Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

“Let’s run for it,” Sheila said.

Bill snorted. “You want a bolt in the ass?”

“Blowfish, where the hell are you?” Ted smacked the side of the radio with an open palm. “Douchebags!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mortimer yelled at the old man.

“I’m calling a cab. Now shut up and let old Ted work.”

“This is really-wait.” Mortimer edged up, peeked over the counter, eyes darting. “They’re doing something. Sheila, look out that side window.”

She crouch-walked to the window, keeping her head below the counter. She popped up, looked out the small side window, then ducked again quickly. “They’re out there. Right by the wall.” She popped up and down again for another quick look. “They’re piling up dead branches.”

“Shit,” muttered Bill. “Bonfire.”

The radio crackled, a voice coming through the static. “Big Ted, this is Blowfish. We are a mile out. Repeat, we’re one mile out.”

“Hot damn!” Ted yelled.

“They’re lighting the branches out here.” A hint of panic in Sheila’s voice. “I’m serious, guys. This fire’s getting big.” The smell of smoke grew stronger.

“Here they come,” Bill shouted.

A half-dozen Goats screamed toward the snack bar, weapons in one hand, flaming brands in the other. The one out front carried a bucket instead of a brand, some kind of liquid slopping over the sides. Mortimer stood straight, fired two quick bursts from each machine pistol. Three Goats stumbled and went down, including the one with the bucket, but he heaved it as he went down. It flew, landed against the front windowsill with a watery metallic clung. The liquid splashed half in through the window and half down the front of the snack bar. The pungent odor hit Mortimer immediately, unmistakable.

Gasoline.

Ohhhhhh…shit.

Mortimer blazed away at the other three running Goats coming fast with the fire, the machine pistols bucking and smoking. He put two down fast, but only caught the third with a grazing hit in the shoulder, a light mist of blood flying. The slobbering, crazy-eyed Goat didn’t even flinch, leapt through the front window, ignited the fire, flames spreading up the outside of the snack bar and over two booths within.

The Goat caught himself on fire too, stood there in the middle of the sudden blaze, his pants and sleeves burning. He screamed and danced.

Bill put him down with a shot from the Peacemaker.

Smoke filled the interior of the snack bar, and Mortimer felt the heat wash over him. He slammed home two new magazines, cocked the machine pistols and fired at the vague figures barely visible through the thick smoke, not knowing if he hit anything or not.

“Be advised, Blowfish,” Ted yelled into the radio mike. “Zone is hot. Repeat, zone is hot.”

“We see your smoke,” came the voice of Blowfish through the static. “We’re inbound now. Be prepared to board.”

A helicopter, thought Mortimer. Holy crap, the old wizard arranged a chopper. Mortimer could hear something coming, the high-pitched buzz of some engine. It was coming.

“Time to go,” Mortimer shouted.

Sheila coughed, wiped her red eyes. “You think?”

“I’m ready,” Bill said.

The flames licked higher, but the doorway was still clear. Mortimer emptied the machine pistols to clear the way, then slapped in the last two magazines.

“Now!”

They climbed over the counter, shrinking from the flames, snot running, eyes watering. They hit the door, out into the open. The cool air hit Mortimer, clean and fresh. He filled his lungs but didn’t have time to enjoy it. Crossbow bolts flew past his head. He blasted back at the Goats with the machine pistols, sent them scurrying for cover. They popped their heads up again, yelled obscenities, and Mortimer emptied the MAC-10s. He dropped the spent weapons clattering on the stone ground.

“There it is!” cried Ted. He pointed into the sky behind them. “Blowfish! Blowfish!”

Mortimer turned to look at the helicopter.

It wasn’t a helicopter.

The blimp floated through the smoke of the burning snack bar. Filling the sky suddenly, the hornet buzz of its tiny motor and rear propeller was a bizarre contrast to its silent, looming mass. One would almost be tempted to call it majestic.

And one would be mistaken.

The aircraft had probably been used for advertising, providing aerial coverage for golf tournaments and college football games. It was a ragged affair now, patched with mismatched material, netting thrown over the whole thing to help attach the thick ropes that held the open-air gondola underneath, sandbags hanging over the sides.

As crossbow bolts bounced off the stone around his ankles, Mortimer’s disappointment at seeing the inflated