Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

Mortimer watched and waited for an hour. He told himself he was trying to get the lay of the land first, familiarize himself with troop movements before going in. Who was he fooling? He was trying to get up the courage.

Mortimer took a deep breath, walked out the front door and crossed the street.

XLVI

When there had been such a thing as television, Mortimer had watched a show called Cops. In this show, police officers habitually wrestled perpetrators to the ground, where they would hit face-first-often on cement-and then have their arms pinned painfully behind their backs in preparation for a pair of handcuffs.

Mortimer knew exactly what that felt like now.

When Mortimer had crossed the street and casually announced he wanted to see the head honcho, the guards on duty had been momentarily frozen by his audacity. They recovered quickly and gang-piled him, leaving his bottom lip swollen and bloody, various bruises along the length of his body.

His hands were tied behind his back.

He was searched.

He was disarmed.

He was taken to a very small room just inside the CNN entrance and put in an uncomfortable chair, a guard standing in front of him, stone-faced, arms crossed, a pistol in a shoulder holster.

Mortimer waited for half an hour before another man entered the room. He stood medium height, medium weight, brown hair of a medium shade, but his eyes were blue and active, giving Mortimer a quick appraisal. He wore a well-cut black suit with a black tie. The red armband the only splash of color. An eel-skin briefcase in his grip.

“Hello.” Too cheerful.

“Hi,” croaked Mortimer.

“Throat a bit raw? Want some water?”

“Please.”

The man left, came back thirty seconds later with a glass, tilted it to Mortimer’s lips. Mortimer drank.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m Terry Frankowski. We’re going to be spending some time together, so I hope you’ll call me Terry.”

“Okay.”

“So let’s have your story, Mortimer. I hope I can call you Mortimer. Mort?”

“Mortimer is fine. How do you know my name?”

“We found your Joey Armageddon’s Platinum membership card among your belongings,” Terry said. “Now, let’s get down to business. Ready?”

“Sure.”

Terry cleared his throat. “I’m a member of the Czar’s intelligence organization, but, to be perfectly honest, my specialty is analyzing data. I’m not usually involved with interrogations, but I was the only one around, and, well, beggars can’t be choosers. Am I right?”

“I’ll try to go easy on you.”

“Ha. That’s the spirit,” Terry said. “We’re going to get along. I can tell.”

Terrific.

“Now, I’ve got a list of questions and procedures here, so that should help things along.” He produced a pencil and a clipboard from his briefcase. “First question: are you here to kill the Czar?”

“Actually,” Mortimer said, “I think I can save us some time. If I can just talk to the Czar-”

Terry tsked, sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah, the thing is, I just have this list of questions, and I’d feel better if we just got through them. I’m a rules kind of guy, and, look, I’m going to be square with you, okay? I’m a little out of my comfort zone, so I really think I should stick with the format.”

Mortimer said nothing.

“Let’s skip ahead,” Terry said. “Are you here to steal gasoline or sabotage Red Stripe gasoline supplies?”

“No.”

“Super. Now let’s-” Terry consulted the clipboard. “Oh, wait. It says here not to believe you and in parentheses it says slap face.” Terry tsked again. “I guess we can skip that. Things are going well enough, don’t you think?”

The stone-faced guard cleared his throat, shook his head.

“Oh.” Terry seemed disappointed. “Rules are rules.”

Terry leaned forward, swung his hand in a wide arc and caught Mortimer’s face with a loud, stinging slap.