Tourists of the Apocalypse (30 page)

Izzy surprises everyone by challenging Fitz to a game, which is greeted by whoops and hollers. I’m not sure about her motivation and I stay sitting close to the table in case a cat fight breaks out. Very quickly I notice Fitz missing shots deliberately. I doubt Lance is fooled, but she makes it look pretty believable. She leaves the eight ball inches short drawing groans from the onlookers. Izzy wins on the next shot and pretends to stab Fitz with the cue repeatedly after the ball goes in. Then a funny thing happens as Lance seems incensed that Fitz let Izzy win. He stands on wobbly legs and grabs Izzy’s hand, telling her they’re going.

Fitz jumps in before he gets too far, explaining that it’s Izzy’s table now and she has to stay to play the person next in line. Before he can say anything an
Izzy, Izzy, Izzy
chant fills his ears. The vast crowd around this pool table demands that Izzy keep playing, after she just bested their champion. He pauses; seeming confused and then exchanges a whisper with Izzy, before exiting the main room. Three of his guys and their dates all leave as well in a surprising, but welcome development. Izzy’s next opponent, Greta, racks up the balls while she chalks up her cue. Fitz lands in my lap.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers, leaning her head back and biting my ear.

“For what?”

“Elvis has left the building,” she snickers. “You and the Crabby Appleton over there can go play.”

“She’s crabby because she thinks you and I are sleeping together,” I point out, grabbing her waist to stop her from drunkenly grinding her hips in my lap.

“We are,” she groans. “Just not the way she and Sargent Slaughter are. Next time she gives you any flack about me, remind her we are playing house and she’s actually living it.”

“Thanks for that visual.”

“Cheer up,” she whispers, standing up and moving behind me with her arms around my neck. “Greta is about to beat her and then she’s all yours.”

Greta does beat her, drawing jeers from the crowd. Greta is not a popular choice for a champion. Before any chants of rematch begin, Fitz steps up and starts a verbal disagreement with Greta, leaving Izzy and me out of the spotlight. For the record, Greta despises Fitz, having caught Cain staring at her one too many times.

Izzy and I take a nice walk under the moonlit sky, winding down the path in the direction of the Agriculture complex. When we arrive at a golf cart, she hops in and waits for me. The vibe is that she is taking me back to the recliner room, which isn’t what I am in the mood for.

“Let’s just take a walk,” I suggest. “It’s too nice out to go inside.”

“Ouch,” she mutters, climbing out of the golf cart. “Is this going to be the talk where you tell me it’s you and not me?”

“Smart ass,” I slap her butt. “Let’s just walk.”

She agrees and we take a lap around the complex. We quibble over Fitz, but she does admit that her manipulation of the night’s events was very considerate. I try and impress upon her how hurt I was when she accused me of infidelity and she laughs an uncomfortable laugh, assuring me she was not calling the kettle black. She clearly understands what a shaky slope this is with her in Lance’s bed. In a surprising turn of events, she confides in me that she thinks Fitz is prettier than her and fears I may change my mind, leaving her to Lance. It had not occurred to me how frightened she is of him. Clearly our relationship keeps her from losing it. I tell her all of this is nonsense.
There is no one in this world more attractive to me than Izzy.

It’s nearly four in the morning when we grab a coffee at one of the security stations, then take a golf cart out to her life guard tower. We scrunch in together on the single seat, sipping coffee. A sea of corn rolls out in front of us glittering in the moonlight. A slight breeze blows lose tangles in her hair around her face. In my opinion, she is most perfect when she’s clearly not, a symptom of love in my estimation.

“Is there any reason other than fear of retribution keeping you from breaking up with him?”

“Wowza,” she turns and stares at me. “How long ya been waiting to fire that bullet?”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s a fair question,” she admits. “There’s just a lot you don’t know about.”

“I got time,” I offer, waving a hand around at our surroundings.

“Ugh, fine, I already told you we used to date.”

“But you broke it off?” I blurt out, recalling her mentioning something about this.

“Yes and no. We saw each other for about a year; then he wanted to get more serious. I backed off and he got pretty upset. He quit taking my calls in an attempt to punish me or at least that’s what it felt like.”

I nod, trying not to interrupt her.

“A few months later I find out I’m pregnant,” she discloses, pausing to widen her eyes. “Yeah, it turned into a white hot smoking tire fire.”

“What did you do?”

“If I kept it, then Lance would come back into the picture and I’d never be rid of him,” she explains. “I didn’t want that.”

“So, you …?”

“I didn’t have it.”

“How’d he take that?”

“I never told him,” she admits in a cracking voice. “He’d have killed me.”

We sit in silence while I take this in. While it’s shocking and remarkably sad, I’m not sure it’s a reason to stay with him now.
Is she staying out of an assumed obligation of her deception?
I watch her and a single tear rolls down her cheek. I wrap an arm around her and ponder my words carefully.

“Now he can’t have kids,” I assert. “After coming here, right?”

“None of us can. Even after I did that to him, he offered to put his share aside for my parents.”

“Technically he didn’t know about it, thus reducing the unselfishness quite a bit.”

She frowns, illustrating that my opinion is invalid in regard to this situation. I find this occurs regularly in any relationship I have been in. Sometimes a logical answer is dismissed based on the fact that I am not a woman.
This would appear to be one of those occasions.

“Who knows about this?”

“I’ve only told one person,” she sniffles and points a finger at me.

“Really?”

“Well, no one who resides in the twenty-first century,” she shrugs. “It feels good to say it out loud.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I assure her. “Consider it in the vault.”

“It better be,” she smirks, punching me in the arm and then starts down the ladder.

I follow and she leads me back to the golf cart, holding hands as we go. Once there, she explains that the morning shift will be coming in soon. She orders me to take the golf cart back and hope that Lance sleeps in. She fears he will be hunting her when he discovers she didn’t come home. I agree, holding her close before leaving her standing in the orange glow of sunrise.
This was so much better than the recliner room.

It’s nearly six when I get back to the main complex. Rather than go inside, I return the cart and climb in the Mustang. It’s not that I don’t like sleeping with Fitz, but after such a nice night I’d prefer not to climb in bed with another woman.
Fitz can be a bit of a cuddler when she’s drunk.
I manage to get an hour of sleep before she opens the door and practically falls on top of me. Once she realizes this, she crawls over me into the driver seat.

“I have good news and bad news,” Fitz groans, looking as if she hasn’t been to bed yet. “Which do you want to hear first?”

“Bad,” I utter without hesitating.

“I may have been unfaithful to you last night.”

“You mentioned good news?”

“We aren’t really dating.”

“Ah, good to know,” I sigh. “So this is what rode hard and put away wet looks like?”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

We laugh then Dickey raps a knuckle on the driver window. Fritz cranks it down and yawns. When he gets hit in the face by her breath he backs up and scowls. Once he recovers, Dickey informs us that we are headed back in an hour and we should get a coffee and something to eat. At first we decline, but after he leaves we recant.

There are two dozen folks who clearly work first shift inside the mess hall drinking coffee and eating eggs and toast, which seems to be all that’s available. Fritz sticks to dry toast and I go with coffee. We huddle at an empty table far away from the food line.

“Fitzy,” three guys howl as they pass. “You rule Fitzy.”

“You’re a legend,” I chuckle.

“I have a legendary headache.”

“Is one of them the bastard who jumped my pretend girlfriend’s bones last night?” I demand, then smirk.

She looks around the room, squinting with one eye. Her hair is a tangled mess held back by a horseshoe band. The blouse and sweater she wore the last time I saw her has been replaced by a tight grey t-shirt with a huge stain in the front. There is no bra and the last time I saw her, she was wearing jeans, but now sports a denim skirt.
These are certainly not her clothes
. She burps into her hand then winces indicating acid bubbled up in her throat. After scanning the room a second time, she points a shaky finger at a similarly impaired guy two tables over. He’s dark skinned and I think we met yesterday. For sure he was at the pool table. His elbows are on the table as he slumps over his eggs.

“That guy?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” she burps and pauses, pointing at a woman at another table. “And her, I think. It was dark, but probably her.”

“You’re pulling my leg?”

“I’m wearing her skirt,” she groans, chewing on dry toast. “Why would I lie about being easy?”

“To honor our relationship?”

“Right, I forgot, consider yourself honored.”

When I don’t answer she lowers her head.

“Seriously, I honored the crap out of you.”

“You realize the people we know here assume I’m a putz because you cheat on me all the time.”

“Possibly, but it’s also possible they think you’re
The Man
for dating me at all.”

“Maybe,” I sigh. “Just try not to honor me so much.”

Before she can muster a smart ass reply, the girl looks up and notices us. She winks and waves conservatively at Fitz, who nods and forces a smile, then elbows me. When I look at the apparent third wheel of Fitz’s threesome she averts her eyes and goes back to breakfast. I recall seeing her at the pool table last night and if fact, she may have been wearing a denim skirt
. Good lord Fitz
. We sit in silence till Dickey comes by, and then we head out to the car together. Once outside, I see Lance leaning on the Mustang.

“This can’t be good,” Fitz whispers.

Dickey plows ahead, reaching the car before us. They share a brief exchange which is mostly Dickey nodding and Lance talking. He passes over another envelope, then turns to us.

“Fitz, I need you to stay and have a look at one of my guys. Took a nasty fall yesterday and I think he might have some internal injuries.”

“No problem,” she agrees then turns to Dickey. “Gimmie a half hour and I’ll come right back.”

“No,” Lance jumps in. “I need them to leave right now. “I’ll be driving back this afternoon. You can catch a ride back with me.”

Fitz and I exchange a curious look then she nods her acceptance and forces a hug on me. I momentarily forget that we’re a couple. After a prolonged hug, she kisses me and leaves me with a mouthful of acid.
Evil wench frenched me on purpose with her puke breath
. Lance looks unconvinced, but follows her back inside. Dickey and I climb in, but Lance shouts back at us from the doorway.

“You two be careful. We’ve had some activity overnight.”

We both nod, not thinking anything of it. We leave by a new road recently finished. It’s bumpy, but we don’t have to use the Jeep every time anymore. The bouncing to the highway keeps me awake, but after Dickey peels onto the expressway, I fall into a light sleep.
Why did Lance warn us?

….

I am shaken awake by the car swerving sharply. My eyes flutter to the bright sunlight of early morning. The engine roars as Dickey watches the rear view intently. I turn to peek and see two cars following us. A gunshot rings out giving me a start.

“What the hell Dickey?”

“Cuh, cuh, came off the last exit ramp,” he stutters. “I don’t think I can outrun them.”

“I thought this was the fastest car around,” I complain as the car jerks hard, nearly tossing me in his lap.

“Buh, buh, been misfiring all morning. I think we got bad gas. Feels like there’s water in it.”

Behind us, what looks like a new model Mustang bears down. It’s fire engine red with white stripes down the middle that come all the way down to the bottom on the bumper. The second car, an older Ford sedan, falls back in line with the first.
I thought new cars didn’t run?
Dickey banks hard again and I hit my head on the passenger window.
Why are there so many cars to maneuver around?

“That’s a new car,” I point out, getting no reaction from my driver. “Why are there so many dead cars on the road?”

“Thuh, thuh, they weren’t here two days ago.”

Another gunshot echo’s as the red Mustang bumps into us from behind, knocking me forward into the dash. Dickey swerves to the right, avoiding another abandoned car. Our pursuer clips the dead car, knocking off a side mirror. We move ahead several car lengths as the red marauder struggles to regain control.

“How far are we from home?” I beg, thinking we can drive them into the road block outside of town.

“Too, too, too far,” he exhales, moving around another obstacle. “Glove box.”

“Huh?”

“Gla, gla, glove box.”

I push the button and the door flops open, dropping a handgun and two clips onto the worn floor mat. After exchanging a glance with Dickey’s copper sunglasses, I scoop up the gun and pop in a clip, racking the slide to chamber a round. Turning it sideways, I see it’s an older gun, probably a .45 cal. It’s not a WWII gun, but it’s a remake at the very least.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Whuh, whuh, whatever you Army guys do,” he yells, swerving.

The car is gaining again and gun shots ring out. The rear hatch glass explodes, showering the backseat with tiny bits of safety glass. The red chase car hits our bumper and we fishtail. Dickey catches us before we spin as more shots are fired, but miss us. He downshifts, then slows and crosses the median without saying a word. The car bounces, bottoming out and throwing up grass clumps. We run parallel to our pursuer then start to pull away.