Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

for your little prank, and I wasn’t going to stomp around the pocket wilderness with the divorce papers in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other, calling your name. I’d hoped you’d come to your senses, come home and act like an adult.”

She shook her head, let out a long sigh. She lifted a cup to Mortimer’s lips. “Drink. Slowly.”

He drank. Relief on his raw throat.

“And I would have waited you out,” she continued, “but Mother called from Chattanooga. She was scared. You know she lives-lived-in kind of an iffy neighborhood. So I was caught there when all the shit really hit the fan. We actually made it through the first year okay, but she died that winter. I made my way back to Spring City.”

“Looking for me?”

“I’m sorry, Mortimer, but no. Oh, I wondered if I’d see you, but no. I wanted to go home. That simple. So stupid. My house wasn’t mine anymore.

“I took up wandering. Learned to kill to survive. I traded myself for food. Don’t look at me like that. You know things are different now. I got tough fast. Sometimes, I thought I wanted to die, but it was never true. I wanted to live. And if you want to live, you have to understand the way things are and adjust.”

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Mortimer said. “Maybe that won’t make up for everything, but it’s a start. I’ll figure it out.”

“How did getting chained to the dungeon wall fit into the rescue plan?”

“I don’t suppose you could get me down.”

She shook her head. “No way. They let me come in to clean you up and give you some water. I think they want me to tell you to cooperate. Maybe they think seeing me will soften you up. They knew I was your wife. Did you tell them you were here for me?”

“I told them I was here for another reason. It’s a long story.”

“Here’s my advice: Look out for yourself. If you can get loose, don’t worry about me. I suggest telling them whatever they want to know. They can make things bad for you if they want to, a lot worse than chaining you up.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

Anne frowned, made a disgusted noise. “Knock off the hero crap. I absolve you, okay? You’re forgiven, so don’t feel you owe me anything. Besides, when I was captured, they got some of my girls too, a dozen of them. I was taking them to Little Rock to open a new Joey Armageddon’s. I’m responsible for them, and I’m not leaving them. So you see, I can’t run off with you just so you can feel like a good guy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mortimer said. “I’ve come a long way-”

“You’re not the only one who’s come a long way and been through a lot. So have I. So have my girls. Get over yourself.”

She lifted the cup to his lips again. “Drink more. I’ll probably have to go soon.”

He gulped, emptied the cup.

“At least tell me why you’re wearing that robe.”

“This?” She stood back, opened it. Underneath she wore a hot-pink bikini. She was thinner than he remembered, stomach muscles well defined, long legs. It was the wrong place and the wrong time, but Mortimer felt the stirrings of arousal. He remembered those early days of the marriage, her legs wrapped around him, making love all night in a sweaty pile. He wanted to cry again.

She closed the robe, sighed. “The Czar keeps us all like a harem. We all have to wear bathing suits and underwear like it’s the fucking Playboy Mansion or something.”

“Does he make you…do things?”

“No. We never see him. I wonder if he even exists.”

Mortimer managed a weak smile. “Eight feet tall with shark teeth.”

She laughed. “Yeah.”

A knock on the door, a deep voice on the other side. “Time’s up.”

“Okay.” She put a gentle hand on Mortimer’s face, kissed his nose. “Thanks for coming, but get out of here, escape or whatever, but don’t worry about me.”

He started to say something, but it caught in his throat.

She gave him one last sad look and was out the door.

Mortimer Tate hung his head. If he died right then and there, that would be just fine.

XLVIII

Had it been an hour or a day? Mortimer lost track of time, hanging there, feeling useless and defeated. His arms hurt.

Someone came for him at last.

The dungeon door creaked open. The newcomer took a step inside, stopped with his hands behind his back. An older man, maybe early sixties, dressed the same as Terry Frankowski had been, black suit with the red armband. He was gaunt, tall but slightly stooped, white hair and moustache, weak chin. He looked around the dungeon with