They ran.
Uphill.
Each carrying two backpacks, except for Ted, who bounded ahead of them.
Mortimer’s heart pounded, breath coming hard, lungs burning, the heavy gear strapped to his back pulling him toward the ground. Sweat in every crease. Dripping into his eyes.
The path opened suddenly into a clearing, trees falling away on either side. The ground was solid stone spreading in every direction, sprawling views of Georgia expanding to every horizon. Directly in front of them sat a small, low building, wide windows in the front, some kind of concession stand at one time, a large antenna twenty feet high on the roof. A guy came out the front, sandwich in his hand, leather jacket covered in silver studs and a machete hanging from his belt. He saw Mortimer and his team running straight for him and dropped the sandwich, ducked back inside the building and came out with a crossbow, desperately trying to cock it, fumbling with the bolt.
Ted pointed. “Somebody shoot that guy!”
One of Bill’s six-shooters flew into his hand. He fanned the hammer twice, shooting from the hip. The shots cracked, echoed along the mountain for miles. Red splotches erupted in the guy’s chest, and he dropped the crossbow, twitched and fell, a dying noise gargling in his throat.
Mortimer glanced over his shoulder. The Stone Mountain Goats were visible now behind them, a screaming mob waving blades in the air as they ran. They didn’t carry heavy backpacks and gained fast.
“Into the building,” Mortimer shouted.
They piled in through the front door, Mortimer and Sheila collapsing on the floor, both heaving for breath. Bill slumped against a wall, breathing hard too but also watching the Goats come at full speed. “No time to rest, folks.”
The snack bar was similar to a Waffle House. Booths lined wide-open windows in front; a counter with stools spanned almost the entire length of the restaurant, grills, refrigerators and food prep on the other side. Where the cash register had once been sat a ham radio, all blinking lights and knobs, static leaking out of it at low volume. Wires came from the back of the radio, went up to the roof, connecting, Mortimer assumed, to the big antenna.
A crossbow bolt streaked through the glassless window, struck with a loud
“They got the coffee,” Bill said.
Mortimer looked at the brown granules hitting the floor and felt the blood surge in his veins, a white-noise buzz of rage in his ears. “Cocksuckers!”
Mortimer stood, brought up the machine pistol and squeezed the trigger at the onrushing mob. The little gun hissed fire, spent shells ejecting and hitting the tile floor with a tambourine tinkle. Another sound roared in Mortimer’s ears, and he realized it was his own voice raised in an improvised war cry.
The first four Stone Mountain Goats exploded across their chests in a spray of blood. They continued forward another half-dozen steps, not realizing they’d been killed, only to fall into a heap of dead meat just outside the snack bar’s front windows. The next three behind them howled and came on undeterred. Mortimer cut one more down before the machine pistol clicked empty.
Mortimer fumbled for another magazine.
The other two climbed onto the window ledge, one with a hatchet raised high, the other leading the way with an improvised spear fashioned from a shovel. Drool flowed down their chins, eyes afire with narcotic insanity.
The room shuddered with the report of Bill’s Peacemakers. The first Goat fell back, shot in the chest. The other’s head exploded, brain and blood landing wetly on the tile and wall.
Three more crossbow bolts flew into the open window, one an inch from Mortimer’s left ear. They bounced and rattled behind the counter.
“We’re too exposed out here,” Mortimer yelled.
“Behind the counter.” Bill dove across.
Sheila and Mortimer followed. Ted was already there, fiddling with the radio.
Sheila was the first to bounce back up, spraying lead through the open front window with her MAC-10. She didn’t hit anything but sent the rest of the Goats into hiding behind rocks and trees forty yards away. The open stone ground in between was red and slick with blood and quivering bodies.
Mortimer looked at Bill and the six-shooter in each of his hands. “You don’t like the machine guns?”
“Can’t aim those fuckers.”
“Give it here.”
He slammed a fresh magazine home into his own MAC-10, held Bill’s in the other hand. Two-fisted death. That’s me.
Ted kept twisting radio knobs, the hiss of static growing louder, then waning. “Blowfish, this is Big Ted. Come in, Blowfish. Damn it, I can’t get the frequency.”
“Do you think he’s really calling for anybody or just pretending?” Bill asked.
“Part of me hopes he is pretending.” Mortimer popped up, squeezed off a quick burst, sending the Goats diving for cover. Mortimer ducked back behind the counter as another bolt bounced off the back wall. “What are they waiting for?”
“They don’t want another face full of MAC- 10,” Bill said.
“They can sit out there forever, until the rest of the Goats get here. Every minute we wait it gets worse.”
