Tourists of the Apocalypse (43 page)

“You going to kill that guy?” she mutters quizzically, pointing her smoke at Jarrod’s truck.

“I’m not killing anyone,” I proclaim, then see a scratch left by her artificial legs as they slid down the hood. “Except maybe you.”

“Leave me alone,” she whines in a high pitch children’s voice that is so in contrast with her age. “Don’t pick on the poor cripple.”

I ignore her as much as possible. Were she not family, I can’t imagine putting up with her at all.
Why did I go back for her again?
A dented silver Mustang turns the corner and drives even with us, pulling into the driveway across the street. Dickey Bennet steps out and stares at us with the door and his mouth hanging open.

“Tell me that fashion red flag is not the guy you’re looking for?”

Dickey is as I recall wearing high top sneakers with the tongues out. Lightly faded blue jeans and a denim vest over a long sleeved red shirt remind me of how I used to see him. I raise a hand and wave. He shuts the car door and takes a step in our direction.

“Cuh, cuh, can I help you?”

“You Dickey?” I ask, pretending not to know his name.

“Yuh, yuh, yeah?”

“Please tell me this is a joke,” Lucy whispers then blows smoke over my shoulder. “Did we overshoot our landing cause this guy looks like a Neanderthal.”

“Can I have a word with you please?” I request, turning and scowling at Lucy.

“Sorry,” she giggles, holding up her hands. “I didn’t mean to understate the intelligence of Neanderthals.”

“Hush,” I snipe.

This version of Dickey has no idea who I am. It’s a shame I couldn’t have arrived a few years earlier to try and prevent his head injury. I pause and shake my head.
That line of thinking is why no one should have a time machine.

Dickey 2.0 wanders down the street and crosses to my side. His eyes run along the sleek lines of my car and then an odd look comes over his face when he sees Lucy. For her part she remains quiet, a rare occurrence these days.

“Nuh, nuh, nice car,” he stutters. “What cha want?”

“You work at the cement plant?”

He nods rather than speaking, a habit I remember clearly.

“You like working there?”

“Is, is, is that supposed to be rhetorical?” he frowns, surprising me with his vocabulary.

“No, but I’m looking for someone to work for me. I was told you might be available.”

“Bub, bub, by who?”

“A mutual friend. Would you be interested in working for me?”

“Do, do, doing what?”

“I’m in need of a driver.”

“Wuh, wuh, what kind of driving? Driving what?”

“Driving Miss Givens around,” I explain, waving a hand at Lucy, who waves meekly. “And this car I suppose. I have several.”

“Suh, suh, so you want to pay me to drive this gal,” he mutters pointing at Lucy, then at the Vette. “In this car?”

I nod.

Dickey wanders down the length of the car coveting it with his eyes. Lucy looks at him and then at me shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She mouths the word
SPAZ
.

“I’ll pay double what you make at the cement plant,” I toss out.

“Yuh, yuh, you’re not from around here are ya?”

“What tipped you off?” Lucy needles Dickey. “That we were bathed.”

“Aye, aye, I take care of my Ma,” he explains, pointing at the house across the street. “I’d need to stay close to her. I can’t move away.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I nod, recalling his mother will live another three years. “I’m looking to build a house on the end of this street. You would be working out of my home office.”

He studies me and then looks over at Lucy as if he didn’t notice her sitting there before. I already know he loves Corvettes, but now he seems to forget about it, wandering over to the fender and staring at her.

“Help Dylan,” it’s looking at me,” she moans sarcastically.

“Wuh, wuh, what’s your name?”

“Lucy,” she replies in a clipped uncomfortable tone.

“Wuh, wuh, what happened to your legs?”

“None of your business,” she snaps, suddenly not as combative.

“Suh, suh, sorry,” he stutters. “I never seen a pretty girl with leg braces before.”

Lucy crosses her arms over her chest and blows smoke out of the side of her mouth. Her lack of a sharp tongue all of a sudden amuses me. She’s a hurricane of sarcasm from a distance, but up close she’s self-conscious at times. She can take people making fun of her handicap or teasing her just fine, but a genuine complement stuns her into silence.

“So do we have a deal?” I step in, trying to defuse the awkward moment.

“Yuh, yuh, yeah,” he replies looking at a very nervous Lucy as he backs up and shakes my hand. “When do I start?”

“Now,” I explain, pulling out a roll of hundreds and peeling off five. “Take this a signing bonus.”

“Aw, aw, alright,” he smirks taking the money and winking at Lucy.

“Please no,” she groans.

“Take her into town and get gas,” I order, tossing him the keys. “I have a meeting with a realtor down the street in a few minutes. Meet us back here.”

“Thuh, thuh, that’s all?”

“Slim Jim,” I recall. “Bring me back a Slim Jim.”

“Ruh, ruh, right on. I need to check in with Ma. I’ll be right back.”

“I think he likes you,” I poke at Lucy as Dickey returns home and slips in the side door.

“I’m going to kill you,” she snarls slapping her hands on the hood. “I’ll slit your throat as you sleep.”

“I believe you,” I chuckle, recalling the tale of her brother’s demise.

As we wait, I think about how amazing Dickey was in my past life. I can hear him talking in crackles over the headsets as we chased after Lance on the highway.
This is my road
. Lucy should cut him some slack. With a little polishing and a good break now and then he will be just fine. What price can you put on loyalty?
A girl could do worse than Dickey Bennett
.

“He’ll grow on you,” I chuckle.

“Like mold.”

A forest green late sixties Camaro with white stripes down the hood wheels around the corner and pulls up parallel to the Vette, essentially blocking off the road. Fitz 2.0 hops out and leans over the roof frowning. This version of Jessabelle Anastasia Fitzsimons is younger than I am by half a decade. I caught up with her in Boston during her residency. I’m not surprised she was so easy to convince. We always did see eye to eye on things.

Of course without the time spent pretending to be a couple, we have no prior history. The look on her face when I hugged her the first time was priceless. I could just see the
Who does this guy think he is?
look written all over her. She’s a blank bulletin board like Izzy, but sometimes when the moment is just right I can almost feel the presence of my best friend.

“There she is,” Fitz announces, glancing behind her car.

Next around the corner is a bright yellow Porsche. The engine roars as it slams on the brakes to keep from rear ending the Camaro.

“She’s a problem,” Fitz moans, wagging a thumb at the Porsche. “I tried laying the Dyson Chandler thing on her, but she’s not buying the
Time Travel Tour Guide
story.”

“You have to approach her in the same way I did with you,” I suggest. “Remember when I used your
Angel of Death
story to convince you?”

“Yeah, but your hooker’s pretty tough,” Fitz chuckles. “I think people have been lying to her for a long time.”

“Let me talk to her,” I remark. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, right, she says you owe her a grand for the drive out.”

“Might as well get a room and make her earn it,” Lucy jokes.

Dickey comes back across the street twirling the keys around his index finger. He walks right past Fitz, only stopping next to the Vette. Attempting to look cool but failing, I can tell he’s trying not to stare at Lucy, but is stealing quick glances as he leans on the driver’s door.
Interesting isn’t it?
I was sure he had a thing for Fitz before, but he barely noticed her today. This re-enforces my theory on blank bulletin boards. In different circumstances people might make different connections.

The Izzy in the future was physically the same, but a real person is the result of her experiences. The very thing that made her the woman I loved was missing from the beautiful shell I found so many years from now. Even with this knowledge, it’s unlikely I could let her go again if the chance presented itself.
I’m like a drug addict.
The object of my desire is gone, but I still tingle at the thought.

The door to the Porsche slams and a very young Violet marches up to Fitz, who in turn points a finger at me.

“Talk to him,” she quips.

“You the top dog around here?” she demands, her stiletto heels clicking on the pavement as she walks over. “This is gonna be extra. It’s—,” she starts but I cut her off.

“Kinda out of your regular service area?” I laugh repeating what she told Graham the first day I met her.

“Yeah,” she mutters, looking confused. “How did you--.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I assure her. “We can go for a drink later and see if we can sort out your concerns.”

“Whatever you say,” she shrugs. “It’s your dime.”

Fitz laughs at her last statement and is soon joined by Lucy. The two of them are like sisters now.
Do girls just bond quicker than men?
I take a few steps down toward the cul-de-sac and then turn back to view the by invitation only assemblage of my past and future friends.
I know the world is going to end again, but seeing them all together is wonderful.

Violet stands off to the side and is going to take some work. Luckily, there is some leverage to be played with a girl who hates what she does for a living
.
I will just have to hire her if she won’t get on board.
Will she think it’s strange if I pay her to not sleep with me?

Dickey leans on the driver’s door, his eyes roaming over Lucy’s tights. She notices and slaps him hard, which only seems to attract him more.

“Alright Dylan,” Lucy shouts pointing at the cul-de-sac. “You’re going to build your
Fortress of Solitude
down there?”

I nod, looking down the road at the turnaround where Graham’s house stood in another life. I plan on buying all three lots and putting a house for Fitz and Violet on either side of mine. Eventually I’ll buy my old house and Dickey’s, hell maybe the whole street.

“And this team you’re putting together,” she continues, waving her hands around the assembled guests. “It’s like what, the Avengers or X-Men or something?”

Dickey leans over and whispers something to Lucy putting a scowl on her face.

“You are not Batman, she grumbles. “Spaz.”

“Nothing like that I’m afraid. Not superheroes at all.”

“Then what?” she groans. “We gotta have something to put on the mailbox?”

“Very funny.”

“You know what I mean.”

I ponder her request as the others stand next to or lean on the cars. Not superhero’s, but not plain citizens of West Texas either.

“Well,” Fitz clamors, joining Lucy’s demand for a name. “What’s it going to be Dylan?”

Putting a finger to my chin I try and choose between several possibilities, but I wind up on a memory of Izzy standing on the beach waiting for planes to fall to of the sky. It’s when she first used the
Tour Guide
reference back in Pensacola.

“
Tourists of the Apocalypse,”
I decree and wait for someone to protest.

“I like it,” Lucy shouts, putting out a hand. “Everyone in.”

After a pause, Dickey figures out what she means and gladly places his hand on hers. Fitz hops over the hood of her car to toss a hand in, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Violet rolls her eyes in disinterest, but I wave a hand at the motley crew forming a huddle.

“It’s your dime,” she mutters, clicking in her heels over and placing one well-polished fingernail on top of the pile of hands.

I join them and hold my hand up high, then slowly lower it onto Violet’s.

“
Tourists of the Apocalypse
it is,” I declare.

THE END

Award winning author Charles Waller published his first science fiction novel at age forty-seven, after a flight on an ill-fated commercial airliner over the Atlantic Ocean nearly became an episode of Why Planes Crash. This experience illustrated for him first hand that writing about exotic or dangerous locales was safer than traveling to them. Since then, he likes to think his meticulous research and storytelling gives readers a clear sense of their grandeur, without the inherent risk of flying.

After narrowly escaping the academic death-grip of several universities, Charles worked in nightclubs, took a turn as a new car salesman, and also as a hurricane shutter engineer. His favorite authors include, Oscar Wilde, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., and Michael Crichton. The latter being especially close to his heart as Crichton epitomizes the techno-thriller genre and the failure of humans to interact with technology.

Though he will forever be a Midwestern boy at heart, he now lives on the gulf coast of Florida with his wife, Tina, and one fuzzy feline companion. If he’s not working on a new novel, you can find him volunteering at church, playing overly competitive Yahtzee with his spouse, or indulging in an unhealthy addiction to competitive cooking shows on television.