XXIV
Mortimer exited the room quickly. He’d already packed. He even had his shoes on. All he had to do was pull up his pants and buckle his belt. He ran out of the room with the double-barreled shotgun in one hand and the Nike tote bag in the other. Somewhere behind him, Sheila had jumped up and grabbed her robe. Mortimer didn’t look back.
I accept your apology, little girl. Stay safe if you can.
He heard more gunfire and saw flashes in the window as he ran through the bank lobby. He went across to Joey’s, where he saw men upending tables, facing the front door, rifles and pistols ready. He saw Bobby and Floyd crouched behind one of the tables, Bobby with his single-barreled shotgun and Floyd with a very-small-caliber revolver.
Mortimer knelt next to them. “What’s happening?”
“Red Stripes overran the barricades,” Bobby said. “A shitload of them. Just came out of nowhere.”
“I thought you’d be home guarding the chickens.”
Bobby snorted. “I should have been, but dumbass here needed to dip his wick. Dumb horny idiot.”
Floyd flicked his brother the bird. “It was worth it. That Sheila can fuck like a demon.”
Mortimer tried to pretend he hadn’t heard that. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m looking for a pal. Seen a guy with blond hair and a big mustache?”
Bobby shook his head. “Ask Shelby. He’s hiding behind the bar.”
Mortimer hoisted himself over the bar where the church altar had once been. He found Shelby and Bill passing a bottle of Freddy’s Bowel Explosion Bourbon between them.
“I’m selling this place,” Shelby said. “I mean, seriously, I’ve fucking had it.” He took a swig of bourbon.
“Don’t bogart the bottle.” Bill took it, drank.
Mortimer dropped between them. “I’d like to cancel the room for tonight, Shelby. Credit the difference to my account.”
“No refunds.”
Mortimer took the bottle from Bill. “You want to get out of here or not?”
Bill grabbed the bottle back. “How? They’re shooting out there.” He drank deep and fast, coughed, some of the bourbon splashing on his chin.
The front door burst open and somebody yelled to hold fire. The jagged racket of a gun battle came loud from the streets. Two men stumbled in, carrying a third between them. The man they carried bled from the belly. They kicked the door closed behind them.
“Fucking hell!” one of them said. It was the lanky militia officer Mortimer had seen earlier. “They’re swarming out there like flies on a turd. Get one of them tables up.”
A pair of men with deer rifles righted their table. The officer and his comrade dropped the wounded man on the table faceup. He groaned and clutched his belly, thick blood oozing red, pumping out like they’d struck oil. He was crying and moaning and asking for his momma.
“Is there a doctor?” the officer asked the room. “Somebody with medical experience?”
A flurry of gunshots and one of the front windows shattered, spraying glass. Everyone hit the deck. The door flew open, and two men rushed in. They were met immediately by a half-assed volley of rifle fire, but it was enough to put them down. More invaders crowded the door. Shots flying inside.
“Pick your targets,” the officer yelled. “Don’t waste ammo shooting wild.” He drew his pistol and fired at a face that appeared in the shot-out front window. The wounded man was still groaning on the table. Shots shattered bottles behind the bar, and Mortimer ducked down again, throwing his arms over his head as glass and booze showered him.
Shelby began to laugh uncontrollably. “I paid for that fucking booze!”
Mortimer didn’t want to stick his head back up to see what was happening. But he could hear. Shots and furniture scooting on the floor and men screaming and the gut-shot man on the table crying out for his mother.
Mortimer held the shotgun tight against his chest. Maybe he should be helping with the firefight. Or maybe he should have stayed in his room.
“Shelby, is there a back door to this place?”
“Through the kitchen. Opens to an alley. But the alley goes to the street and that’s where all the shit is happening.”
“At least we could make a run for it.” With the bullets flying, Bill seemed a lot more willing to make a break for it.
“Your call,” Shelby said. “Die in here or die in the alley.”
Somebody leapt over the bar and landed three feet from Mortimer. He swung the shotgun, only just stopped himself from pulling the trigger and turning Sheila’s face to hamburger.
She’d changed. Instead of a seductress, she now looked like a teen on her way to a high school campout. Jeans and a denim shirt and a black leather jacket. Reebok sneakers. A khaki Jansport backpack.
She looked at Mortimer, her face strangely calm and confident. “I’m getting out of here. You coming?”
“Let’s go.”
“Wait for me,” Bill said.
