Back in his cell, Mortimer prodded at his puffy eye with his fingertips.
A black eye and a swollen lip. He could live with it. He’d had worse. Mortimer rubbed the stump where the Beast had taken his little finger. It seemed an eternity since he’d come down the mountain. Events had swept him along, pushed him forward. Fate was a terrified horse dragging him over rocky ground.
Take it easy, man. It’ll be okay. All you have to do is bust out of Armageddon’s prison, meet up with the mysterious guide, foil the Red Czar, assassinate him if possible while fighting off hordes of Red Stripes (no problem, since they seem to have only one bullet each). Oh, yeah, find your wife and tell her where the hell you ran off to nine years ago.
Child’s play.
Mortimer waited patiently until finally the expected controlled explosion blew back the cell door, ripping it partway off the hinges. Smoke filled the cell and the hallway beyond. Shouting. Confusion.
Buffalo Bill leapt through the smoke and landed in the cell. “Come on, man. They’re waiting for us.”
Mortimer followed him out of the cell, down the smoky hall. They burst out of the bunker, where Mortimer spotted Sheila behind the wheel of a golf cart. That surprised him. Mortimer had told Armageddon he wasn’t going anywhere without his partner, Bill, but he hadn’t said a thing about the girl. No time to wonder about it now. They hopped into the cart, the sound of machine-gun fire cracking behind them.
“Drive!” shouted Mortimer.
Sheila stomped the accelerator, and they shot down the narrow path, twisted in and out of the trees until the bunker was well behind them.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Mortimer asked.
“Sort of,” Sheila said.
“We were told where to drive the cart,” Bill said. “After that we don’t have a fucking clue. I was hoping you’d fill us in. We were instructed to bust you out of jail, and the rest is a mystery.”
“I got us a gig,” Mortimer said.
“Say what?”
“You said we should be partners, right? I’ll tell you all about it when we’re in the clear.”
Sheila turned off the road and headed into the forest. They soon came to a ring of stones, some kind of long- unused camping area. Sheila parked the cart. They held their breath and listened. A moment later, they heard footsteps through dry leaves. Lars stepped into view. He’d been hiding behind a stand of trees and wore a camouflage poncho over his black suit.
“This way,” Lars said. “It’s all here.”
They crowded around and Lars directed them to a pile of luggage hidden among the shrubs, six backpacks. They were mismatched but all of good quality and stuffed with supplies.
“We’ll need to put on a bit of a show as if we’re looking for you,” Lars told them. “But the pursuit won’t make it this way for a while, and they won’t look for you very hard. Still, I would advise you not to linger.” He handed Mortimer a folded map. “We’ve marked the best route on here, but you might have to improvise as events dictate.” He shook Mortimer’s hand. “I wish you luck, sir.”
“Thanks, Lars. It’s been grand.”
Mortimer, Bill and Sheila slung the backpacks over their shoulders, headed south into the woods.
“Back on the road again. I’m going to miss that soft bed,” Bill said. “Where we headed anyway?”
THE LOST CITY OF ATLANTA
XXXIX
It was already a notorious place of legend and peril throughout the new world.
Atlanta.
Just the name of the place sent shivers through some of the old-timers. Mothers frightened naughty children by threatening to send them south to Atlanta. Stories became more colorful in the telling and retelling. The Headless Zombies of Buckhead was a favorite tale for those who enjoyed loose talk in saloons, as was the myth of the entire Braves baseball team turning cannibal and roaming the city in search of people to deep-fry in hot canola oil. It was generally understood that the ghosts of Delta flight attendants haunted the airport, and that anyone spending the night in or near the airport experienced vivid, disturbing dreams often resembling footage from Airport 1975. It was commonly known that various gangs, almost like tribes, ruled sections of the city. This was not uncommon for many metropolitan areas where food shortages were sudden and devastating, a situation that encouraged the strong and ruthless to prey upon the weak. No citrus had come up from Florida for years, nor anything else from merchants traveling in or too close to the forbidden city.
Other stories, while unconfirmed, were widely believed nevertheless. The most popular rumor claimed Atlanta was the headquarters of the Red Czar. Furthermore, the Czar himself was credited with killing all the gang chiefs in the city one by one, by challenging them to duels, beheading them with a fireman’s axe and putting their heads on spikes as a warning to any who might defy him.
“And that’s what you’ve gotten us into,” Bill said.
“How the hell was I supposed to know?” Mortimer pushed aside a tree branch, followed the narrow game trail.
