Tourists of the Apocalypse (34 page)

“Ah, ah, a little help.” he groans as he pulls on the door.

Snapping out of it, I grab the bottom lip and pull. It creaks, but moves up the track a little bit at a time. When it hits the top, I am looking late model Corvette. It’s not new, but also not old enough to be working after the electromagnetic blast. I place it around 1996. It’s dark in the garage so I step just inside and squint. The Vette is flat black and has to have been hand spray painted. Chevy doesn’t make new cars this ugly. The paint looks odd and I run a hand down the hood and feel the honeycomb pattern of the bulletproof screen. The overhead light flickers on, weak and battery powered for sure.

“What am I looking at?”

“Muh, muh, my chase car.”

“It’s new and new cars don’t run.”

“Wuh, wuh, was shielded in an underground garage downtown Abilene. Stack enough concrete between the sky and the engine and it’s protected. T-Buck brought it back for Lance, but he never got around to it. They wouldn’t consider me as a driver, so I built my own chase car.”

“So maybe we can run them down, but we can’t hurt them,” I huff exasperated by his misunderstanding of the situation.

“We, we, we can hurt-em plenty,” he assures me pointing at the roof.

Corvettes have a top that comes off over the front seats. Upon further inspection of the area behind this, over what would be the rear storage area, has been chopped down the middle with a saw of some kind
. Probably the same saws-all he used on the Mustang hood
. It’s a jagged uneven cut. There are roll bars, like a cage crisscrossing the gap and connecting tubes that run along the top of the windshield. A tan colored tarp covering a protrusion in the middle sticks up like a dead body. When I walk over and put a hand on the tarp a smile blooms on my face.

“How the hell did you get your hands on a Goliath?”

“Ah, ah, it’s the one for the front yard. They never used it.”

“And it works?”

Yuh, yuh, yup. It’s locked straight up now, but it pops up and levels out just like the one you saw out at the Hive. It will even work on auto fire if you want.”

“You want to run them down and have an expressway shoot out against a tank in this?”

“Wuh, wuh, why not. It’s got some other stuff too,” he contends. “I thought you wanted to get back at Lance for killing everybody?”

“Oh I do,” I assure him, trying the car door but finding it locked.

I notice both side windows are up and locked this way by the roll bars. The windows are inch thick Lexan. There are no door seams meaning he filled the gap with something before he wrapped it. When I point at the top, inferring you would have to climb in he just nods. It’s a tight fit but I drop down inside and the first thig I see is that it’s a manual transmission.

“I can’t drive a stick.”

“Wuh, wuh, who said you were driving,” he barks. “It’s my car. It’s my road.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Yuh, yuh, you’re here at my invitation,” he points out. “I’m offering you shotgun. That’s it, that’s the offer.”

“And if I decline?”

“Aye, aye, I’ll go without you.”

This is odd turn of events. The more time that passes between the gruesome executions in the front yard, the angrier I become. A small part of me worries that if we leave and don’t return, Fitz and Violet will be defenseless, but then I remember that Fitz probably doesn’t need a babysitter. It’s also unlikely that the two of us will be much protection against what’s coming anyway.

“Should we go back and tell the girls what we’re doing?” I mumble, crawling out.

“Thuh, thuh, they have a head start, but the truck is slow,” he spells out, wagging a shaky finger, then taping the end on his forehead. “We can catch them, but we gotta go now.”

“What else do I need to know?”

He climbs in and points to the front of the Vette. A moment later the headlights pop up. Each one has what looks like a sack of sugar where the lightbulb should be. Grey viscus fluid runs off each one, collecting in a tray underneath. There is also a smell like paint thinner wafting off of them.

“So, no driving at night?”

“Sha, sha, shaped charges,” he stammers. “They are covered in fast working epoxy. I’m not sure how it works, but they were making it for something on the reactor. Put the headlights up, run into the back of something, and then hit the brake. There’s a 50-foot lead on the back. It spools out like a Taser wire then snaps when you get clear.”

“And the charges go off?” I presume, watching the lights drop back down.

“Cee, cee, C-4 and ball bearings,” he taps his head on the Lexan side window. “Now the back.”

I walk behind, but don’t notice anything at first. Crouching down, the only thing odd is that the two circular tail lights have Batman bumper stickers over them. They also stick out from the bumper an inch, indicating there’s something underneath.

“Alright Batman I give. What’s in the tail lights?”

“Guh, guh, get in,” he orders, turning the key and filling the garage with car exhaust.

I do as instructed, climbing up with a hand on the roll bar, then dropping into the passenger seat. There is a sawed off shotgun pinned between the door and the seat reminding me of my adventure with Izzy. He revs the engine and then slowly rolls out of the garage. We drive down the small town street picking up speed, but when we come to the first turn I feel the car lean in my direction. I put a hand on the center roll bar to steady myself as we tilt. After completing the turn, narrowly avoiding flipping over, we level out and stop leaning.

“Thuh, thuh, the center of balance is too high with that,” he sputters pointing behind us at the gun. “Also way too heavy for the suspension.”

“Makes it interesting.”

We pass the entrance to our street and the urge to stop and see the girls is strong. It’s probably my last chance to see Fitz or Violet. I picture Violet standing next to her Porsche in a tight skirt, then Fitz in yoga pants stumbling down the ramp.
I hope they find a way to stay safe.
When we get to the entrance ramp, there’s a burning car flipped over blocking the way. One of Lance’s two helicopters is hovering over the town. He’s probably watching the camera feed in his truck.
No doubt the sicko is enjoying the carnage.
Dickey turns right and shoots down the service road that runs along the highway. Wind blows my hair as we rocket down the well-worn two lane road.

In the center of the dash is a flat screen maybe eight inches across. It’s showing a fisheye view of the road out the rear of the car. When he sees me looking, Dickey taps the corner of the screen and the view switches to one from the front. I nod then he points to a toggle switch with a cover on it. A piece of tape has the words
Bat signal
scrawled on it.

“Pop, pop, pop up the safety and throw the switch to arm the canister shot in the back. There’s a small pipe bomb behind either taillight. It’s loaded with ball bearings and shaped to blow out.”

“Shredding anything behind us.”

“Twen, twen, twenty second delay. Just arm it and wait.”

We come up on the second entrance ramp, finding it unguarded. He rolls right through the four way stop and onto the ramp. Dickey downshifts, hitting the top of the ramp fast and getting nearly airborne as we bounce onto the concrete pavement. He reaches behind the seat with one hand and comes back with a red headset. It’s the kind they use at NASCAR races to communicate next to the roaring engines. I take it and he fishes back behind his seat until he finds a second headset.

I pull it on and adjust the tiny microphone on a wire arm in front of my mouth. There’s a button on one of the ear muffs you hold down to speak. Dickey pulls his on over his overgrown mullet, and then retrieves his sunglasses from the pocket of his jean jacket vest. Once he puts them on he looks rather menacing.
This guy is full of surprises.
I remember him skulking around the neighborhood the butt of endless jokes and put downs. He’s changed radically in the decade since that.
If only Jarrod could see him now.

“Wuh, wuh, one two,” he crackles in my ear.

“Got you,” I answer, pushing down the button.

“Guh, Guh, gonna get really loud when we start shooting,” he explains, pointing back at the Goliath.

No doubt he’s right. There will be a .50 caliber chain gun spinning a few feet over our heads. Leaning across the center console, I see the digital speedo reading 95 MPH. A shadow falls over the road and peeking above I see the helicopter from town passing overhead.

“They’re going to know we’re coming,” I shout, pointing a finger up.

He glances overhead, and then pats his hand nervously on the steering wheel. The element of surprise was probably part of his plan. I notice the tarp blowing in the wind as it’s wrapped around the Goliath.
I wonder if it would work like that.

“Will the Goliath fire in the locked down position?”

“Thuh, thuh, the safeties won’t let it, but that’s not a problem.”

“Why’s that?”

“Aye, aye, I didn’t load any safety protocols,” he snorts, and then points to the glovebox. “Control’s in there.”

A controller much like an X-box or PlayStation controller falls out when I open the glovebox. There’s a thick wire covered with black electrical tape feeding back into the dash. A dozen other stray wires also fall out and tangle around my shoes.
This should have a sticker that explains it’s been wired by Dickey.
On the face, between the tiny joysticks, is a three-inch video screen so the operator can see where the business end is pointed. Several buttons are labeled with what looks like a seventies label maker.

“Puh, puh, push
ARM
then it’s live. It’s locked down with manual clamps so it can’t pop up now. The
AUTO
button turns it loose on anything moving, but just fire manual in this position since the darn thing can’t move.”

I push the arm button and there is an electric hum behind us. The turret starts to turn under the tarp, twisting the canvass. It jerks back and forth like a trapped animal then shreds the canvass. A scrapping whir fills the car as it spins up to speed. Hot air also fills the inside of the Vette as the friction builds. The chopper is dead ahead of us, a closed circuit dome under the skid sending our image back to Lance.

“Can you catch it?” I ask, pointing up.

He nods and downshifts, jerking the car forward. The speedo climbs to 100 MPH and we quickly close the gap before they can speed up. They probably don’t care as long as we stay in the frame.
They have no idea what’s about to happen.

“Just drive right under them and keep on going,” I bark into the wind, looking up and holding the controller at the ready. “Do not slow down for any reason.”

Dickey flies right under them and I hit the
FIRE
button and hold it down. The chattering of the gun drowns out the chopper blades and the wind noise. We throw a hail of bullets into the sky. I hold the button down and the tower of shrapnel cuts right through the thin aluminum skin. It’s more like a news chopper than a military model. It’s as if a knife sliced through it, igniting a fireball overhead.

“Surprise,” I mutter into the headset.

We pass underneath it before the burning wreckage slams down on the highway behind us. I feel a wave of overpowering heat wash over the opening in the roof. Pushing the
ARM
button again, the turret slowly spins to a stop. We share an elated glance and he gives me enthusiastic thumbs up.
That was insane.
I try and picture Lance watching his toy go down in flames. Instead, I see blood running down Izzy’s nose, a visual that may never leave my mind. The downside now is that they know we’re coming and they know what we have.

“Should we unlock it now?” I wonder aloud, watching the shredded tarp blowing in the wind above.

“Nuh, nuh, no,” he answers, shaking his head then tapping his forehead with a finger. “Makes the car unstable.”

“Did you test any of this before now?”

“Nuh, nuh, never had it out of the garage before today.”

“Perfect,” I wince, thinking I might have asked this before we left the garage.

Sailing along trying to close the gap, we pass a VW van with two women in short shorts and tank tops standing on the side of the highway. They try and flag us down, waving a pink towel. Dickey takes his foot off the accelerator, but I slap his shoulder and shake my head.
These gals are bait
. It’s been months since the lights went out. Someone placed them there to get anyone with a vehicle to stop. I’d bet there’s an ambush waiting in the woods behind them.

“Ever seen that sort of thing before?”

“Nuh, nuh, nope,” he stutters. “Pretty girls though.”

“You are aware this is most likely a suicide mission?” I suddenly ask, having not said this out loud prior to this moment.

“Muh, muh, my road,” he shakes his head aggressively. “Killed my friends.”

Possibly he never got over his first mental break or more likely the day’s events have him unbalanced.
Who wouldn’t have a visceral reaction to the execution of his friends?
Either way, I doubt I have to mention the likely outcome of this little road trip again. I’m staying focused on seeing Lance’s bloody corpse. If I get, that then whatever happens to me is fine.

….

We come over a rise in the highway and in the distance I can see the big truck. Rolling along behind it is the remaining chase car. Dickey taps my arm and points under the seat. Reaching my hand beneath, I come back with a nice set of binoculars. I lift my head out the open top and my face is buffeted with a strong wind. Collecting myself, I train the spyglasses down the road. The chase car now contains a second man, armed no doubt. Three men are visible in the back of the truck, rifles held at the ready.

“How bulletproof is this thing?” I quiz him, tapping the button on the side of the earmuff.

“Wuh, wuh, well the windshield is wrapped Lexan,” he explains, and then raps a knuckle on the driver’s window. “Like these.”

“But the body’s just fiberglass,” I point out. “Even with the fancy wrap job.”