Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

“Okay.”

Bill flopped onto the other mattress as Mortimer pulled on his shoes and strapped on the.45. He looked down at Sheila one last time, so innocent and adolescent in sleep. She was neither, and Mortimer needed to remember that. What am I going to do with you?

Sheila was right about one thing. You had to be about something. Mortimer had come down the mountain because he couldn’t hide in his cave any longer. He needed the world. Needed to see it, be part of it again. And it occurred to him he couldn’t hide atop Lookout Mountain either, drowning himself in Armageddon’s decadence, because eventually the world would come looking. Better to march out and meet it halfway.

The night passed without trouble. The next day, they climbed Stone Mountain.

XLI

They made a wide circle around the front of the mountain where the huge stone-carved likenesses of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson kept watch over the park. East of the mountain, they found the hiking trail that wound its way over a mile up the mountain, a much gentler slope than the sheer face with the three Confederates.

They climbed, stopping occasionally for canteen breaks, pausing to listen to suspicious woodland sounds before moving on again. Gray clouds hovered and roiled, but the downpour had finally abated.

Mortimer’s instructions were clear. Stay on the path and your guide will find you. He’s a little odd but trustworthy, Lars had told them. Sure.

They were two-thirds of the way up the mountain when Bill stopped and frowned. “Did you hear that?”

Mortimer shook his head. “Nope.”

“I did,” Sheila said. “An owl.”

“It was supposed to be an owl,” Bill said. “Sounded more like a five-year-old pretending.”

The hoot came louder from the path ahead of them, and Mortimer heard it this time. Bill was right. It was the worst owl imitation Mortimer had ever heard. He thumbed off the machine pistol’s safety.

“Let’s go back.” Sheila moved close to Mortimer, whispered, “Somebody’s fucking with us.”

“This is where we’re supposed to be,” Mortimer said. “Come on. Take it slow.”

They eased up the mountain path, machine pistols held in front of them. Every few seconds they heard the phony hoot. Finally Mortimer saw him and held up his hand for the others to halt. He pointed at the shrubs, and Bill nodded, lifted his machine pistol.

Hoot. Hoot.

The stooped man behind the shrubs apparently thought he was hiding. A giraffe behind a potted fern had a better chance of concealing itself. He was old, with white hair and wearing a black overcoat unbuttoned, ratty polo shirt and khakis underneath. Scuffed loafers. He held two leaves up to his eyes and crouched lower.

Hoot. Hoot.

“Come out of there,” Mortimer called.

Hoot. Hoot. “Where’s it coming from?” shouted the old man. “Behind you? In front? Above in the tall trees? We move like the cat, like the Indian, like a ghost.” Hoot. “We have you surrounded. Throw down your arms.”

Mortimer glanced to either side. They were in no way surrounded.

“Shoot him,” Sheila said.

Mortimer ignored her. “Come out, please. Let’s talk.”

Hoot.

“Look, we can see you, okay? You’re, like, thirty feet away behind that bush. And it’s not a very big bush.”

The old man paused, then stood straight. He was tall, broad shoulders, snow-white hair and moustache. As he came closer, Mortimer saw the slight gap between his front teeth, piercing blue eyes that Mortimer found a bit unnerving.

“Ah, you have earned my respect,” said the old man. “There’s not many who can outfox old Ted. Yes, you have mighty skills and keen senses. I can see why Armageddon chose you for this mission.”

“You’re our guide?”

“I am indeed.”

Mortimer barely heard Bill mutter, “Jesus.”

“Yes, let Ted be your guide,” the old man said grandly. “Mr. Atlanta, they called me. I know the way and I know the town. Old Ted knows all, the way of the wasp and the willow, the minds of all the creepy crawlies. The song of the pigeon. I see and I hear.”

“Are you going to talk like this the whole time?”