but when we stopped I kicked the first guy in the nuts and ran for it.”

“And you got away from them just like that?” Izzy remarks in a suspicious tone.

“You may not have noticed, but they were not fitness buffs. With a little head start none of them were catching me.”

“And now you’re here?” Izzy questions her.

“Backtracked to the highway and been walking ever since. You guys have any water?”

“Sure,” I jump in, frowning at Izzy. “Follow me.”

Our new friend walks right by Izzy, who scowls. At the car, we share a bottle of water and a Slim Jim with our new friend,
Yoga Pants
, whose name turns out to be Fitz. Her real name is Fitzsimons, but she tells us to call her Fitz and we oblige.

I take a few steps away with Izzy to converse. Once she gets over the fear of competition, she agrees a third person might come in handy if we drive in shifts and one person tries to sleep. We end this discussion with some hugging and a kiss that goes on a bit long. Fitz looks away embarrassed when we turn back. Joining her behind the car I notice the bumper hanging loose on the passenger side. The bolts holding it on the frame having sheared off in the collision back in town.

“Hit something?” Fitz comments sarcastically.

“Yeah, had a run in with a small town,” Izzy groans. “So, are you looking for a ride or what?”

“Maybe,” she answers and pauses to look us over. “If this is a sex thing, then thanks, but no thanks. I have had more than one chance to
bang
my way to safety in the last week. I’m not quite at the post-apocalyptic whore stage yet.”

Izzy bursts out laughing. I frown at her, eventually slapping her on the shoulder to get her to stop. She wheezes hard as she desperately tries to keep a straight face. For her part Fitz allows a smile to creep across her lips while she watches Izzy struggle for composure.

“Get in,” Izzy chuckles. “It’s not a sex thing.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Fitz demands, slipping into the back seat. “Maybe one of you is a notary?”

“Please stop,” Izzy orders, fighting to not break into laughter. “You’re killing me.”

I climb in the passenger seat and watch the interplay between them.
Do women just bond quickly or am I missing something?
Fitz looks at me from the back seat and winks, inflating my growing confusion even more. The car roars to life and the gears grind. Once she finds first gear, the car lurches forward and accelerates up the ramp.

“You came from this way?” I quiz her, leaning over the seat.

“Yeah, nothing scary the last ten miles,” she advises. “Before that it was dark and I can’t be sure.”

“Got it,” Izzy nods in the rear view then hammers the gas pedal as we slip onto open road.

“Where’d ya get this rig?” Fitz inquires as she pulls her red hair into a ponytail to keep it from blowing around.

“Killed four guys and left their corpses to bloat in the sun,” Izzy shouts over the wind from the front seat.

“Funny,” Fitz laughs, but sees me looking grim. “Not funny?”

I shake my head slowly, before turning around in my seat. The car lurches as Izzy maneuvers around a dead car, downshifting as she races past several others. Her hand comes off the shifter and lands on my thigh. When I look up she wrinkles her nose at me.
Whenever she does that I get a warm feeling that relaxes me.
The wind blows past my lips leaving behind a smile.